“Your report?” Inadara asked.

“Get me a towel and some paper,” the scout said. “I rounded the southern side of the central plateau. I’ll draw what I saw . . . but Damnation! They’re throwing lightning, Brightness. Throwing it! It’s insane. How do we fight such things?”

Shallan finished the last plateau on her drawing. She settled back on her heels, lowering her pen. The Shattered Plains, drawn almost in their entirety. But what was she doing? What was the point?

“We will make an expedition into the central plateau,” Inadara said. “Brightlord Renarin, we will need your protection. Perhaps in the Parshendi city we will find the elderly or the workers, and we can protect them, as Brightlord Dalinar has instructed. They might know about the Oathgate. If not, we can begin breaking into buildings and searching for clues.”

Too slow, Shallan thought.

The newly arrived scout stepped up to Shallan’s large map. He leaned over, inspecting it as he dried himself off with a towel. Shallan gave him a glare. If he dripped water on this after all she’d done . . .

“That’s wrong,” he said.

Wrong? Her art? Of course it wasn’t wrong. “Where?” she asked, exhausted.

“That plateau there,” the man said, pointing. “It’s not long and thin, as you drew it. It’s a perfect circle, with big gaps between it and the plateaus on its east and west.”

“That’s unlikely,” Shallan said. “If it were that way—” She blinked.

If it were that way, it wouldn’t match the pattern.

* * *

“Well then, find Brightness Shallan a squad of soldiers and do as she says!” Dalinar said, turning and raising his arm against the wind.

Renarin nodded. Blessedly, he’d agreed to put on his Plate for the battle, rather than continuing on with Bridge Four. Dalinar barely understood the lad these days. . . . Storms. Dalinar had never known a man who could look awkward in Shardplate, but his son managed it. The sheet of wind-driven rain passed. Light from blue lanterns reflected from Renarin’s wet armor.

“Go,” Dalinar said. “Protect the scholars on their mission.”

“I . . .” Renarin said. “Father, I don’t know . . .”

“It wasn’t a request, Renarin!” Dalinar shouted. “Do as you’re told, or give that storming Plate to someone who will!”

The boy stumbled back, then saluted with a metallic slap. Dalinar pointed at Gaval, who barked orders, gathering a squad of soldiers. Renarin followed Gaval as the two of them moved off.

Stormfather. The sky had grown darker and darker. They’d need Navani’s fabrials soon. That wind came in bursts, blowing rain that was entirely too strong for the Weeping. “We have to interrupt that singing!” Dalinar shouted against the rain, making his way to the edge of the plateau, joined by officers and messengers, including Rlain and several members of Bridge Four. “Parshman. Is this storm their doing?”

“I believe so, Brightlord Dalinar!”

On the other side of the chasm, Aladar’s army fought a desperate battle against the Parshendi. Red lightning came in bursts, but according to field reports, the Parshendi didn’t know how to control it. It could be very dangerous to those who stood close by, but was not the terrible weapon it had first seemed.

In direct combat, unfortunately, these new Parshendi were another thing entirely. A group of them prowled close to the chasm, where they ripped through a squad of spearmen like a whitespine through a patch of ferns. They fought with a ferocity beyond what the Parshendi had ever shown on the plateau runs, and their weapons connected with flashes of red.

It was difficult to watch, but Dalinar’s place was not out there fighting. Not today.

“Aladar’s eastern flank needs reinforcement,” Dalinar said. “What do we have?”

“Light infantry reserves,” General Khal said, wearing only his uniform. His son wore his Shards, fighting with Roion’s army. “Fifteenth spear division from Sebarial’s army. But those were supposed to support Brightlord Adolin. . . .”

“He’ll survive without them. Get those men over here and see Aladar reinforced. Tell him to punch through to those Parshendi in the back, engage the ones singing at all costs. What’s Navani’s status?”

“She is ready with the devices, Brightlord,” a messenger said. “She wants to know where she should begin.”

“Roion’s flank,” Dalinar said immediately. He sensed a disaster brewing there. Speeches were all well and good, but even with Khal’s son fighting on that front, Roion’s troops were the worst he had. Teleb was supporting them with some of Sebarial’s troops, who were surprisingly good. The man himself was practically useless in a battle, but he knew how to hire the right people—and that had always been his genius. Sebarial probably assumed that Dalinar didn’t know that.

He’d kept many of Sebarial’s troops as a reserve up until now. With them on the field, they’d committed almost every soldier they had.

Dalinar hiked back toward the command tent, passing Shallan, Inadara, some bridgemen, and a squad of soldiers—Renarin included—crossing the plateau at a trot, heading out on their mission. They’d have to skirt across the southern plateau, near the fighting, to get where they were going. Kelek speed their way.

Dalinar himself pushed through the rain, soaked to the very bones, reading the battle through what he could see of the flanks. His force had the size advantage, as anticipated. But now, this red lightning, this wind . . . The Parshendi moved through the darkness and the gusts of wind with ease while the humans slipped, squinted, and were battered.

