Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  Sadeas pulled out the front of his jacket, moving his hand to display a ring that matched the buttons. The ring’s emerald, like those on the jacket, was uncut. They glowed softly with Stormlight.

  Uncut emeralds, Adolin thought, then looked up to meet Sadeas’s eyes. The man smiled.

  “The gemstones are recent acquisitions,” Sadeas noted. “I am fond of them.”

  Gained from doing a plateau run with Ruthar that he wasn’t supposed to have been on. Racing ahead of the other highprinces, like this was the old days, where each prince tried to be first and claim their winnings.

  “I hate you,” Adolin whispered.

  “As well you should,” Sadeas said, letting go of his coat. He nodded toward Adolin’s bridgeman guards, watching with overt hostility nearby. “My former property is treating you well? I’ve seen their like patrolling the market here. I find that amusing for reasons I doubt I could ever properly express.”

  “They patrol,” Adolin said, “to create a better Alethkar.”

  “Is that what Dalinar wants? I am surprised to hear it. He talks of justice, of course, but he doesn’t allow justice to take its course. Not properly.”

  “And I know where you’re going, Sadeas,” Adolin snapped. “You’re annoyed that we haven’t been letting you put judges into our warcamp as Highprince of Information. Well, I’ll have you know that Father has decided to let—”

  “Highprince of . . . Information? You didn’t hear? I recently renounced the title.”

  “What?”

  “Yes,” Sadeas said. “I fear I was never a good match for the position. My Shalashian temperament, perhaps. I wish Dalinar good fortune in finding a replacement—though from what I’ve heard, the other highprinces have come to an agreement that none of us are . . . suited to these kinds of appointments.”

  He renounces the king’s authority, Adolin thought. Storms, this was bad. He gritted his teeth, and found himself reaching his hand to the side to summon his Blade. No. He pulled the hand back. He’d find a way to force this man into the dueling ring. Killing Sadeas now—no matter how much he deserved it—would undermine the very laws and codes Adolin’s father was working so hard to uphold.

  But storms . . . Adolin was tempted.

  Sadeas smiled again. “Do you think me an evil man, Adolin?”

  “That’s too simple a term,” Adolin snapped. “You’re not just evil, you’re a selfish, crem-crusted eel who is trying to strangle this kingdom with his bulbous, bastard hand.”

  “Eloquent,” Sadeas said. “You realize I created this kingdom.”

  “You only helped my father and uncle.”

  “Men who are both gone,” Sadeas said. “The Blackthorn is as dead as old Gavilar. Instead, two idiots rule this kingdom, and each one is—in a way—a shadow of a man I loved.” He leaned forward, looking Adolin straight in the eyes. “I’m not strangling Alethkar, son. I’m trying with everything I have to keep a few chunks of it strong enough to weather the collapse your father is bringing.”

  “Don’t call me son,” Adolin hissed.

  “Fine,” Sadeas said, standing. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m glad you survived the events on the Tower that day. You’ll make a fine highprince in the coming months. I have a feeling that in ten years or so—following an extended civil war between the two of us—our alliance will be a strong one. By then, you’ll understand why I did what I did.”

  “I doubt it. I’ll have rammed my sword through your gut long before that, Sadeas.”

  Sadeas raised his cup of wine, then walked off, joining a different group of lighteyes. Adolin let out a long sigh of exhaustion, then leaned back against the chair. Nearby, his short bridgeman guard—the one with the silver at his temples—gave Adolin a nod of respect.

  Adolin slumped there, feeling drained, until long after the highstorm ended and people started to depart. Adolin preferred to wait until the rain stopped completely before leaving, anyway. He never had liked how his uniform looked when it got wet.

  Eventually, he rose, collected his two guards, and stepped out of the winehouse to a grey sky and a deserted Outer Market. He was mostly over the conversation with Sadeas, and kept reminding himself that up to that point the day had been going very well.

  Shallan and her carriage had already gone, of course. He could have ordered a ride for himself, but after being locked away for so long, it felt good to be walking in the open air; chill, wet, and fresh from the storm.

