Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  They soared across the gap to land on the top of the other half of the hill, the one on the adjacent plateau. It still amazed Adolin that these Parshendi soldiers could leap chasms. He felt a fool as he realized that these heights were not a trap for them as they would be for humans. To them, a mountain split in half was just another chasm to leap.

  More and more of the Parshendi made the leap, flowing away from the humans below and jumping to safety. Adolin did spot one who stumbled as he leapt. The poor fellow screamed as he plummeted into the chasm. This was dangerous for them, but it was obviously less so than trying to fight off the humans.

  The Shardbearer remained. Adolin ignored the fleeing Parshendi—ignored Jakamav, who called for him to fall back—and ran up to that Shardbearer, swinging his Blade full force. The Parshendi raised his own Blade, slapping aside Adolin’s blow.

  “You are the son, Adolin Kholin,” the Parshendi said. “Your father? Where is?”

  Adolin froze in place. The words were in Alethi—heavily accented, yes, but understandable.

  The Shardbearer slammed up his faceplate. And, to Adolin’s shock, there was no beard on that face. Didn’t that make this a woman? Telling the difference with Parshendi was difficult for him. The vocal timbre was rough and low-pitched, though he supposed it could be feminine.

  “I must need speak to Dalinar,” the woman said, stepping forward. “I met him one time, much long ago.”

  “You refused our every messenger,” Adolin said, backing away, sword out. “Now you wish to speak with us?”

  “That was long ago. Time does change.”

  Stormfather. Something inside of Adolin urged him to go in swinging, to batter this Shardbearer down and get some answers, win some Shards. Fight! He was here to fight!

  His father’s voice, in the back of his mind, held him at bay. Dalinar would want this chance. It could change the course of the entire war.

  “He will want to contact you,” Adolin said, taking a deep breath, shoving down the Thrill of battle. “How?”

  “Will send messenger,” the Shardbearer said. “Do not kill one who comes.” She raised her Shardblade toward him in salute, then let it drop and dematerialize. She turned to charge toward the chasm and hurled herself across in a prodigious leap.

  * * *

  Adolin pulled off his helm as he strode across the plateau. Surgeons saw to the wounded while the hale sat around in groups, drinking water and grousing about their failure.

  A rare mood hovered over the armies of Roion and Ruthar this day. Usually when the Alethi lost a plateau run it was because the Parshendi pushed them back in a wild scrambling retreat across bridges. It wasn’t often that a run ended with the Alethi controlling the plateau, but with no gemheart to show for it.

  He released one gauntlet, the straps undoing themselves automatically at his will, then hooked it at his waist. He used a sweaty hand to push back sweatier hair. Now where had Renarin gotten to?

  There, on the staging plateau, sitting on a rock surrounded by guards. Adolin tromped across one of the bridges, raising a hand to Jakamav, who was removing his Plate nearby. He’d want to ride back in comfort.

  Adolin jogged up to his brother, who sat on a boulder with his helm off, staring at the ground in front of him.

  “Hey,” Adolin said. “Ready to head back?”

  Renarin nodded.

  “What happened?” Adolin asked.

  Renarin continued staring at the ground. Finally, one of the bridgeman guards—a compact man with silvering hair—nodded his head to the side. Adolin walked with him a short distance away.

  “A group of shellheads tried to seize one of the bridges, Brightlord,” the bridgeman said softly. “Brightlord Renarin insisted on going to help. Sir, we tried hard to dissuade him. Then, when he got near and summoned his Blade, he just kind of . . . stood there. We got him away, sir, but he’s been sitting on that rock ever since.”

  One of Renarin’s fits. “Thank you, soldier,” Adolin said. He walked back over and laid his ungauntleted hand on Renarin’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Renarin. It happens.”

  Renarin shrugged again. Well, if he was in one of his moods, there was nothing to do but let him stew. The younger man would talk about it when he was ready.

  Adolin organized his two hundred troops, then paid his respects to the highprinces. Neither seemed very grateful. In fact, Ruthar seemed convinced that Adolin and Jakamav’s stunt had driven the Parshendi off with the gemheart. As if they wouldn’t have withdrawn the moment they had it anyway. Idiot.

