Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  Kaladin snorted, grabbing a waterskin. “The king’s railing was cut with a Shardblade, Sigzil.” He took a drink. “And no, it wasn’t the Assassin in White. That attempt on Elhokar’s life was too crude.”

  Sigzil nodded.

  “What’s more,” Kaladin said, “the railing must have been cut after the highstorm that night. Otherwise, the wind would have blown the railing out of shape. So our saboteur, a Shardbearer, somehow got out onto the balcony after the storm.”

  Lopen shook his head, catching the waterskin as Kaladin threw it back. “We’re supposed to believe that one of the camp’s Shardbearers snuck through the palace and got onto that balcony, gon? And nobody noticed him?”

  “Could someone else do this thing?” Rock said, gesturing to the wall. “Walk up it?”

  “I doubt it,” Kaladin said.

  “A rope,” Sigzil said.

  They looked to him.

  “If I wanted to sneak a Shardbearer in, I’d bribe some servant to let down a rope.” Sigzil shrugged. “One could be smuggled out onto the railing easily, perhaps wrapped around the servant’s body under their clothing. The saboteur and maybe some friends could climb up the rope, cut the railing and dig at the mortar, then climb back down. The accomplice then cuts the rope and goes back inside.”

  Kaladin nodded slowly.

  “So,” Rock said, “we find out who went on balcony after storm, and we find accomplice. Easy! Ha. Maybe you are not airsick, Sigzil. No. Probably just a little.”

  Kaladin felt unsettled. Moash had been out on that balcony between the storm and the king’s near fall.

  “I’ll ask around,” Sigzil said, rising.

  “No,” Kaladin said quickly. “I’ll do it. Don’t speak a word of this to anyone else. I want to see what I can find.”

  “All right,” Sigzil said. He nodded toward the wall. “Can you do that again?”

  “More tests?” Kaladin asked with a sigh.

  “We have time,” Sigzil said. “Besides, I believe Rock wants to see if you fall on your face.”

  “Ha!”

  “All right,” Kaladin said. “But I’m going to have to drain some of those spheres we’re using for light.” He glanced toward them sitting in little piles on the too-clean ground. “By the way, why did you clear away the rubble in this area?”

  “Clear it away?” Sigzil asked.

  “Yeah,” Kaladin said. “There was no need to go moving remains around, even if they are just skeletons. It . . .”

  He trailed off as Sigzil picked up a sphere and held it up toward the wall, exposing something Kaladin had missed before. Deep gouges where the moss had been scraped off, the rock scored.

  Chasmfiend. One of the massive greatshells had passed through the area, and its bulk had scraped everything away.

  “I didn’t think they came this close to the warcamps,” Kaladin said. “Maybe we shouldn’t train the lads down here for a while, just in case.”

  The others nodded.

  “Is gone now,” Rock said. “Otherwise, we’d have been eaten. Is obvious. So, back to training.”

  Kaladin nodded, though those gouges haunted him as he practiced.

  * * *

  A few hours later, they led a tired group of former bridgemen back into their barrack block. Exhausted as they looked, the men of Bridge Seventeen seemed more lively than they’d been before going down into the chasm. They perked up even more when they reached their barrack and found one of Rock’s apprentice chefs fixing them a big pot of stew.

  It was dark by the time Kaladin and Teft got back to Bridge Four’s own barrack. Another of Rock’s apprentices was fixing the stew here, Rock himself—having gotten back a little earlier than Kaladin—tasting and giving criticism. Shen moved behind Rock, stacking bowls.

  Something was wrong.

  Kaladin stopped just outside the light of the firepit, and Teft froze beside him. “Something is off,” Teft said.

  “Yeah,” Kaladin agreed, scanning the men. They were clumped together on one side of the fire, some seated, others standing in a group. Their laughter forced, their postures nervous. When you trained men for war, they started to use combat stances whenever they were uncomfortable. Something on the other side of that fire was a threat.

  Kaladin stepped into the light and found a man sitting there in a nice uniform, hands down at his side, head bowed. Renarin Kholin. Oddly, he was rocking back and forth with a small motion, staring at the ground.