  Hands in the pockets of his uniform, he started along a pathway through the Outer Market, strolling around puddles. Gardeners had begun growing ornamental shalebark along the sides of the path, though it wasn’t very high yet, just a few inches. A good shalebark ridge could take years to grow properly.

  Those two insufferable bridgemen followed along behind him. Not that Adolin minded the men personally—they seemed like amiable enough fellows, particularly when away from their commander. Adolin just didn’t like needing minders. Though the storm had passed into the west, the afternoon felt gloomy. Clouds obscured the sun, which had moved from its zenith and was drooping slowly toward the distant horizon. He didn’t pass many people, so his only companions were the bridgemen—well, those and a legion of cremlings that had emerged to feast upon plants that lapped at water in pools.

  Why did plants spend so much more time in their shells out here than they did back home? Shallan probably knew. He smiled, forcing thoughts of Sadeas into the back of his mind. This thing with Shallan, it was working. It always worked at first though, so he contained his enthusiasm.

  She was marvelous. Exotic, witty, and not smothered in Alethi propriety. She was smarter than he was, but she didn’t make him feel stupid. That was a large point in her favor.

  He passed out of the market, then crossed the open ground beyond it, eventually reaching Dalinar’s warcamp. The guards let him through with crisp salutes. He idled in the warcamp market, comparing the wares he saw here with those in the market near the Pinnacle.

  What will happen to this place, Adolin thought, when the war stops? It would end someday. Perhaps tomorrow, with the negotiations with the Parshendi Shardbearer.

  The Alethi presence wouldn’t end here, not with the chasmfiends to hunt, but surely this large a population couldn’t continue, could it? Could he really be witnessing a permanent shift of the king’s seat?

  Hours later—after spending some time at jewelry shops looking for something for Shallan—Adolin and his guards reached his father’s complex. By then, Adolin’s feet were starting to ache and the camp had grown dark. He yawned, making his way through the cavernous guts of his father’s bunkerish dwelling. Wasn’t it about time they built a proper mansion? Being an example for the men was all well and good, but there were certain standards a family like theirs should uphold. Particularly if the Shattered Plains were going to remain as important as they had been. It was . . .

  He hesitated, stopping at an intersection and looking right. He’d been intending to visit the kitchens for a snack, but a group of men moved and threw shadows in the other direction. Hushed whispers.

  “What is this?” Adolin demanded, marching toward the gathering, his two guards following. “Soldiers? What have you found?”

  The men scrambled to turn and salute, spears to shoulders. They were more bridgemen from Kaladin’s unit. Just beyond them were the doors to the wing where Dalinar, Adolin, and Renarin all made their quarters. Those doors lay open, and the men had set spheres on the ground.

  What was going on? Normally, two or maybe four men would be on guard here. Not eight. And . . . why was there a parshman wearing a guardsman uniform, holding a spear with the others?

  “Sir!” said a lanky, long-armed man at the front of the bridgemen. “We were just heading in to check on the highprince, when . . .”

  Adolin didn’t hear the rest. He pushed through the bridgemen, finally seeing what the spheres illuminated on the floor of the sitting room.

  More scratched glyphs. Adolin kne
lt down, trying to read them. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been drawn in any kind of picture to help. He thought they were numbers . . .

  “Thirty-two days,” said one of the bridgemen, a short Azish man. “Seek the center.”

  Damnation. “Have you told anyone of this?” Adolin asked.

  “We just found it,” the Azish man said.

  “Post guards at either end of the hallway,” Adolin said. “And send for my aunt.”

  * * *

  Adolin summoned his Blade, then dismissed it, then summoned it again. A nervous habit. The white fog appeared—manifesting as little vines sprouting in the air—before snapping into the form of a Shardblade, which suddenly weighed down his hand.

  He stood in the sitting room, those foreboding markings staring up at him, as if in silent challenge. The closed door kept the bridgemen out so only he, Dalinar, and Navani would be privy to the discussion. Adolin wanted to use the Blade to cut those cursed glyphs away. Dalinar had proven that he was sane. Aunt Navani almost had an entire document of the Dawnchant translated, using the words of Father’s visions as a guide!