  Adolin smiled affably, regardless. Hopefully Father was right, and the extended hand of fellowship would help. Personally, Adolin just wanted a chance at each of them in the dueling ring, where he could teach them a little respect.

  On his way back to his army, he searched out Jakamav, who sat under a small pavilion, having a cup of wine as he watched the rest of his army trudge back across the bridges. There were a lot of slumped shoulders and long faces.

  Jakamav gestured for his steward to get Adolin a cup of sparkling yellow wine. Adolin took it in his unarmored hand, though he didn’t drink.

  “That was quite nearly awesome,” Jakamav said, staring out at the battle plateau. From this lower vantage, it looked truly imposing, with those three tiers.

  Almost looks man-made, Adolin thought idly, considering the shape. “Nearly,” Adolin agreed. “Can you imagine what an assault would look like if we had twenty or thirty Shardbearers on the battlefield at once? What chance would the Parshendi have?”

  Jakamav grunted. “Your father and the king are seriously committed to this course, aren’t they?”

  “As am I.”

  “I can see what you and your father are doing here, Adolin. But if you keep dueling, you’re going to lose your Shards. Even you can’t always win. Eventually you’ll hit an off day. Then it will all be gone.”

  “I might lose at some point,” Adolin agreed. “Of course by then I’ll have won half the Shards in the kingdom, so I should be able to arrange a replacement.”

  Jakamav sipped his wine, smiling. “You are a cocky bastard, I’ll give you that.”

  Adolin smiled, then settled down in a squat beside Jakamav’s chair—he couldn’t sit in one himself, not in Shardplate—so he could meet his friend’s eyes. “The truth is, Jakamav, I’m not really worried about losing my Shards—I’m more worried about finding duels in the first place. I can’t seem to get any Shardbearers to agree to a bout, at least not for Shards.”

  “There have been certain . . . inducements going around,” Jakamav admitted. “Promises made to Shardbearers if they refused you.”

  “Sadeas.”

  Jakamav inspected his wine. “Try Eranniv. He’s been boasting that he’s better than the standings give him credit for. Knowing him, he’ll see everyone else refusing, and see it as an opportunity for him to do something spectacular. He’s pretty good, though.”

  “So am I,” Adolin said. “Thanks, Jak. I owe you.”

  “What’s this I hear about you being betrothed?”

  Storms. How had that gotten out? “It’s just a causal,” Adolin said. “And it might not even get that far. The woman’s ship seems to have been severely delayed.”

  Two weeks now, with no word. Even Aunt Navani was getting worried. Jasnah should have sent word.

  “I never thought you were the type to let yourself be nailed into an arranged marriage, Adolin,” Jakamav said. “There are lots of winds to ride out there, you know?”

  “Like I said,” Adolin replied, “it’s far from official.”

  He still didn’t know how he felt about all this. Part of him had wanted to push back simply because he resisted being subject to Jasnah’s manipulation. But then, his recent track record wasn’t anything to boast of. After what had happened with Danlan . . . It wasn’t his fault, was it, that he was a friendly man? Why did every woman have to be so jealous?

  The idea of letting someone else just take care of it all for him
was more tempting than he’d ever publicly admit.

  “I can tell you the details,” Adolin said. “Maybe at the winehouse later tonight? Bring Inkima? You can tell me how stupid I’m being, give me some perspective.”

  Jakamav stared at his wine.

  “What?” Adolin asked.

  “Being seen with you isn’t good for one’s reputation these days, Adolin,” Jakamav said. “Your father and the king aren’t particularly popular.”

  “It will all blow over.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Jakamav said. “So let’s . . . wait until then, shall we?”

  Adolin blinked, the words hitting him harder than any blow on the battlefield. “Sure,” Adolin forced himself to say.

  “Good man.” Jakamav actually had the audacity to smile at him and lift his cup of wine.

  Adolin set aside his own cup untouched and stalked off.

