Words of Radiance

by Brandon Sanderson

Leaves its force to be but one of foe or friend.

  —From the Listener Song of Histories, 127th stanza

  Kaladin figured that it took a lot to put him in a situation he’d never before seen. He’d been a slave and a surgeon, served on a battlefield and in a lighteyes’ dining room. He’d seen a lot for his twenty years. Too much, it felt at times. He had many memories he’d rather be without.

  Regardless, he had not expected this day to present him with something so utterly and disconcertingly unfamiliar. “Sir?” he asked, taking a step backward. “You want me to do what?”

  “Get on that horse,” Dalinar Kholin said, pointing toward an animal grazing nearby. The beast would stand perfectly still, waiting for grass to creep up out of its holes. Then it would pounce, taking a quick bite, which would cause the grass to shoot back down into its burrows. It got a mouthful each time, often pulling the grass out by its roots.

  It was one of many such animals dawdling and prancing through the area. It never ceased to stun Kaladin just how rich people like Dalinar were; each horse was worth spheres in profusion. And Dalinar wanted him to climb on one of them.

  “Soldier,” Dalinar said, “you need to know how to ride. The time might come when you need to guard my sons on the battlefield. Besides, how long did it take you to reach the palace the other night, when coming to hear about the king’s accident?”

  “Almost three-quarters of an hour,” Kaladin admitted. It had been four days since that night, and Kaladin had frequently found himself on edge since then.

  “I have stables near the barracks,” Dalinar said. “You could have made that trip in a fraction of the time if you could ride. Perhaps you won’t spend much of your time in the saddle, but this is going to be an important skill for you and your men to know.”

  Kaladin looked back at the other members of Bridge Four. Shrugs all around—a few timid ones—except for Moash, who nodded eagerly. “I suppose,” Kaladin said, looking back at Dalinar. “If you think it’s important, sir, we’ll give it a try.”

  “Good man,” Dalinar said. “I’ll send over Jenet, the stablemaster.”

  “We’ll await him with eagerness, sir,” Kaladin said, trying to sound like he meant it.

  Two of Kaladin’s men escorted Dalinar as he walked toward the stables, a set of large, sturdy stone buildings. From what Kaladin saw, when the horses weren’t inside, they were allowed to roam freely inside this open area west of the warcamp. A low stone wall enclosed it, but surely the horses could jump that at will.

  They didn’t. The brutes wandered about, stalking grass or lying down, snorting and whinnying. The entire place smelled strange to Kaladin. Not of dung, just . . . of horse. Kaladin eyed one eating nearby, just inside the wall. He didn’t trust it; there was something too smart about horses. Proper beasts of burden like chulls were slow and docile. He’d ride a chull. A creature like this, though . . . who knew what it was thinking?

  Moash stepped up beside him, watching Dalinar go. “You like him, don’t you?” he asked softly.

  “He’s a good commander,” Kaladin said, as he instinctively sought out Adolin and Renarin, who were riding their horses nearby. Apparently, the things needed to be exercised periodically to keep them functioning properly. Devilish creatures.

  “Don’t get too close to him, Kal,” Moash said, still watching Dalinar. “And don’t trust him too far. He’s lighteyed, remember.”

  “I’m not likely to forget,” Kaladin said dryly. “Besides, you’re the one who looked like you’d faint from joy the moment he offered to let us ride these monsters.”

  “Have you ever faced a lighteyes riding one of these things?” Moash asked. “On the battlefield, I mean?”

  Kaladin remembered thundering hooves, a man in silvery armor. Dead friends. “Yes.”

  “Then you know the advantage it offers,” Moash said. “I’ll take Dalinar’s offer gladly.”

  The stablemaster turned out to be a she. Kaladin raised an eyebrow as the pretty, young lighteyed woman walked up to them, a pair of grooms in tow. She wore a traditional Vorin gown, though it wasn’t silk but something coarser, and was slit up the front and back, ankle to thigh. Underneath, she wore a feminine pair of trousers.

  The woman wore her dark hair in a tail, no ornaments, and had a tautness to her face that he didn’t expect in a lighteyed woman. “The highprince says I’m to let you ruffians touch my horses,” Jenet said, folding her arms. “I’m not pleased about it.”

