“I know where the Parshendi are.” Her eyes widened. “And the Oathgate. The center of the Shattered Plains. I can see it all—I can map almost the entire thing.”
He shivered. “You… what?”
She looked up sharply, meeting his eyes. “We have to get back.”
“Yes, I know. The highstorm.”
“More than that,” she said, standing. “I know too much now to die out here. The Shattered Plains are a pattern. This isn’t a natural rock formation.” Her eyes widened further. “At the center of these Plains was a city. Something broke it apart. A weapon… Vibrations? Like sand on a plate? An earthquake that could break rock… Stone became sand, and at the blowing of the highstorms, the cracks full of sand were hollowed out.”
Her eyes seemed eerily distant, and Kaladin didn’t understand half of what she’d said.
“We need to reach the center,” Shallan said. “I can find it, the heart of these Plains, by following the pattern. And there will be… things there…”
“The secret you’re searching for,” Kaladin said. What had she said just earlier? “Oathgate?”
She blushed deeply. “Let’s keep moving. Didn’t you mention how little time we had? Honestly, if one of us weren’t chatting away all the time and distracting everyone, I’m half certain we’d be back already.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she grinned, then pointed the direction for them to go. “I’m leading now, by the way.”
“Probably for the best.”
“Though,” she said, “as I consider, it might be better to let you lead. That way, we might find our way to the center by accident. Assuming we don’t end up in Azir.”
He gave her a chuckle at that because it seemed the right thing to do. Inside, however, it ripped him apart. He’d failed.
The next few hours were excruciating. After walking the length of two plateaus, Shallan had to stop and update her map. It was correct to do so—they couldn’t risk getting off track again.
It just took so much time. Even moving as quickly as they could between drawing sessions, practically running the entire way, their progress was too slow.
Kaladin shuffled from foot to foot, watching the sky as Shallan filled in her map again. She cursed and grumbled, and he noticed her brushing away a drop of sweat that had fallen from her brow onto the increasingly crumpled paper.
Maybe four hours left until the storm, Kaladin thought. We aren’t going to make it.
“I’ll try for scouts again,” he said.
Shallan nodded. They had entered the territory where Dalinar’s pole-wielding scouts watched for new chrysalises. Shouting to them was a slim hope—even if they were lucky enough to find one of those groups, he doubted they had enough rope handy to reach to the bottom of the chasm.
But it was a chance. So he moved away—so as to not disturb her drawing—cupped his mouth, and began shouting. “Hello! Please reply! We’re trapped in the chasms! Please reply!”
He walked for a time, shouting, then stopped to listen. Nothing came back. No questioning shouts echoing down from above, no signs of life.
They’ve probably all withdrawn into their cubbies by now, Kaladin thought. They’ve broken down their watchposts and are waiting for the highstorm.
He stared up with frustration at that slot of attenuated sky. So distant. He remembered this feeling, being down here with Teft and the others, longing to climb out and escape the horrible life of a bridgeman.
For the hundredth time, he tried drawing in the Stormlight of those spheres. He clutched the sphere until his hand and the glass were sweaty, but the Stormlight—the power within—did not flow to him. He couldn’t feel the Light anymore.
“Syl!” he yelled, tucking away the sphere, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Syl! Please! Are you there, anywhere… ?” He trailed off. “I still don’t know,” he said more softly. “Is this a punishment? Or is it something more? What is wrong?”
No reply. Surely if she were watching him, she wouldn’t let him die down here. Assuming she could think to notice. He had a horrible image of her riding the winds, mingling with the windspren, having forgotten herself and him—becoming terribly, blissfully ignorant of what she truly was.
She’d feared that. She’d been terrified of it.
Shallan’s boots scratched the ground as she walked up. “No luck?”
He shook his head.
“Well, onward, then.” She took a deep breath. “Through soreness and exhaustion we go. You wouldn’t be willing to carry me a little ways…”
He glared at her.
She shrugged with a smile. “Think how grand it would be! I could even get a reed to whip you with. You’d be able to go back and tell all the other guards what an awful person I am. It’ll be a wonderful opportunity for griping. No? Well, all right then. Off we go.”
“You’re a strange woman.”
“Thank you.”
He fell into step beside her.
“My,” she noted, “you’ve brewed another storm over your head, I see.”
“I’ve killed us,” he whispered. “I took the lead, and I got us lost.”
“Well, I didn’t notice we were going the wrong way either. I wouldn’t have done any better.”
“I should have thought to have you map our progress from the start today. I was too confident.”
“It’s done,” she said. “If I’d been more clear with you about how well I could draw these plateaus, then you’d probably have made better use of my maps. I didn’t, and you didn’t know, so here we are. You can’t blame yourself for everything, right?”
He walked in silence.
“Uh, right?”
“It’s my fault.”
She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. “You are really intent on beating yourself up, aren’t you?”
His father had said the same thing time and time again. It was who Kaladin was. Did they expect him to change?
“We’ll be fine,” Shallan said. “You’ll see.”
That darkened his mood further.
“You still think I’m too optimistic, don’t you?” Shallan said.
“It’s not your fault,” Kaladin said. “I’d rather be like you. I’d rather not have lived the life I have. I would that the world was only full of people like you, Shallan Davar.”
“People who don’t understand pain.”
“Oh, all people understand pain,” Kaladin said. “That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s…”
“The sorrow,” Shallan said softly, “of watching a life crumble? Of struggling to grab it and hold on, but feeling hope become stringy sinew and blood beneath your fingers as everything collapses?”
“Yes.”
“The sensation—it’s not sorrow, but something deeper—of being broken. Of being crushed so often, and so hatefully, that emotion becomes something you can only wish for. If only you could cry, because then you’d feel something. Instead, you feel nothing. Just… haze and smoke inside. Like you’re already dead.”
He stopped in the chasm.