Words of Radiance

by Brandon Sanderson

  When that horrid man had arrived, dragging petty jealousy behind him like a cloak, the world had twisted upon itself. Roshone had infected Hearthstone like rotspren on an unclean wound. He was the reason Tien had gone to war. He was the reason Kaladin had followed.

  “I suppose I owe you this,” Dalinar said. “But it is not to be spread around. Roshone was a petty man who gained Elhokar’s ear. Elhokar was crown prince then, commanded to rule over Kholinar and watch the kingdom while his father organized our first camps here in the Shattered Plains. I was . . . away at the time.

  “Anyway, do not blame Elhokar. He was taking the advice of someone he trusted. Roshone, however, sought his own interests instead of those of the Throne. He owned several silversmith shops . . . well, the details are not important. Suffice it to say that Roshone led the prince to make some errors. I cleared it up when I returned.”

  “You saw this Roshone punished?” Kaladin asked, voice soft, feeling numb.

  “Exiled,” Dalinar said, nodding. “Elhokar moved the man to a place where he couldn’t do any more harm.”

  A place he couldn’t do any more harm. Kaladin almost laughed.

  “You have something to say?”

  “You don’t want to know what I think, sir.”

  “Perhaps I don’t. I probably need to hear it anyway.”

  Dalinar was a good man. Blinded in some ways, but a good man. “Well, sir,” Kaladin said, controlling his emotions with difficulty, “I find it . . . troubling that a man like this Roshone could be responsible for the deaths of innocent people, yet escape prison.”

  “It was complicated, soldier. Roshone was one of Highprince Sadeas’s sworn liegemen, cousin to important men whose support we needed. I originally argued that Roshone should be stripped of station and made a tenner, forced to live his life in squalor. But this would have alienated allies, and could have undermined the kingdom. Elhokar argued for leniency toward Roshone, and his father agreed via spanreed. I relented, figuring that mercy was not an attribute I should discourage in Elhokar.”

  “Of course not,” Kaladin said, clenching his teeth. “Though it seems that such mercy often ends up serving the cousins of powerful lighteyes, and rarely someone lowly.” He stared through the bars between himself and Dalinar.

  “Soldier,” Dalinar asked, voice cool. “Do you think I’ve been unfair toward you or your men?”

  “You. No, sir. But this isn’t about you.”

  Dalinar exhaled softly, as if in frustration. “Captain, you and your men are in a unique position. You spend your daily lives around the king. You don’t see the face that is presented to the world, you see the man. It has ever been so for close bodyguards.

  “So your loyalty needs to be extra firm and generous. Yes, the man you guard has flaws. Every man does. He is still your king, and I will have your respect.”

  “I can and do respect the Throne, sir,” Kaladin said. Not the man sitting in it, perhaps. But he did respect the office. Somebody needed to rule.

  “Son,” Dalinar said after a moment’s thought, “do you know why I put you into the position that I did?”

  “You said it was because you needed someone you could trust not to be a spy for Sadeas.”

  “That’s the rationale,” Dalinar said, stepping up closer to the bars, only inches from Kaladin. “But it’s not the reason. I did it because it felt right.”

  Kaladin frowned.

  “I trust my hunches,” Dalinar said. “My gut said you were a man who could help change this kingdom. A man who could live through Damnation itself in Sadeas’s camp and still somehow inspire others was a man I wanted under my command.” His expression grew harder. “I gave you a position no darkeyes has ever held in this army. I let you into conferences with the king, and I listened when you spoke. Do not make me regret those decisions, soldier.”

  “You don’t already?” Kaladin asked.

  “I’ve come close,” Dalinar said. “I understand, though. If you truly believe what you told me about Amaram . . . well, if I’d been in your place, I’d have been hard pressed not to do the same thing you did. But storm it, man, you’re still a darkeyes.”

  “It shouldn’t matter.”

  “Maybe it shouldn’t, but it does. You want to change that? Well, you’re not going to do it by screaming like a lunatic and challenging men like Amaram to duels. You’ll do it by distinguishing yourself in the position I gave you. Be the kind of man that others admire, whether they be lighteyed or dark. Convince Elhokar that a darkeyes can lead. That will change the world.”

