New Natanan, on the very eastern coast of Roshar, would be struck today after the everstorm left the Shattered Plains. Then it would enter the eastern ocean and move toward the Origin.
None of them knew what would happen next. Would it round the world and come crashing into the western coast? Were the highstorms all one storm that rounded the planet, or did a new one start at the Origin each time, as mythology claimed?
Scholars and stormwardens thought the former, these days. Their calculations said that, assuming the everstorm moved at the same speed as a highstorm this time of year, they’d have a few days before it returned and hit Shinovar and Iri, then blew across the continent, laying waste to cities thought protected.
“No news,” Dalinar said, voice tense. “The king seems to have vanished. What’s more, Kholinar appears to be in a state of riot. I haven’t been able to get straight answers on either question.”
“I’m sure the king is somewhere safe,” Shallan said, glancing at Navani. The woman maintained a composed face, but as she gave instructions to a scribe, her voice was terse and clipped.
One of the pillarlike plateaus nearby flashed. It happened with a wall of light revolving around its perimeter, leaving streaks of blurred afterimage to fade. Someone had activated the Oathgate.
Dalinar stepped up beside her and they waited tensely, until a group of figures in blue appeared at the plateau edge and started down the steps. Bridge Four.
“Oh, thank the Almighty,” Shallan whispered. It was him, not the assassin.
One of the figures pointed down toward where Dalinar and the rest of them stood. Kaladin separated from his men, dropping off the steps and floating over the army. He landed on the stones in stride, carrying a Shardblade on his shoulder, his long officer’s coat unbuttoned and coming down to his knees.
He still has the slave brands, she thought, though his long hair obscured them. His eyes had become a pale blue. They glowed softly.
“Stormblessed,” Dalinar called.
“Highprince,” Kaladin said.
“The assassin?”
“Dead,” Kaladin said, hefting the Blade and sticking it down into the rock before Dalinar. “We need to talk. This—”
“My son, bridgeman,” Navani asked from behind. She stepped up and took Kaladin by the arm, as if completely unconcerned by the Stormlight that drifted from his skin like smoke. “What happened to my son?”
“There was an assassination attempt,” Kaladin said. “I stopped it, but the king was wounded. I put him someplace safe before coming to help Dalinar.”
“Where?” Navani demanded. “We’ve had our people in the warcamps search monasteries, mansions, the barracks…”
“Those places were too obvious,” Kaladin said. “If you could think to look there, so might the assassins. I needed someplace nobody would think of.”
“Where, then?” Dalinar asked.
Kaladin smiled.
* * *
The Lopen made a fist with his hand, clutching the sphere inside. In the next room over, his mother scolded a king.
“No, no, Your Majesty,” she said, words thickly accented, using the same stern tone she used with the axehounds. “You roll the whole thing up and eat it. You can’t pick it apart like that.”
“I don’t feel so hungry, nanha,” Elhokar said. His voice was weak, but he’d awoken from his drunken stupor, which was a good sign.
“You’ll eat anyway!” Mother said. “I know what to do when I see a man that pale in the face, and pardon, Your Majesty, but you are pale as a sheet hung out for the sun to bleach! And that’s the truth of it. You’re going to eat. No complaints.”
“I’m the king. I don’t take orders from—”
“You’re in my home now!” she said, and Lopen mouthed along with the words. “In a Herdazian woman’s home, nobody’s station means nothing beside her own. I’m not going to have them come and get you and find you not properly fed! I’ll not have people saying that, Your Brightship, no I won’t! Eat up. I’ve got soup cooking.”
The Lopen smiled, and though he heard the king grumble, he also heard the sound of spoon against plate. Two of Lopen’s strongest cousins sat out front of the hovel in Little Herdaz—which was technically in Highprince Sebarial’s warcamp, though the Herdazians didn’t pay much attention to that. Four more cousins sat at the end of the street, idly sewing some boots, watching for anything suspicious.
“All right,” Lopen whispered, “you really need to work this time.” He focused on that sphere in his hand. Just like he did every day, and had done every day since Captain Kaladin had started glowing. He’d figure it out sooner or later. He was as sure of it as he was sure of his name.
“Lopen.” A wide face ducked in one of the windows, distracting him. Chilinko, his uncle. “Get the king man dressed up like a Herdazian again. We might need to move.”
“Move?” Lopen said, standing.
“Word has come in to all the warcamps from Highprince Sebarial,” Chilinko said in Herdazian. “They found something out there, on the Plains. Be ready. Just in case. Everyone’s talking. I can’t make sense of it.” He shook his head. “First that highstorm nobody knew about, then the rains stop early, then the storming king man of Alethkar on my doorstep. Now this. I think we might be abandoning camp, even though nightfall’s around the corner. Makes no sense to me, but get the king man taken care of.”
The Lopen nodded. “I’ll get to it. Just a sec.”
Chilinko ducked away. Lopen opened his palm and stared at the sphere. He didn’t want to miss a day practicing with his sphere, just in case. After all, sooner or later, he was going to look at one of these and—
The Lopen sucked in Light.
It happened in an eyeblink, and then there he sat, Stormlight streaming from his skin.
“Ha!” he shouted, leaping to his feet. “Ha! Hey, Chilinko, come back here. I need to stick you to the wall!”
The Light winked out. The Lopen stopped, frowning, and held his hand up in front of him. Gone so fast? What had happened? He hesitated. That tingling…
He felt at his shoulder, the one where he’d lost his arm so long ago. There, his fingers prodded a new nub of flesh that had begun sprouting from his scar.
“Oh, storms yes! Everybody, give the Lopen your spheres! I have glowing that needs to be done.”
* * *
Moash sat on the back of the cart as it rattled and wound its way out of the warcamps. He could have ridden in front, but he didn’t want to be far from his armor, which they’d wrapped up in packages and stacked back here. Hidden. The Blade and Plate might be his in name, but he had no illusions as to what would happen if the Alethi elite noticed him trying to flee with it.
His wagon crested the rise just outside of the warcamps. Behind them, enormous lines of people snaked out onto the Shattered Plains. Highprince Dalinar’s orders had been clear, though baffling. The warcamps were being abandoned. All parshmen were to be left behind, and everyone was to make their way toward the center of the Shattered Plains.
Some of the highprinces obeyed. Others did not. Curiously, Sadeas was one of those who obeyed, his warcamp emptying almost as quickly as those of Sebarial, Roion, and Aladar. It seemed like everyone was going, even the children.