Edgedancer (The Stormlight Archive, #2.5)

by Brandon Sanderson

They were elegant things of beauty, Darkness had said. They could ride the thinnest rope, dance across rooftops, move like a ribbon on the wind.… Darkness, the shadow of a man who had chased her, had said those things in the palace, speaking of those who had—long ago—used powers like Lift’s.

“Only fancy people have money like that. We normal folk, we have to get by some other way.” “So now you’re normal.” “Course I am,” she said. “It’s everyone else that’s weird.”

“What nonsense are you talking about, Voidbringer?” “I suppose I need to get you to say the Words, don’t I? That’s my job? Oh, this is miserable.”

I will remember those who have been forgotten. She’d sworn that oath as she’d saved Gawx’s life. The right Words, important Words.

She hadn’t dreamed, thankfully. She hated dreams. They either showed her a life she couldn’t have, or a life that terrified her. What was the good of either one?

we want them to return, so we won’t be the only order of Knights Radiant?” “Unfortunately, no,” Darkness said. “I once thought as you, but Ishar made the truth clear to me. If the bonds between men and spren are reignited, then men will naturally discover the greater power of the oaths. Without Honor to regulate this, there is a small chance that what comes next will allow the Voidbringers to again make the jump between worlds.

“They’re already back,” he whispered, speaking with a smooth, airy Shin accent. “The Voidbringers have already returned.”

The man in white looked up, and Lift shied away. His movement left another afterimage that glowed briefly before fading. Storms. White clothing. Strange powers.

“If we don’t stop one, others will congregate. They clump together. I have often found them making contact with one another, these last five years, if I leave them alone. They must be drawn to each other.”

“There are Words,” Wyndle said. “That’s what we call them, at least. They’re more…ideas. Living ideas, with power. You have to let them into your soul. Let me into your soul.

The woman looked up at Lift. “He’s right about that, um…” “Say it,” Lift said. “Your Pancakefulness.” “Rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it?”

“Coming, assassin?” The woman looked down toward the landing and the man wearing white. “I’ve danced that storm once before,” he whispered. “On the day I died. No.” “You’re never going to make it into the order at this rate.”

“The new storm reveals it,” the assassin said. “But…who am I to say? I am mad. Then again, I think that the Herald is too. It makes me agree that the minds of men cannot be trusted. That we need something greater to follow, to guide. But not my stone… What good is seeking a greater law, when that law can be the whims of a man either stupid or ruthless?”

She’d run all the way here, glowing with power, ready to face monsters that flew in the sky. But here…here she was just another orphaned urchin.

“I want control,” she said, opening her eyes. “Not like a king or anything. I just want to be able to control it, a little. My life. I don’t want to get shoved around, by people or by fate or whatever. I just…I want it to be me who chooses.”

“But you,” the thing said, “did not come for a contest, did you? We watch the others. The assassin. The surgeon. The liar. The highprince. But not you. The others all ignore you…and that, I hazard to predict, is a mistake.”

This was just the likeness of an old man though. A fabrication. Beneath that skin was not blood or muscle. It was hundreds of cremlings, pulling together to form a counterfeit man.

He stalks them tonight, and will complete his task. Nale, madman, Herald of Justice, is not one to leave business unfinished.”

My siblings are more interested in you Radiants. If you ever encounter another of the Sleepless, tell them you’ve spoken with Arclo. I’m certain it will gain you sympathy.”

“I’m helping with far more than your little personal problem. I’m building a philosophy, one meaningful enough to span ages.

And why was this city able to summon you here now?” Again that question. Why are you here?

“What if you’re wrong though?” Lift whispered. “What if ‘instinct’ doesn’t guide us? What if everybody is frightened, and nobody has the answers?”

“Yeah,” Lift called. “You know, the day the Almighty was handin’ out brains to folks? I went out for flatbread that day.”

“But I got back by the time the Almighty was givin’ out looks,” Lift called. “What kept you?”

“Great. So you’re like…some kind of emotionless spren now.” “Hey,” Wyndle said. “That’s insulting.” “No,” Darkness said, unable to hear Wyndle. “I’m merely a man, perfected.”

“You think you can fight me, child?” he growled, holding his Blade against her rod. “I who have lived immortal lives? I who have slain demigods and survived Desolations? I am the Herald of Justice.”

“I will listen,” Lift shouted, “to those who have been ignored!”

Then he slumped to his knees. “Storms. Jezrien…Ishar… It is true. I’ve failed.” He bowed his head. And he started weeping.

And then, by instinct, she did something she would never have thought possible. She hugged Darkness.

“Nothing at all,” Lift said, with the utmost confidence. But I will listen to those who are ignored, she thought. Even people like Darkness, whom I’d rather never have heard. Maybe that will help.

It didn’t seem like it had made much of a difference—just a few people, and all. But they were the type that were forgotten and ignored by most.