Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was hot.

Shallan wiped a drizzle of sweat trickling down her neck with a grimace, the fabric covering her safehand already stained with salt and the grime of the desert. The horse underneath her flicked flies away with its tail, annoyance written on its face. She hadn’t been aware animals could express irritation to the maximum degree with such clarity, but she stood corrected. Or, rather, rode corrected. Despite the oppressive heat, she allowed herself a huff of laughter and turned her attention towards the person riding in front of her.

“Are you satisfied yet?” she called, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. She’d attempted to throw it up and off her neck, but that hadn’t done much to alleviate the frizz or its sheer refusal to stay away from her face.

Kaladin’s face was turned away from her, and thus unreadable, but the added rigidness to an already normally stiff back and the way he didn’t respond to her request told her that no, he was not, in fact, satisfied. His shoulders pressed down, his black hair swept up in a messy ponytail as only Kaladin could do, he still didn’t seem to be as affected by the heat as herself. Storms take him.

Shallan nudged her horse forward until she was on level with the captain. “Are you still alive?” she questioned.

“I am, but you won’t be if you keep interrupting my concentration,” Kaladin snipped, pausing his scrutiny of the surrounding plains to glance down at a map.

“I made that map, I promise it’s sound,” Shallan said.

Kaladin nodded without saying anything and pursed his lips. “Why here?”

“What do you mean,” Shallan sighed.

“Dalinar seems oddly set on this as a spot sanctioned for refugees, but it’s in a great tactical position. I don’t understand why he’d want to give it to refugees.”

“Maybe because if you tried to fight out here you’d boil alive in your suit,” Shallan scoffed. “I’m pretty sure I’ve gone through three layers of skin since we’ve been out here. By the time we get back, I’ll be one big blister. Try explaining that to Adolin.”

“Something tells me Adolin would thank me,” Kaladin said absentmindedly, making some kind of markings on the map in his hand. “Maybe then he’d get a moment’s peace.” He jumped as the horse underneath him shifted to the side, his face settling into a scowl as he readjusted himself. “Storming animal.”

Shallan huffed. “I should smite you where you stand.”

“You can’t smite me, I’d heal and then smite you back.” Kaladin passed the back of his hand over his forehead. “Besides, I didn’t tell you to come.”

“I thought it’d be nice to get out, I just didn’t realize it would be 7,000 degrees outside.”

Kaladin shrugged. “Not my problem.” He turned away, nudging his horse forward a few steps, then tossed a piece of cloth over his shoulder. “Tie it over your hair.”

Shallan fought the smile she found on her lips and looped the light cloth over her hair, tucking in the errant strands. Storm the man. Even when he was pretending to be mad, he had to be the one taking care of anyone and everyone in his vicinity—at that moment, her.

At her side, Pattern buzzed. “Mmm.”

She looked down. “What’s wrong?”

Pattern vibrated, his movements seeming distressed. “Something—something is wrong. Mm. Wrong. Dangerous.”

Without hesitation, Shallan nudged her horse forward towards the once-again wandering captain. “Kaladin?” she called. His back was towards her, but his head was turned, and she saw his lips move as if he was in conversation with an invisible person.

“Mmm?” he hummed as she approached, stopping her horse once she was level with him. She stretched out her hands for the map. “Can I see this map, please?” she asked, her voice sickly sweet. Kaladin’s brow quirked as he handed it over. She bent her head over it, appearing to study it intently. “Pattern says something’s wrong,” she said lowly, keeping her lips from moving overly much.

Kaladin nodded and bent his head towards her, pointing to a spot on the map like they were discussing it. She was impressed at how easily he caught on and engaged in her ruses. “Syl’s been saying the same thing.”

“What do we do?”

Kaladin pursed his lips and looked out over the horizon, “surveying” the land. “Don’t startle them. We’ll ease out of here, then slowly work the horses into a run back home. On my mark, say we should go home.” He tugged the map from her and wiped a hand over his forehead, peeling away the sweat beading on his skin, his back tensing as he casually looked over their surroundings. “Now.”

“Look at you, you’re soaked,” Shallan said loudly. “That’s enough for today. Dalinar will not be happy if you die of heatstroke.”

“Dalinar will not be happy if I come back with an unfinished report,” Kaladin retorted, his voice echoing.

“You have one. You’ll recommend the camp be somewhere else. Now, Bridgeboy,” she said, and he began rolling up the map.

“I suppose you’re right,” he sighed, and tucked the map into his sidepouch. She watched him keep his right hand free, ever ready to call Syl to aid, and the back of her neck crawled as she imagined all the unsavory characters watching her, ready to attack. He knocked his heels gently into the sides of his horse, turning it around and beginning to lead it home.

“Be ready,” he murmured as he passed her, and Shallan was about to nod an affirmative when an arrow streaked down from the sky and caught Kaladin solidly in the right side of his chest.

“Kaladin!” Shallan screamed as he toppled from his horse, the momentum of the arrow sending him tumbling head over heels to land in a heap on the ground. Dust went up in a billow as he landed, a strained cry tearing through his teeth, but his battle training got him up and rolling to the side almost as soon as he hit the sand, clutching his chest.