  Dalinar turned and walked away. Kaladin couldn’t help thinking that the man’s shoulders seemed more bowed than when he’d entered.

  After Dalinar left, Kaladin sat back on his bench, letting out a long, annoyed breath. “Stay calm,” he whispered. “Do as you’re told, Kaladin. Stay in your cage.”

  “He’s trying to help,” Syl said.

  Kaladin glanced to the side. Where was she hiding? “You heard about Roshone.”

  Silence.

  “Yes,” Syl finally said, voice sounding small.

  “My family’s poverty,” Kaladin said, “the way the town ostracized us, Tien being forced into the army, these things were all Roshone’s fault. Elhokar sent him to us.”

  Syl didn’t respond. Kaladin fished a bit of flatbread from his bowl, chewing on it. Stormfather—Moash really was right. This kingdom would be better off without Elhokar. Dalinar tried his best, but he had an enormous blind spot regarding his nephew.

  It was time someone stepped in and cut the ties binding Dalinar’s hands. For the good of the kingdom, for the good of Dalinar Kholin himself, the king had to die.

  Some people—like a festering finger or a leg shattered beyond repair—just needed to be removed.

  Now, look what you’ve made me say. You’ve always been able to bring out the most extreme in me, old friend. And I do still name you a friend, for all that you weary me.

  What are you doing? the spanreed wrote to Shallan.

  Nothing much, she wrote back by spherelight, just working on Sebarial’s income ledgers. She peeked out through the hole in her illusion, regarding the street far below. People flowed through the city as if marching to some strange rhythm. A dribble, then a burst, then back to a dribble. Rarely a constant flow. What caused that?

  You want to come visit? the pen wrote. This is getting really boring.

  Sorry, she wrote back to Adolin, I really need to get this work done. It might be nice to have a spanreed conversation to keep me company, though.

  Pattern hummed softly beside her at the lie. Shallan had used an illusion to expand the size of the shed atop this tenement in Sebarial’s warcamp, providing a hidden place to sit and watch the street below. Five hours of waiting—comfortable enough, with the stool and spheres for light—had revealed nothing. Nobody had approached the lone stone-barked tree growing beside the pathway.

  She didn’t know the species. It was too old to have been planted there recently; it must predate Sebarial’s arrival. The gnarled, sturdy bark made her think it was some variety of dendrolith, but the tree also had long fronds that rose into the air like streamers, twisting and fluttering in the wind. Those were reminiscent of a dalewillow. She’d already done a sketch; she would look it up in her books later.

  The tree was used to people, and didn’t pull in its fronds as they passed it. If someone had approached carefully enough to avoid brushing the fronds, Shallan would have spotted them. If, instead, they’d moved quickly, the fronds would have felt the vibrations and withdrawn—which she also would have spotted. She was reasonably certain that if anyone had tried to fetch the item in the tree, she’d have known it, even if she’d been looking away for a moment.

  I suppose, the pen wrote, I can continue to keep you company. Shoren isn’t doing anything else.

  Shoren was the ardent who wrote for Adolin today, come to visit by Adolin’s order. The prince had pointedly noted that he was using an ardent, rather tha
n one of his father’s scribes. Did he think she’d grow jealous if he used another woman for scribing duties?

  He did seem surprised that she didn’t get jealous. Were the women of the court so petty? Or was Shallan the odd one, too relaxed? His eyes did wander, and she had to admit that wasn’t something that pleased her. And there was his reputation to consider. Adolin was said to have, in the past, changed relationships as frequently as other men changed coats.

  Perhaps she should cling more firmly, but the thought of it nauseated her. Such behavior reminded her of Father, holding so tightly to everything that he eventually broke it all.

  Yes, she wrote back to Adolin, using the board set on a box beside her, I’m certain the good ardent has nothing at all better to do than transcribe notes between two courting lighteyes.