  The visions were from the Almighty. It all made sense.

  Now this.

  “They were made with a knife,” Navani said, kneeling beside the glyphs. The sitting room was a large open area, used for receiving callers or holding meetings. Doors beyond led to the study and the bedrooms.

  “This knife,” Dalinar replied, holding up a side knife of the style most lighteyes wore. “My knife.”

  The edge was blunted and still bore flecks of stone from the gouges. The scratches matched the size of the blade. They’d found it just in front of the door to Dalinar’s study, where he’d spent the highstorm. Alone. Navani’s carriage had been delayed, and she’d been forced to return to the palace or risk being caught in the storm.

  “Someone else could have taken it and done this,” Adolin snapped. “They could have sneaked into your study, grabbed it while you were consumed by the visions, and come out here . . .”

  The other two looked at him.

  “Often,” Navani said, “the simplest answer is the right one.”

  Adolin sighed, dismissing his Blade and slumping down in a chair beside the offending glyphs. His father stood tall. In fact, Dalinar Kholin never seemed to have stood as tall as he did now, hands clasped behind his back, eyes away from the glyphs, toward the wall—eastward.

  Dalinar was a rock, a boulder too big for even storms to move. He seemed so sure. It was something to cling to.

  “You don’t remember anything?” Navani asked Dalinar, rising.

  “No.” He turned to Adolin. “I think it’s obvious now that I was behind each of these. Why does that bother you so, son?”

  “It’s the idea of you scribbling on the ground,” Adolin said, shivering. “Lost in one of those visions, not in control of yourself.”

  “The Almighty’s path for me is a strange one,” Dalinar said. “Why do I need to get the information this way? Scratches on the ground or the wall? Why not say it to me plainly in the visions?”

  “It’s foretelling, you realize,” Adolin said softly. “Seeing the future. A thing of the Voidbringers.”

  “Yes.” Dalinar narrowed his eyes. “Seek the center. What do you think, Navani? The center of the Shattered Plains? What truths hide there?”

  “The Parshendi, obviously.”

  They talked about the center of the Shattered Plains as if they knew of the place. But no man had been there, only Parshendi. To the Alethi, the word “center” just referred to the vast open expanse of unexplored plateaus beyond the scouted rims.

  “Yes,” Adolin’s father said. “But where? Maybe they move around? Maybe there is no Parshendi city in the center.”

  “They would only be able to move if they had Soulcasters,” Navani said, “which I personally doubt. They’ll have entrenched somewhere. They aren’t a nomadic people, and there’s no reason for them to move.”

  “If we can make peace,” Dalinar mused, “reaching the center would be a lot easier. . . .” He looked to Adolin. “Have the bridgemen fill those scratches with crem, then have them pull the rug over that section of floor.”

  “I’ll see it done.”

  “Good,” Dalinar said, seeming distant. “After that, get some sleep, son. Tomorrow is a big day.”

  Adolin nodded. “Father. Were you aware that there is a parshman among the bridgemen?”

  “Yes,” Dalinar said. “There has been one among their numbers from the beginning, but they didn’t arm him until I gave them permission.”

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Out of curiosity,” Dalinar said. He turned and nodded toward the glyphs on the floor. “Tell me, Navani. Assuming these numbers are counting toward a date, is it a day when a highstorm will come?”

  “Thirty-two days?” Navani asked. “That will be in the middle of the Weeping. Thirty-two days won’t even be the exact end of the year, but two days ahead of it. I can’t fathom the significance.”

  “Ah, it was too convenient an answer anyway. Very well. Let’s allow the guards back in and swear them to secrecy. Wouldn’t want to inspire a panic.”

  In short, if any presume Kazilah to be innocent, you must look at the facts and deny them in their entirety; to say that the Radiants were destitute of integrity for this execution of one their own, one who had obviously fraternized with the unwholesome elements, indicates the most slothful of reasoning; for the enemy’s baleful influence demanded vigilance on all occasions, of war and of peace.