“Go! Run!” he shouted, flinging his free arm to the side as he staggered to his feet. His eyes were filled with terror as he gestured wildly, blood staining the cracks of his fingers. Shallan dug her heels into the sides of her horse without hesitation, following Kaladin’s orders without question. There was something about him that, in his element, and with fear coursing through her veins, led her to do what he said without argument. The cloth in her hair tore off as she urged her horse onward, breath stolen from her lungs, and her horse had just galloped three paces when a heavy arrow shot through its neck, sending it staggering to the side. Kaladin screamed her name as her horse reared, its hooves kicking the air in pain. Shallan just barely managed to hang on, clutching at the sides of the animal’s neck as it tottered on its heels, then came crashing down to the ground. It hit the ground running, and even though its steps were lopsided, she could just barely hold on.

“Shallan! Jump! Jump off!” she heard Kaladin yell over the pounding of blood in her ears. Praying to anything and everything listening, Shallan drew in a deep breath, slid her leg half over the horse’s back, and flung herself haphazardly to the side as the animal began to fall to the ground. She hit the sand in a flurry of skirts, feeling the wind get knocked out of her. Her feet slipped out from under her body and her head knocked the ground, sending stars dancing in her vision. She struggled to draw in a breath, her lungs protesting every movement as she tried to force herself to move.

Suddenly Kaladin’s sure, booted feet thundered to the ground next to her and his hands scooped her up. “Up, Shallan, up,” he commanded, hauling her to her feet. She staggered and fell into him, coughing hard as air filled her lungs again. “Come on come on,” he chanted, pushing her forward and throwing a wild glance over his shoulder. “Shelter—get to those rocks up there, see them?”

Shallan nodded wordlessly and managed to collect herself, gathering up her skirts and running towards the rocks with all her strength. Arrows fletched with black feathers whipped the ground around her, but she managed to avoid being hit and threw herself behind the rocks with a wild abandon. Kaladin quickly followed, hitting the ground with a puff of sand and coming to a stop beside her. Chest heaving, he leaned around the rock, eyes darting as he scanned the surrounding land.

After a cursory glance, he turned back to Shallan. Sweat dripped down his forehead, settling in the cracks of his scars. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Who are they?” Shallan asked, struggling to keep down the wild panic rising in her chest.

Kaladin shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, then winced. His hand fluttered to his chest again. “What? Syl—what are—Syl—” He looked off in the air, concentrating on his distracted spren and not the arrow still protruding from his flesh.

“Let me see,” Shallan said, brushing aside his hand. He leaned back against the rock, looking to the side again, as Shallan summoned Pattern as a knife. She ripped the small hole in the cloth larger, slicing the fabric to see the wound better. She sucked in a deep breath and released Pattern, letting her fingers dance over the edge of the wound.

Stormlight should have healed it by now, but the wound was already seeping deep, dark blood. Black shot away from the wound in tendrils, like Odium himself had poisoned Kaladin’s veins. Like spiderlegs. Like death was creeping through his body.

“Kaladin, why aren’t you healing this?” she asked, then, before giving him a chance to respond, she reached up and snapped the shaft in half. Kaladin let out a sharp, loud groan through his teeth, starting in pain at the sudden jarring motion. “Sorry,” she said, then reached up and took the cloth from her hair to dab at the wound.

Kaladin hissed in pain, but let her, distracted again by Syl. “What’s going on with you—Syl—”

“Kaladin!” Shallan snapped. “Heal yourself!”

“I can’t,” he said. “I think I’m out of stormlight.” He looked down at the wound and swallowed hard.

Shallan’s stomach sank. “I’m—I have some. Here.” She dug into her safepouch and procured a few spheres, holding them out to him in the palm of her hand. He closed his eyes and breathed in.

Nothing.

Something cold trickled through Shallan’s veins.

He scowled and breathed in again; this time, the light begrudgingly lifted off the spheres and into his skin. The black veins on his chest withdrew half an inch, and some of the color came back to his cheeks. Still, his forehead glistened with sweat, and the faded blue eyes that opened had a glassy sheen to them.

Why had it taken so long?

Kaladin twisted away from her to peer around the rock once more. His fingers twisted in the sand, the congealing blood on his fingertips caked in grit. Shallan was silent as he calculated their next move. After a tense moment, he turned back. “Do you have enough stormlight to cast an illusion?”

Shallan nodded.

“Cast yourself running from this rock to that one on the left, see it there? With any luck they’ll shoot and give away their position.”

Shallan nodded again and wiped the back of her hand over her forehead. Her stomach curled in knots on itself, nausea boiling up in the back of her throat as she concentrated. She felt Kaladin’s breath on the back of her neck, hot and labored. Oh, Storms. They were going to die.

Stop it, she reprimanded herself. Drawing in a deep breath, she conjured a light version of herself to stand and make a break for the large, jagged grouping of rocks Kaladin had pointed out to her. Halfway to the a shelter, an arrow zipped down from the sky, just barely missing the illusion. Kaladin gave a soft huff of triumph, his eyes immediately drawn to that direction. “Send Pattern to go see how many there are. If there aren’t too many, we’ll—”

Reflected light glistened on the rocks behind Kaladin’s shoulder.

“Duck,” Shallan said, and as a man dressed in black revealed himself behind Kaladin, raising a sword high, Pattern appeared in Shardblade form in Shallan’s hand, just in time for her to drive it hilt deep into his chest. His eyes glazed over, smoke puffing from underneath his lashes, and he slumped to the ground.

Kaladin and Shallan stared in confusion for a moment.

