Words of Radiance

by Brandon Sanderson

  The flaps opened again, and Teleb marched in with the prisoner. Dalinar had put the highlord and his personal guard in charge of this “Rlain,” as he didn’t like how defensive the bridgemen were about him. He did invite their lieutenants—Skar and the Horneater cook they called Rock—to come to the interrogation, and those two entered after Teleb and his men. General Khal and Renarin were in another tent with Aladar and Roion, going over tactics for when they approached the Parshendi encampment.

  Navani sat up, leaning forward, narrowing her eyes at the prisoner. Shallan had wanted to attend, but Dalinar had promised to have everything written down for her. The Stormfather had given her some sense, fortunately, and she hadn’t insisted. Having too many of them near this spy felt dangerous to Dalinar.

  He had a vague recollection of the parshman guard who had occasionally joined the men of Bridge Four. Parshmen were practically invisible, but once this one had started carrying a spear, he had become instantly noticeable. Not that there had been anything else distinctive about him—same squat parshman body, marbled skin, dull eyes.

  This creature before him was nothing like that. He was a full Parshendi warrior, complete with orange-red skullplate and armored carapace at the chest, thighs, and outer arms. He was as tall as an Alethi, and more muscular.

  Though he carried no weapon, the guards still treated him as if he were the most dangerous thing on this plateau—and perhaps he was just that. As he stepped up, he saluted Dalinar, hand to chest. Like the other bridgemen. He bore their tattoo on his forehead, reaching up and blending into his skullplate.

  “Sit,” Dalinar ordered, nodding toward a stool at the center of the room.

  Rlain obeyed.

  “I’m told,” Dalinar said, “that you refuse to tell us anything about the Parshendi plans.”

  “I don’t know them,” Rlain said. He had the rhythmic intonations common to the Parshendi, but he spoke Alethi very well. Better than any parshman Dalinar had heard.

  “You were a spy,” Dalinar said, hands clasped behind his back, trying to loom over the Parshendi—but staying far enough away that the man could not grab him without Adolin getting in the way first.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For how long?”

  “About three years,” Rlain said. “In various warcamps.”

  Nearby, Teleb—faceplate up—turned and raised an eyebrow at Dalinar.

  “You answer me when I ask,” Dalinar said. “But not the others. Why?”

  “You’re my commanding officer,” Rlain said.

  “You’re Parshendi.”

  “I . . .” The man looked down at the ground, shoulders bowing. He raised a hand to his head, feeling at the ridge of skin just where his skullplate ended. “Something is very wrong, sir. Eshonai’s voice . . . on the plateau that day, when she came to meet with Prince Adolin . . .”

  “Eshonai,” Dalinar prompted. “The Parshendi Shardbearer?” Nearby, Navani scribbled on a pad of paper, writing down each word spoken.

  “Yes. She was my commander. But now . . .” He looked up, and despite the alien skin and the strange way of speaking, Dalinar recognized grief in this man’s face. Terrible grief. “Sir, I have reason to believe that everyone I know . . . everyone I loved . . . has been destroyed, monsters left in their place. The listeners, the Parshendi, may be no more. I have nothing left . . .”

  “Yes you do,” Skar said from outside the ring of guards. “You’re Bridge Four.”

  Rlain looked at him. “I’m a traitor.”

  “Ha!” Rock said. “Is little problem. Can be fixed.”

  Dalinar gestured to quiet the bridgemen. He glanced at Navani, who nodded for him to continue.

  “Tell me,” Dalinar said, “how you hid among the parshmen.”

  “I . . .”

  “Soldier,” Dalinar barked. “That was an order.”

  Rlain sat up. Amazingly, he seemed to want to obey—as if he needed something to lend him strength. “Sir,” Rlain said, “it’s just something my people can do. We choose a form based on what we need, the job required of us. Dullform, one of those forms, looks a lot like a parshman. Hiding among them is easy.”

  “We account our parshmen with precision,” Navani said.

  “Yes,” Rlain replied, “and we are noticed—but rarely questioned. Who questions when you find an extra sphere lying on the ground? It’s not something suspicious. It’s merely fortune.”

