Dalinar turned, frowning. That had sounded like a young girl. Why would there be a girl on the battlefield?
“I didn’t expect you to be so old,” the girl said. She sat perched cross-legged on a large boulder nearby. “And you’re not really that black. They call you Blackthorn, but you’re really more like … Dark-tan-thorn. Gawx is more black than you are, and even he’s pretty brownish.”
The young emperor, remarkably, burst into an enormous grin. “Lift! You’re back!” He started climbing up the boulder, heedless of decorum.
“Not quite back,” she said. “Got sidetracked. But I’m close now.”
“What happened in Yeddaw?” Yanagawn said, eager. “You barely gave me any kind of explanation!”
“Those people lie about their food.” She narrowed her eyes at Dalinar as the young emperor slipped down the boulder, then tried to climb up another side.
This is not possible, the Stormfather said in Dalinar’s mind. How did she come here?
“You didn’t bring her in?” Dalinar said softly.
No. This is not possible! How…?
Yanagawn finally attained the top of the boulder and gave the younger girl a hug. She had long dark hair, pale white eyes, and tan skin, though she likely wasn’t Alethi—the face was too round. Reshi, perhaps?
“He’s trying to convince me I should trust him,” Yanagawn said, pointing at Dalinar.
“Don’t,” she said. “He’s got too nice a butt.”
Dalinar cleared his throat. “What?”
“Your butt is too nice. Old guys shouldn’t have tight butts. It means you spend waaay too much time swinging a sword or punching people. You should have an old flabby butt. Then I’d trust you.”
“She … has a thing about butts,” Yanagawn said.
“No I don’t,” the girl said, rolling her eyes. “If someone thinks I’m strange for talking about butts, it’s usually because they’re jealous, ’cuz I’m the only one without something rammed up mine.” She narrowed her eyes at Dalinar, then took the emperor by the arm. “Let’s go.”
“But—” Dalinar said, raising his hand.
“See, you’re learning.” She grinned at him.
Then she and the emperor vanished.
The Stormfather rumbled in frustration. That woman! This is a creation specifically meant to defy my will!
“Woman?” Dalinar asked, shaking his head.
That child is tainted by the Nightwatcher.
“Technically, so am I.”
This is different. This is unnatural. She goes too far. The Stormfather rumbled his discontent, refusing to speak to Dalinar further. He seemed genuinely upset.
In fact, Dalinar was forced to sit and wait until the vision finished. He spent the time staring out over that field of the dead, haunted equally by the future and the past.
You have spoken to one who cannot respond. We, instead, will take your communication to us—though we know not how you located us upon this world.
Moash picked at the mush that Febrth called a “stew.” It tasted like crem.
He stared at the flamespren in their large cookfire, trying to warm himself as Febrth—a Thaylen man with striking Horneater red hair—argued with Graves. The fire’s smoke curled into the air, and the light would be visible for miles across the Frostlands. Graves didn’t care; he figured that if the Everstorm hadn’t cleared the bandits out of the area, two Shardbearers would be more than enough to deal with any who remained.
Shardblades can’t stop an arrow in the back, Moash thought, feeling exposed. And neither can Plate, if we’re not wearing it. His armor, and that of Graves, lay bundled in their wagon.
“Look, that is the Triplets,” Graves said, waving toward a rock formation. “It’s right here on the map. We go west now.”
“I’ve been this way before,” Febrth said. “We must continue south, you see. Then east.”
“The map—”
“I have no need for your maps,” Febrth said, folding his arms. “The Passions guide me.”
“The Passions?” Graves said, throwing his hands up. “The Passions? You’re supposed to have abandoned such superstitions. You belong to the Diagram now!”
“I can do both,” Febrth said solemnly.
Moash stuffed another spoonful of “stew” into his mouth. Storms, he hated it when Febrth took a turn cooking. And when Graves took a turn. And when Fia took a turn. And … well, the stuff Moash himself cooked tasted like spiced dishwater. None of them could cook worth a dun chip. Not like Rock.
Moash dropped his bowl, letting the mush slop over the side. He grabbed his coat off a tree branch and stalked out into the night. The cold air felt strange on his skin after so long in front of the fire. He hated how cold it was down here. Perpetual winter.
The four of them had suffered through the storms hiding in the cramped, reinforced bottom of their wagon, which they’d chained to the ground. They’d frightened away rogue parshmen with their Shardblades—they hadn’t been nearly as dangerous as he’d worried. But that new storm …
Moash kicked at a rock, but it was frozen to the ground and he just stubbed his toe. He cursed, then glanced over his shoulder as the argument ended in shouts. He’d once admired how refined Graves seemed. That had been before spending weeks crossing a barren landscape together. The man’s patience had frayed to threads, and his refinement didn’t matter much when they were all eating slop and pissing behind hills.
“So how lost are we?” Moash asked as Graves joined him in the darkness outside camp.
“Not lost at all,” Graves said, “if that idiot would actually look at a map.” He glanced at Moash. “I’ve told you to get rid of that coat.”
“Which I’ll do,” Moash said, “when we’re not crawling across winter’s own frozen backside.”
“At least take the patch off. It might give us away, if we meet someone from the warcamps. Rip it off.” Graves turned on his heel and walked back toward camp.
Moash felt at the Bridge Four patch on his shoulder. It brought memories. Joining Graves and his band, who had been planning to kill King Elhokar. An assassination attempt once Dalinar was away, marching toward the center of the Shattered Plains.
Facing off against Kaladin, wounded and bleeding.
You. Will. Not. Have. Him.
Moash’s skin had gone clammy from the cold. He slid his knife from his side sheath—he still wasn’t used to being able to carry one that long. A knife that was too big could get you into trouble as a darkeyes.
He wasn’t darkeyed anymore. He was one of them.
Storms, he was one of them.
He cut the stitches on the Bridge Four patch. Up one side, then down the other. How simple it was. It would be harder to remove the tattoo he’d gotten with the others, but that he’d had placed on his shoulder, not his forehead.
Moash held up the patch, trying to catch the firelight for a last look, and then couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. He walked back and settled by the fire. Were the others sitting around Rock’s stewpot somewhere? Laughing, joking, betting on how many mugs of ale Lopen could drink? Ribbing Kaladin, trying to get him to crack a smile?