  —From Words of Radiance, chapter 32, page 17

  The next day, Adolin stomped his feet into his boots, hair still damp from a morning bath. It was amazing the difference a little hot water and some time to reflect could make. He’d come to two decisions.

  He wasn’t going to worry about his father’s disconcerting behavior during the visions. The whole of it—the visions, the command to refound the Knights Radiant, the preparation for a disaster that might or might not come—was a package. Adolin had already decided to believe that his father wasn’t mad. Further worry was pointless.

  The other decision might get him into trouble. He left his quarters, entering the sitting room, where Dalinar was already planning with Navani, General Khal, Teshav, and Captain Kaladin. Renarin, frustratingly, guarded the door wearing a Bridge Four uniform. He’d refused to give up on that decision of his, despite Adolin’s insistence.

  “We’ll need the bridgemen again,” Dalinar said. “If something goes wrong, we may need a quick retreat.”

  “I’ll prepare Bridges Five and Twelve for the day, sir,” Kaladin said. “Those two seem nostalgic for their bridges, and talk about the bridge runs with fondness.”

  “Weren’t those bloodbaths?” Navani asked.

  “They were,” Kaladin said, “but soldiers are a strange lot, Brightness. A disaster unifies them. These men would never want to go back, but they still identify as bridgemen.”

  Nearby, General Khal nodded in understanding, though Navani still seemed baffled.

  “I’ll take my position here,” Dalinar said, holding up a map of the Shattered Plains. “We can scout the meeting plateau first, while I wait. It apparently has some odd rock formations.”

  “That sounds good,” Brightness Teshav said.

  “It does,” Adolin said, joining the group, “except for one thing. You won’t be there, Father.”

  “Adolin,” Dalinar said with a suffering tone. “I know you think this is too dangerous, but—”

  “It is too dangerous,” Adolin said. “The assassin is still out there—and he attacked us last on the very day the Parshendi messenger came to camp. Now, we have a meeting with the enemy out on the Shattered Plains? Father, you can’t go.”

  “I have to,” Dalinar said. “Adolin, this could mean an end to the war. It could mean answers—why they attacked in the first place. I will not give up this opportunity.”

  “We’re not going to give it
up,” Adolin said. “We’re just going to do things a little differently.”

  “How?” Dalinar asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “Well for one thing,” Adolin said, “I’m going to go in your place.”

  “Impossible,” Dalinar said, “I won’t risk my son on—”

  “Father!” Adolin snapped. “This is not subject to discussion!”

  The room fell silent. Dalinar lowered his hand from the map. Adolin stuck out his jaw, meeting his father’s eyes. Storms, it was difficult to deny Dalinar Kholin. Did his father realize the presence he had, the way he moved people about by sheer force of expectation?

  Nobody contradicted him. Dalinar did what he wanted. Fortunately, these days those motives had a noble purpose. But in many ways he was the same man he had been twenty years ago, when he’d conquered a kingdom. He was the Blackthorn, and he got what he wanted.

  Except today.

  “You are too important,” Adolin said, pointing. “Deny that. Deny that your visions are vital. Deny that if you die, Alethkar would fall apart. Deny that every single person in this room is less important than you are.”

  Dalinar drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “It shouldn’t be so. The kingdom needs to be strong enough to survive the loss of one man, no matter who.”

  “Well, it’s not there yet,” Adolin said. “To get it there, we’re going to need you. And that means you need to let us watch out for you. I’m sorry, Father, but once in a while you just have to let someone else do their job. You can’t fix every problem with your own hands.”

  “He’s right, sir,” Kaladin said. “You really shouldn’t be risking yourself out on those Plains. Not if there’s another option.”

  “I fail to see that there is one,” Dalinar said, his tone cool.

  “Oh, there is,” Adolin said. “But I’m going to need to borrow Renarin’s Shardplate.”

  * * *

  The strangest thing about this experience, in Adolin’s estimation, wasn’t wearing his father’s old armor. Despite the outward stylistic differences, suits of Shardplate all tended to fit similarly. The armor adapted, and within a short time after donning it, the Plate felt exactly like Adolin’s own.