“They knew we would do the illusion,” Shallan whispered.

Kaladin met Shallan’s eyes. He extended his hand, the dark skin of his calloused fingers reaching out. She took it without hesitation, knowing whatever happened in the next few minutes, there was an almost sure chance of them dying. “Run,” Kaladin whispered, and suddenly he was pulling her across the sand and out into the open towards another large rock outcropping.

Shallan had never run so hard in her life, beating the ground with her feet as fast as she could. She skidded and slipped, but Kaladin hauled her upwards again and continued pulling her along. “Come on, Shallan,” he panted, “come on—”

And then he stopped short, Shallan barreling into his back and smacking her nose, as another man in black seemed to materialize out of the rock in front of them—thick, tall, muscled. Carrying a sword and a knife on his belt. He rushed at the two of them, but Kaladin shoved Shallan to the side. She stumbled to the ground as Kaladin ran towards the man, outstretching his hand for Syl—except that she didn’t come.

With a yelp of surprise, Kaladin just barely managed to turn his attack into a dodge, bringing the hand he’d raised down to slide underneath the other man’s swipe.

“Syl!” he screamed, bringing up his hand again. “Syl, I need you!” His attacker brought the knife down above Kaladin’s head. Kaladin met his forearms with his fists, grabbing the bare skin and straining against the stab. The two men strained against each other, sweat dripping off their foreheads and noses. Then, with a practiced grunt, Kaladin loosened his grip enough to quickly duck underneath the man’s prone arm, grab the knife at his belt, and in the same breath turn around to drive the knife underneath the man’s jaw and into his throat.

The man collapsed, gurgling and clutching at the knife lodged in his jaw. Kaladin staggered to the side, clutching his chest. The whole thing had happened so fast, Shallan hadn’t had time to move from her place on the ground, and she stared at him with wide eyes. Breathing heavily, he extended his hand again. “Come—come on,” he said, chest heaving. Shallan nodded and took his hand, standing up. His hands were sticky with blood.

“We’re just going to have to run for it,” Kaladin said. Sweaty tendrils of hair were stuck to his neck. “We’re just going to have to run for it and send Syl or Pattern to get someone, and just keep running. Okay?”

Shallan nodded, resisting the urge to give into the hysteria she felt rising. Kaladin must have seen the rising panic written on her face, because he gripped her hand tighter. “Hey. Hey,” he said, reaching up and holding the sides of her face. Looking her in the eyes, blue piercing blue, he said, “I’m going to get you out of this. Do you understand? You are going to get out of this.”

Shallan nodded and licked her lips, her mouth dry and ashy. She sucked in a shaky breath and nodded again, swallowing hard.

Kaladin looked at her for a moment longer, then nodded himself, knocking the side of her face affectionately with his palm. “Come on,” he told her, already starting to run, “just don’t stop.”

They emerged from the rocks, only to be met with an approaching group of around ten warriors in similar garb to their previous attackers. The two immediately slowed down, Kaladin pushing them back so their backs were to the rock. “Come on, Syl,” he said lowly, and after a brief flicker, she materialized as a spear in his hand. He breathed an audible sigh of relief, his hand tightening around the shaft.

“Pattern,” Shallan said, “You need to go get help for us, now.”

Pattern buzzed, vibration at a furious pace. “Who shall I ask?”

“Get Adolin, and Bridge Four. Tell them to hurry as fast as they can—You saw the map, you know where we are.”

“Mmm. Be careful, Shallan.” With one last vibration of concern, Pattern disappeared from Shallan’s sight. He was going to get help, that was true, but that left her minus a weapon, something she didn’t relish. She didn’t begrudge Kaladin his experience as a soldier, and knew he needed Syl, even if she was slightly malfunctioning at the moment. Still. She would have liked to have her Blade at her side.

“Stay close,” Kaladin said lowly. “The worst thing that could happen is for us to be separated. If you get a chance, pick up a sword—I’ll try and get one for you if I can, but don’t be afraid to grab one. Can you cast some distractions?”

Shallan nodded. “I don’t know how much stormlight I have, but I will for as long as I can.”

“Sometimes that’s all you need,” Kaladin said. “On my mark. ….now.”

Shallan immediately breathed out. Five different versions of she and Kaladin stepped away from them. Some stayed close together, some immediately went for the attackers and split up. Kaladin rushed forward to join them, raising Syl high above his head. Syl seemed to have recovered from her earlier lapse, and she glowed strong and true as she met the downward sweep of an attacker’s sword. As the sound of the concrete object hitting the man rang through the air, each of the attackers turned towards them, now warned of which of the illusions was real. Shallan immediately retracted the illusions and sent them back out again, doing it over and over as Kaladin warred with his opponent. Syl was a blur as he whirled and stabbed with her, easily killing two men almost without breaking more of a sweat than he already had. Shallan rushed to one of the fallen bodies and snatched his sword; it was hefty, but she could lift it without too much trouble, and she’d rather have something to defend herself with than nothing. As Kaladin lunged for another attacker, leaving another collapsed body in his wake, a smaller figure in black rushed at Shallan. A woman.

Shallan raised her sword to meet the downward strike that came with the woman, straining against the movement. Their weapons rang against each other, accompanying the sound of Kaladin’s fighting to Shallan’s left. Remembering Adolin’s training, she focused on moving fluidly, parrying and stabbing with a speed that seemed not her own. The woman flung her sword into Shallan’s and she strained against the weight, sweat dripping down her neck and across her collarbone. The woman’s eyes glinted harsh and dark, her eyebrows furrowed as she glared into Shallan’s eyes.

