“Can … can I keep my oaths without fighting?” Kaladin asked. “I need to protect.”

“There are many ways to protect,” Dalinar said. “Not all Radiants went into battle in the old days. I myself have found many ways to serve this war without swinging a Blade on the front lines.”

Kaladin looked to Syl, who nodded. Yes, he could keep his oaths this way.

“You won’t be the first celebrated soldier who has moved to a support position after seeing one too many friends die,” Dalinar said to Kaladin. “God Beyond willing, we’ll persuade the honorspren to work with us—and then we’ll need to train flocks of new Windrunners. You’ll be of great use overseeing Radiant training either way.”

“I just won’t be anywhere I can cause harm,” Kaladin whispered. “Because I’m broken.”

Dalinar took him by the shoulder once more, then raised his other hand, holding up a finger, as if to force Kaladin to focus on it.

“This,” Dalinar said, “is what war does to all of us. It chews us up and spits us out mangled. There’s no dishonor in taking a step away to recover. No more than there’s dishonor in giving yourself time to heal from a stab wound.”

“So I’ll come back to the battle?” Kaladin asked. “I’ll take a leave, then return?”

“If we feel it’s right for you to do so. Yes, that’s possible.”

Possible, Kaladin thought. But not likely. Dalinar had probably seen more men succumb to battle fatigue than Kaladin had—but in all his years of fighting, Kaladin had never seen someone recover. It didn’t seem the kind of thing you got over.

If only he’d been stronger. Why hadn’t he said the Words?

“We’ll find a way to make this a smooth, natural transition,” Dalinar promised him. “We can introduce it to the others in whatever way you’d like. That said, we’re also not going to delay. This isn’t a request, Kaladin. It’s an order. From now on, you stay out of battle.”

“Yes, sir,” Kaladin said.

Dalinar squeezed his shoulder. “You’re not valuable to me because of how many enemies you can kill. It’s because you’re man enough to understand, and to say words like those.” He nodded, letting go. “This is not a disciplinary action, Kaladin. I’ll have new orders for you tomorrow. You can trust that I will put you to work. We will explain to everyone else that it’s a promotion.”

Kaladin forced out a smile, and that seemed to relieve Dalinar. Had to keep on a good face. Had to look strong.

Don’t let him know.

“Sir,” Kaladin said. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to take a post training other Radiants. Being with the Windrunners, sending them off to die without me … well, sir, it would rip me apart. I don’t think I could see them fly, and not join them.”

“I hadn’t considered that.” Dalinar frowned. “If you’d rather request another duty, I will allow it. Perhaps in logistics or battle planning? Or maybe as an ambassador to Thaylenah or Azir. Your reputation would put you in high esteem there. At any rate, I won’t have someone like you sitting around growing crem. You’re too valuable.”

Sure. Of course. Take from me the one thing that matters, then tell me I’m valuable. We both know I’m nothing.

Kaladin fought against those thoughts, and forced out another smile. “I’ll think about it, sir. I might need time to decide what I want, though.”

“Very well,” Dalinar said. “You have ten days. Before then, I want you to report to me your decision.”

Kaladin nodded. He put on another smile, which had the intended effect of convincing Dalinar not to worry. The man walked over to the other Windrunners.

Kaladin looked away, feeling his stomach twist. His friends laughed and joked with one another, in high spirits. So far as they knew, the Windrunners hadn’t lost any members today.

They didn’t know the truth—that they’d taken a single profound casualty. His name had been Kaladin Stormblessed.

An iron cage will create an attractor—a fabrial that draws specific elements to itself. A properly created smoke fabrial, for example, can gather the smoke of a fire and hold it close.

New discoveries lead us to believe it is possible to create a repeller fabrial, but we don’t yet know the metal to use to achieve this feat.

—Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175

“Quickly, up the stairs!” Venli shouted the words to the Rhythm of Command. “The lady returns!”

The servants scrambled up the tower steps. They didn’t need Venli to order them about, but it was expected of her, and she’d gotten very good at playing the role. She didn’t whip them as some might—most of the shanay-im disliked such physical punishments, fortunately—but she did grab Vod out of line and straighten his shirt and sash. He hummed to Appreciation in thanks as she shoved him after the rest.

Last in line, Venli grabbed her scepter and hurried up the steps. The others ahead of her wore workform or nimbleform, so she towered over them in envoyform.

There were a variety of different levels a person could have in the singer culture. Normal people—simply called singers, or common singers—had ordinary forms such as workform or warform. Then there were forms of power, like Venli’s envoyform. This was a level higher in authority and strength, and required taking a Voidspren into your gemheart. That influenced your mind, changed how you perceived the world. These singers were called Regals.

Further up the hierarchy were the Fused. Ancient souls put into a modern body, which extinguished the soul of the host completely. And above them? Mysterious creatures like the thunderclasts and the Unmade. Souls more like spren than people. Venli still didn’t know much about them.

Serving one of the Fused was difficult enough. She hurried up the steps, which wound dizzily around the spire. This wasn’t a proper fortification; it was no more than a column of stone with wooden steps—basically a staircase into the sky. The design reminded her of the tall stone pillar in Narak.

At the top of the spire, she entered a room that gave her vertigo. Open on two sides, the room looked out over the grand city of Kholinar—and there were no railings to prevent a careless worker from toppling a hundred feet to the city streets below. Though the footing was sound, it felt unstable, like a tower of blocks with a too-large capstone, awaiting the inevitable child’s foot.

The storms should have destroyed these tower rooms on first blow. But the Fused had overseen their construction, and so far only one in the line of twenty had been felled by a highstorm and needed to be rebuilt. That one had caused heavy damage to the homes below, of course—but there was little use seeking logic in the ways of the Fused.

Venli stepped to the front of the group of servants, sweating from the protracted climb. Her form of power was slender and tall, with long orange-red hairstrands and delicate carapace along the cheeks and in ridges on the backs of the hands. Not armor; more like ornamentation. It wasn’t a fighting form, more intended to inspire awe—and give her powers to translate text and languages.

Though she was a Regal, she held a secret deep within her gemheart, a friend who protected her from the Voidspren’s influence. Her Radiant spren—Timbre—buzzed softly, comforting her.