Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  Within moments, she had a pair of scribes—shivering as they stood under umbrellas with pencils out to write—ready to record his words. They’d send women down the lines and read his message to all the men.

  Dalinar climbed into Gallant’s saddle to get a little height. He turned toward the ranks of men nearby. “Yes,” he shouted over the sound of the rain, “these are Voidbringers. Yes, we’re going to fight them. I don’t know what they can do. I don’t know why they’ve returned. But we came here to stop them.

  “I know you’re scared, but you have heard of my visions in the highstorms. In the warcamps, the lighteyes mocked me and dismissed what I’d seen as delusions.” He thrust his arm to the side, pointing at the sea of red eyes. “Well out there, you see proof that my visions were true! Out there, you see what I have been told would come!”

  Dalinar licked wet lips. He had given many battlefield speeches in his life, but never had he said anything like what came to him now. “I,” he shouted, “have been sent by the Almighty himself to save this land from another Desolation. I have seen what those things can do; I have lived lives broken by the Voidbringers. I’ve seen kingdoms shattered, peoples ruined, technology forgotten. I’ve seen civilization itself brought to the trembling edge of collapse.

  “We will prevent this! Today you fight not for the wealth of a lighteyes, or even for the honor of your king. Today, you fight for the good of all men. You will not fight alone! Trust in what I have seen, trust in my words. If those things have returned, then so must the forces that once defeated them. We will see miracles before this day is out, men! We merely have to be strong enough to deserve them.”

  He looked across a sea of hopeful eyes. Storms. Were those gloryspren about his head, spinning like golden spheres in the rain? His scribes finished writing down the short speech, then hurriedly started making copies to send with runners. Dalinar watched them go, hoping to the Tranquiline Halls that he hadn’t just lied to everyone.

  His force seemed small in this darkness, surrounded by enemies. Soon, he heard his own words being spoken in the distance, read out to the troops. Dalinar remained seated, Shallan beside his horse, though Navani moved off to see to several of her contraptions.

  The battle plan called for them to wait a little longer, and Dalinar was content to do so. With these chasms to cross, it was far better to be assaulted than to assault. Perhaps the separate armies forming up would encourage the Parshendi to start the battle by coming to him. Fortunately, the rain meant no arrows. The bowstrings wouldn’t stand the dampness, nor would the animal glue in the Parshendi recurve bows.

  The Parshendi started singing.

  It came in a sudden roar over the rains, startling his men, making them shy backward in a wave. The song wasn’t one Dalinar had ever heard during plateau runs. This was more staccato, more frenetic. It rose all around, coming from the three surrounding plateaus, shouted like thrown axes at the Alethi in the center.

  Dalinar shivered. Wind blew against him, stronger than was normal during the Weeping. The gust drove raindrops against the side of his face. Cold bit his skin.

  “Brightlord!”

  Dalinar turned in his saddle, noting four bridgemen approaching along with Rlain—he still had the man under guard at all times. He waved for his guards to part, allowing the Parshendi bridgeman to scramble up to his horse.

  “That song!” Rlain said. “That song.”

  “What is it, man?”

  “It is death,” Rlain whispered. “Brightlord, I have never heard it before, but the rhythm is one of destruction. Of power.”

  Across the chasm, the Parshendi started to glow. Tiny lines of red sparked around their arms, blinking and shaking, like lightning.

  “What is that?” Shallan asked.

  Dalinar narrowed his eyes, and another burst of wind washed over him.

  “You have to stop it,” Rlain said. “Please. Even if you have to kill them. Do not let them finish that song.”

  It was the day of the countdown he had scribbled on the walls without knowing. The last day.

  Dalinar made his decision based on instinct. He called for a messenger, and one jogged up—Teshav’s ward, a girl in her fifteenth year. “Pass the word,” he commanded her. “Send to General Khal at the command tent, the battalionlords, my son, Teleb, and the other highprinces. We’re changing strategies.”

  “Brightlord?” the messenger asked. “What change?”

  “We attack. Now!”

  * * *

  Kaladin stopped at the entrance to the lighteyed training grounds, rainwater streaming off his umbrella’s waxed cloth, surprised at what he saw. In preparation for a storm, the ardents normally swept and shoveled the sand into covered trenches at the edges of the ground to keep it from being blown away.

  He had expected to see something similar during the Weeping. Instead, they had left the sand out, but had then placed a short wooden barrier across the gateway in. It plugged the front of the sparring grounds, allowing them to fill up with water. A small cascade of rainwater poured over the lip of the barrier and into the roadway.

  Kaladin regarded the small lake that now filled the courtyard, then sighed and reached down, undoing his laces, then pulling off both boots and socks. When he stepped in, the cold water came up to his calves.

  Soft sand squished between his toes. What was the purpose of this? He crossed the courtyard, crutch under his arm, boots joined by the laces and slung over his shoulder. The chill water numbed his wounded foot, which actually felt nice, though his leg still hurt with each step. It seemed that the two weeks of healing hadn’t done much for his wounds. His continued insistence that he walk so much probably wasn’t helping.