  Sureblood was ready and waiting for him when he reached his men. Adolin moved to swing into the saddle, stewing, but the white Ryshadium nudged him with a butt of the head. Adolin sighed, scratching at the horse’s ears. “Sorry,” he said. “Haven’t been paying much attention to you lately, have I?”

  He gave the horse a good scratch, and felt somewhat better after climbing into the saddle. Adolin patted Sureblood’s neck, and the horse pranced a bit as they started moving. He often did that when Adolin was feeling annoyed, as if trying to improve his master’s mood.

  His four guards for the day followed behind him. They’d obligingly brought their old bridge from Sadeas’s army to get Adolin’s team where they needed to go. They seemed to find it very amusing that Adolin had his soldiers take shifts carrying the thing.

  Storming Jakamav. This has been coming, Adolin admitted to himself. The more you defend Father, the more they’ll pull away. They were like children. Father really was right.

  Did Adolin have any true friends? Anyone who would actually stand by him when things were difficult? He knew practically everyone of note in the warcamps. Everyone knew him.

  How many of them actually cared?

  “I didn’t have a fit,” Renarin said softly.

  Adolin shook out of his brooding. They rode side by side, though Adolin’s mount was several hands taller. With Adolin astride a Ryshadium, Renarin looked like a child on a pony by comparison, even in his Plate.

  Clouds had rolled across the sun, giving some relief from the glare, though the air had turned cold lately and it looked like winter was here for a season. The empty plateaus stretched ahead, barren and broken.

  “I just stood there,” Renarin said. “I wasn’t frozen because of my . . . ailment. I’m just a coward.”

  “You’re no coward,” Adolin said. “I’ve seen you act as brave as any man. Remember the chasmfiend hunt?”

  Renarin shrugged.

  “You don’t know how to fight, Renarin,” Adolin said. “It’s a good thing you froze. You’re too new at this to go into battle right now.”

  “I shouldn’t be. You started training when you were six.”

  “That’s different.”

  “You’re different, you mean,” Renarin said, eyes forward. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles. Why was that? Didn’t he need them?

  Trying to act like he doesn’t, Adolin thought. Renarin so desperately wanted to be useful on a battlefield. He’d resisted all suggestions that he should become an ardent and pursue scholarship, as might have better suited him.

  “You just need more training,” Adolin said. “Zahel will whip you into shape. Just give it time. You’ll see.”

  “I need to be ready,” Renarin said. “Something is coming.”

  The way he said it gave Adolin a shiver. “You’re talking about the numbers on the walls.”

  Renarin nodded. They’d found another scratched set of them, after the recent highstorm, outside Father’s room. Forty-nine days. A new storm comes.

  According to the guards, nobody had gone in or out—different men from last time, which made it unlikely it had been one of them. Storms. That had been scratched on the wall while Adolin had been sleeping just one room away. Who, or what, had done it?

  “Need to be ready,” Renarin said. “For the coming storm. So little time . . .”

  FIVE YEARS AGO

  Shallan longed to stay outside. Here in the gardens, people didn’t scream at each other. Here there was peace.

  Unfortunately, it was a fake peace—a peace of carefully planted shalebark and cultivated vines. A fabrication, designed to amuse and distract. More and more she longed to escape and visit places where the plants weren’t carefully trimmed into shapes, where people didn’t step lightly, as if afraid of causing a rockslide. A place away from the shouting.

  A cool mountain breeze came down from the heights and swept through the gardens, making vines shy backward. She sat away from the flowerbeds, and the sneezing they would bring her, instead studying a section of sturdy shalebark. The cremling she sketched turned at the wind, its enormous feelers twitching, before leaning back down to chew on the shalebark. There were so many kinds of cremlings. Had anyone tried to count them all?

  By luck, her father had owned a drawing book—one of the works of Dandos the Oilsworn—and she used that for instruction, letting it rest open beside her.

  A yell sounded from inside the nearby manor house. Shallan’s hand stiffened, making an errant streak across her sketch. She took a deep breath and tried to return to her drawing, but another series of shouts put her on edge. She set her pencil down.

