He got a far-off look, then glanced behind him. Radiant frowned, trying to figure out what he was searching for. The line of people? His Ryshadium, clopping along with the deadeye on its back? The glittering obsidian hills overgrown with crystalline plants?

“You have had a thought?” Radiant asked.

“Kind of,” Adolin said. “I … realized that they’ll be ready for anything we can bring. I mean, these creatures have been alive for thousands of years—and have spent all of that time angry at us. I can’t possibly think of an argument they haven’t already considered. I doubt Father, or even Jasnah, could do so.”

“A reasonable assumption,” Radiant said, nodding as they walked. “However, if they are anticipating all arguments, then perhaps the sole hope we have is the skill of the one arguing. Brightness Jasnah can be quite persuasive. I suggest, upon reflection, that we continue with the tactic of offering the letters.”

“Either that or we could surprise the honorspren.”

“How?” Radiant said. “You pointed out they’ve had thousands of years to consider these arguments.”

Adolin shook his head, his expression still distant. “Look,” he eventually said, “could I speak to Shallan?”

“Shallan is exhausted at the moment,” Radiant said. “She asks that I handle this conversation. Why do you ask?”

“I just feel more comfortable with her, Radiant.” He glanced at Radiant. “Is … something wrong with Shallan? I thought everything was going better during the boat ride, but these last few weeks … I don’t know, she feels different. Off.”

He noticed! Shallan thought in a panic.

He noticed, Veil thought with relief.

“She has been retreating more and more these days,” Radiant said. “She claims to be tired. But … there is something going on with us. I can try to make her emerge.”

“Please.”

She tried. She sincerely did. In the end though, she grimaced. “I’m sorry. Shallan is tired. Maybe scared. Veil can explain, perhaps.”

“So … can I talk to her?”

“You already are,” Veil said, sighing. “Adolin, look. This is really complicated. It’s wrapped up in Shallan’s past, and the pain she felt as a child. Pain that I was created specifically to help her overcome.”

“I can help. I can understand.”

“I barely understand, Adolin,” Veil said. “And I’m living in her head.” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to see him as Shallan did. She loved Adolin. She’d chosen Adolin. The least Veil could do was try to explain.

“All right,” she said. “Pretend you’re her, and you experienced some things that were so traumatic that you don’t want to believe they happened to you. So you pretend they happened to someone else. Someone different.”

“That’s you?” Adolin said.

“Not exactly,” Veil said. “This is hard to put into words. Radiant and I are coping mechanisms that, for the most part, work. But something deeper has started to manifest.

“Shallan is worried that the person you see in her is a lie. That the person you love is a lie. And it’s not only you. Pattern, Dalinar, Jasnah, Navani—she worries that they all don’t know the real her.

“Because of things that happened to her—and more, some of the things she was forced to do—she’s beginning to think that ‘Shallan’ is the fake one, the false identity. That there is a monster deep inside that is her real self. She fears it’s inevitable that the truth will come out, and everyone will leave her when it does.”

Adolin nodded, his brow knit. “She couldn’t have told me that, could she?”

“No.” Indeed, in saying those things, she’d made Shallan retreat into a little knot of fear. Right next to Formless.

“You can say things she can’t,” Adolin said. “And that’s why we need you, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I think I do understand, a little bit.” He met her eyes. “Thank you, Veil. Sincerely. I’ll find a way to help. I promise.”

Huh. She believed him. How interesting. “I was wrong about you,” she said. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad I was outvoted.”

“If she’s listening,” he said, “make sure she knows that I don’t care what she did. And tell her I know she’s strong enough to deal with this on her own, but she should know she doesn’t have to anymore. Deal with it on her own, that is.”

I wasn’t ever alone, part of her whispered. I had Pattern. Even in the dark days of our childhood, we had him. Although we don’t remember.

So Adolin was wrong, but he was also right. They didn’t have to do this alone. If only they could persuade Shallan of that fact.

We must assume that Odium has realized this, and is seeking a singular, terrible goal: the destruction—and somehow Splintering or otherwise making impotent—of all Shards other than him.

There was more than one way to protect.

Kaladin had always known this, but he hadn’t felt it. Feeling and knowing seemed to be the same to his father, but not to Kaladin. Listening to descriptions from books was never good enough for him. He had to try something to understand it.

He threw himself into this new challenge: finding a way to help Noril and the others in the sanitarium. At his father’s recommendation—then insistence—Kaladin took it slowly, confining his initial efforts to men who shared similar symptoms. Battle fatigue, nightmares, persistent melancholy, suicidal tendencies.

Lirin was correct, of course. Kaladin had complained that the ardents were treating all mental disorders the same; he couldn’t swoop in and treat each and every person in the entire sanitarium at once. First he needed to prove that he could make a difference for these few.

He still didn’t know how his father balanced work and emotion. Lirin genuinely seemed to care for his patients, but he could also turn it off. Stop thinking about the ones he couldn’t help. Such as the dozens of people trapped in the darkness of the sanitarium, locked away from the sun, moaning to themselves or—in one severe case—writing gibberish all over her room using her own feces.

Temporarily excused from seeing ordinary patients, Kaladin located six men in the sanitarium with similar symptoms. He released them and got them working to support each other. He developed a plan, and showed them how to share in ways that would help.

Today they sat in seats on the balcony outside his clinic. Warmed by mugs of tea, they talked. About their lives. The people they’d lost. The darkness.

It was helping. You didn’t need a surgeon or ardent to lead the discussion; they could do it themselves. Two of the six were mostly quiet, but even they grunted along when others talked about their problems.

“Remarkable,” Kaladin’s mother said, taking notes as she stood with Kaladin to the side. “How did you know? Previous documentation indicated that they would feed each other’s melancholy, driving one another to destructive behavior. But these are having the opposite experience.”

“The squad is stronger than the individual,” Kaladin said. “You simply need to get them pointed in the right direction. Get them to lift the bridge together…”