Shallan smiled.

The woman’s eyebrows popped up in confusion, and Shallan used the moment of lost concentration to twist her blade and ram it into the woman’s stomach. She dropped to the ground, blood soaking her front as she gurgled into silence. Without giving herself time to comprehend what she’d just done, Shallan whirled around, her dress flying and sweat dripping into her eyes.

Kaladin had somehow managed to make short work of the other people, leaving him surrounded by collapsed bodies and blood-stained sand. His chest heaved, and he staggered to the side, his hand traveling up to clutch at his chest. Something black leaked through the remnants of his ragged shirt.

“Let’s, let’s go,” he panted, his face pained. “I think—something’s—let’s go—”

Without warning, the tip of a sword slammed through his chest, the hilt buried in his back. He let out a high-pitched scream through his teeth, his hands pawing at the blade, and a man clad in back and hidden in the rock lifted him into the air. Impaled on the blade, Kaladin scrabbled for the blade, his blood-slicked fingers slipping as he kicked at the air, agony written on his face.

“Kaladin!” Shallan screamed, horror stealing her breath. The man in black brought his sword down and ripped it from Kaladin’s chest, depositing the Herald in a slump on the sand.

Kaladin didn’t move.

“Kaladin!” Shallan screamed again, rushing forward. Feeling a sudden burst of fury, of rage, of energy she didn’t know she still had in her, Shallan ran forward and cast an illusion of three of herself hurtling towards the man, who brandished his sword. Taking advantage of his confusion, she switched places with the illusion on her right and ran towards him. As he grabbed for one of her pretend selves, she swung her sword into his neck. Though it didn’t decapitate him as she had hoped, his neck was half severed, and he fell to the ground in a spray of crimson.

Without paying attention to her victim, Shallan fell to her knees, grabbing fistfuls of Kaladin’s shirt fabric to pull him to his knees. She heaved, his toned body proving heavy in a deadweight, but managed to settled him in a slouch. His eyelids peeled back, his eyes unfocused and rolling in his head as she grabbed the sides of his face. With a start, she realized his eyes were a deep brown. He slumped forward and Shallan pulled him back up, smacking his cheek.

“Kaladin! Kaladin, heal yourself! Kaladin!” she screamed at him, cupping his jaw and bringing his face close to hers. Blood dripped from the side of his blue-tinged lips. Shallan sobbed and shook him. “Heal yourself! Syl!” she sobbed, her hands shaking. “Syl! Where are-”

Strong hands grabbed her waist and snatched her backwards, pulling her away from Kaladin.

“No!” she shrieked, kicking and straining against the hands that constrained her. “No! No no no!” Sand sprayed up around her feet as she fought her captor, but the arms circled her waist and dragged her away. She sobbed and fought, her nails raking along skin, but another set of hands grabbed her hands and bound her wrists together. “Kaladin! Kaladin!”

Slowly, she was pulled away and a cloth was placed over her mouth. Struggling, she rushed to pull away from it, but was unable to breathe, and as she gasped for air she already felt the edges of her vision tinging with black. As she felt herself tossed onto the back of a horse, her movements growing lethargic and uncoordinated, she looked backward, Kaladin’s name still on her lips.

He sat where she had left him, slumped on his knees, the front of his chest bleeding crimson down his chest and the sand around him and surrounded by corpses. He didn’t call for her, and he didn’t reach for her.

And as Shallan’s vision faded to black, she knew her best friend was dead.

Chapter Text

Shallan woke on stone. 

Groggy, she blinked, her eyes slowly focusing on cold, hard rock.  She winced, bringing a hand to her head as a piercing pain shot through her temple and across her eyes.  Had she drunk too much with Adolin? Usually she just used stormlight to burn through any hangover she might have.  And why was she on stone?  Had they made their way to some unknown room in the bottom of Urithuru in order to engage in activities Dalinar would less than approve of if he knew?

Her gaze slowly traveled downwards, taking in the stone, the ragged pallet she had somehow not landed on, the heavy metal lock on the heavy metal door. After what seemed an eternity, her gaze alighted on the blood encrusted fabric of her dress, and the blood dried in the cracks of her fingers, and froze.

Like a flash of lightning, the events of the past hours (days? Weeks? Month?) alighted on her, and she relived every stab, every slash, every last breath of Kaladin.

“Pattern?” she questioned, her voice coming out as a tremulous whisper.

Silence.

“Pattern,” Shallan said again, hysteria rising in the back of her throat. Kaladin—Pattern—Kaladin—

Yet again, she was answered by nothing but the echo of the stone surrounding her.  She gulped back a sob and curled in on herself, feeling tears drip from the corner of her eyes down to melt into the floor.  She let out a shaky breath, hiccupping against the grief that threatened to cave in her chest.  The thought of being afraid for herself and her own predicament didn’t even cross her mind—only the hole left by her absent spren and Kaladin’s catatonic eyes.  She sobbed into the stone, unable to say anything in except "Kaladin, Kaladin, Kaladin," over and over again in a noiseless voice as her brain tattooed the image of Kaladin's corpse on the inside of her eyelids.  