  Kaladin relaxed. “Brightlord,” Kaladin said, stepping over to him. “Is there something you need?”

  Renarin scrambled to his feet and saluted. “I would like to serve under your command, sir.”

  Inside, Kaladin groaned. “Let’s talk away from the fire, Brightlord.” He took the spindly prince by the arm, leading him away from the ears of the others.

  “Sir,” Renarin said, speaking softly, “I want—”

  “You shouldn’t call me sir,” Kaladin whispered. “You’re lighteyed. Storms, you’re the son of the most powerful man in eastern Roshar.”

  “I want to be in Bridge Four,” Renarin said.

  Kaladin rubbed his forehead. During his time as a slave, dealing with much larger problems, he had forgotten about the headaches of dealing with highborn lighteyes. Once, he might have assumed he’d heard the most outlandish of their ridiculous demands. Not so, it seemed.

  “You can’t be in Bridge Four. We’re bodyguards for your own family. What are you going to do? Guard yourself?”

  “I won’t be a liability, sir. I’ll work hard.”

  “I don’t doubt you would, Renarin. Look, why do you want to be in Bridge Four?”

  “My father and my brother,” Renarin said softly, face shadowed, “they’re warriors. Soldiers. I’m not, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Yes. Something about . . .”

  “Physical ailments,” Renarin said. “I’ve a blood weakness.”

  “That’s a folk description of many different conditions,” Kaladin said. “What do you really have?”

  “I’m epileptic,” Renarin said. “It means—”

  “Yes, yes. Is it idiopathic or symptomatic?”

  Renarin stood absolutely still in the darkness. “Uh . . .”

  “Was it caused by a specific brain injury,” Kaladin asked, “or is it something that just started happening for no reason?”

  “I’ve had it since I was a kid.”

  “How bad are the seizures?”

  “They’re fine,” Renarin said quickly. “It’s not as bad as everyone says. It’s not like I fall to the ground or froth like everyone thinks. My arm will jerk a few times, or I’ll twitch uncontrollably for a few moments.”

  “You retain consciousness?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Myoclonic, probably,” Kaladin said. “You’ve been given bitterleaf to chew?”

  “I . . . Yes. I don’t know if it helps. The jerking isn’t the whole problem. A lot of times, when it’s happening, I get really weak. Particularly along one side of my body.”

  “Huh,” Kaladin said. “I suppose that could fit with the seizures. Have you ever had any persistent relaxation of the muscles, an inability to smile on one side of your face, for example?”

  “No. How do you know these things? Aren’t you a soldier?”

  “I know some field medicine.”

  “Field medicine . . . for epilepsy?”

  Kaladin coughed into his hand. “Well, I can see why they didn’t want you going into battle. I’ve seen men with wounds that caused similar symptoms, and the surgeons always dismissed those men from duty. It’s no shame to not be fit enough for battle, Brightlord. Not every man is needed for fighting.”

  “Sure,” Renarin said bitterly. “Everyone tells me that. Then they all go back to fighting. The ardents, they claim every Calling is important, but then what do they teach about the afterlife? That it’s a big war to reclaim the Tranquiline Halls. That the best soldiers in this life are glorified in the next.�
�

  “If the afterlife really is a big war,” Kaladin said, “then I hope I end up in Damnation. At least there I might be able to get a wink or two of sleep. Regardless, you’re no soldier.”

  “I want to be.”

  “Brightlord—”

  “You don’t have to set me to doing anything important,” Renarin said. “I came to you, instead of one of the other battalions, because most of your men spend their time patrolling. If I’m patrolling, I won’t be in much danger, and my fits won’t hurt anyone. But at least I can see, I can feel what it’s like.”

  “I—”

  He rushed on. Kaladin had never heard so many words from the normally quiet young man.

  “I will obey your commands,” Renarin said. “Treat me like a new recruit. When I’m here, I’m not a prince’s son, I’m not a lighteyes. I’m just another soldier. Please. I want to be part of it. When Adolin was young, my father made him serve in a spearman squad for two months.”

