“Huh. Well, there’s always one.” He poked the cremlings with his finger. “How are you mating?”

“Musics still aren’t reproductions,” Adolin said. “You’re thinking too small. Men still aren’t instruments. You’re thinking too much like a fish, which, in my experience, only gets so big by accident. So, you need to learn to adapt.”

“Adapt?” Adolin said. “Mmm. There’s always a next time.”

He zipped off to join some of his soldiers, and Shallan watched him go, then turned to the wall, where Pattern hung.

“I don’t know if I’m supposed to be angry about that,” she said softly.

“You are,” Adolin said, “a terrible teacher.” He stopped pacing and leaned down, inspecting the damage to the table. It seemed that the wine the child had drunk had about half its fill in the jug.

“Next time,” Adolin said, “take a deep breath and Cloudkill.”

“Mmm. I have to. I have to.”

“But—”

“I’m not your enemy.”

“But you killed my brother.”

“I’m not your enemy.”

Adolin frowned. “Then why are you smiling?”

“I’m just pleased to be here,” Adolin said, poking at a wound on his arm. It was something he’d kept to himself for now, as his healing had progressed. He’d let Shallan see the scar, though.

“It’s like,” Adolin said, “you always know where you’re going with this.”

“Yes. Yes, I have a problem.”

“You’ve been studying with Brightness Shallan.”

“Sure. Brightness Shallan. How do you know which ones to trust?”

“I’ve done research,” Adolin said. “I’m a nobody. I’ve only ever been able to scrape together the small amount of information I need to get you to speak to me. But I’ve found that the more I’ve been reading, the more I’ve been able to work out what I need to do to rectify the error. So…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t read your emotions on your face. What do you remember me saying?”

Pattern buzzed. “I don’t … remember much,” he finally said. “I think I was trying to be charming.…”

“It’s all right. I can’t believe you killed my brother. You could have easily done it. It’s one of those rare instances where my discipline and training are in direct conflict.”

“I…”

In the back of his mind, the dream finally gave way to the pain of losing his brother.

Shallan pulled through the whirlwind of emotions. She was able to stifle the sorrow, the guilt, the shame. She would pull it all down, but it would be forced to leave behind the tunic and the strange, glowing lines of light that marked where her clothing had been torn during the war.

She would bleed again, and yet would not let it.

She would bled from the nose, and yet she would not let it.

“I…” Shallan whispered.

Possession. She felt an oppressive warmth within her, a kind of nausea, like something was pushing her down.

She felt a pulsing warmth, an irresistible urge to dance.

Only.

She froze, something that only a fleeting, unlikely sensation could rival.

The ground began to tremble.

* * *

Jasnah stopped one pace behind Renarin. She could hear his whispers clearly now. “Father. Please. Please.”

“You can’t fight it, Jasnah,” Renarin whispered. “You can’t—”

“I’m not going to fight it,” Jasnah said, stepping in front of him. “