A shuffle outside of her cell drew her attention, and she lifted her head, palming away the tears and peering through her curtain of hair to see the door swing open.  A pair of dark brown boots, a grey robe, a middle aged-face covered by long brown hair. He carried a tray that he set on the ground, then opened a small metal door in the bars close to the floor.  He slid the tray through and stood in expectant silence.

Shallan didn’t answer.

“Eat,” he said quietly, his voice deep and quiet.

“Who are you?” Shallan asked.

“Tel.  Eat.”

“Where am I?”

Tel shuffled to the side, looking uncomfortable.  “I cannot say.”

Shallan studied him, still not moving towards the proffered tray.

Tel sighed.  “It will be told to you soon enough.  Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You will not eat for a long time.”

Shallan swallowed hard, then reached out and took the cup of water next to the small loaf of bread.  Without breaking eye contact, she took a drink, and was suddenly hit by the heavenly feeling of the cool liquid on her parched throat.  She drank faster, gulping the water down until she had to stop before she choked.  She took a piece of the bread and lifted it to her mouth, but her stomach turned as it hit her tongue and she set it down in favor of the water.

Tel’s face was stony, watching her without a word.  He looked to be maybe forty years old, with a frame that wasn’t overweight so much as broad.  Long brown hair hung over a face lined with care from the years, and a scar ran from just underneath his right eye and across his mouth to land on the left side of his jaw.  Bags hung under his eyes. 

A step sounded from somewhere beyond Shallan’s vision, and Tel looked towards its owner.  As he turned his head, his hair moved to the point that Shallan could see the slave brands burned into his forehead.  A shiver ran up her back. 

A burly man dressed in black came into view, hand resting on the sword at his hip.  “She’s wanted,” he told Tel.  Tel nodded once, quickly, barely making eye contact with the man.  He left as quickly as he came, and Tel turned back towards her. 

“I will return soon,” he said, and left without a sound.

Even though fear churned her stomach, Shallan realized with a start there were no fearspren to be seen.

oOoOo

Rock was stirring a pot when he saw it. 

The Brightness Shallan’s spren, Pattern, materialized on a rock near the fire he stood at and buzzed furiously.  Laying eyes upon the creature, Rock bowed, lowering his head in reverence. 

“How am I helping you?” Rock asked, straightening.

“Adolin.  Where is he?” the spren buzzed. 

“I think the Brightlord is in armory—or maybe in tent strategizing. Drehy!” he shouted, looking over his shoulder to the young soldier.  Drehy looked up upon hearing his name called, halting the soldier he was sparring with an unturned hand.  “Where is young Brightlord?”

“Adolin?  In his tent with Dalinar.”

Rock turned back towards Pattern.  “Yes, is in tent. Am I fetching for you?”

The black figure undulated, its curling lines and arcs vibrating back and forth.  “Herald Kaladin and Brightness Shallan are in peril.  Reinforcements are needed.  Adolin must be told.”

Rock straightened immediately, dropping his ladle in shock.  He snatched a bucket of water from nearby and doused the fire beneath his soup, not even pausing to lament the destruction of the cauldron’s contents as he roared for Drehy.  “Drehy!  Summon the men for formation!”  Turning towards Pattern, he inclined his head to the spren.  “If pleasing you, follow me.”

His chest grew tighter with every step as he marched towards the tent; even though he didn’t even know what was going on with Kaladin, something on a large-enough scale to warrant sending a spren for reinforcements bode no good signs.

He bypassed the sentry posted outside Dalinar’s strategy tent and rapped twice on the post.  Without waiting for an answer, he barged his way in, earning himself disgruntled looks from Dalinar, Adolin, and the assorted few military personnel all standing around the table.  Giving a quick bow, he said, “I am needing to speak with the Brightlord Adolin, please.”

“What is it?” Adolin questioned, sending his father a quick, embarrassed glance. 

“The Brightness Shallan’s spren is saying Kaladin and Shallan are in trouble.”

“Trouble?” Adolin said, immediately straightening.  “They’re on a plains scout—how can there be trouble?”

“Attacked by soldiers.  Many of them. Kaladin is wounded.” 

“Wounded?!” Adolin said, a shocked murmur passing through the room. Immediately, he stooped to snatch up a knife and stuffed it in a sheath at his side.  Without breaking stride, he made for the door. “Forgive me, Father—how can he be wounded?”

“I do not know.  Only that assistance is needed—with haste.”

“Gather Bridge Four—quickly,” Adolin said to Rock. 

“Drehy gathers them for formation now.”

Adolin nodded in approval, his face tight.  “Pattern, how much time do you think we have?”

Pattern did not answer right away.  “I do not know if you have any.”

oOoOo

Shallan’s wrists ached with the weight of the manacles shackled upon her, the heavy metal pulling at the tender skin on her wrists.  Two men in black led her down a corridor of stone, headed towards a heavy oaken door.  More slaves, dressed similarly to Tel, waited outside with heads down.

They paused before entering the door, and the guard on her right—what seemed to be the senior—grabbed her arm.  “Do not speak unless spoken to,” he admonished her.  “Do not disrespect the Elsayir.  Do not try to escape, because we will catch you.”

“But will you kill me?” Shallan quipped, immediately cursing herself for her unbridled tongue even in the face of untold danger. 

“You will wish we had,” the man said, and Shallan had to swallow back a bout of nausea.  With that, the man turned back to the door and pushed it open, a gust of stale wind meeting Shallan’s clammy skin.

