Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  Once she got close to Amaram’s home, she ducked beside an outbuilding and squatted down. She’d spent three evenings scouting this area, wearing a different face each time. Perhaps that had been overly cautious. She wasn’t certain. She’d never done anything like this before. Fingers trembling, she took off her cap—that part of the costume was real—and let her hair spill around her shoulders. Then she dug a folded picture out of her pocket and waited.

  Minutes passed as she stared at the manor. Come on . . . she thought. Come on . . .

  Finally, a young darkeyed woman stepped out of the manor, arm-in-arm with a tall man in trousers and a loose buttoned shirt. The woman tittered as her friend said something, then she scampered off into the night, the man calling after her and following. The maid—Shallan still hadn’t been able to learn her name—left every night at this time. Twice with this man. Once with another.

  Shallan took a deep breath, drawing in Stormlight, then held up the picture she’d drawn of the girl earlier. About Shallan’s height, hair about the same length, similar enough build . . . It would have to do. She breathed out, and became someone else.

  She giggles and laughs, Shallan thought, plucking off her masculine gloves and replacing the one on the safehand with a tan feminine one, and often prances about, walking on her toes. Her voice is higher than mine, and she doesn’t have an accent.

  Shallan had practiced sounding right, but hopefully she wouldn’t need to find out how believable her voice was. All she had to do was go in the door, up the stairs, and slip into the appropriate room. Easy.

  She stood up, holding her breath and living off the Stormlight, and strode toward the building.

  * * *

  Kaladin hit the bottom of the chasm in a glowing storm of Light. He took off at a jog, spear over his shoulder. It was difficult to stand still with Stormlight in his veins.

  He dropped a few of the pouches of spheres to use later. The Stormlight rising from his exposed skin was enough to illuminate the chasm, and it cast shadows on the walls as he ran. Those seemed to become figures, crafted by the bones and branches stretching from the heaps on the ground. Bodies and souls. His movement made the shadows twist, as if turning to regard him.

  He ran with a silent audience, then. Syl flew down as a ribbon of light and took up position beside his head, matching his speed. He leaped over obstacles and splashed through puddles, letting his muscles warm to the exercise.

  Then he jumped up onto the wall.

  He hit awkwardly, tripping and rolling through some frillblooms. He came to rest facedown, lying on the wall. He growled and pushed himself to his feet as Stormlight sealed a small cut on his arm.

  Jumping onto the wall felt too unnatural; when he hit, it took time to orient himself.

  He started running again, sucking in more Stormlight, accustoming himself to the change of perspective. When he reached the next gap between plateaus, to his eyes it looked as if he’d reached a deep pit. The walls of the chasm were his floor and ceiling.

  He hopped off the wall, focused on the floor of the chasm, and blinked—willing that direction to become down to him again. He landed in another stumble, and this time tripped into a puddle.

  He rolled over onto his back, sighing, lying in the cold water. Crem that had settled to the bottom squished between his fingers as he clenched fists.

  Syl landed on his chest, taking the form of a young woman. She put hands on her hips.

  “What?” he asked.

  “That was pathetic.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Maybe you’re taking it a little too quickly,” she said. “Why not try to jump onto the wall without a running start?”

  “The assassin could do it this way,” Kaladin said. “I need to be able to fight like he does.”

  “I see. And I suppose he started doing all of this the moment he was born, without any practice at all.”

  Kaladin exhaled softly. “You sound like Tukks used to.”

  “Oh? Was he brilliant, beautiful, and always right?”

  “He was loud, intolerant, and profoundly acerbic,” Kaladin said, standing up. “But yes, he was basically always right.” He faced the wall and leaned his spear against it. “Szeth called this ‘Lashing.’”

  “A good term,” Syl said, nodding.

  “Well, to get this down, I’m going to have to practice some fundamentals.” Just like learning a spear.

  That probably meant hopping onto and off the wall a couple hundred times.

