All right, let’s talk about me.

Uncharacteristically, I don’t want to discuss the topic. This isn’t a bright point in my career, and I would rather the attention be on other less statuesque people for the duration of the narrative. That said, I know it’s going to distract some of you unless I explain at least a tad.

What had happened to me?

I didn’t know. It’s complicated. I arrived on the planet, and immediately froze in place. Unable to move.

Was I aware?

Yes, at first. As the months passed, my senses began to dull. I fell into a kind of trance. Unaware, almost asleep. By the time the events of this story took place, Design and I had been in Kilahito for a bit over three years, Roshar time.

So, how do I know this story?

It started as voices. Dialogue. Lines spoken by Painter, who was near me. Others from Yumi—whose comments were softer, warped, more distant. From there my perception sparked, and I became aware of images, visuals, like they were . . . well, painted for me. In magenta and teal. Directly into my brain. Sometimes I saw what happened as faint representations, just two lines vaguely in the shapes of people. Other times I saw paintings or full-motion images. I seemed to have some control over which it became, depending on my level of attention.

To this day, I can’t completely explain why this happened. Something to do with the Connection between us, though the intricacies of how these things interact sometimes baffle even the most astute arcanists. Regardless, I could tell that whatever was happening with Painter and Yumi was tied to what had happened to me—that their story was my story, only without the whole “frozen in place, painted copper, unable to interact with one’s surroundings” part.

So kindly keep your attention on them. Because I most certainly wasn’t going anywhere or doing anything interesting, not anytime soon.

Yumi awoke on the floor of her wagon, a blanket over her. She had been bathed, dressed in her formal sleeping gown, and placed here. Surrounded by flower petals in a circle, along with a ring of seeds for luck. Starlight cut around her in a square, reaching in through the window to gawk.

Sore, still exhausted despite her hours of sleep, Yumi curled up beneath her blanket. They had to be at a halt in their travels. The chill air of night had driven back the worst of the ground’s heat, and her wagon had been lowered so that its stone floor could soak up the remaining warmth. She usually loved this. There was a unique comfort to being able to drape a blanket over her and bake in the floor’s radiance. It was almost like the planet itself was feeding her strength.

Yumi huddled there for some time, trying to recover. She knew she should feel pride at her accomplishment, and virtually any other person would have.

But she just felt . . . tired. And guilty over her lack of proper emotions.

And more tired, because guilt of that sort is an immense burden. Heavier than the rocks she’d moved earlier.

Then she felt ashamed. Because guilt has a great number of friends and keeps their addresses handy for quick summons.

Heat seeped up around Yumi, but seemed not to enter her. It cooked her, but she remained raw in the middle. She stayed there until the door opened. You might have heard clogged footsteps approaching first, but Yumi didn’t notice.

The figure in the doorway—in the deep of night, that figure was little more than a blot of ink on black paper—waited. Until Yumi looked up at last, realizing she’d been crying. The tears hit the floor and didn’t immediately evaporate.

“How did I do today, Liyun?” Yumi finally asked, rising to her knees.

“You did your duty,” Liyun replied, her voice soft yet rasping. Like ripping paper.

“I . . . have never heard of a yoki-hijo summoning thirty-seven spirits in one day,” Yumi said, hopeful. It wasn’t her warden’s job to compliment her. But . . . it would feel good . . . to hear the words nonetheless.

“Yes,” Liyun said. “It will make people question. Were you always capable of this? Were you holding back in other cities, refusing to bless them as you did this one?”

“I . . .”

“I’m certain it is wisdom in you, Chosen,” Liyun said, “to do as you did. I am certain it is not you working too hard, so that the next town in line gets a much smaller blessing and therefore thinks themselves less worthy also.”

Yumi felt sick at the very thought. Her arms dangled at her sides, because moving them was painful. “I will work hard tomorrow.”

“I am sure you will.” Liyun paused. “I would hate to think that I trained a yoki-hijo who did not know how to properly pace herself. I would also hate to think that I was such a poor teacher that my student thought it wise to pretend to be of lower potential, in order to have an easier time.”

Yumi shrank down farther, wincing at the throbs of pain from muscles in her arms and back. Even in great success, it appeared she did not do enough.

“Neither is true, fortunately,” she whispered.

“I will tell Gongsha Town,” Liyun said, “that they can look forward to a visit from a strong yoki-hijo tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“May I offer a reminder, Chosen?”

Yumi glanced up, and from where she knelt, the perspective made Liyun seem ten feet tall. A silhouette against the night; a cutout with blank space in the middle.

“Yes,” Yumi said. “Please.”

“You must remember,” Liyun said, “that you are a resource to the land. Like the water of the steamwell. Like the plants, the sunlight, and the spirits. If you do not take care of yourself, you will squander the great position and opportunity you have been given.”

“Thank you,” Yumi whispered.

“Sleep now, if it pleases you. Chosen.”