She was pulled into what seemed like a great throne room, hung with velvet drapings. People milled about inside, stilling as she walked in.  Most were dressed similarly to the people who had attacked them hours (days?) earlier, minus the elements of armor.  Before her, three people on large wooden chairs seated on a platform stared her down with an imperious air; two men and a woman, all clothed in rich, dark, fabric. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Shallan might have marveled at how stereotypical it seemed. 

The guards marched her towards the middle of the floor and wordlessly bade her stop by gripping her arms with hands of steel.  With her dingy clothing, unwashed body, and hair messy and frizzy in front of her, Shallan struggled not to feel incredibly small.  More than anything, she wished she could take on Radiant’s persona, but no matter how she’d tried, she hadn’t been able to lightweave anything; she wasn’t sure if that was the smallest or biggest problem before her.  She settled for taking a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, and ignoring the fact half of her vision was obscured by her hair.

“You are the Brightness Shallan,” the man sitting in the middle said.  He was younger, maybe early thirties, and his hair was a deep brown.  A dark red cape sat on his shoulders, draped across the arm of his chair.  Shallan had no doubt he could snap her like a twig.

“Yes,” she said.  

“Where is your spren?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” she said.

“It is not with you?”

Shallan didn’t respond, and he rubbed his jaw.  “Our kingdom is hidden from spren.  One that does not come with you will not be able to find you again.” He looked at the woman sitting next to him, and she gave the smallest shrug Shallan had ever seen.  Raven hair upswept into an impressive yet unassuming style, piercing grey eyes covered in a thick layer of lashes, she gazed upon Shallan as if she were no more than a bug.  She struggled not to squirm.

“Inconvenient.  Potentially inconsequential.”

Shallan frowned.  Kingdom? This wasn’t a kingdom.  This was a building.  This was a town, if anything.  There was no way she had been unconscious long enough to travel to a kingdom she didn’t recognize.  She knew every sigil and every people group known to mankind.  There was no way this was an actual kingdom.

A group of rebels, then.  Insurgents. Made sense.  Was she a hostage, then?  Seemed logical.  She could outsmart a group of rebels without any real power.  It would be harder without her lightweaving, but she could do it.

The man waved his finger and a wizened, hunched man came towards her, wielding a pair of scissors.  Shallan eyed him, feeling herself shrink back as he approached.  Before she could say anything, he reached out and unceremoniously snipped off a piece of her hair.  He withdrew with the same quick timing, already back in the corner before Shallan had time to register what was happening.  The cut chunk swung in front of her face, hacked off and drastically shorter than the other pieces. 

“Tell us, Brightness,” the man said, putting an uncomfortable emphasis on her title and bringing her attention back to him.  “What can you tell us about Navani?”           

oOoOo

Adolin and Bridge Four thundered across the plains, sand and dust spraying from the hooves of their horses as they galloped faster than they’d ever ran before.  Adolin hadn’t even bothered to put on his shardplate, opting instead to strap on a simple breastplate and pick up an extra sword before setting out.  He’d never felt his blood run so cold as it had when he’d received Pattern’s warning.  With every hoofbeat, a different image flashed in front of his brain: his wife’s skull cracked open on a rock, his wife’s blood spilled upon sand, his wife’s corpse naked and violated.  He struggled to keep his heartsickness at bay, instead trying to focus on a plan of attack on the off chance they met with opposition.

He almost wished they would, as long as it meant Shallan was still alive and healthy.

Beside him, Renarin sat on his own horse, a grim determination on his face. Adolin marveled at how his brother had transformed from the shy, sickly boy of earlier years to the strong, capable man he was today. 

He had no doubts Renarin would do whatever it took to win in whatever situation they found, and it brought him some comfort—however small it was.

Adolin had known the general area they would be in, so he hadn’t needed Pattern to instruct him where to go.  However, as they neared the rocky plains Kaladin had needed to scout, Pattern vibrated.

“Mmm.  Over there. Left.”

“Left!” Adolin shouted, immediately veering his horse in that direction.  The ripple of following hooves echoed across the sand, a veritable army of men ready to defend their leader to the death.

They crossed to a group of rocky outcroppings, and Pattern buzzed once again. “Here is where they were.”

“Dismount!” Adolin shouted, bringing his horse to a halt and swinging his leg over. “Fan out!  Be at the ready for an attack!”

Bridge Four answered with a salute and an immediate dismount from all parties. Adolin outstretched his hand and counted to ten, feeling Maya’s weight in his hand after the customary ten heartbeats. He continued walking, striding with purpose across the sand.

After a moment he stooped, feeling his stomach drop as he stooped and dragged his fingers through a spot of darkness in the sand.  Blood.  Definitely blood.  He sucked in a slow breath, feeling it hitch in his chest.  “Rock!” he shouted, motioning at the sand, then continued onward. He had to stifle a momentary feeling of pride at seeing a few corpses clad in black in the rocks, blood congealing on the ground.

He emerged from the rocks to another plain, stretching far as his eye could see. Foreboding grew in him as he saw, maybe three hundred feet away, what could be bodies strewn across the ground.  “Shallan!” he screamed into the plains.  His voice echoed back at him, and hers did not.  “Kaladin!  Shallan!” He raised his hands to his mouth again, ready to yell again, but something caught his eye. 