  Dangerous territory, Dalinar thought, noticing the change in Rlain’s voice—the beat to which he was speaking. This man did not like how the parshmen were treated.

  “You spoke of the Parshendi,” Dalinar said. “This has to do with the red eyes?”

  Rlain nodded.

  “What does it mean, soldier?” Dalinar asked.

  “It means our gods have returned,” Rlain whispered.

  “Who are your gods?”

  “They are the souls of those ancient. Those who gave of themselves to destroy.” A different rhythm to his words this time, slow and reverent. He looked up at Dalinar. “They hate you and your kind, sir. This new form they have given my people . . . it is something terrible. It will bring something terrible.”

  “Can you lead us to the Parshendi city?” Dalinar asked.

  Rlain’s voice changed again. A different rhythm. “My people . . .”

  “You said they are gone,” Dalinar said.

  “They might be,” Rlain said. “I got close enough to see an army, tens of thousands. But surely they left some in other forms. The elderly? The young? Who watches our children?”

  Dalinar stepped up to Rlain, waving back Adolin, who raised an anxious hand. He stooped down, laying an arm on the Parshendi man’s shoulder.

  “Soldier,” Dalinar said, “if what you’re telling me is correct, then the most important thing you can do is lead us to your people. I will see that the noncombatants are protected, my word of honor on it. If something terrible is happening to your people, you need to help me stop it.”

  “I . . .” Rlain took a deep breath. “Yes, sir,” he said to a different rhythm.

  “Meet with Shallan Davar,” Dalinar said. “Describe the route to her, and get us a map. Teleb, you may release the prisoner into the custody of Bridge Four.”

  The Oldblood Shardbearer nodded. As the group of them left, letting in a gust of rainy wind, Dalinar sighed and sat down beside Navani.

  “You trust his word?”

  “I don’t know,” Dalinar said. “But something did shake that man, Navani. Soundly.”

  “He’s Parshendi,” she said. “You may be misreading his body language.”

  Dalinar leaned forward, clasping his hands before him. “The countdown?” he asked.

  “Three days away,” Navani said. “Three days before Lightday.”

  So little time. “We hasten our pace,” he said.

  Inward. Toward the center.

  And destiny.

  You must become king. Of Everything.

  —From the Diagram, Tenets of Instruction, Back of the Footboard: paragraph 1

  Shallan fought against the wind, pulling her stormcoat—stolen from a soldier—close around her as she struggled up the slick incline.

  “Brightness?” Gaz asked. He grabbed his cap to keep it from blowing free. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

  “Of course I am,” Shallan said. “Whether or not what I’m doing is wise . . . well, that’s another story.”

  These winds were unusual for the Weeping, which was supposed to be a period of placid rainfall, a time for contemplating the Almighty, a respite from highstorms.

  Maybe things were different out here in the stormlands. She pulled herself up the rocks. The Shattered Plains had grown increasingly rough as the armies traveled inward—now on their eighth day of the expedition—following Shallan’s map, created with the help of Rlain, the former bridgeman.

  Shallan crested the rock formation and found the view that the scouts had described. Vathah and Gaz stomped up beh
ind her, muttering about the cold. The heart of the Shattered Plains extended before Shallan. The inner plateaus, never explored by men.

  “It’s here,” she said.

  Gaz scratched at the socket beneath his eye patch. “Rocks?”

  “Yes, guardsman Gaz,” Shallan said. “Rocks. Beautiful, wonderful rocks.”

  In the distance, she saw shadows draped in a veil of misty rain. Seen together in a group like this, it was unmistakable. This was a city. A city covered over with centuries’ worth of crem, like children’s blocks dribbled with many coats of melted wax. To the innocent eye, it undoubtedly looked much like the rest of the Shattered Plains. But it was oh so much more.

  It was proof. Even this formation Shallan stood upon had probably once been a building. Weathered on the stormward side, dribbled with crem down the leeward side to create the bulbous, uneven slope they had climbed.

  “Brightness!”

  She ignored the voices from down below, instead waving impatiently for the spyglass. Gaz handed it to her, and she raised it to inspect the plateaus ahead. Unfortunately, the thing had fogged up on one end. She tried to rub it clean, rain washing over her, but the fog was on the inside. Blasted device.