It takes real talent to use an honorific as an insult. I’ll give Liyun that much; it’s professional courtesy, from one hideous bastard to another.

Liyun turned to leave, then hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at Yumi. “I feel like . . .” she said, with an odd haunted cast to her voice, “this will happen again. Unless I do something. I am failing as your warden. Perhaps . . . I will seek advice. There must be something I can do.”

She shut the door with a click, and Yumi lowered her eyes. She didn’t go back to sleep. She felt too much. Not just pain, not just shame. Other, rebellious things. Numbness. Frustration. Even . . . anger.

She hauled herself to her feet and walked across the warm stone floor of the wagon to the window. Since her wagon hadn’t left yet, the next town must be close; otherwise they’d be on their way.

From here she could see a starlit collection of hundreds of individual plants that had lowered from the sky as the thermals cooled. They spun and drifted lazily near the stone, their gas pockets—one under each of four broad leaves per plant—slowly reinflating, the stalks supporting clusters of seeds growing on top. Scadrians would have called it rice, a type of grain that is smaller and thinner than the ones you eat on Roshar. It wasn’t exactly rice. The local word was “mingo.” But it boiled up nearly the same except for the deep blue-purple color, so I’ll use the more familiar word.

As Yumi watched, some dozen rice plants caught a rogue night thermal and jetted into the air, then drifted lazily back down. Small creatures scurried underneath looking for something to nibble on while avoiding serpents. Both prey and hunter slept in trees during the heat. If they were fortunate—or unfortunate, depending on the perspective—they picked different trees.

A gust across the field made the plants shiver and sway to one side, but night farmers moved along, waving large fans to keep the crops contained. Somewhere distant in the town, a giant crow cawed. (They aren’t as big as everyone says; I’ve never seen one the size of a full-grown man. More like the size of a seven- or eight-year-old.) A village corvider soon hushed the animal with soothing words.

Yumi wished she had someone to comfort her. Instead she rested aching arms on the windowsill and stared out at the placid crops as they turned lazily, occasionally jetting into the air. A tree leashed to the side of the wagon quivered in the breeze, its branches casting lines of shadow across Yumi’s face.

She could maybe just . . . crawl out of the window and start walking. No night farmer would stop a yoki-hijo. She should have felt ashamed at the thought, but she was full up with shame at the moment. A cup filled to the top can’t hold anything more. It spills out over the rim, then boils onto the floor.

She wouldn’t leave, but that night she wished she could. Wished she could escape the prison of her ceremonial nightgown. She wasn’t allowed to sleep as a normal person. She had to be reminded even by her undergarments of what she was. Chosen at birth. Blessed at birth. Imprisoned at birth.

I . . . a voice said in her mind. I understand . . .

Yumi started, spinning around. Then she felt it. A . . . a spirit. Her soul vibrated with its presence, a powerful one.

Bound . . . it said. You are bound . . .

Spirits understood her thoughts. That was part of her blessing. But they very, very rarely responded to anything a yoki-hijo thought. She’d heard of it happening only in stories.

I am blessed, she thought toward it, bowing her head, suddenly feeling extremely foolish. How had she let her fatigue drive her to such insane contemplations? She would anger the spirits. Suddenly she had a terrible premonition: The spirits refusing to be drawn to her performances. Villages going without light, without food, because of her. How could she reject—?

No . . . the spirit thought. You are trapped. And we . . . we are trapped . . . like you . . .

Yumi frowned, turning back to the window. Something was different about this voice. This spirit. It seemed . . . so very tired. And it was distant? Barely able to reach her? She looked up to the sparkling sky—and the bright daystar, stronger than them all. Was . . . the spirit . . . talking to her from there?

You worked so hard today, the spirit said. Can we give you something? A gift?

Yumi’s breath caught.

She’d read that story.

Most cultures have something similar. Some are terrible, but this wasn’t one of those places. Here the boons of spirits were always associated with wondrous adventure.

She shouldn’t want adventure though. She hesitated. Teetered, like a stone unbalanced. Then, in what was the most difficult moment of her life, she lowered her eyes.

You have already blessed me, she said. With the greatest gift a mortal can have. I accept my burden. It is for the best of my people. Forgive my idle thoughts earlier.

As you wish . . . the distant spirit said. Then . . . could you give . . . us a boon?

Yumi looked up. That . . . never happened in the stories.

How? she asked.

We are bound. Trapped.

She glanced toward the corner of the room, where a spirit light—the spheres touching to turn the light off for sleep—lay on a counter. It was identical to those she’d made earlier today. One light sphere, one dark. Trapped?

No, the spirit thought. That is not our prison . . . We . . . have a more terrible . . . existence. Can you free us? Will you . . . try? There is one who can help you.

Spirits in trouble? She didn’t know what she could do, but it was her duty to see them cared for. Her life was to serve. She was the yoki-hijo. The girl of commanding primal spirits.

Yes, she said, bowing her head again. Tell me what you need, and I will do whatever I can.

Please, it said. Free. Us.

All went black.