Was that someone kneeling?

He started running and threw a hasty call over his shoulder, heedless of waiting for anyone else.  He passed body after body and blood spatter after blood spatter, men and women in black all gazing sightlessly at the sky, and marveled at how many Shallan and Kaladin had been able to dispatch.

He tried not to be afraid.

Suddenly a zip of blue flashed in front of his face.  He slid to a stop on the sand, rearing backwards.  The blue manifested again, this time recognizable as Syl.  But this was a different Syl than he was used to—this one was tortured, blurry, phasing in and out of the air with jerky, agonized movements. 

“Syl—” he said, and she screamed. 

Adolin flinched back from the awful sound and she disappeared again, but not before meeting his gaze with the most pain-filled eyes he’d ever seen.

Adolin was afraid.

He started running again, making for the figure kneeling on the ground.  Now at this distance, he could see it was Kaladin.

If that was Kaladin, what happened to Shallan?

“Kaladin!” he yelled, pushing back a rising panic and doubling his efforts. “Kaladin!”

No answer.

He slid to a stop on the sand again and dropped to his knees, scrabbling in the sand for his friend’s unmoving body, frozen in a slumped kneeling position near a half-decapitated corpse of a man.  Kaladin’s head drooped to his chest, his bangs hanging over his face. Blood from a massive wound in his chest had congealed, a crimson mass dripping from his chest down to the sand he knelt, catatonic (not dead, he couldn’t be dead), on.  Adolin grabbed his shoulders and shook Kaladin.  “Kaladin!  Wake up!” he shouted. 

Kaladin’s head lolled to the side, his sightless eyes half lidded and staring beyond Adolin into some great unknown.  Adolin sobbed, feeling it rip through his teeth, and shook Kaladin again, sweat dripping down his forhead as he shouted at Kaladin to please wake up and just be alive.  “Where’s my wife, Kaladin?  Come on, Bridgeboy!”

He drew back, his hands fluttering over the massive hole leaking blood and other assorted bodily fluids into the ground like he could do anything, but the ripped muscles and destroyed flesh were beyond him.

Over Kaladin’s shoulder, he could see the rest of Bridge Four thundering towards him.  “Renarin!” he screamed as he reached up and grasped the sides of Kaladin’s face, turning the pale, blue-lipped face towards his own.  His hands dug into the sides of the cold skin as he searched the half-closed eyes for any sign of life, but saw nothing. 

Kaladin’s lips leaked blood.

Bridge Four came to a stop around him, everyone in a state of horrified shock at the state of their beloved leader.  Renarin fought through the crowd, pushing aside soldiers to get through. He placed a firm hand on Adolin’s shoulder, moving him aside.  As he did so, Kaladin’s body slumped to the ground and he wound up splayed out on the sand, his head situated on Adolin’s leg. 

Renarin closed his eyes and placed his hands on the side of Kaladin’s face.

oOoOo

When Shallan was not forthcoming in her answers about Navani’s works, or her research, Dalinar, the Elsayir grew tired of her.  None of her subtle probing through her answers gave her any indication as to her location, the peoples’ purpose, or even their names, much to her chagrin, and she was almost eager for the questioning to continue.  The man in the middle finally stood, his cape fluttering to the ground beside him.

“We will speak again soon.  Next time, you will answer me.” He motioned with his hand to the guards on either side of her, and they took her arms to take her away.

She stood still, something hot and angry suddenly rising inside her.  “No.”

The man froze, half turned away, before looking at her once again.  The air in the room grew still and cold.  “No?”

Shallan stood tall, imagining herself growing taller and wider, stronger than she really was.  “You killed my friend.”

The man stared at her.

“You will answer to me.” She drew in a hot, shaky breath.  “And I will not show you mercy.”

The man stared at her for a few moments, then flicked his wrist.  Out of nowhere, the guard on her right through up his hand and backhanded her across the mouth, sending her staggering and almost to the floor.  She brought her hand to her mouth, tasting blood and reveling in the sting. She brought her eyes back up to meet his, unwavering and unmoving, and after a moment he moved away.  The guards grabbed her arms again, and she was dragged from the room and back down the stone corridor.

She was deposited roughly back in her cell in a heap, the door sliding shut with a bang.  She stood and slammed a hand on the bars of her cell, allowing herself a show of bravado, and waited for the sound of the steps to recede before collapsing into a ball. 

Her lip stung.

A sob hitched in her chest, and she might have indulged in more, but she heard a soft step before her.  She raised her head, blinking away the tears swimming in her eyes, and saw Tel standing in front of her. They didn’t say anything for a moment.

“That was foolish,” he said in his soft, deep voice.

She wasn’t sure if the sound that came from her was a laugh or a sob.  She ducked her head, gathering herself before looking at him again.  “Foolish is what I’m best at,” she said. 

“They will only punish insolence.”

Shallan studied his hair-hidden face.  “You know, it’s been so long since I had pain that didn’t heal immediately, I’d almost forgotten it still exists.”

“This hurt will be quick to go, but they only inflict more.”

“I don’t think this pain will ever leave, Tel,” she whispered. 

Tel stepped closer to her cell.  “I think you are right,” he said, and something dropped from his hand to the ground. He turned on his heel and walked away, his soft step disappearing shortly. 