  “Brightness?” Gaz asked. “Shouldn’t we, uh, listen to what they’re saying down below?”

  “More twisted Parshendi spotted,” Shallan said, raising the spyglass again. Wouldn’t the designer of the thing have built it to be sealed on the inside, to prevent moisture from getting in?

  Gaz and Vathah stepped back as several members of Bridge Four reached the top of the incline.

  “Brightness,” one of the bridgemen said, “Highprince Dalinar has withdrawn the vanguard and ordered a secure perimeter on the plateau behind us.” He was a tall, handsome man whose arms seemed entirely too long for his body. Shallan looked with dissatisfaction at the inner plateaus.

  “Brightness,” the bridgeman continued reluctantly, “he did say that if you wouldn’t come, he would send Adolin to . . . um . . . cart you back over his shoulder.”

  “I would like to see him do that,” Shallan said. It did sound kind of romantic, the sort of thing you’d read of in a novel. “He’s that worried about the Parshendi?”

  “Shen . . . er, Rlain . . . says we’re practically to their home plateau, Brightness. Too many of their patrols have been spotted. Please.”

  “We need to get in there,” Shallan said, pointing. “That’s where the secrets are.”

  “Brightness . . .”

  “Very well,” she said, turning and hiking down the incline. She slipped, which did not help her dignity, but Vathah caught her arm before she tumbled onto her face.

  Once down, they quickly crossed this smaller plateau, joining scouts who were jogging back toward the bulk of the army. Rlain claimed to know nothing himself of the Oathgate—or even really much about the city, which he called “Narak” instead of Stormseat. He said his people had only taken up permanent residence here following the Alethi invasion.

  During the push inward, Dalinar’s soldiers had spotted an increasing number of Parshendi and had clashed with them in brief skirmishes. General Khal thought that the forays had been intended to draw the army off course, though how they would figure that, Shallan didn’t know—but she did know she was growing tired of feeling damp all the time. They had been out here nearly two weeks now, and some of the soldiers had begun to mutter that the army would need to return to the warcamps soon, or risk not getting back before the highstorms resumed.

  Shallan stalked across the bridge and passed several lines of spearmen setting up behind short, wavelike ridges in the stone—likely the footings of old walls. She found Dalinar and the other highprinces in a tent set up at the center of camp. It was one of six identical tents, and it wasn’t immediately obvious which one held the four highprinces. A safety precaution of some sort, she assumed. As Shallan stepped in out of the rain, she intruded upon their conversation.

  “The current plateau does have very favorable defensible positions,” Aladar said, gesturing toward a map set out on the travel table before them. “I prefer our chances against an assault here to moving deeper.”

  “And if we move deeper,” Dalinar said with a grunt, “we’ll be in danger of getting split during an attack, half on one plateau, half on the other.”

  “But do they even need to attack?” Roion said. “If I were them, I’d just form up out there as if to prepare for an attack—but then I wouldn’t. I’d stall, forcing my enemy to get stuck out here waiting for an attack until the highstorms returned!”

  “He makes a valid point,” Aladar admitted.

  “Trust a coward,” Sebarial said, “to know the smartest way to stay out of fighting.” He sat with Palona beside the table, eating fruit and smiling pleasantly.

  “I am not a coward,” Roion said, forming fists at his sides.

  “I didn’t mean it as an insult,” Sebarial said. “My insults are far more pithy. That was a compliment. If I had my way, I’d hire you to run all wars, Roion. I suspect there would be far fewer casualties, and the price of undergarments would double once soldiers were told that you were in charge. I’d make a fortune.”

  Shallan handed her dripping coat to a servant, then took off her cap and began drying her hair with a towel. “We need to press closer to the center of the Plains,” she said. “Roion is right. I refuse to let us bivouac. The Parshendi will just wait us out.”

  The others looked to her.

  “I wasn’t aware,” Dalinar said, “that you decided our tactics, Brightness Shallan.”

  “It’s our own fault, Dalinar,” Sebarial said, “for giving her so much leeway. We probably should have tossed her off the Pinnacle weeks ago, the moment she arrived at that meeting.”

