“Oh, oh my,” said the spren behind the desk. He looked to them. “You … you are a Radiant? The old oaths are spoken again?”
“Yes,” Shallan said, helping Adolin’s spren to her feet.
The frightened little spren sat up straighter. “Oh, glorious day. Glorious! We have waited so long for the honor of men to return!” He stood up and gestured. “Go, please! Get on a ship. I will stall, yes I will, if that one comes back. Oh, but go quickly!”
* * *
Kaladin sensed something on the air.
Perhaps it was the flapping of clothing, familiar to him after hours spent riding the winds. Perhaps it was the postures of the people farther down the street. He reacted before he understood what it was, grabbing Syl and Adolin, pulling them all into a tent at the edge of the market.
A Fused soared past outside, its shadow trailing behind, pointing the wrong direction.
“Storms!” Adolin said. “Nice work, Kal.”
The tent was occupied only by a single bewildered spren made of smoke, looking odd in a green cap and what seemed to be Horneater clothing.
“Out,” Kaladin said, the smell of smoke on the air filling him with dread. They hurried down an alleyway between warehouses, out onto the docks.
Farther down, Ico’s ship burned brilliantly. There was chaos on the docks as spren ran in all directions, shouting in their strange language.
Syl gasped, pointing at a ship bedecked in white and gold. “We have to hide. Now.”
“Honorspren?” Kaladin asked.
“Yeah.”
“Pull down your hat, go back into the alley.” Kaladin scanned the crowd. “Adolin, do you see the others?”
“No,” he said. “Ishar’s soul! There’s no water to put that fire out. It will burn for hours. What happened?”
One of Ico’s sailors stepped from the crowd. “I saw a flash from something the Fused was holding. I think he intended to frighten Ico, but started the fire by accident.”
Wait, Kaladin thought. Was that Alethi? “Shallan?” he asked as four Reachers gathered around.
“I’m right here,” said a different one. “We are in trouble. The only ship that might have agreed to give us passage is that one there.”
“The one sailing away at full speed?” Kaladin said with a sigh.
“Nobody else would consider taking us on,” Azure said. “And they were all heading the wrong directions anyway. We’re about to be stranded.”
“We could try fighting our way onto a ship,” Kaladin said. “Take control of it, maybe?”
Adolin shook his head. “I think that would take long enough—and make enough trouble—that the Fused would find us.”
“Well, maybe I could fight him,” Kaladin said. “Only one enemy. I should be able to take him.”
“Using all our Stormlight in the process?” Shallan asked.
“I’m just trying to think of something!”
“Guys,” Syl said. “I might have an idea. A great bad idea.”
“The Fused went looking for you,” Shallan said to Kaladin. “It flew to the market.”
“It passed us.”
“Guys?”
“Not for long though. It’s going to turn around soon.”
“Turns out Syl has a bounty on her head.”
“Guys?”
“We need a plan,” Kaladin said. “If nobody…” He trailed off.
Syl had started running toward the majestic white and gold ship, which was slowly being pulled away from the docks. She threw down her poncho and hat, then screamed up at the ship while running along the pier beside it.
“Hey!” she screamed. “Hey, look down here!”
The vessel stopped ponderously, handlers slowing its mandras. Three blue-white honorspren appeared at the side, looking down with utter shock.
“Sylphrena, the Ancient Daughter?” one shouted.
“That’s me!” she shouted back. “You’d better catch me before I scamper away! Wow! I’m feeling capricious today. I might just vanish again, off to where nobody can find me!”
It worked.
A gangway dropped, and Syl scrambled up onto the ship—followed by the rest of them. Kaladin went last, watching nervously over his shoulder, expecting the Fused to come after them at any moment. It did, but it stopped at the mouth of the alleyway, watching them board the ship. Honorspren gave it pause, apparently.
On board, Kaladin discovered that most of the sailors were those spren made of fog or mist. One of these was tying Syl’s arms together with rope. Kaladin tried to intervene, but Syl shook her head. “Not now,” she mouthed.
Fine. He would argue with the honorspren later.
The ship pulled away, joining others that fled the city. The honorspren didn’t pay much mind to Kaladin and the others—though one did take their harpoons, and another went through their pockets, confiscating their infused gemstones.
As the city grew smaller, Kaladin caught sight of the Fused hovering over the docks, beside the smoke trail of a burning ship.
It finally streaked off in the other direction.
Many cultures speak of the so-called Death Rattles that sometimes overtake people as they die. Tradition ascribes them to the Almighty, but I find too many to be seemingly prophetic. This will be my most contentious assertion I am sure, but I think these are the effects of Moelach persisting in our current times. Proof is easy to provide: the effect is regionalized, and tends to move across Roshar. This is the roving of the Unmade.
—From Hessi’s Mythica, page 170
Dalinar started awake in an unfamiliar place, lying on a floor of cut stone, his back stiff. He blinked sleepily, trying to orient himself. Storms … where was he?
Soft sunlight shone through an open balcony on the far side of the room, and ethereal motes of dust danced in the streams of light. What were those sounds? They seemed like the voices of people, but muffled.
Dalinar stood, then fastened the side of his uniform jacket, which had come undone. It had been … what, three days since his return from Jah Keved? His excommunication from the Vorin church?
He remembered those days as a haze of frustration, sorrow, agony. And drink. A great deal of drink. He’d been using the stupor to drive away the pain. A terrible bandage for his wounds, blood seeping out on all sides. But so far, it had kept him alive.
I know this room, he realized, glancing at the mural on the ceiling. I saw it in one of my visions. A highstorm must have come while he was passed out.
“Stormfather?” Dalinar called, his voice echoing. “Stormfather, why have you sent me a vision? We agreed they were too dangerous.”
Yes, he remembered this place well. This was the vision where he’d met Nohadon, author of The Way of Kings. Why wasn’t it playing out as it had before? He and Nohadon had walked to the balcony, talked for a time, then the vision had ended.
Dalinar started toward the balcony, but storms, that light was so intense. It washed over him, making his eyes water, and he had to raise his hand to shield his eyes.
He heard something behind him. Scratching? He turned—putting his back to the brilliance—and spotted a door on the wall. It swung open easily beneath his touch, and he stepped out of the loud sunlight to find himself in a circular room.