“Um, yes, Brightness.”

“Warn them to move quickly!” Navani said. “I have reason to believe that a dangerous attack is coming.” She scribbled some instructions on the paper—commanding the seven garrisons to deploy according to one of the predefined plans, then adding her current authentication phrase. She ripped off the paper and thrust it at the soldier, who took off at a dash.

Then she wrote it again and sent it with her second-fastest man—telling him to use a different route. Once he was off, she sent the last soldier to the Windrunners. There should be about twenty of them—four full knights and their squires—remaining in the tower.

“But Brightness,” the guard said, taking the note she handed him, “you’ll be unguarded.”

“I’ll manage,” she said. “Go!”

He hesitated, perhaps trying to determine if Dalinar would be angrier at him for abandoning Navani or for disobeying her. Finally he dashed away.

Storms, she thought, looking at the fallen Red. What if they can do to other Radiants what they did to Red? How did they pick him out? She got a sick feeling in her stomach, a premonition. What if whatever had happened to him hadn’t been targeted, but was instead a side effect of whatever was happening to the spanreeds?

“Gather our things,” she said to the scribes. “We’re moving to the map room.”

“Red—” Kalami began.

“We have to leave him. Leave a note saying where we went.”

She stepped into the smaller room. The prisoner, Dabbid, had pulled off his chair, and was now huddled on the floor. The manacles on his legs clanked as he shifted.

“The spren of the tower spoke to you,” Navani said to him. “It had you place the spanreed gem for me. How did you know what to do?”

The man only looked at the floor.

“Listen to me,” Navani said—keeping her distance just in case, but also trying to make her voice sound calm, reassuring. “I’m not angry at you; I understand why you did what you did, but something terrible is happening, and spanreeds aren’t working. I need to know how to contact the spren.”

The man stared at her, wide eyed. Storms, she wasn’t sure he was capable of understanding. Something was clearly wrong with him.

The man moved, the chains clanking, and Navani jumped despite herself. He didn’t move toward her though. He shifted and stood, then reached out to touch the wall. He rested his hand against the stone there, which was marked by strata lines. And … and a vein of crystal?

Navani moved closer. Yes, running through the strata was a fine garnet vein. She’d noted similar veins; in some rooms they were nearly invisible, perfectly mimicking the waving strata. In others they stood out starkly, straight and bold, running from floor to ceiling.

“The spren of the tower,” Navani said. “She talked to you through these veins of garnet?”

The captive nodded.

“Thank you,” Navani said.

He tapped his wrists together. Bridge Four.

Navani tossed him the key to his manacles. “We’re going to the map room on the second floor. We must move quickly. Join us, if you wish.”

She hurried back to the others. There was a vein of garnet in the map room. She’d see what she could do with it once she arrived.

* * *

Kaladin stared at his surgery knives.

Syl couldn’t form a Shardblade. Something was wrong with his powers; he wasn’t certain that Stormlight would even heal him any longer. However, that wasn’t what made him stop and stare at the knives.

Six little pieces of steel in a row. The scalpel of a surgeon was a very different thing from a soldier’s knife. A surgeon’s knife could be a subtle thing, meant to cause as little harm as possible. A delicate contradiction. Like Kaladin himself.

He reached out to touch one of them, and his hand didn’t shake as he’d feared it would. The knife—glowing in the spherelight as if it were aflame—was cold to his touch. A part of him had expected it to be angry, but this tool didn’t care how he used it. It had been designed to heal, but could kill as efficiently. Like Kaladin himself.

Outside the surgery room, people screamed amid writhing fearspren. The Fused were landing on the balconies of this level, and the cries of the terrified echoed through the halls of Urithiru. Kaladin had sent Rlain to hide in the living quarters of the clinic—he didn’t know how the Fused would react to finding a listener here, wearing an Alethi uniform.

Kaladin delayed. He should go hide too. Wait it out. That was what his father wanted.

Instead, Kaladin’s fingers wrapped around the knife, and he turned toward the screams. He was needed. Life before death. This was what he did.

Yet as he walked toward the door, he found himself laden by a terrible weight. His feet were as if in chains, and his clothing could have been made of lead. He reached the doorway, and found himself panting in a cold sweat.

It had been going so well.

He felt so tired all of a sudden. Why couldn’t he just rest for a little while?

No. He had to march out there and fight. He was Kaladin Stormblessed. They were depending on him. They needed him. He’d had a short leave. But now … now he needed to …

What if one of them dies because they were expecting your help, but you’ve frozen up again. What if they died like Tien? What if he froze like when Elhokar died? What if …

What if …

“Kaladin?”

Syl’s voice shook him awake. He found himself sitting beside the surgery room doorway, his back up against the wall, clutching the knife in front of him and trembling.

“Kaladin?” Syl asked again. She stepped forward on the floor. “I went to warn Queen Navani, as you asked. But I couldn’t get too far away from you, for some reason. I found some messengers though, and they said that they had orders from the queen—so she seems to know about the invasion already.”

He nodded.

“Kaladin, they’re everywhere,” Syl said. “The messenger said a big force came up from the caverns and took the heart pillar room. The enemy has the Oathgates running. They’re bringing in troops, and … Kaladin, what’s wrong with you?”

“Cold sweats,” he muttered. “Emotional detachment. Insensibility, accompanied by hyper-recall of traumatic moments.” Someone shouted out on the balcony and he jumped, brandishing the knife. “Severe anxiety…”

Footsteps in the hallway made Kaladin grip the knife harder in a sweaty hand. No Fused appeared, however. It was just his father carrying a bloodred sphere for light. He halted upon seeing Kaladin, then moved with exaggerated calmness, smiling in a friendly way. Storms. If his father put on that face, things really were bad.

“Put down the knife, son,” Lirin said softly. “It’s all right. You aren’t needed.”

“I’m well, Father,” Kaladin said. “I just … wasn’t quite ready to take up the fight so soon. That’s it.”

“Put down the knife and we’ll plan.”

“I need to resist.”

“Resist what?” Lirin said. “Together Laral, your mother, and I got our people into their rooms. The invading parshmen aren’t here to kill; nobody was hurt except for that fool Jam, who found a spear somehow.”