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She smiled at Raboniel, however. “I would like to check on my scholars, Lady of Wishes, to see how they’re being treated, and find out the extent of our … losses.” That made one point clear, Navani hoped. Some of her friends had been murdered. She was not simply going to forget about that.
Raboniel hummed, gesturing for Navani to join her. This was going to require a delicate balance, with both of them trying to play one another. Navani had to be explicitly careful not to let herself be taken in by Raboniel. That was one advantage Navani had over her scholars. She might never be worthy to join them, but she did have more experience with the real world of politics.
Raboniel and Navani entered the second of the two library rooms—the one with more desks and chairs. Navani’s best—ardents and scholars alike—sat on the floor, heads bowed. They’d plainly been made to sleep here, judging by the spread-out blankets.
A few looked up to see her, and she noted with relief that Rushu and Falilar were both unharmed. She did a quick count, immediately picking out the notable exceptions. She stepped over to Falilar, squatting down and asking, “Neshan? Inabar?”
“Killed, Brightness,” he said softly. “They were in the crystal pillar room, along with both of Neshan’s wards, Ardent Vevanara, and a handful of unfortunate soldiers.”
Navani winced. “Pass the word,” she whispered. “For the time being, we are going to cooperate with the occupation.” She stopped by Rushu next. “I am glad you are well.”
The ardent—who had obviously been crying—nodded. “I was on my way down here to gather some scribes to help catalogue the destruction up in that room, when … this happened. Brightness, do you think it’s related?”
In the chaos, Navani had nearly forgotten the strange explosion. “Did you by chance find any infused spheres in the wreckage?” Specifically, a strange Voidlight one?
“No, Brightness,” Rushu said. “You saw the place. It was in shambles. But I did darken it to see if anything glowed, and saw nothing. Not a hint of Stormlight, or even Voidlight.”
As Navani had feared. Whatever that explosion had been, it had to be tied to the strange sphere—and that sphere was likely now gone.
Navani stood and walked back to Raboniel. “You didn’t need to kill my scholars during your attack. They were no threat to you.”
Raboniel hummed to a quick-paced rhythm. “You will not be warned again, Navani. You will use my title when addressing me. I do not want to see you harmed, but there are proprieties thousands of years old that you will follow.”
“I … understand, Lady of Wishes. I think putting my remaining people to work immediately would be good for morale. What would you like us to do?”
“To ease the transition,” Raboniel said, “have them continue whatever they were doing before my arrival.”
“Many were working on fabrials, which will no longer function.”
“Have them do design sketches then,” Raboniel said. “And write about the experiments they’d done before the occupation. I can see that their new theories get tested.”
Did that mean there was a way to get fabrials working in the tower? “As you wish.”
Then she got to work on the real problem: planning how she was going to get them out of this mess.
* * *
Kaladin was awakened by rain. He blinked, feeling mist on his face and seeing a jagged sky lit by spears of lightning frozen in place—not fading, just hanging there, framed by black clouds in a constant boil.
He stared at the strange sight, then rolled to his side, half submerged in a puddle of frigid water. Was this Hearthstone? The warcamps? No … neither?
He groaned, forcing himself to his feet. He didn’t appear to be wounded, but his head was pounding. No weapons. He felt naked without a spear. Gusts of rain blew around him, the falling water moving in sheets—and he swore he could see the outlines of figures in the rainfall. As if it were making momentary shapes as it fell.
The landscape was dark, evoking distant crags. He started through the water, surprised to see no spren around—not even rainspren. He thought he saw light atop a hill, so he started up the incline, careful not to lose his footing on the slick rock. A part of him wondered why he could see. The frozen jagged lightning bolts didn’t give off much illumination. Hadn’t he been in a place like this once? With omnipresent light, but a black sky?
He stopped and stared upward, rain scouring his face. This was all … all wrong. This wasn’t real … was it?
Motion.
Kaladin spun. A short figure moved down the hill toward him, emerging from the darkness. It seemed composed entirely of swirling grey mist with no features, though it wielded a spear. Kaladin caught the weapon with a quick turn of his hand, then twisted and pushed back in a classic disarming move.
This phantom attacker wasn’t terribly skilled, and Kaladin easily stole the weapon. Instinct took command, and he spun the spear and rammed it through the figure’s neck. As the short figure dropped, two more appeared as if from nothing, both wielding spears of their own.
Kaladin blocked one strike and threw the attacker off with a calculated shove, then spun and dropped the other one with a sweep to the legs. He stabbed that figure with a quick thrust to the neck, then easily rammed his spear into the stomach of the other one as it stood up. Blood ran down the spear’s shaft onto Kaladin’s fingers.
He yanked the spear free as the smoky figure dropped. It felt good to hold a spear. To be able to fight without worries. Without anything weighing him down other than the rainwater on his uniform. Fighting used to be simple. Before …
Before …
The swirling mist evaporated off the fallen figures and he found three young messenger boys in Amaram’s colors, killed by Kaladin’s spear. Three corpses, including his brother.
“No!” Kaladin screamed, ragged and hateful. “How dare you show me this? It didn’t happen that way! I was there!”
He turned away from the corpses, looking toward the sky. “I didn’t kill him! I just failed him. I … I just…”
He stumbled away from the dead boys and dropped his spear, hands to his head. He felt the scars on his forehead. They seemed deeper, like chasms cutting through his skull.
Shash. Dangerous.
Thunder rumbled overhead and he stumbled downhill, unable to banish the sight of Tien dead and bleeding on the hillside. What kind of terrible vision was this?
“You saved us so we could die,” a voice said from the darkness.
He knew that voice. Kaladin spun, splashing in the rainwater, searching for the source. He was on the Shattered Plains now. In the rain he saw the suggestions of people. Figures made by the falling drops, but somehow empty.
The figures began attacking each other, and he heard the thunder of war. Men shouting, weapons clashing, boots on stone. It surrounded him, overwhelmed him, until—in a flash—he emerged into an enormous battle, the suggested shapes becoming real. Men in blue fighting against other men in blue.
“Stop fighting!” Kaladin shouted at them. “You’re killing your own! They’re all our soldiers!”
They didn’t seem to hear him. Blood flowed beneath his feet instead of rainwater, sprays and gushes melding as spearmen climbed eagerly over the bodies of the fallen to continue killing one another. Kaladin grabbed one spearman and pushed him away from another, then seized a third and pulled him back—only to find that it was Lopen.
