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Four days into the Weeping, Shallan sits at the edge of her pavilion in spherelight she has chosen to be all one colour — violet — watching each falling raindrop flash briefly through the purple light like a tiny dying star. Vathah and his soldiers fuss over her from the centre of the pavilion like skyeels around a single pup; scholars and ardents argue Stormseat dimensions at the back. She is drawing Jasnah not from a single Memory but from imagination: Jasnah as she had been the last night in the cabin — exhausted yet still strong, terrified yet still brave, contradictions made into a person. The picture pleases her. Pattern climbs onto the page and sniffs at the creationspren for having no purpose of their own. She tells him the story of the artist Eleseth, who painted by ruby-only spherelight until her eye learned to compensate — until reds no longer washed her flowers out — and admits, quietly, that the parable frightens her. We all see the world by some personal light that changes it, she says, and she does not know if she can ever see clearly.

A figure breaks through the rain: Dalinar himself, his aide holding the umbrella, straight-backed and grey. He has come because his scribes and cartographers will not stop talking about her — Urithiru, Stormseat — and he is amused that this Veden girl has taken command of his expedition. She blushes the credit onto Navani; he counters that Navani credits her. He clears the pavilion. He wants the question on the table: is she sure Jasnah was not putting one over on her? She tells him plainly that she saw it; Jasnah did not use a Soulcaster — she was one. He says, slowly, that this means he has been wrong; the first man he picked to refound the Radiants turned out a murderer, and the Radiants may be refounding themselves without him. *What if it was never to refound them*, she says, *but to gather them.* He turns back. She breathes Stormlight in and out and the small living shape of Jasnah she has just drawn rises off her palm in woven light. An awespren bursts around Dalinar's head like a ring of blue smoke. He touches it, weeping, calling it amazing — *I am not mad; they are returning* — and tells her, on his feet again, that he must give her the cloak and put her in charge. She panics — that would unwrite half her work — and says her abilities are only useful if no one knows they are possible.

A messenger crashes through the rain. *Parshendi spotted, sir, scouting party.* They lost three to it; it is dead now, dragged to the bridge. Dalinar curses and is moving; Shallan tosses her sketchpad onto her chair and goes with him. He warns her it will be dangerous; she tells him, in a confession he tucks carefully away, that she suspects she could take a spear through the gut and her abilities would heal her without leaving a scar — that she must have done as much for Captain Kaladin in the chasm. He says he will send her back to camp under escort; she tells him, evenly, that he is not her highprince and her duty is to find Urithiru, and asks for his promise that he will not tell a soul about her, not even Navani. *I see Jasnah in you*, he says, and gives it.

At the bridge, Bashin has had the body pulled across. It is not any form they have fought — hair and carapace mixed, lean and tall, broken skin-ridges along the arms. He says some of the killed men had burn marks taken in this rain — *the shakiest thing I've ever seen*. Shallan asks what he means by *type*; he tells her the Parshendi who met with King Gavilar long ago were shaped differently from the ones they fight, that the species takes forms for what is needed. Dalinar suggests the Parshendi are losing the war and sending out their lighteyes equivalents. Shallan, crouching, lifts the corpse's eyelid. The eye beneath is fully red. She screams and jerks back; Dalinar's Shardblade is in his hand a moment later. *The red eyes are just a legend*, he says. *Jasnah had an entire notebook of references*, she answers. The Voidbringers are here.

Dalinar orders the body thrown into the chasm, the camps put on full alarm. Then Teleb tramps up in silver Plate to report a second one — alive, sitting on a rock across the next chasm, weaponless, unguarded by his own people. Dalinar starts that way with Shallan and her guards behind him. They find a hundred Alethi spears pointed up at a single tall Parshendi who shades his eyes against the rain. He calls down, in the lilt of his people but in clear Alethi: *Skar? Skar, is that you? And Leyten?* One of the Bridge Four guards swears, runs the bridge, comes back with the others to whisper to Dalinar that it is him. Changed, but him. Shen has come out of the wilderness, alone, and wants to surrender to Dalinar.