Still, the Alethi were holding their own. The problem was that this was only half of the Parshendi. If the other half attacked, his people would be in serious trouble—but they didn’t attack, so they must consider that singing to be important. They saw the wind they were creating as more damaging, more deadly to the humans, than simply joining the battle.

That terrified him. What was coming would be worse.

“I am sorry that you have to die this way.”

Dalinar stood still. Rain streamed down. He looked to the flock of messengers, aides, bodyguards, and officers who attended him. “Who spoke?”

They looked at one another.

Wait . . . He recognized that voice, didn’t he? It was familiar to him.

Yes. He’d heard it many times. In his visions.

It was the voice of the Almighty.

There is one you will watch. Though all of them have some relevance to precognition, Moelach is one of the most powerful in this regard. His touch seeps into a soul as it breaks apart from the body, creating manifestations powered by the spark of death itself. But no, this is a distraction. Deviation. Kingship. We must discuss the nature of kingship.

—From the Diagram, Book of the 2nd Desk Drawer: paragraph 15

Kaladin limped up the switchbacks to the palace, his leg a knotted mass of pain. Almost falling as he reached the doors, he slumped against them, gasping, his crutch under one arm, spear in the other hand. As if he could do anything with that.

Have . . . to get . . . to the king. . . .

How would he get Elhokar away? Moash would be watching. Storms. The assassination could happen any day . . . any hour now. Surely Dalinar was already far enough from the warcamps.

Keep. Moving.

Kaladin stumbled into the entryway. No guards at the doors. Bad sign. Should he have raised the alarm? There weren’t any soldiers in camp to help, and if he’d come in force, Graves and his men would know something was wrong. Alone, Kaladin might be able to see the king. His best hope was to get Elhokar to safety quietly.

Fool, Kaladin thought to himself. You change your mind now? After all of this? What are you doing?

But storm it . . . the king tried. He actually tried. The man was arrogant, perhaps incapable, but he tried. He was sincere.

Kaladin stopped, exhausted, leg screaming, and leaned against the wall. Shouldn’t this be easier? Now that he’d made the decision, shouldn’t he be focused, confident, energized? He felt none of that. He felt wrung out, confused, and uncertain.

He pushed himself forward. Keep going. Almighty send that he wasn’t too late.

Was he back to praying now?

He picked through darkened corridors. Shouldn’t there be more light? With some difficulty, he reached the king’s upper rooms, with the conference chamber and its balcony to the side. Two men in Bridge Four uniforms guarded the door, but Kaladin didn’t recognize either of them. They weren’t Bridge Four—they weren’t even members of the old King’s Guard. Storms.

Kaladin hobbled up to them, knowing he must look a sight, soaked through and through, limping on a leg that—he noticed—was trailing blood. He’d split the sutures on his wounds.

“Stop,” said one of the men. The fellow had a chin so cleft, it looked like he’d taken an axe to the face as a baby. He looked Kaladin up and down. “You’re the one they call Stormblessed.”

“You’re Graves’s men.”

The two looked at each other.

“It’s all right,” Kaladin said. “I’m with you. Is Moash here?”

“He’s off for the moment,” the soldier said. “Getting some sleep. It’s an important day.”

I’m not too late, Kaladin thought. Luck was with him. “I want to be part of what you’re doing.”

“It’s taken care of, bridgeman,” the guard said. “Go back to your barrack and pretend nothing is happening.”

Kaladin leaned in close, as if to whisper something. The guard leaned forward.

So Kaladin dropped his crutch and slammed his spear up between the man’s legs. Kaladin immediately turned, spinning on his good leg and dragging the other one, whipping his spear toward the other man.

The man got his spear up to block, and tried to shout. “To arms! To—”

Kaladin slammed against him, knocking aside his spear. Kaladin dropped his own spear and grabbed the man by the neck with numb, wet fingers and cracked his head against the wall. Then he twisted and dropped, bringing his elbow down onto Cleft-chin’s head, driving it down into the floor.

Both men fell still. Light-headed from the sudden exertion, Kaladin slammed himself back against the door. The world spun. At least he knew he could still fight without Stormlight.

He found himself laughing, though it turned into a cough. Had he really just attacked those men? He was committed now. Storms, he didn’t even really know why he was doing this. The king’s sincerity was part of it, but that wasn’t the true reason, not deep down. He knew this was what he should do, but why? The thought of the king dying for no good reason made him sick. It reminded him of what had been done to Tien.

But that wasn’t the full reason either. Storms, he wasn’t making any sense, not even to himself.

Neither guard moved save for a few twitches. Kaladin coughed and coughed, gasping for breath. No time for weakness. He reached up a clawlike hand and twisted the door handle, forcing it open. He half fell into the room, then stumbled to his feet.