Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  “It ain’t so bad,” Gaz said.

  They both looked at him.

  He shrugged. “Just saying. It ain’t . . .”

  Red laughed, slapping Gaz on the shoulder. “I’m going to get some food. I’ll help you hunt down that hinge afterward.”

  Gaz nodded, though he glanced to the side again—that same nervous tic—and didn’t join Red as the taller man walked toward the dinner cauldron. Instead, he settled down to begin sanding the floor of her wagon where the wood had begun to splinter.

  She set aside the notebook in front of her, in which she had been attempting to devise ways to help her brothers. Those included everything from trying to buy one of the Soulcasters owned by the Alethi king to trying to track down the Ghostbloods and somehow deflect their attention. She couldn’t do anything, however, until she reached the Shattered Plains—and then, most of her plans would require her to have powerful allies.

  Shallan needed to make the betrothal to Adolin Kholin go forward. Not just for her family, but for the good of the world. Shallan would need the allies and resources that would give her. But what if she couldn’t maintain the betrothal? What if she couldn’t bring Brightness Navani to her side? She might need to proceed in finding Urithiru and preparing for the Voidbringers on her own. That terrified her, but she wanted to be ready.

  She dug out a different book—one of the few from Jasnah’s stash that didn’t describe the Voidbringers or legendary Urithiru. Instead, it listed the current Alethi highprinces and discussed their political maneuvers and goals.

  Shallan had to be ready. She had to know the political landscape of the Alethi court. She couldn’t afford ignorance. She had to know who among these people might be potential allies, if all else failed her.

  What of this Sadeas? she thought, flipping to a page in the notebook. It listed him as conniving and dangerous, but noted that both he and his wife were sharp of wit. A man of intelligence might listen to Shallan’s arguments and understand them.

  Aladar was listed as another highprince that Jasnah respected. Powerful, known for his brilliant political maneuvers. He was also fond of games of chance. Perhaps he would risk an expedition to find Urithiru, if Shallan highlighted the potential riches to be found.

  Hatham was listed as a man of delicate politics and careful planning. Another potential ally. Jasnah didn’t think much of Thanadal, Bethab, or Sebarial. The first she called oily, the second a dullard, and the third outrageously rude.

  She studied them and their motivations for some time. Eventually, Gaz stood up and dusted sawdust from his trousers. He nodded in respect to her and moved to get himself some food.

  “A moment, Master Gaz,” she said.

  “I’m no master,” he said, walking up to her. “Sixth nahn only, Brightness. Never could buy myself anything better.”

  “How bad, exactly, are these debts of yours?” she asked, digging some spheres out of her safepouch to put in the goblet on her desk.

  “Well, one of the fellows I owed was executed,” Gaz said, rubbing his chin. “But there is more.” He hesitated. “Eighty ruby broams, Brightness. Though they might not take them anymore. It’s my head they may want, these days.”

  “Quite a debt for a man such as yourself. Are you a gambler, then?”

  “Ain’t no difference,” he said. “Sure.”

  “And that’s a lie,” Shallan said, cocking her head. “I would know the truth from you, Gaz.”

  “Just turn me over to them,” he said, turning and walking toward the soup. “Ain’t no matter. I’d rather that than be out here, wondering when they’ll find me, anyways.”

  Shallan watched him go, then shook her head, turning back to her studies. She says that Urithiru is not on the Shattered Plains, Shallan thought, turning a few pages. But how is she certain? The Plains were never fully explored, because of the chasms. Who knows what is out there?

  Fortunately, Jasnah was very complete in her notes. It appeared that most of the old records spoke of Urithiru as being in the mountains. The Shattered Plains filled a basin.

  Nohadon could walk there, Shallan thought, flipping to a quote from The Way of Kings. Jasnah questioned the validity of that statement, though Jasnah questioned pretty much everything. After an hour of study as the sun sank down through the sky, Shallan found herself rubbing her temples.

