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His mother frowned, glancing up at him.
“The ardents’ stories about inmates feeding each other’s despair,” Kaladin said. “They probably came from inmates who were situated next to one another in the sanitariums. In dark places, where their gloom could run rampant … Yes, there I could see them driving each other closer toward death. It happens sometimes to … to slaves. In a hopeless situation, it’s easy to convince one another to give up.”
His mother rested her hand on his arm, and her face looked so sad he had to turn away. He didn’t like to talk to her about his past, the years between then and now. During those years she’d lost her loving boy, Kal. That child was dead, long ago buried in crem. At least by the time he’d found her again, Kaladin had become the man he was now. Broken, but mostly reforged as a Radiant.
She didn’t need to know about those darkest months. They would bring her nothing but pain.
“Anyway,” Kaladin said, nodding toward the group of men, “I suspected after talking to Noril that this would help. It changes something to be able to speak to others about your pain. It helps to have others who actually understand.”
“I understand,” his mother said. “Your father understands.”
He was glad she thought that, wrong though she was. They were sympathetic, but they didn’t understand. Better that they didn’t.
For the men chatting together softly, the change was in being shown sunlight again. In being reminded that the darkness did pass. But perhaps most important, the change was in not merely knowing that you weren’t alone—but in feeling it. Realizing that no matter how isolated you thought you were, no matter how often your brain told you terrible things, there were others who understood.
It wouldn’t fix everything. But it was a start.
To combine powers would change and distort who Odium is. So instead of absorbing others, he destroys them. Since we are all essentially infinite, he needs no more power. Destroying and Splintering the other Shards would leave Odium as the sole god, unchanged and uncorrupted by other influences.
“I like none of these proposals,” the Stump said, with her spren interpreting for her.
She leaned forward to warm her gnarled hands—out of habit most likely, as this manifested fire gave very little heat. It could be packed up and carried in your pocket. All you had to do was grab the bead. It was more like a painting of a fire that flickered and crackled like the real thing.
Veil sat with Shallan’s sketchbook open, her back to a large chunk of obsidian, pretending to draw as Adolin held counsel with the Radiants. So far, despite doing the worst job sketching, she hadn’t been able to coax Shallan out.
“None of them?” Adolin asked. He stood tall, wearing a black uniform embroidered with silver around the cuffs. The polished buttons perfectly matched the silver of the sheathed side sword he wore on his hip.
He was striking—brilliant, even, as he stood before the fire in a sharply tailored uniform. The fire was cold somehow, though it should have been warm. And he was warm somehow, when a stiff black uniform should have made him seem cold.
Arshqqam, though coming from a very different background, was not timid about speaking her mind to him. Veil liked the old Truthwatcher. Too many people refused to look past a person’s age. To them this woman—as exemplified by her nickname—would be defined by how old she was.
Veil saw more. The way Arshqqam kept her silver hair carefully braided. The engraved ring she wore on her right hand was her only jewelry, and it bore no valuable gemstone, just some milky white quartz. She argued with Adolin—one of the most powerful men in the world—as easily as she might have argued with a water bearer. There was so much to this woman, and yet they barely knew her.
Don’t you want to draw that, Shallan? Veil thought. Don’t you want to come out and do a better job than I am?
Instead, she felt a deep resentment from Shallan. For the things Veil had said to Adolin. The pain they threatened.
The pain of a past best left forgotten.
“Brightlord,” the Stump said to Adolin through her spren, “I understand why you are concerned. Dreaming-though-Awake has read the letters Dalinar and Jasnah sent, then told me the contents. If the honorspren are truly as antagonistic as they seem, then I doubt they will listen to these written pleas. Dreaming-though-Awake says that honorspren can be quite passionate, and would likely respond better to a personal plea.
“However, the arguments you’ve offered tonight aren’t strong enough. Claiming that unless they agree, you’re going to go to the inkspren? They know how badly we need Windrunners, and they undoubtedly know the inkspren are being even more difficult to recruit. Trying to play upon their guilty consciences to provoke them to help? I don’t think they do feel guilty. That’s the problem.”
“I agree,” Godeke said. The solemn Edgedancer clasped his hands before him, seated on an overturned rations box, his squared beard a reminder of his ardent past. “We can’t guilt them into agreeing, Brightlord. Nor can we win them over with threats. We must present our request: that we are in need, and we sincerely wish them to reconsider their lack of support.”
“Zu?” Adolin asked the final Radiant.
The golden-haired woman leaned back and shrugged. “I’m not one for politics. I’ll tell them they’re being storming stupid if they think they can ride this.”
“Your people are trying to ride it,” Godeke said.
“My people are storming stupid,” Zu said, shrugging again.
Behind them, the soldiers packed up camp. It was morning—though that didn’t mean much in Shadesmar—and they were now one day away from Lasting Integrity. It was late in the mission to still be uncertain, and Adolin’s worry was making Veil nervous. If their delegation got turned away, she’d have to find a way to sneak in and locate Restares alone.
Adolin looked down, seeming to wilt. He’d spent a good long time coming up with these plans, and Veil had helped him with some. Unfortunately, he hadn’t shown much confidence in the ideas, and the reactions of the others were further confirmation.
Radiant emerged as Veil searched for a way to bolster his confidence. Unfortunately, Radiant couldn’t think of anything useful—though she did spot someone else sitting by the campfire. “Beryl,” Radiant found herself saying. “What do you think?”
The stately woman was the only one of Shallan’s agents at the campfire meeting; the other two were preparing breakfast. She looked up sharply from where she’d been sitting behind the others.
“I … I really don’t know,” she said, glancing back at her feet and blushing as everyone turned toward her.
“You’re a knight,” Radiant said. “At least one in training. This is our mission as much as it is that of Highprince Adolin. You should have an opinion. Should we present the letters, or should we attempt something more dramatic?”
“It’s … so outside my realm of experience, Brightness. Please.”
It’s not her, Veil thought. It simply can’t be.
“I’ll work on these ideas some more,” Adolin said. “Beryl, thank you.”
“Highprince Adolin,” Arshqqam said. “There is something none of these proposals do properly that I think you should consider. How can you appeal to their honor? Are they not spren of this attribute? I suspect any success we have will relate to that.”