  She was nearly out of sheets from the latest stack her brother had brought her. He returned unpredictably but never for long, and when he came, he and Father avoided one another.

  Nobody in the manor knew where Helaran went when he left.

  She lost track of time, staring at a blank sheet of paper. That happened to her sometimes. When she raised her eyes, the sky was darkening. Almost time for Father’s feast. He had those regularly now.

  Shallan packed up her things in the satchel, then took off her sun hat and walked toward the manor house. Tall and imposing, the building was an exemplar of the Veden ideal. Solitary, strong, towering. A work of square blocks and small windows, dappled by dark lichen. Some books called manors like this the soul of Jah Keved—isolated estates, each brightlord ruling independently. It seemed to her that those writers romanticized rural life. Had they ever actually visited one of the manors, experienced the true dullness of country life in person, or did they merely fantasize about it from the comfort of their cosmopolitan cities?

  Inside the house, Shallan turned up the stairs toward her quarters. Father would want her looking nice for the feast. There would be a new dress for her to wear as she sat quietly, not interrupting the discussion. Father had never said so, but she suspected he thought it a pity she had begun speaking again.

  Perhaps he did not wish her to be able to speak of things she’d seen. She stopped in the hallway, her mind going blank.

  “Shallan?”

  She shook herself to find Van Jushu, her fourth brother, on the steps behind her. How long had she been standing and staring at the wall? The feast would start soon!

  Jushu’s jacket was undone and hung askew, his hair mussed, his cheeks flushed with wine. No cufflinks or belt; they had been fine pieces, each with a glowing gemstone. He’d have gambled those away.

  “What was Father yelling about earlier?” she asked. “Were you here?”

  “No,” Jushu said, running his hand through his hair. “But I heard. Balat has been starting fires again. Nearly burned down the storming servants’ building.” Jushu pushed past her, then stumbled, grabbing the bannister to keep from falling.

  Father was not going to like Jushu coming to the feast like this. More yelling.

  “Storms-cursed idiot,” Jushu said as Shallan helped him right himself. “Balat is going straight crazy. I’m the only one left in this family with any sense. You were staring at the wall again, weren’t you?”

  She didn’t re
ply.

  “He’ll have a new dress for you,” Jushu said as she helped him toward his room. “And nothing for me but curses. Bastard. He loved Helaran, and none of us are him, so we don’t matter. Helaran is never here! He betrayed Father, almost killed him. And still, he’s the only one who matters. . . .”

  They passed Father’s chambers. The heavy stumpweight door was open a crack as a maid tidied the room, allowing Shallan to see the far wall.

  And the glowing strongbox.

  It was hidden behind a painting of a storm at sea that did nothing to dim the powerful white glow. Right through the canvas, she saw the outline of the strongbox blazing like a fire. She stumbled, pulling to a stop.

  “What are you staring at?” Jushu demanded, holding to the bannister.

  “The light.”

  “What light?”

  “Behind the painting.”

  He squinted, lurching forward. “What in the Halls are you talking about, girl? It really did ruin your mind, didn’t it? Watching him kill Mother?” Jushu pulled away from her, cursing softly to himself. “I’m the only one in this family who hasn’t gone crazy. The only storming one . . .”

  Shallan stared into that light. There hid a monster.

  There hid Mother’s soul.

  The betrayal of spren has brought us here.

  They gave their Surges to human heirs,

  But not to those who know them most dear, before us.

  ’Tis no surprise we turned away

  Unto the gods we spent our days

  And to become their molding clay, they changed us.

  —From the Listener Song of Secrets, 40th stanza

  “Th’information’ll cost ya twelve broams,” Shallan said. “Ruby, you see. I’ll check each one.”

  Tyn laughed, tossing her head back, jet-black hair falling free around her shoulders. She sat in the driver’s seat of the wagon. Where Bluth used to sit.

  “You call that a Bav accent?” Tyn demanded.

  “I’ve only heard them three or four times.”

  “You sounded like you have rocks in your mouth!”