  “Are you well?” Pattern’s voice asked softly. He liked to come out when it was darker, and she did not forbid him. She searched and found him on the table, a complex formation of ridges in the wood.

  “Historians,” Shallan said, “are a bunch of liars.”

  “Mmmmm,” Pattern said, sounding satisfied.

  “That wasn’t a compliment.”

  “Oh.”

  Shallan slammed her current book closed. “These women were supposed to be scholars! Instead of recording facts, they wrote opinions and presented them as truth. They seem to take great pains to contradict one another, and they dance around topics of import like spren around a fire—never providing heat themselves, just making a show of it.”

  Pattern hummed. “Truth is individual.”

  “What? No it’s not. Truth is . . . it’s Truth. Reality.”

  “Your truth is what you see,” Pattern said, sounding confused. “What else could it be? That is the truth that you spoke to me, the truth that brings power.”

  She looked at him, his ridges casting shadows in the light of her spheres. She’d renewed those in the highstorm last night, while she was cooped up in her box of a wagon. Pattern had started buzzing in the middle of the storm—a strange, angry sound. After that, he’d ranted in a language she didn’t understand, panicking Gaz and the other soldiers she’d invited into the shelter. Luckily, they took it for granted that terrible things happened during highstorms, and none had spoken of it since.

  Fool, she told herself, flipping to an empty page in the notes. Start acting like a scholar. Jasnah would be disappointed. She wrote down what Pattern had said just now.

  “Pattern,” she said, tapping her pencil—one she’d gotten from the merchants, along with paper. “This table has four legs. Would you not say that is a truth, independent of my perspective?”

  Pattern buzzed uncertainly. “What is a leg? Only as it is defined by you. Without a perspective, there is no such thing as a leg, or a table. There is only wood.”

  “You’ve told me the table perceives itself this way.”

  “Because people have considered it, long enough, as being a table,” Pattern said. “It becomes truth to the table because of the truth the people create for it.”

  Interesting, Shallan thought, scribbling away at her notebook. She wasn’t so interested in the nature of truth at the moment, but in how Pattern perceived it. Is this because he’s from the Cognitive Realm? The books say that the Spiritual Realm is a place of pure truth, while the Cognitive is more fluid.

  “Spren,” Shallan said. “If people weren’t here, would spren have thought?”

  “Not here, in this realm,” Pattern said. “I do not know about the other realm.”

  “You don’t sound concerned,” Shallan said. “Your entire existence might be dependent on people.”

  “It is,” Pattern said, again unconcerned. “But children are dependent upon parents.” He hesitated. “Besides, there are others who think.”

  “Voidbringers,” Shallan said, cold.

  “Yes. I do not think that my kind would live in a world with only them. They have their own spren.”

  Shallan sat up sharply. “Their own spren?”

  Pattern shrank on her table, scrunching up, his ridges growing less distinct as they mashed together.

  “Well?” Shallan asked.

  “We do not speak of this.”

  “You might want to start,” Shallan said. “It’s important.”

  Pattern buzzed. She thought he was going to insist on the point, but after a moment, he continued in a very small voice. “Spren are . . . power . . . shattered power. Power
given thought by the perceptions of men. Honor, Cultivation, and . . . and another. Fragments broken off.”

  “Another?” Shallan prodded.

  Pattern’s buzz became a whine, going so high pitched she almost couldn’t hear it. “Odium.” He spoke the word as if needing to force it out.

  Shallan wrote furiously. Odium. Hatred. A type of spren? Perhaps a large unique one, like Cusicesh from Iri or the Nightwatcher. Hatredspren. She’d never heard of such a thing.

  As she wrote, one of her slaves approached in the darkening night. The timid man wore a simple tunic and trousers, one of the sets given to Shallan by the merchants. The gift was welcome, as the last of Shallan’s spheres were in the goblet before her, and wouldn’t be enough to buy a meal at some of the finer restaurants in Kharbranth.

  “Brightness?” the man asked.

  “Yes, Suna?”

  “I . . . um . . .” He pointed. “The other lady, she asked me to tell you . . .”