  “Fortunately,” Kaladin said, “neither are we.”

  She looked him up and down. “You’re that one, aren’t you? The one everyone is talking about?”

  “Maybe.”

  She sniffed. “You need a haircut. All right, listen up, soldier boys! We’re going to do this properly. I won’t have you hurting my horses, all right? You listen, and you listen well.”

  What proceeded was one of the dullest, most protracted lectures of Kaladin’s life. The woman went on and on about posture—straight-backed, but not too tense. About getting the horses to move—nudges with the heels, nothing too sharp. About how to ride, how to respect the animal, how to hold the reins properly and how to balance. All before being allowed to even touch one of the creatures.

  Eventually, the boredom was interrupted by the arrival of a man on horseback. Unfortunately, it was Adolin Kholin, riding that white monster of a horse of his. It was several hands taller than the one Jenet was showing them. Adolin’s almost looked a completely different species, with those massive hooves, glistening white coat, and unfathomable eyes.

  Adolin looked the bridgemen over with a smirk, then caught the stablemaster’s eye and smiled in a less condescending way. “Jenet,” he said. “Looking fetching today, as always. Is that a new riding dress?”

  The woman bent down without looking—she was now talking about how to guide the horses—and selected a stone from the ground. Then she turned and threw it at Adolin.

  The princeling flinched, raising an arm protectively over his face, though Jenet’s aim was off.

  “Oh, come on now,” Adolin said. “You’re not still sore that—”

  Another rock. This one clipped him on the arm.

  “Right, then,” Adolin said, jogging his horse away, hunched down to present a smaller target for rocks.

  Eventually, after demonstrating saddling and bridling on her horse, Jenet finished the lecture and deemed them worthy of touching some horses. A flock of her grooms, both male and female, scurried out onto the field to select proper mounts for the six bridgemen.

  “Lots of women on your staff,” Kaladin noted to Jenet as the grooms worked.

  “Horseback riding isn’t mentioned in Arts and Majesty,” she replied. “Horses weren’t terribly well known back then. Radiants had Ryshadium, but even kings had little access to ordinary horses.” She wore her safehand in a sleeve, unlike most of the darkeyed groom women, who wore gloves.

  “Which matters because . . . ?” Kaladin said.

  Frowning, she looked at him, baffled. “Arts and Majesty . . .” she prompted. “Foundation of masculine and feminine arts . . . Of course. I keep looking at those captain’s knots on your shoulder, but—”

  “But I’m just an ignorant darkeyes?”

  “Sure, if that’s how you want to put it. Whatever. Look, I’m not going to give you a lecture on the arts—I’m tired of talking to you people already. Let’s just say that anyone who wants can be a groom, all right?”

  She lacked a polished refinement that Kaladin had come to expect in lighteyed women, and he found it refreshing. Better a woman who was overtly condescending than the alternative. The grooms walked the horses out of their enclosure and to a riding ground, shaped like a ring. A group of parshmen with eyes downcast brought the saddles, saddle pads, and bridles—equipment that, following Jenet’s lecture, Kaladin could name.

  Kaladin selected a beast that didn’t look too evil, a shorter horse with a shaggy mane and a brown coat. He saddled it with help from a groom.
Nearby, Moash finished and threw himself up into his saddle. Once the groom let go, Moash’s horse wandered off without him asking it to do so.

  “Hey!” Moash said. “Stop. Whoa. How do I get it to stop walking?”

  “You dropped the reins,” Jenet called after him. “Storming fool! Were you even listening?”

  “Reins,” Moash said, scrambling for them. “Can’t I just slap it over the head with a reed, like you do a chull?”

  Jenet rubbed her forehead.

  Kaladin looked into the eye of his own chosen beast. “Look,” he said softly, “you don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. Let’s just be pleasant to one another and get it over with as quickly as possible.”

  The horse snorted softly. Kaladin took a deep breath, then grabbed the saddle as instructed, lifting one foot into the stirrup. He rocked a few times, then threw himself up into the saddle. He grabbed the saddle horn in a death grip and held on tight, ready to be thrown about as the beast went charging away.