  Better than dying on that assassin’s Shardblade, he thought, and got to it.

  * * *

  Shallan stepped into Amaram’s kitchens, trying to move with the energetic grace of the girl whose face she wore. The large room smelled strongly of the curry simmering over the hearth—the remnants of the night’s meal, waiting in case any lighteyes got peckish. The cook browsed a novel in the corner while her girls scrubbed pots. The room was well lit with spheres. Amaram apparently trusted his servants.

  A long flight of steps led up to the second floor, providing quick access for servants to bring meals to Amaram. Shallan had drawn a layout of the building from guesses based on window locations. The room with the secrets had been easy to locate—Amaram had the windows shuttered, and never opened them. She’d guessed right about the stairwell in the kitchens, it seemed. She strode toward those steps, humming to herself, as the woman she imitated often did.

  “Back already?” the cook said, not looking up from her novel. She was Herdazian, from the accent. “His gift tonight wasn’t nice enough? Or did the other one spot you two together?”

  Shallan said nothing, trying to cover her anxiety with the humming.

  “Might as well put you to use,” the cook said. “Stine wanted someone to polish mirrors for him. He’s in the study, cleaning the master’s flutes.”

  Flutes? A soldier like Amaram had flutes?

  What would the cook do if Shallan bolted up the stairs and ignored the order? The woman was probably high ranked for a darkeyes. An important member of the household staff.

  The cook didn’t look up from her novel, but continued softly. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed you sneaking off during midday, child. Just because the master is fond of you doesn’t mean you can take advantage. Go to work. Spending your free evening cleaning instead of playing might remind you that you have duties.”

  Gritting her teeth, Shallan looked up those steps toward her goal. The cook slowly lowered her novel. Her frown seemed the type that one didn’t disobey.

  Shallan nodded, moving away from the steps and into the corridor beyond. There would be another set of steps upward in the front hall. She’d just have to make her way in that direction and—

  Shallan froze in place as a figure stepped into the hallway from a side room. Tall with a square face and angular nose, the man wore a lighteyed outfit of modern design: an open jacket over a buttoned shirt, stiff trousers, a stock tied in place at his neck.

  Storms! Highlord Amaram—fashionable or otherwise—was not supposed to be in the building today. Adolin had said that Amaram was dining with Dalinar and the king tonight. Why was he here?

  Amaram stood looking over a ledger in his hand, and didn’t seem to have noticed her. He turned away from her and strolled down the corridor.

  Run. It was her immediate reaction. Escape out the front doors, vanish into the night. The problem was, she’d spoken to the cook. When the woman Shallan was imitating came back later, she’d be in a storm of trouble—and she’d be able to prove, with witnesses, that she hadn’t come back into the house earlier. Whatever Shallan did, there was a good chance that once she was gone, Amaram would find out that someone had been sneaking about, imitating one of his maids.

  Stormfather! She’d only just stepped into the building, and already she’d messed everything up.

  Stairs creaked up ahead. Amaram was going up to his room, the one Shallan was supposed to inspect.

  The Ghostbloods will be mad at me for alerti
ng Amaram, Shallan thought, but they’ll be even angrier if I do that and then return with no information.

  She had to get into that room, alone. That meant she couldn’t let Amaram enter it.

  Shallan scrambled after him, rushing into the entry hall and twisting around the newel post to propel herself up the stairs. Amaram reached the top landing and turned toward the hallway. Maybe he wouldn’t go in that room.

  She wasn’t so lucky. As Shallan scurried up the steps, Amaram turned toward just that door and raised a key, slipping it into the lock and turning it.

  “Brightlord Amaram,” Shallan said, out of breath as she reached the top landing.

  He turned toward her, frowning. “Telesh? Weren’t you going out tonight?”

  Well, at least she knew her name now. Did Amaram really take such an interest in his servants as to be aware of a lowly maid’s evening plans?

  “I did, Brightlord,” Shallan said, “but I came back.”