  He was pointing toward the tent used by Tyn, the tall woman who was leader of the few remaining caravan guards.

  “She wants me to visit her?” Shallan asked.

  “Yes,” Suna said, looking down. “For food, I guess?”

  “Thank you, Suna,” Shallan said, freeing him to go back toward the fire where he and the other slaves were helping with the cooking while parshmen gathered wood.

  Shallan’s slaves were a quiet group. They had tattoos on their foreheads, rather than brands. It was the kinder way to do it, and usually marked a person who had entered servitude willingly, as opposed to being forced into it as a punishment for a violent or terrible crime. They were men with debts or the children of slaves who still bore the debt of their parents.

  These were accustomed to labor, and seemed frightened by the idea of what she was paying them. Pittance though it was, it would see most of them freed in under two years. They were obviously uncomfortable with that idea.

  Shallan shook her head, packing away her things. As she walked toward Tyn’s tent, Shallan paused at the fire and asked Red to lift her table back into the wagon and secure it there.

  She did worry about her things, but she no longer kept any spheres in there, and had left it open so Red and Gaz could glimpse inside and see only books. Hopefully there would be no incentive for people to go rooting through them.

  You dance around the truth too, she thought to herself as she walked away from the fire. Just like those historians you were ranting about. She pretended these men were heroes, but had no illusions about how quickly they could change coats in the wrong circumstances.

  Tyn’s tent was large and well lit. The woman didn’t travel like a simple guard. In many ways, she was the most intriguing person here. One of the few lighteyes aside from the merchants themselves. A woman who wore a sword.

  Shallan peeked in through the open flaps and found several parshmen setting up a meal on a low travel table, meant for people to eat at while sitting on the floor. The parshmen hurried out, and Shallan watched them suspiciously.

  Tyn herself stood by a window cut into the cloth. She wore her long, tan coat, buckled at the waist and almost closed. It had a dresslike feel to it, though it was far stiffer than any dress Shallan had worn, matched by the stiff trousers the woman wore underneath.

  “I asked your men,” Tyn said without turning, “and they said you hadn’t dined yet. I had the parshmen bring enough for two.”

  “Thank you,” Shallan said, entering and trying to keep the hesitation from her voice. Among these people, she wasn’t a timid girl but a powerful woman. Theoretically.

  “I’ve ordered my people to keep the perimeter clear,” Tyn said. “We can speak freely.”

  “That is well,” Shallan said.

  “It means,” Tyn said, turning around, “that you can tell me who you really are.”

  Stormfather! What did that mean? “I’m Shallan Davar, as I have said.”

  “Yes,” Tyn said, walking over and sitting down at the table. “Please,” she said, gesturing.

  Shallan seated herself carefully, using a ladylike posture, with legs bent to the side.

  Tyn sat cross-legged after flipping her coat out behind her. She dug into her meal, dipping flatbread in a curry that seemed too dark—and smelled too peppery—to be feminine.

  “Men’s food?” Shallan asked.

  “I’ve always hated those definitions,” Tyn said. “I was raised in Tu Bayla by parents who worked as interpreters. I didn’t realize certain foods were supposed to be for women or men until I visited my parents’ homeland for the first time. Still seems stupid to me. I’ll eat what I want, thank you very much.”

  Shallan’s own meal was more proper, smelling sweet rather than savory. She ate, only now realizing how hungry she was.

  “I have a spanreed,” Tyn said.

  Shallan looked up, tip of her bread in her dipping bowl.

  “It’s connected to one over in Tashikk,” Tyn continued, “at one of their new information houses. You hire an intermediary there, and they can perform services for you. Research, make inquiries—even relay messages for you via spanreed to any major city in the world. Quite spectacular.”

  “That sounds useful,” Shallan said carefully.

  “Indeed. You can find out all kinds of things. For example, I had my contact find what they could on House Davar. It’s apparently a small, out-of-the-way house with large debts and an erratic house leader who may or may not still be alive. He has a daughter, Shallan, whom nobody seems to have met.”