  His horse bent her head and began licking some rocks.

  “Hey, now,” Kaladin said, raising the reins. “Come on. Let’s move.”

  The horse ignored him.

  Kaladin tried cuing it in the flanks as he’d been told. The horse didn’t budge.

  “You’re supposed to be some kind of wagon with legs,” Kaladin said to the thing. “You’re worth more than a village. Prove it to me. Get going! Forward! Onward!”

  The horse licked the rocks.

  What is the thing doing? Kaladin thought, leaning to the side. With surprise, he noticed grass poking out of its holes. Licking fools the grass into thinking rain has come. Often after a storm, plants would unfold to glut themselves on the water even if insects decided to chew them. Clever beast. Lazy. But clever.

  “You need to show her you’re in charge,” Jenet said, wandering past. “Tighten the reins, sit up straight, pull her head up, and don’t let her eat. She’ll walk all over you if you aren’t firm.”

  Kaladin tried to obey, and did manage—finally—to pull the horse away from her meal. The horse did smell odd, but it wasn’t a bad smell really. He got her walking, and once that happened, steering wasn’t that difficult. It felt strange to have some other thing in control of where he was going, however. Yes, he had the reins, but at any time this horse could just up and take off running and he’d be unable to do anything about it. Half of Jenet’s training had been about not spooking the horses—about remaining still if one started to gallop, and about never surprising one from behind.

  It looked higher from atop the horse than he’d assumed it would. That was a long fall to the ground. He guided the horse about, and after a short time, he managed to pull up beside Natam on purpose. The long-faced bridgeman held his reins as if they were precious gemstones, afraid to yank them or direct his horse.

  “Can’t believe people ride these things on storming purpose,” Natam said. He had a rural Alethi accent, his words bluntly clipped, like he was biting them off before he’d quite finished them. “I mean, we ain’t moving any faster than walking, right?”

  Again, Kaladin remembered the image of that charging mounted Shardbearer from long ago. Yes, Kaladin could see the reason for horses. Sitting up higher made it easier to strike with power, and the size of the horse—its bulk and momentum—frightened soldiers on foot and sent them scattering.

  “I think most go faster than these,” Kaladin said. “I’d bet they gave us the old horses to practice on.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Natam said. “It’s warm. Didn’t expect that. I’ve ridden chulls before. This thing shouldn’t be so . . . warm. Hard to feel like this thing is worth as much as it is. It’s like I’m riding about on a pile of emerald broams.” He hesitated, glancing backward. “Only, emeralds’ backsides ain’t nearly so busy . . .”

  “Natam,” Kaladin asked. “Do you remember much about the day when someone tried to kill the king?”

  “Oh, sure,” Natam said. “I was with the guys who ran out there and found him flapping in the wind, like the Stormfather’s own ears.”

  Kaladin smiled. Once, this man would barely say two sentences together, instead always staring at the ground, somber. Used up by his time as a bridgeman. These last few weeks had been good for Natam. Good for them all.

  “Before the storm that night,” Kaladin said. “Was anyone out on the balcony? Any servants you didn’t recognize? Any soldiers who weren’t from the King’s Guard?”

  “No servants that I recall,” Natam said, squinting. The once-farmer got a pensive look on his face. “I guarded the king all day, sir, with the King’s Guard. Ain’t nothing standing out to me. I— Whoa!” His horse had suddenly picked up speed, outpacing Kaladin’s.

  “Think about it!” Kaladin called to him. “See what you can remember!”

  Natam nodded, still holding his reins like they were glass, refusing to pull them tight or steer the horse. Kaladin shook his head.

  A small horse galloped past him. In the air. Made of light. Syl giggled, changing shape and spinning around as a ribbon of light before settling on the neck of Kaladin’s horse, just in front of him.

  She lounged back, grinning, then frowned at his expression. “You’re not enjoying yourself,” Syl said.

  “You’re starting to sound a lot like my mother.”

  “Captivating?” Syl said. “Amazing, witty, meaningful?”

  “Repetitive.”

  “Captivating?” Syl said. “Amazing, witty, meaningful?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Says the man not laughing,” she replied, folding her arms. “All right, so what is drearifying you today?”

