Well, first they had to actually get out of the palace. Kaladin grabbed his spear and turned to lead the way out, but his leg nearly betrayed him. He managed to catch himself, but it left him gasping in pain, clinging to his spear to keep from falling.

Storms. Was that pool of blood at his feet his? He’d ripped his sutures out, and then some.

“I was wrong,” the king said. “We’re both dead.”

“Fleet kept running,” Kaladin growled, getting back under Elhokar’s arm.

“What?”

“He couldn’t win, but he kept running. And when the storm caught him, it didn’t matter that he’d died, because he’d run for all he had.”

“Sure. All right.” The king sounded groggy, though Kaladin couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the blood loss.

“We all die in the end, you see,” Kaladin said. The two of them walked down the corridor, Kaladin leaning on his spear to keep them upright. “So I guess what truly matters is just how well you’ve run. And Elhokar, you’ve kept running since your father was killed, even if you screw up all the storming time.”

“Thank you?” the king said, drowsy.

They reached an intersection, and Kaladin decided on escaping through the bowels of the palace complex, rather than the front gates. It was equally fast, but might not be the first place the plotters would look.

The palace was empty. Moash had done as he’d said, sending the servants away into hiding, using the precedent of the Assassin in White’s attack. It was a perfect plan.

“Why?” the king whispered. “Shouldn’t you hate me?”

“I don’t like you, Elhokar,” Kaladin said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s right to let you die.”

“You said I should step down. Why, bridgeman? Why help me?”

I don’t know.

They turned down a hallway, but only made it about halfway before the king stopped walking and slumped to the ground. Kaladin cursed, kneeling beside Elhokar, checking his pulse and the wound.

This is the wine, Kaladin decided. That, plus the blood loss, left the king too light-headed.

Bad. Kaladin worked to rebind the wound as best he could, but then what? Try to pull the king out on a litter? Go for help, and risk leaving him alone?

“Kaladin?”

Kaladin froze, still kneeling over the king.

“Kaladin, what are you doing?” Moash’s voice demanded from behind. “We found the men at the door to the king’s room. Storms, did you kill them?”

Kaladin rose and turned, putting his weight on his good leg. Moash stood at the other end of the corridor, resplendent in his blue and red Shardplate. Another Shardbearer accompanied him, Blade up on the shoulder of his Plate, faceplate down. Graves.

The assassins had arrived.

Navani’s Notebook: Battle Map

83. Time’s Illusion

Obviously they are fools The Desolation needs no usher It can and will sit where it wishes and the signs are obvious that the spren anticipate it doing so soon The Ancient of Stones must finally begin to crack It is a wonder that upon his will rested the prosperity and peace of a world for over four millennia

From the Diagram, Book of the 2nd Ceiling Rotation: pattern 1

Shallan stepped off the bridge onto a deserted plateau.

The rain muffled the sounds of warfare, making the area feel even more isolated. Darkness like dusk. Rainfall like hushed whispers.

This plateau was higher than most, so she could see Stormseat’s center arrayed around her. Pillars with crem accreting at their bases, transforming them to stalagmites. Buildings that had become mounds, overgrown with stone like snow covering a fallen log. In the darkness and rain, the ancient city presented a sketch of skyline for the imagination to fill in.

This city hid beneath time’s own illusion.

The others followed her across the bridge. They’d skirted the fighting on Aladar’s battlefront, slipping along the Alethi lines to attain this farther plateau. Getting up here had taken time, as the bridgemen had needed to locate a usable landing. They’d had to climb a slope on the adjoining plateau and place their bridge there to get across the chasm.

“How can you be sure this is the right place?” Renarin asked, clinking down onto the plateau beside her. Shallan had opted for an umbrella, but Renarin stood in the rain, helm under his arm, letting the water stream down his face. Didn’t he wear spectacles? She hadn’t seen them on him much lately.

“It is the right place,” Shallan said, “because it’s deviant.”

“That’s hardly a logical conclusion,” Inadara said, joining the two of them as soldiers and bridgemen crossed to the empty plateau. “A portal of this nature would be kept hidden; it would not be deviant.”

“The Oathgates were not hidden,” Shallan said. “That is beside the point, however. This plateau is a circle.”

“Many are circular.”

“Not this circular,” Shallan said, striding forward. Now that she was here, she could see just how irregularly… well, regular the plateau was. “I was looking for a dais on a plateau, but didn’t realize the scale of what I was searching for. This entire plateau is the dais upon which the Oathgate sat.

“Don’t you see? The other plateaus were created by some kind of disaster—they are jagged, broken. This place is not. That’s because it was already here when the shattering happened. On the old maps it was a raised section, like a giant pedestal. When the Plains were broken, it remained this way.”

“Yes…” Renarin said, nodding. “Imagine a plate with a circle etched into the center… if a force shattered the plate, it might break along the already weakened lines.”

“Leaving you with a bunch of irregular pieces,” Shallan agreed, “and one shaped like a circle.”

“Perhaps,” Inadara said. “But I find it odd that something so tactically important would be exposed.”

“The Oathgates were a symbol,” Shallan said, continuing to walk. “The Vorin Right of Travel, given to all citizens of sufficient rank, is based on the Heralds’ declaration that all borders should be open. If you were going to create a symbol of that unity—a portal that connected all of the Silver Kingdoms together—where would you put it? Hidden in a locked room? Or on a stage that rose above the city? It was out here because they were proud of it.”

They continued through the blowing rain. There was a hallowed quality to this place, and honestly, that was part of how she knew she was right.

“Mmmm,” Pattern said softly. “They are raising a storm.”

“The Voidspren?” Shallan whispered.

“The bonded ones. They craft a storm.”

Right. Her task was urgent; she didn’t have time to stand around thinking. She was about to order the search begun, but paused as she noticed Renarin staring westward, his eyes distant.

“Prince Renarin?” she asked.

“The wrong way,” he whispered. “The wind is blowing from the wrong direction. West to east… Oh, Almighty above. It’s terrible.”

She followed his gaze, but could see nothing.

“It’s actually real,” Renarin said. “The Everstorm.”