  Need a distraction. But not something too suspicious. Think! Was he going to notice that the voice was different?

  “Telesh,” Amaram said, shaking his head. “You still can’t choose between them? I promised your good father I’d see you cared for. How can I do that if you won’t settle down?”

  “It’s not that, Brightlord,” Shallan said quickly. “Hav stopped a messenger on the perimeter coming for you. He sent me back to tell you.”

  “Messenger?” Amaram said, slipping the key back out of the lock. “From whom?”

  “Hav didn’t say, Brightlord. He seemed to think it was important, though.”

  “That man . . .” Amaram said with a sigh. “He’s too protective. He thinks he can keep a tight perimeter in this mess of a camp?” The highlord considered, then stuffed the key back in his pocket. “Better see what it’s about.”

  Shallan gave him a bow as he passed her by and trotted down the stairs. She counted to ten once he was out of sight, then scrambled to the door. It was still locked.

  “Pattern!” Shallan whispered. “Where are you?”

  He came out from the folds of her skirts, moving across the floor and then up the door until he was just before her, like a raised carving on the wood.

  “The lock?” Shallan asked.

  “It is a pattern,” he said, then grew very small and moved into the keyhole. She’d had him try a few more times on locks back in her rooms, and he’d been able to unlock those as he had Tyn’s trunk.

  The lock clicked, and she opened the door and slipped into the dark room. A sphere plucked from her dress pocket lit it for her.

  The secret room. The room with shutters always closed, kept locked at all times. A room that the Ghostbloods wanted so desperately to see.

  It was filled with maps.

  * * *

  The trick to jumping between surfaces wasn’t the landing, Kaladin discovered. It wasn’t about reflexes or timing. It wasn’t even about changing perspective.

  It was about fear.

  It was about that moment when, hanging in the air, his body lurched from being pulled down to being pulled sideways. His instincts weren’t equipped to deal with this shift. A primal part of him panicked every time down stopped being down.

  He ran at the wall and jumped, throwing his feet to the side. He couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t be afraid, couldn’t flinch. It was like teaching himself to dive face-first onto a stone surface without raising his hands for protection.

  He shifted his perspective and used Stormlight to make the wall become downward. He positioned his feet. Even still, in that brief moment, his instincts rebelled. The body knew, it knew, that he was going to fall back to the chasm floor. He would break bones, hit his head.

  He landed on the wall without stumbling.

  Kaladin stood up straight, surprised, and exhaled a deep breath, puffing with Stormlight.

  “Nice!” Syl said, zipping around him.

  “It’s unnatural,” Kaladin said.

  “No. I could never be involved in anything unnatural. It’s just . . . extranatural.”

  “You mean supernatural.”

  “No I don’t.” She laughed and zipped on ahead of him.

  It was unnatural—as walking wasn’t natural for a child who was just learning. It became natural over time. Kaladin was learning to crawl—and unfortunately, he’d soon be required to run. Like a child dropped in a whitespine’s lair. Learn quickly or be lunch.

  He ran along the wall, hopping over a shalebark outcropping, then jumped to the side and shifted to the floor of the chasm. He landed with only a slight stumble.

  Better. He ran after Syl and kept at it.

  * * *

  Maps.

  Shallan crept forward, her solitary sphere revealing a room draped with maps and strewn with papers. They were covered in glyphs that had been scribbled quickly, not made to be beautiful. She could barely read most of them.

  I’ve heard of this, she thought. The stormwarden script. The way they get around the restrictions on writing.

  Amaram was a stormwarden? A chart of times on one wall, listing highstorms and calculations of their next arrival—written in the same hand as the notes on the maps—seemed proof of that. Perhaps this was what the Ghostbloods were seeking: blackmail material. Stormwardens, as male scholars, made most people uncomfortable. Their use of glyphs in a way that was basically the same as writing, their secretive nature . . . Amaram was one of the most accomplished generals in all of Alethkar. He was respected even by those he fought. Exposing him as a stormwarden could seriously damage his reputation.