  Shallan was stirring up a retort as the tent flaps parted and Adolin trudged in, Shardplate streaming. He pushed up his faceplate. Storms . . . he looked so good, even when you could see only half his face. She smiled.

  “They are definitely agitated,” Adolin said. He saw her, and gave her a quick smile before clinking up to the table. “There are at least ten thousand of those twisted Parshendi out there, moving in groups around the plateaus.”

  “Ten thousand,” Aladar said with a grunt. “We can take ten thousand. Even with them having the terrain advantage, even if we have to assault rather than defend, we should handle that many with ease. We have over thirty thousand.”

  “This is what we came to do,” Dalinar said. He looked at Shallan, who blushed at her forwardness earlier. “Your portal, the one you think is out here. Where would it be?”

  “Closer to the city,” Shallan said.

  “What of those red eyes?” Roion asked. He looked very uncomfortable. “And the flashes of light they cause when they fight? Storms, when I spoke earlier, I didn’t mean that I wanted us to go farther. I was just worried at what the Parshendi would do. I . . . there’s no easy way to do this, is there?”

  “So far as Rlain has said,” Navani said from her seated position at the side of the room, “only their soldiers can jump between plateaus, but we can assume the new form capable of it as well. They can flee us if we push forward.”

  Dalinar shook his head. “They set up on the Plains, rather than fleeing all those years ago, because they knew it was their best chance for survival. On the open, unbroken rock of the stormlands, they could be hunted and destroyed. Out here they have the advantage. They won’t abandon it now. Not if they think they can fight us.”

  “If we want to make them fight, then,” Aladar said, “we need to threaten their homes. I guess we really should press toward the city.”

  Shallan relaxed. Each step closer to the center—by Rlain’s explanations, they were but half a day away—got her closer to the Oathgate.

  Dalinar leaned forward, spreading his hands to the sides, his shadow falling on the battle maps. “Very well. I did not come all this way to timidly wait upon Parshendi whims. We’ll march inward tomorrow, threaten their c
ity, and force them to engage.”

  “The closer we get,” Sebarial noted, “the more likely we are to become cut off without hope of retreat.”

  Dalinar didn’t respond, but Shallan knew what he was thinking. We gave up hope of retreat days ago. A flight across days and days of plateaus would be a disaster if the Parshendi decided to harry. The Alethi fought here, and they won, seizing the shelter of Narak.

  That was their only option.

  Dalinar adjourned the meeting, and the highprinces left, surrounded by groups of aides holding umbrellas. Shallan waited as Dalinar caught her eyes. In moments only she, Dalinar, Adolin, and Navani remained.

  Navani walked up to Dalinar, taking his arm with both of hers. An intimate posture.

  “This portal of yours,” Dalinar said.

  “Yes?” Shallan asked.

  Dalinar looked up and met her eyes. “How real is it?”

  “Jasnah was convinced it was completely real. She was never wrong.”

  “This would be a storming bad time for her to break her record,” he said softly. “I agreed to press forward, in part, because of your exploration.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I did not do it for scholarship,” Dalinar said. “From what Navani tells me, this portal offers a unique opportunity for retreat. I had hoped to defeat the Parshendi before danger overtook us, whatever it was. Judging by what we’ve seen, danger has arrived early.”

  Shallan nodded.

  “Tomorrow is the last day of the countdown,” Dalinar said. “Scribbled on the walls during highstorms. Whatever it is, whatever it was, we meet it tomorrow—and you are my backup plan, Shallan Davar. You will find this portal, and you will make it work. If the evil overwhelms us, your pathway will be our escape. You may be the only chance that our armies—and indeed, Alethkar itself—have for survival.”

  * * *

  Days passed, and Kaladin refused to let the rain overcome him.

  He limped through the camp, using a crutch that Lopen had fetched for him despite objecting that it was too soon for Kaladin to be up and about.

  The place was still empty, save for the occasional parshmen lugging wood from the forests outside or carrying sacks of grain. The camp didn’t get any news about the expedition. The king was probably being sent word via spanreed, but he didn’t share it with everyone else.