  “He did?” Kaladin asked, genuinely surprised.

  “Father said every officer should serve in the shoes of his men,” Renarin said. “I have Shards now. I’m going to be in war, but I’ve never felt what it’s like to really be a soldier. I think this is the closest I’ll be able to get. Please.”

  Kaladin folded his arms, looking the youth over. Renarin looked anxious. Very anxious. He’d formed his hands to fists, though Kaladin could see no sign of the box Renarin often fiddled with when nervous. He’d begun breathing deeply, but had set his jaw, and kept his eyes forward.

  Coming to see Kaladin, to ask this of him, terrified the young man for some reason. He’d done it anyway. Could one ask anything more of a recruit?

  Am I really considering this? It seemed ludicrous. And yet, one of Kaladin’s jobs was to protect Renarin. If he could pound some solid self-defense skills into him, that would go a long way toward helping him survive assassination attempts.

  “I should probably point out,” Renarin said, “how much easier it will be to guard me if I’m spending time training with your men. Your resources are thin, sir. Having one fewer person to protect must be appealing. The only times I’ll leave are the days when I practice with my Shards under Swordmaster Zahel.”

  Kaladin sighed. “You really want to be a soldier?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Go take those dirty stew bowls and wash them,” Kaladin said, pointing. “Then help Rock clean his cauldron and put away the cooking implements.”

  “Yes, sir!” Renarin said with an enthusiasm Kaladin had never heard from anyone assigned washing duty. Renarin jogged over and began happily snatching up bowls.

  Kaladin folded his arms and leaned against the barrack. The men didn’t know how to react to Renarin. They’d hand over bowls of half-finished stew to please him, and conversation hushed when he was too near. But they’d been nervous around Shen too, before eventually coming to accept him. Could they ever do the same for a lighteyes?

  Moash had refused to hand his bowl to Renarin, washing it himself, as was their common practice. Once done, he strolled over to Kaladin. “You’re really going to let him join?”

  “I’ll speak to his father tomorrow,” Kaladin said. “Get the highprince’s read on it.”

  “I don’t like it. Bridge Four, our nightly conversations . . . these things are supposed to be safe from them, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Kaladin said. “But he’s a good kid. I think if any lighteyes could fit in here, he could.”

  Moash turned, raising an eyebrow toward him.

  “You disagree, I presume?” Kaladin asked.

  “He doesn’t act right, Kal. The way he talks, the way he looks at people. He’s strange. That’s not important, though—he’s lighteyed, and that should be enough. It means we can’t trust him.”

  “We don’t need to,” Kaladin said. “We’re just going to keep an eye on him, maybe try to train him to defend himself.”

  Moash grunted, nodding. He seemed to accept those as good reasons for letting Renarin stay.

  I’ve got Moash here, Kaladin thought. Nobody else is close enough to hear. I should ask . . .

  But how did he form the words? Moash, were you involved in a plot to kill the king?

  “Have you thought about what we’re going to do?” Moash asked. “Regarding Amaram, I mean.”

  “Amaram is my problem.”

  “You’re Bridge Four,” Moash said, taking Kaladin by the arm. “Your problem is our problem. He’s the one who made you a slave.”

  “He did more than that,” Kaladin growled softly, ignoring Syl’s gesturing that he should remain quiet. “He killed my friends, Moash. Right before my eyes. He’s a murderer.”

  “Then something has to be done.”

  “It does,” Kaladin asked. “But what? You think I should go to the authorities?”

  Moash laughed. “What are they going to do? You have to get the man into a duel, Kaladin. Bring him down, man against man. Until you do it, something’s going to feel wrong to you, deep down in your gut.”

  “You sound like you know what this feels like.”

  “Yeah.” Moash gave a little half smile. “I have some Voidbringers in my past too. Maybe that’s why I understand you. Maybe that’s why you understand me.”

  “Then what—”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it,” Moash said.

  “We’re Bridge Four,” Kaladin said, “like you said. Your problems are mine.” What did the king do to your family, Moash?

  “Suppose that’s true,” Moash said, turning away. “I just . . . Not tonight. Tonight, I just want to relax.”

