Edgedancer (The Stormlight Archive, #2.5)

by Brandon Sanderson

She was Reshi, from the islands up north. Her mother had told her that, though Lift had never seen the place.

“She’s a youth. She’s at least twelve.” “I ain’t twelve,” Lift snapped, looming over them. They turned up toward her. “I ain’t,” she said. “Twelve’s an unlucky number.” She held up her hands. “I’m only this many.” “…Ten?” Tigzikk asked. “Is that how many that is? Sure, then. Ten.” She lowered her hands. “If I can’t count it on my fingers, it’s unlucky.” And she’d been that many for three years now. So there.

‘She has visited the Old Magic,’ they said. ‘Our mother has blessed her,’ they said. ‘She will be young, and we can mold her,’ they said. Well, they don’t have to put up with—”

Investiture

the pale crescent birthmark on his cheek.

“What did you ask for, when you visited my mother?”

Storms…I almost think it’s another Desolation come upon us.”

Huh, Lift thought, someone scratched a face off of that one.

She was supposed to stay the same, and the world was supposed to change around her.

“It’s forbidden. You must discover it on your own.”

“I’ll gnaw on you, Voidbringer. You’re a vine, right? I eat plants. Sometimes.”

Gremlin behavior

And I’ll have you know that I am a gardener, and not a soldier, so I’ll not have you hitting people with me.”

cultivationspren—are not very important. We don’t have a kingdom, or even cities, of our own. We only moved to bond with you because the Cryptics and the honorspren and everyone were starting to move. Oh, we’ve jumped right into the sea of glass feet-first, but we barely know what we’re doing! Everyone who had any idea of how to accomplish all this died centuries ago!”

Skybreaker

He had a flat, wide face,

“You’re wrong,” a voice whispered from the darkness. “You may be a god…but you’re still wrong.” Lift nearly jumped clear out of her own skin. Storms! There was a guy sitting just inside the doorway, right next to where she was hiding. She hadn’t seen him—she’d been too fixated on Darkness. He sat on the floor, wearing tattered white clothing. His hair was short, a brown fuzz, as if he’d kept it shaved until recently. He had pale, ghostly skin, and held a long sword in a silvery sheath, pommel resting against his shoulder, length stretching alongside his body and legs. He held his arms draped around the sheath, as if it were a child’s toy to hug.

son son?!

“Everything is changing,” she said softly. “That’s okay. Stuff changes. It’s just that, I’m not supposed to. I asked not to. She’s supposed to give you what you ask.” “The Nightwatcher?” Wyndle asked.

She eyed him. “All right. Maybe I can get you one soul. Perhaps a tax collector…’cept they ain’t human. Would they work? Or would you need,