  “Drearifying?” Kaladin frowned. “Is that a word?”

  “You don’t know?”

  He shook his head.

  “Yes,” Syl said solemnly. “Yes, it absolutely is.”

  “Something’s off,” he said. “About the conversation I just had with Natam.” He tugged on the reins, stopping the horse from trying to bend down and nibble at grass again. The thing was very focused.

  “What did you talk about?”

  “The assassination attempt,” Kaladin said, narrowing his eyes. “And if he’d seen anyone before the . . .” He paused. “Before the storm.”

  He looked down and met Syl’s eyes.

  “The storm itself would have blown down the railing,” Kaladin said.

  “Bending it!” Syl said, standing up and grinning. “Ooohhh . . .”

  “It was cut clean through, the mortar on the bottom chipped away,” Kaladin continued. “I’ll bet the force of the winds was easily equal to the weight the king put on it.”

  “So the sabotage must have happened after the storm,” Syl said.

  A much narrower time frame. Kaladin turned his horse toward where Natam was riding. Unfortunately, catching up wasn’t easy. Natam was moving at a trot, much to his obvious dismay, and Kaladin couldn’t get his mount to go faster.

  “Having trouble, bridgeboy?” Adolin asked, trotting up.

  Kaladin glanced at the princeling. Stormfather, but it was difficult not to feel tiny when riding beside that monster of Adolin’s. Kaladin tried to kick his horse faster. She kept clopping along at her one speed, walking around the circle here that was a kind of running track for horses.

  “Spray might have been fast during her youth,” Adolin said, nodding at Kaladin’s mount, “but that was fifteen years ago. I’m surprised she’s still around, honestly, but she seems perfectly suited for training children. And bridgemen.”

  Kaladin ignored him, eyes forward, still trying to get the horse to pick up her pace and catch Natam.

  “Now, if you want something with more spunk,” Adolin said, pointing toward the side, “Dreamstorm over there might be more to your liking.”

  He indicated a larger, leaner animal in its own enclosure, saddled and roped to a pole firmly mortared into a hole in the ground. The long rope let it run in short bursts, though only around in a circle. It tossed
its head, snorting.

  Adolin heeled his own animal forward and past Natam.

  Dreamstorm, eh? Kaladin thought, inspecting the creature. It certainly did seem to have more spunk than Spray. It also looked like it wanted to take a bite out of anyone who drew too close.

  Kaladin turned Spray in that direction. Once near, he slowed—Spray was all too happy to do that—and climbed off. Doing so proved more difficult than he’d expected, but he managed to avoid tripping onto his face.

  Once down, he put his hands on his hips and inspected the running horse inside its fence.

  “Weren’t you just complaining,” Syl said, walking up onto Spray’s head, “that you’d rather walk than let a horse carry you about?”

  “Yeah,” Kaladin said. He hadn’t realized it, but he had been holding some Stormlight. Just a tad. It escaped when he spoke, invisible unless he looked closely and detected a slight warping of the air.

  “So what are you doing thinking about riding that?”

  “This horse,” he said, nodding to Spray, “is only for walking. I can walk just fine on my own. That other one, that’s an animal for war.” Moash was right. Horses were an advantage on the battlefield, so Kaladin should be at least familiar with them.

  The same argument Zahel made to me about learning to fight against a Shardblade, Kaladin thought with discomfort. And I turned him down.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Jenet asked, riding up to him.

  “I’m going to get on that,” Kaladin said, pointing at Dreamstorm.

  Jenet snorted. “She’ll throw you in a heartbeat and you’ll break your crown, bridgeman. She’s not good with riders.”

  “She has a saddle on.”

  “So she can get used to wearing one.”

  The horse finished a round of cantering and slowed.

  “I don’t like that look in your eyes,” Jenet told him, turning her own animal to the side. It stomped impatiently, as if eager to be running.

  “I’m going to give it a try,” Kaladin said, walking forward.

  “You won’t even be able to get on,” Jenet said. She watched him carefully, as if curious what he’d do—though it seemed to him she might be more worried for the horse’s safety than his.