“They are not idiots for wanting to be better than they are,” Shallan said.

He snorted, looking her over. She had an immediate flash of fear. Moments ago, this man was ready to rob her and probably worse. He didn’t make any moves toward her, though his face looked even more threatening now that most of the torches had gone.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Shallan Davar.”

“Well, Brightness Shallan,” he said, “I hope for your sake you can keep your word. Come on, boys. Let’s see if we can keep those fools alive.” He left with the others who had remained behind, marching up over the hill toward the fighting.

Shallan stood alone in the night, exhaling softly. No Light came out; she’d used it all. Her feet were no longer so much as sore, but she felt exhausted, drained like a punctured wineskin. She walked to the wagon and slumped against it, then finally settled down on the ground. Head back, she looked up at the sky. A few exhaustionspren rose around her, little swirls of dust spinning into the air.

Salas, the first moon, made a violet disc in the center of a cluster of bright white stars. The screams and yells of fighting continued. Would the deserters be enough? She didn’t know how many bandits there were.

She’d be useless there, only getting in the way. She squeezed her eyes shut, then climbed up into the seat and took out her sketchbook. To the sounds of the fighting and dying, she sketched the glyphs for a prayer of hope.

“They listened,” Pattern said, buzzing from beside her. “You changed them.”

“I can’t believe it worked,” Shallan said.

“Ah… You are good with lies.”

“No, I mean, that was a figure of speech. It seems impossible that they’d actually listen to me. Hardened criminals.”

“You are lies and truth,” Pattern said softly. “They transform.”

“What does that mean?” It was hard to sketch with only the light of Salas to see by, but she did her best.

“You spoke of one Surge, earlier,” Pattern said. “Lightweaving, the power of light. But you have something else. The power of transformation.”

“Soulcasting?” Shallan said. “I didn’t Soulcast anyone.”

“Mmmm. And yet, you transformed them. And yet. Mmmm.”

Shallan finished her prayer, then held it up, noticing that a previous page had been ripped out of the notebook. Who had done that?

She couldn’t burn the prayer, but she didn’t think the Almighty would mind. She pressed it close to her breast and closed her eyes, waiting until the shouts from below quieted.

21. Ashes

Mediationform made for peace, it’s said.

Form of teaching and consolation.

When used by the gods, it became instead

Form of lies and desolation.

From the Listener Song of Listing, 33rd stanza

Shallan closed Bluth’s eyes, not looking at the ripped-out hole in his torso, the bloody entrails. Around her, workers salvaged what they could from the camp. People groaned, though some of those groans cut off as Vathah executed the bandits one by one.

Shallan didn’t stop him. He did the duty grimly, and as he walked past he didn’t look at her. He’s thinking these bandits could have easily been him and his men, Shallan thought, looking back down at Bluth, his dead face lit by fires. What separates the heroes from the villains? One speech in the night?

Bluth wasn’t the only casualty of the assault; Vathah had lost seven soldiers. They had killed over twice that many bandits. Exhausted, Shallan rose, but hesitated as she saw something poking out of Bluth’s jacket. She leaned down and pushed the jacket open.

There, stuffed in his pocket, was her picture of him. The one that depicted him not as he was, but as she imagined he might once have been. A soldier in an army, in a crisp uniform. Eyes forward, rather than looking down all the time. A hero.

When had he taken it from her sketchbook? She slipped it free and folded it, flattening the wrinkles.

“I was wrong,” she whispered. “You were a fine way to restart my collection, Bluth. Fight well for the Almighty in your sleep, bold one.”

She rose and looked over the camp. Several of the caravan’s parshmen pulled corpses to the fires for burning. Shallan’s intervention had rescued the merchants, but not without heavy losses. She hadn’t counted, but the toll looked high. Dozens dead, including most of the caravan’s guards—among them the Iriali man from earlier in the night.

In her fatigue, Shallan wanted to crawl into her wagon and curl up for sleep. Instead, she went looking for the caravan leaders.

The haggard, bloodstained scout from before stood beside a travel table, where she was talking to an older, bearded man in a felt cap. His eyes were blue, and he moved his fingers through his beard as he looked over a list the woman had brought him.

Both looked up as Shallan approached. The woman rested a hand on her sword; the man continued to stroke his beard. Nearby, caravan workers sorted through the contents of a wagon that had toppled over, spilling bales of cloth.

“And here is our savior,” the older man said. “Brightness, the winds themselves cannot speak of your majesty or the wonder of your timely arrival.”

Shallan didn’t feel majestic. She felt tired, sore, and grungy. Her bare feet—hidden by the bottom of her skirts—had started to ache again, and her ability to Lightweave was expended. Her dress looked almost as bad as a pauper’s, and her hair—though braided—was an absolute mess.

“You are the caravan owner?” Shallan asked.

“Macob is my name,” he said. She couldn’t place his accent. Not Thaylen or Alethi. “You have met my associate Tyn.” He nodded toward the woman. “She is head of our guards. Both her soldiers and my goods have… dwindled from tonight’s encounters.”

Tyn folded her arms. She still wore her tan coat, and in the light of Macob’s spheres, Shallan could see that it was of fine leather. What to make of a woman who dressed like a soldier and wore a sword at her waist?

“I’ve been telling Macob of your offer,” Tyn said. “Earlier, on the hill.”

Macob chuckled, an incongruous sound considering their surroundings. “Offer, she calls it. My associate is under the impression that it was really a threat! These mercenaries obviously work for you. We are wondering what your intention is for this caravan.”

“The mercenaries didn’t work for me before,” Shallan said, “but they do now. It took a little persuasion.”

Tyn raised an eyebrow. “That must have been some mighty fine persuasion, Brightness…”

“Shallan Davar. All I ask of you is what I said to Tyn before. Accompany me to the Shattered Plains.”

“Surely your soldiers can do that,” Macob said. “You don’t need our assistance.”

I want you here to remind the “soldiers” what they’ve done, Shallan thought. Her instincts said that the more reminders of civilization the deserters had, the better off she would be.

“They are soldiers,” Shallan said. “They have no idea how to properly convey a lighteyed woman in comfort. You, however, have nice wagons and goods aplenty. If you can’t tell from my humble aspect, I am in dreadful need of a little luxury. I’d rather not arrive at the Shattered Plains looking like a vagabond.”