  He’s an ardent, Adolin sent. He likes to serve. It’s what they do.

  I thought, she wrote, that saving souls was what they did.

  He’s tired of that, Adolin sent. He told me that he already saved three this morning.

  She smiled, checking on the tree—still no change. He did, did he? she wrote. Has them tucked away in his back pocket for safekeeping, I assume?

  No, Father’s way was not right. If she wanted to keep Adolin, she had to try something far more difficult than just clinging to him. She’d have to be so irresistible that he didn’t want to let go. Unfortunately, this was one area where neither Jasnah’s training nor Tyn’s would help. Jasnah had been indifferent toward men, while Tyn had not talked about keeping men, only distracting them for a quick con.

  Is your father feeling better? she wrote.

  Yes, actually. He’s been up and about since yesterday, looking as strong as ever.

  Good to hear, she wrote. The two continued exchanging idle comments, Shallan watching the tree. Mraize’s note had instructed her to come at sunrise and search the hole in the tree trunk for her instructions. So she’d come four hours early, while the sky was still dark, and sneaked up to the top of this building to watch.

  Apparently, she hadn’t come early enough. She’d really wanted to get a view of them placing the instructions. “I don’t like this,” Shallan said, whispering to Pattern and ignoring the pen, which scribed Adolin’s next line to her. “Why didn’t Mraize just give me the instructions via spanreed? Why make me come here?”

  “Mmm . . .” Pattern said from the floor beneath her.

  The sun had long since risen. She needed to go get the instructions, but still she hesitated, tapping her finger against the paper-covered board beside her.

  “They’re watching,” she realized.

  “What?” Pattern said.

  “They are doing exactly what I did. They are hiding somewhere, and want to watch me pick up the instructions.”

  “Why? What does it accomplish?”

  “It gives them information,” Shallan said. “And that is the sort of thing these people thrive upon.” She leaned to the side, peering out of her hole, which would appear from the outside as a gap between two of the bricks.

  She didn’t think Mraize wanted her dead, despite the sickening incident with the poor carriage driver. He’d given leave for the others around him to kill her, if they feared her, but that—like so much about Mraize—had been a test. If you really are strong and clever enough to join us, that incident implied, then you’ll avoid being assassinated by these people.

  This was another test. How did she pass it in a way that didn’t leave anyone dead this time?

  They’d be watching for her to come get her instructions, but there weren’t many good places to keep an eye on the tree. If she were Mraize and his people, where would she go to observe?

  She felt silly thinking it. “Pattern,” she whispered, “go look in the windows of this building that face the street. See if anyone is sitting in one of them, watching as we are.”

  “Very well,” he said, sliding out of her illusion.

  She was suddenly conscious of the fact that Mraize’s people might be hiding somewhere very close, but shoved aside her nervousness, reading Adolin’s reply.

  Good news, by the way, the pen wrote. Father visited last night, and we talked at length. He’s preparing his expedition out onto the Plains to fight the Parshendi, once and for all. Part of getting ready involves some scouting missions in the coming days. I got him to agree to bring you out onto the plateaus during one of them.

  And we can find a chrysalis? Shallan asked.

  Well, the pen wrote, even if the Parshendi aren’t fighting over those anymore, Father doesn’t take risks. I can’t bring you on a run when there is a chance they might come and contest us. But, I’ve been thinking we can probably arrange the scouting mission so it passes by a plateau with a chrysalis a day or so after it was harvested.

  Shallan frowned. A dead, harvested chrysalis? she wrote. I don’t know how much that will tell me.

  Well, Adolin replied, it’s better than not seeing one at all, right? And you did say you wanted the chance to cut one up. This is almost the same thing.

  He was right. Besides, getting out onto the Plains was the real goal. Let’s do it. When?

  In a few days.

  “Shallan!”

  She jumped, but it was only Pattern, buzzing with excitement. “You were right,” he said. “Mmmm. She watches below. Only one level down, second room.”

  “She?”

  “Mmm. The one with the mask.”

