“We trust you, Shallan,” Adolin said, eyeing Kaladin as if to say, Drop it. “And we really need a look at that Oathgate.”

“What if I can’t open it?” Shallan asked. “What then?”

“We have to retreat back to the Shattered Plains,” Kaladin said.

“Elhokar won’t leave his family.”

“Then Drehy, Skar, and I rush the palace,” Kaladin said. “We fly in at night, enter through the upper balcony, grab the queen and the young prince. We do it all right before the highstorm comes, then the lot of us fly back to Urithiru.”

“And leave the city to fall,” Adolin said, drawing his lips to a line.

“Can the city hold?” Shallan asked. “Maybe until we can get back with a real army, marched out here?”

“That would take months,” Adolin said. “And the Wall Guard is … what? Four battalions?”

“Five in total,” Kaladin said.

“Five thousand men?” Shallan asked. “So few?”

“That’s large for a city garrison,” Adolin said. “The point of fortifications is to let a small number hold against a much larger force. But the enemy has an unexpected advantage. Voidbringers who can fly, and a city infested with their allies.”

“Yeah,” Kaladin said. “The Wall Guard is earnest, but they won’t be able to withstand a dedicated assault. There are tens of thousands of parshmen out there—and they’re close to attacking. We don’t have much time left. The Fused will sweep in to secure portions of the wall, and their armies will follow. If we’re going to hold this city, we’ll need Radiants and Shardbearers to even the odds.”

Kaladin and Shallan shared a look. Their Radiants were not a battle-ready group, not yet. Storms. His men had barely taken to the skies. How could they be expected to fight those creatures who flew so easily upon the winds? How could he protect this city and protect his men?

They fell silent, listening to the room shake with the sounds of thunder outside. Kaladin finished his drink, wishing it were one of Rock’s concoctions instead, and flicked away an odd cremling that he spotted clinging to the side of the bench. It had a multitude of legs, and a bulbous body, with a strange tan pattern on its back.

Disgusting. Even with the stresses to the city, the proprietor could at least keep this place clean.

* * *

Once the storm finally blew itself out, Shallan stepped from the winehouse, holding Adolin’s arm. She watched Kaladin hurry off toward the barracks for evening patrol.

She should probably be equally eager to get going. She still had to steal some food today—enough to satisfy the Cult of Moments when she approached them later in the evening. That should be easy enough. Vathah had taken to planning operations under Ishnah’s guidance, and was proving quite proficient.

Still, she lingered, enjoying Adolin’s presence. She wanted to be here, with him, before it was time to be Veil. She … well, she didn’t much care for him. Too clean-cut, too oblivious, too expected. She was fine with him as an ally, but wasn’t the least bit interested romantically.

Shallan held his arm, walking with him. People already moved through the city, cleaning up—more so they could scavenge than out of civic duty. They reminded her of cremlings that emerged after a storm to feast on the plants. Indeed, nearby, ornamental rockbuds spat out vines in clusters beside doorways. A splatter of green vines and unfurling leaves, set against the brown city canvas.

One patch nearby had been struck—and burned away—by the Everstorm’s red lightning.

“I need to show you the Impossible Falls sometime,” Adolin said. “If you watch them from the right angles, it looks like the water is flowing down along the tiers, then somehow right up onto the top again.…”

As they walked, she had to step over a dead mink sticking half out of a broken tree trunk. Not the most romantic of strolls, but it was good to hold on to Adolin’s arm—even if he had to wear a false face.

“Hey!” Adolin said. “I didn’t get to look through the sketchbook. You said you were going to show me.”

“I brought the wrong one, remember? I had to carve on the table.” She grinned. “Don’t think I missed you going up and paying for the damage when I wasn’t looking.”

He grunted.

“People carve on bar tables. It happens all the time.”

“Sure, sure. It was a good carving too.”

“And you still think I shouldn’t have done it.” She squeezed his arm. “Oh, Adolin Kholin. You are your father’s son. I won’t do it again, all right?”

He was blushing. “I,” he said, “was promised sketches. I don’t care if it’s the wrong sketchbook. I feel like I haven’t seen any of your pictures for ages.”

“There’s nothing good in this one,” she said, digging in her satchel. “I’ve been distracted lately.”

He still made her hand it over, and secretly she was pleased. He started flipping through the more recent pictures, and though he noted the ones of strange spren, he idled most on the sketches of refugees she’d done for her collection. A mother with her daughter, sitting in shadow, but with her face looking toward the horizon and the hints of a rising sun. A thick-knuckled man sweeping the area around his pallet on the street. A young woman, lighteyed and hanging out a window, hair drifting free, wearing only a nightgown with her hand tied in a pouch.

“Shallan,” he said, “these are amazing! Some of the best work you’ve ever done.”

“They’re just quick sketches, Adolin.”

“They’re beautiful,” he said, looking at another, where he stopped. It was a picture of him in one of his new suits.

Shallan blushed. “Forgot that was there,” she said, trying to get the sketchbook back. He lingered on the picture, then finally succumbed to her prodding and handed it back. She let out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t that she’d be embarrassed if he saw the sketch of Kaladin on the next page—she did sketches of all kinds of people. But best to end on the picture of Adolin. Veil had been seeping through on that other one.

“You’re getting better, if that’s possible.”

“Maybe. Though I don’t know how much I can credit myself with the progress. Words of Radiance says that a lot of Lightweavers were artists.”

“So the order recruited people like you.”

“Or the Surgebinding made them better at sketching, giving them an unfair advantage over other artists.”

“I have an unfair advantage over other duelists. I have had the finest training since childhood. I was born strong and healthy, and my father’s wealth gave me some of the best sparring partners in the world. My build gives me reach over other men. Does that mean I don’t deserve accolades when I win?”

“You don’t have supernatural help.”

“You still had to work hard. I know you did.” He put his arm around her, pulling her closer as they walked. Other Alethi couples kept their distance in public, but Adolin had been raised by a mother with a fondness for hugs. “You know, there’s this thing my father complains about. He asked what the use of Shardblades was.”

“Um … I think they’re pretty obviously for cutting people up. Without cutting them, actually. So—”