  “Moash!” Teft called from nearer the fire. “You coming?”

  “I am,” Moash called back. “What about you, Lopen? You ready?”

  Lopen grinned, standing up and stretching beside the fire. “I am the Lopen, which means I am ready for anything at any time. You should know this by now.”

  Nearby, Drehy snorted and flipped a chunk of stewed longroot at Lopen. It splatted against the Herdazian’s face.

  Lopen kept right on talking. “As you can see, I was perfectly ready for that, as shown by the poise I display as I make this decidedly rude gesture.”

  Teft chuckled as he, Peet, and Sigzil walked over to join Lopen. Moash moved to go with them, then hesitated. “You coming, Kal?”

  “Where?” Kaladin asked.

  “Out,” Moash said, shrugging. “Visit a few taverns, play some rings, get something to drink.”

  Out. The bridgemen had rarely done such things in Sadeas’s army, at least not as a group, with friends. At first, they had been too beaten down to care for anything other than sticking their noses in drink. Later, lack of funds and the general prejudice against them among the troops had worked to keep the bridgemen to themselves.

  That wasn’t the case any longer. Kaladin found himself stammering. “I . . . probably ought to stay . . . uh, to go look in at the fires of the other crews . . .”

  “Come on, Kal,” Moash said. “You can’t always work.”

  “I’ll go with you another time.”

  “Fine.” Moash jogged over to join the others.

  Syl left the fire, where she’d been dancing with a flamespren, and zipped over to Kaladin. She hung in the air, watching the group walk off into the evening.

  “Why didn’t you go?” she asked him.

  “I can’t live that life anymore, Syl,” Kaladin said. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

  “But—”

  Kaladin walked away and got himself a bowl of stew.

  But as for Ishi’Elin, his was the part most important at their inception; he readily understood the implications of Surges being granted to men, and caused organization to be thrust upon them; as having too great power, he let it be known that he would destroy each and every one, unless they agreed to be bound by precepts and laws.

  —From Words of Radiance, chapter 2, page 4

  Shallan awoke to humming. She op
ened her eyes, finding herself snuggled into the luxurious bed in Sebarial’s manor. She’d fallen asleep in her clothing.

  The humming was Pattern on the comforter beside her. He looked almost like lace embroidery. The window shades had been drawn—she didn’t remember doing that—and it was dark outside. The evening of the day she’d arrived at the Plains.

  “Did someone come in?” she asked Pattern, sitting up, pushing stray locks of red hair from her eyes.

  “Mmm. Someones. Gone now.”

  Shallan rose and wandered into her sitting room. Ash’s eyes, she almost didn’t want to walk on the pristine white carpeting. What if she left tracks and ruined it?

  Pattern’s “someones” had left food on the table. Suddenly ravenous, Shallan sat down on the sofa, lifting the lid off the tray to find flatbread that had been baked with sweet paste in the center, along with dipping sauces.

  “Remind me,” she said, “to thank Palona in the morning. That woman is divine.”

  “Mmm. No. I think she is . . . Ah . . . Exaggeration?”

  “You catch on quickly,” Shallan said as Pattern became a three-dimensional mass of twisting lines, a ball hanging in the air above the seat beside her.

  “No,” he said. “I am too slow. You prefer some food and not others. Why?”

  “The taste,” Shallan said.

  “I should understand this word,” Pattern said. “But I do not, not really.”

  Storms. How did you describe taste? “It’s like color . . . you see with your mouth.” She grimaced. “And that was an awful metaphor. Sorry. I have trouble being insightful on an empty stomach.”

  “You say you are ‘on’ the stomach,” Pattern said. “But I know you do not mean this. Context allows me to infer what you truly mean. In a way, the very phrase is a lie.”

  “It’s not a lie,” Shallan said, “if everyone understands and knows what it means.”

  “Mm. Those are some of the best lies.”

  “Pattern,” Shallan said, breaking off a piece of flatbread, “sometimes you’re about as intelligible as a Bavlander trying to quote ancient Vorin poetry.”