  Shallan shivered. Now what? Go back to her rooms, then write to Mraize and say that she didn’t appreciate being spied upon?

  It wouldn’t accomplish anything useful. Looking down at her pad of paper, she realized that her relationship with Mraize was similar to her relationship with Adolin. In both cases, she couldn’t just do as expected. She needed to excite, exceed.

  I’ll need to go, she wrote to Adolin. Sebarial is asking for me. It might take me a while.

  She clicked off the spanreed and tucked it and the board away in her satchel. Not her usual one, but a rugged bag with a leather strap that went over her shoulder, like Veil would carry. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she ducked out of her illusory hiding place. She put her back to the wall of the shed, facing away from the street, then touched the side of the illusion and withdrew the Stormlight.

  That made the illusory section of wall vanish, quickly breaking down and streaming into her hand. Hopefully, nobody had been looking at the shed at that moment. If they had been, though, they would probably just think the change a trick of the eyes.

  Next, she knelt and used Stormlight to infuse Pattern and bind to him an image of Veil from a drawing she’d done earlier. Shallan nodded for him to move, and as he did, the image of Veil walked.

  She looked good. A confident stride, a swishing coat, peaked hat shading her face against the sun. The illusion even blinked and turned her head on occasion, as prescribed by the drawing sequence Shallan had done earlier.

  She watched, hesitating. Was that actually how she looked while wearing Veil’s face and clothing? She didn’t feel nearly that poised, and the clothing always seemed exaggerated, even silly, to her. On this image, it looked appropriate.

  “Go down,” Shallan whispered to Pattern, “and walk to the tree. Try to approach carefully, slowly, and buzz loudly to get the tree’s leaves to pull back. Stand at the trunk for a moment, as if retrieving the thing inside, then walk to the alleyway between this building and the next.”

  “Yes!” Pattern said. He zipped off toward the stairs, excited to be part of the lie.

  “Slower!” Shallan said, wincing to see Veil’s pace not matching her speed. “As we practiced!”

  Pattern slowed and reached the steps. Veil’s image moved down them. Awkwardly. The illusion could walk and stand still on flat ground, but other terrain—such as steps—wasn’t accommodated. To anyone watching, it would seem like Veil was stepping on nothing and gliding down the stairs.

  Well, it was the best they could do for the moment. Shallan took a deep b
reath and pulled on her hat, breathing out a second image, one that covered her over and transformed her into Veil. The one on Pattern would remain so long as he had Stormlight. That Stormlight drained from him a lot faster than it did from Shallan, though. She didn’t know why.

  She went down the steps, but only one level, walking as quietly as she could. She counted over two doors in the dim hallway. The masked woman was inside that one. Shallan left it alone, instead ducking into an alcove by the stairwell, where she would be hidden from anyone in the hallway.

  She waited.

  A door eventually clicked open, and clothing rustled in the hallway. The masked woman passed Shallan’s hiding place, amazingly quiet as she moved down the steps.

  “What is your name?” Shallan asked.

  The woman froze on the steps. She spun—gloved safehand on the knife at her side—and saw Shallan standing in the alcove. The woman’s masked eyes flicked back toward the room she’d left.

  “I sent a double,” Shallan said, “wearing my clothing. That’s what you saw.”

  The woman did not move, still crouched on the steps.

  “Why did he want you to follow me?” Shallan asked. “He’s that interested in finding out where I’m staying?”

  “No,” the woman finally said. “The instructions in the tree call for you to set about a task immediately, with no time to waste.”

  Shallan frowned, considering. “So your job wasn’t to follow me home, but to follow me on the mission. To watch how I accomplished it?”

  The woman said nothing.

  Shallan strolled forward and seated herself on the top step, crossing her arms on her legs. “So what is the job?”

  “The instructions are in—”

  “I’d rather hear it from you,” Shallan said. “Call me lazy.”

  “How did you find me?” the woman asked.

  “A sharp-eyed ally,” Shallan said. “I told him to watch the windows, then send me word of where you were. I was waiting up above.” She grimaced. “I was hoping to catch one of you placing the instructions.”