  “I am that daughter,” Shallan said. “So I’d say that ‘nobody’ is a stretch.”

  “And why,” Tyn said, “would an unknown scion of a minor Veden family be traveling the Frostlands with a group of slavers? All the while claiming she’s expected at the Shattered Plains, and that her rescue will be celebrated? That she has powerful connections, enough to pay the salaries of a full mercenary troop?”

  “Truth is sometimes more surprising than a lie.”

  Tyn smiled, then leaned forward. “It’s all right; you don’t need to keep up the front with me. You’re actually doing a good job here. I’ve discarded my annoyance with you and have decided to be impressed instead. You’re new to this, but talented.”

  “This?” Shallan asked.

  “The art of the con, of course,” Tyn said. “The grand act of pretending to be someone you aren’t, then running off with the goods. I like what you pulled with those deserters. It was a big gamble, and it paid off.

  “But now you’re in a predicament. You’re pretending to be someone several steps above your station, and are promising a grand payoff. I’ve run that scam before, and the trickiest part is the end. If you don’t handle this well, these ‘heroes’ you’ve recruited will have no qualms stringing you up by the neck. I’ve noticed that you’re dragging your feet moving us toward the Plains. You’re uncertain, aren’t you? In over your head?”

  “Most definitely,” Shallan said softly.

  “Well,” Tyn said, digging into her food, “I’m here to help.”

  “At what cost?” This woman certainly did like to talk. Shallan was inclined to let her continue.

  “I want in on whatever you’re planning,” Tyn said, stabbing her bread down into the bowl like a sword into a greatshell. “You came all the way here to the Frostlands for something. Your plot is likely no small con, but I can’t help but assume you don’t have the experience to pull it off.”

  Shallan tapped her finger against the table. Who would she be for this woman? Who did she need to be?

  She seems like a master con artist, Shallan thought, sweating. I can’t fool someone like this.

  Except that she already had. Accidentally.

  “How did you end up here?” Shallan asked. “Leading guards on a caravan? Is that part of a con?”

  Tyn laughed. “This? No, it wouldn’t be worth the trouble. I may have exaggerated my experience in talking to the caravan leaders, but I needed to get to the Shattered Plains and
didn’t have the resources to do it on my own. Not safely.”

  “How does a woman like you end up without resources, though?” Shallan asked, frowning. “I’d think you would never be without.”

  “I’m not,” Tyn said, gesturing. “As you can plainly see. You’re going to have to get used to rebuilding, if you want to join the profession. It comes, it goes. I got stuck down south without any spheres, and am finding my way to more civilized countries.”

  “To the Shattered Plains,” Shallan said. “You have a job there of some sort as well? A . . . con you’re intending to pull?”

  Tyn smiled. “This isn’t about me, kid. It’s about you, and what I can do for you. I know people in the warcamps. It’s practically the new capital of Alethkar; everything interesting in the country is happening there. Money is flowing like rivers after a storm, but everyone considers it a frontier, and so laws are lax. A woman can get ahead if she knows the right people.”

  Tyn leaned forward, and her expression darkened. “But if she doesn’t, she can make enemies really quickly. Trust me, you want to know who I know, and you want to work with them. Without their approval, nothing big happens at the Shattered Plains. So I ask you again. What are you hoping to accomplish there?”

  “I . . . know something about Dalinar Kholin.”

  “Old Blackthorn himself?” Tyn said, surprised. “He’s been living a boring life lately, all superior, like he’s some hero from the legends.”

  “Yes, well, what I know is going to be very important to him. Very.”

  “Well, what is this secret?”

  Shallan didn’t answer.

  “Not willing to divulge the goods yet,” Tyn said. “Well, that’s understandable. Blackmail is a tricky one. You’ll be glad you brought me on. You are bringing me on, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Shallan said. “I do believe I could learn some things from you.”

  Smokeform for hiding and slipping between men.

  A form of power, like human Surges.

  Bring it ’round again.