Shallan scooched across the stone floor and picked up the white article. It was a damp cloth, freshly wet. Shallan allowed herself a crack of a smile and placed it on her lip, relishing in the sting the cool cloth brought to her injured mouth.

And she thought of a way to escape. 

oOoOo

Renarin’s eyes were closed, all his concentration focused on Kaladin.  Sweat dripped from his nose and landed on Kaladin’s pale face, the merciless sun and the stress resulting in him—them all, really—being soaked with sweat. 

Adolin watched his brother, then watched Kaladin, then watched his brother, then watched Kaladin—searching for any sign of life, any hope that Kaladin might still be alive, might still have a little flicker of hope. 

Off to the side, Syl manifested in the air again, letting out a keening wail like a mother bereaved of her only child.  She disintegrated again, then materialized just by Rock’s head.  He held out his hand, and she flickered, but wound up curled in the palm of his hand.  Without recognizing him, she sobbed, but Rock crooned a word of comfort to her and even though she continued phasing in and out of visibility, she stayed in his hand.

Adolin looked back down the unresponsive Kaladin.  “Come on, Bridgeboy,” he murmured.  Renarin’s calm mask of concentration was slipping, concentrationspren manifesting all around them.  A healthy dose of fearspren was mixed in, and frustrationspren sprang up at an alarming rate.  The rest of Bridge Four watched in silence, fear and grief rendering them speechless.

As he returned his gaze to Kaladin, Adolin noticed something strange.  He’d been so wrapped up in the gigantic wound decimating Kaladin’s torso that he hadn’t noticed the small wound higher up in his chest.  It looked like an arrow wound, but the head had been torn out.  Except…

He probed the wound with his hand.  Black blood seeped out, different than it should have been.  Kaladin’s blood should have been dark, true—but not jet black.  He frowned. 

Kaladin still didn’t move. 

Renarin sat back, trembling with his efforts, and Adolin met his eyes. Renarin’s jaw worked, his eyes red, and even though he didn’t say anything—hardly even moved, really—Adolin knew what he was saying. 

Kaladin wasn’t coming back. 

A grief he hadn’t felt since the death of his mother threatened to bubble up from his stomach and squeeze his chest.  He looked down, trying to gather himself, but tears blurred his vision. He heard a sob come from Rock, and a moan from the little spren in his hand.  Sounds of grief echoed from around the group—disbelief that their leader was gone, and a great sadness that threatened to envelop them.  He saw the arrow wound again, and something probed him to prod it, sending more black sludge dribbling.  That, and sending the sun glinting off something still embedded inside. 

Adolin frowned, and, blinking back the tears stinging the corners of his eyes, sticking his finger inside and poking it.  It was hard and maybe half an inch long, no more than an eighth of an inch wide—curious.  He hooked his finger and brought it out, revealing it to be a shard of the arrowhead, broken off when it had been ripped from his chest.  He swiped it along Kaladin’s shirt, wiping off the blood. 

It was black, a quarter of a glyph scrawled on it.  It could have been his eyes, but it almost seemed as if something swam beneath the surface, a black, milky substance.  He frowned, sniffed hard, and tapped Renarin’s shoulder. 

“Try again,” he said shortly, his voice choked.

“Adolin—” Renarin protested, but Adolin cut him off.

“Try again,” he ordered. 

Renarin wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist and nodded, turning back once more to Kaladin’s corpse.   He drew in a deep breath and placed his hands back where they were, sending healing down into the dead skin.

“Come on, Bridgeboy,” Adolin whispered. 

Nothing.

Renarin exhaled and pushed harder.

“Come on, Bridgeboy,” Adolin whispered again. 

“Adolin—” Renarin said, ready to give up, but Adolin cut him off with his hand.

“Keep trying,” he snapped, and Renarin looked back down, if only to satisfy his brother.

Renarin healed and Adolin prayed.  “Come on, Bridgeboy,” he urged quietly, earnestly, hoping against all hope that something would change.

Kaladin breathed.

Renarin yelled and jerked back in surprise as Kaladin’s chest moved, inhaling the hot desert air.  Adolin couldn’t tell if he felt himself laugh or sob, some kind of sound tearing from his chest as he saw color slowly returning to Kaladin’s face.

Renarin let out a boyish, loud laugh and looked at Adolin, the tears on his cheeks a stark contrast to the joy in his eyes.  He put his hands on Kaladin’s chest and continued to breathe life back into his leader, Kaladin’s slight breaths growing stronger with every second.

“There you go, Kaladin,” Adolin whispered, and used his shoulder to wipe away the tears he couldn’t stop from coming. 

As Bridge Four slowly turned from grief-stricken, to disbelief, to celebration, Syl’s form changed.  The men around began to yell, jumping and clapping each other on the shoulder, some of them sobbing outright as she stopped jerking and gained coherence, sitting up in Rock’s hand like she’d been asleep, just groggy from waking up.  After a moment, she disappeared, reappearing on Kaladin’s chest just above his sternum.  There, she curled up, hiding her face in his chest. 

Kaladin’s eyes rolled open, flickering open just enough to see their blue. Although they held no recognition, Adolin had never been so glad to see the evidence of stormlight before.

“Welcome back, Bridgeboy,” Adolin sobbed, his face split into an impossibly wide grin.  He gave the side of Kaladin’s face an affectionate tap with the flat of his palm.

Kaladin’s eyes closed again, but he continued to breathe, and for the moment, that was enough.