  Why would he bother with such strange hobbies? All of these maps faintly reminded her of the ones she’d discovered in her father’s study, after his death—though those had been of Jah Keved. “Watch outside, Pattern,” she said. “Bring me word quickly when Amaram returns to the building.”

  “Mmmm,” he buzzed, withdrawing.

  Aware that her time was short, Shallan hurried to the wall, holding up her sphere and taking Memories of the maps. The Shattered Plains? This map was far more extensive than any she’d seen before—and that included the Prime Map that she’d studied in the king’s Gallery of Maps.

  How had Amaram obtained something so extensive? She tried to work out the use of glyphs—there was no grammar to them that she could see. Glyphs weren’t meant to be used that way. They conveyed a single idea, not a string of thoughts. She read a few in a row.

  Origin . . . direction . . . uncertainty. . . . The place of the center is uncertain? That was probably what it meant.

  Other notes were similar, and she translated in her head. Perhaps pushing this direction will yield results. Warriors spotted watching from here. Other groupings of glyphs made no sense to her. This script was bizarre. Perhaps Pattern could translate it, but she certainly couldn’t.

  Aside from the maps, the walls were covered in long sheets of paper filled with writing, figures, and diagrams. Amaram was working on something, something big—

  Parshendi! she realized. That’s what those glyphs mean. Parap-shenesh-idi. The three glyphs individually meant three separate things—but together, their sounds made the word “Parshendi.” That was why some of the writings seemed like gibberish. Amaram was using some glyphs phonetically. He underlined them when he did this, and that allowed him to write in glyphs things that never should have worked. The stormwardens really were turning glyphs into a full script.

  Parshendi, she translated, still distracted by the nature of the characters, must know how to return the Voidbringers.

  What?

  Remove secret from them.

  Reach center before Alethi armies.

  Some of the writings were lists of references. Though they’d been translated to glyphs, she recognized some of the quotes from Jasnah’s work. They referred to the Voidbringers. Others were purported sketches of Voidbringers and other creatures of mythology.

  This was it, full proof that the Ghostbloods were interested in the same things Jasnah was. As was Amar
am, apparently. Heart beating with excitement, Shallan turned around, looking over the room. Was the secret to Urithiru here? Had he found it?

  There was too much for Shallan to translate fully at the moment. The script was too difficult, and her thumping heart made her too nervous. Besides, Amaram would likely return very soon. She took Memories so she could sketch this all out later.

  As she did, the writings she translated in passing caused a new species of dread to rise within her. It seemed . . . it seemed that Highlord Amaram—paragon of Alethi honor—was actively trying to bring about the return of the Voidbringers.

  I have to stay a part of this, Shallan thought. I can’t afford to have the Ghostbloods cast me out for making a mess of this incursion. I need to discover what else they know. And I have to know why Amaram is doing what he does.

  She couldn’t just run tonight. She couldn’t risk leaving Amaram alerted that someone had infiltrated his secret room. She couldn’t botch this assignment.

  Shallan had to craft better lies.

  She pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket and slapped it onto the desk, then began to frantically draw.

  * * *

  Kaladin jumped off the wall at a careful speed, twisting to the side and landing back on the ground without breaking step. He wasn’t going very quickly, but at least he didn’t stumble anymore.

  With each jump, he shoved the visceral panic farther down. Up, back onto the wall. Down again. Again and again, sucking in Stormlight.

  Yes, this was natural. Yes, this was him.

  He continued running along the chasm bottom, feeling a surge of excitement. Shadows waved him on as he dodged between piles of bone and moss. He leaped over a large pool of water, but misjudged its size. He came down—about to splash into the shallow water.

  But by reflex, he looked upward and Lashed himself toward the sky.

  For a brief moment, Kaladin stopped falling down and fell up instead. His momentum continued forward, and he cleared the pool, then Lashed himself downward again. He landed in a trot, sweating.