  He’d been spoiled by his abilities; a soldier with such a wound normally would take months to recover. Without Stormlight, he’d just have to be patient and heal like everyone else.

  He had expected to find the training grounds as abandoned as most of the camp. Even the markets were relatively empty, people preferring to remain indoors during the Weeping. Here, however, he found the ardents laughing and chatting as they sat in chairs in the raised arcades framing the sparring grounds. They sewed leather practice jerkins, cups of auburn wine on tables at their sides. That area rose enough above the yard floor to stay dry.

  Kaladin walked along, searching among them, but didn’t find Zahel. He even peeked in the man’s room, but it was empty.

  “Up above, bridgeman!” one of the ardents called. The bald woman pointed toward the stairwell at the corner, where Kaladin had often sent guards to secure the roof when Adolin and Renarin practiced.

  Kaladin waved in thanks, then hobbled over and awkwardly made his way up the steps. He had to close his umbrella to fit. Rain fell on his head as he poked it out of the opening in the roof, where the stairwell ended. The roof was made of tile set into hardened crem, and Zahel lay there in a hammock he’d strung between two poles. Kaladin thought they might be lightning rods, which didn’t strike him as safe. A tarp hung above the hammock and kept Zahel almost dry.

  The ardent swung gently, eyes closed, holding a square bottle of hard honu, a type of lavis grain liquor. Kaladin inspected the rooftop, judging his ability to cross those sloped tiles without toppling off and breaking his neck.

  “Ever been to the Purelake, bridgeman?” Zahel asked.

  “No,” Kaladin said. “One of my men talks about it, though.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “It’s an ocean that’s so shallow, you can wade across it.”

  “It’s ridiculously shallow,” Zahel said. “Like an endless bay, mere feet deep. Warm water. Calm breezes. Reminds me of home. Not like this cold, damp, godsforsaken place.”

  “So why aren’t you there instead of here?”

  “Because I can’t stand being reminded of home, idiot.”

  Oh. “Why are we talking about it, then?”

  “Because you were wondering why we made our own little Purelake down below.”


  “I was?”

  “Of course you were. Damnation boy. I know you well enough by now to know that questions bother you. You don’t think like a spearman.”

  “Spearmen can’t be curious?”

  “No. Because if they are, they either get killed or they end up showing someone in charge how smart they are. Then they get put somewhere more useful.”

  Kaladin raised an eyebrow, waiting for more explanation. Finally, he sighed, and asked, “Why have you blocked off the courtyard below?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “You are a really annoying person, Zahel. Do you realize that?”

  “Sure do.” He took a drink of his honu.

  “I assume,” Kaladin said, “that you blocked off the front of the practice grounds so that the rain wouldn’t wash the sand away.”

  “Excellent deduction,” Zahel said. “Like fresh blue paint on a wall.”

  “Whatever that means. The problem is, why is it necessary to keep the sand in the courtyard? Why not just put it away, like you do before highstorms?”

  “Did you know,” Zahel said, “that rains during the Weeping don’t drop crem?”

  “I . . .” Did he know that? Did it matter?

  “Good thing too,” Zahel said, “or our entire camp here would end up clogged with the stuff. Anyway, rain like this, it’s great for washing.”

  “You’re telling me that you’ve turned the floor of the dueling grounds into a bath?”

  “Sure did.”

  “You wash in that?”

  “Sure do. Not ourselves, of course.”

  “Then what?”

  “Sand.”

  Kaladin frowned, then peered over the side, looking at the pool below.

  “Every day,” Zahel said, “we go in there and stir it up. The sand settles back down to the bottom, and all the yuck floats away, carried by the rain in little streams out of the camp. Did you ever consider that sand might need washing?”

  “No, actually.”

  “Well it does. After a year’s worth of being kicked by stinky bridgeman feet and equally stinky—but far more refined—lighteyes feet, after a year of having people like me spill food on it, or having animals find their way in here to do business, the sand needs cleaning.”

  “Why are we talking about this?”

  “Because it’s important,” Zahel said, taking a drink. “Or something. I don’t know. You came to me, kid, interrupting my vacation. That means you have to listen to me blab.”

  “You’re supposed to say something profound.”

  “Did you miss the part about me being on vacation?”

  Kaladin stood in the rain. “Do you know where the King’s Wit is?”

  “That fool, Dust? Not here, blessedly. Why?”

  Kaladin needed someone to talk to, and had spent the better part of the day searching for Wit. He hadn’t found the man, though he had broken down and bought some chouta from a lonely street vendor.

  It had tasted good. That hadn’t helped his mood.

  So, he’d given up on finding Wit and had come to Zahel instead. That appeared to have been a mistake. Kaladin sighed, turning back down the stairs.

  “What was it you wanted?” Zahel called to him. The man had cracked an eye, looking toward Kaladin.

  “Have you ever had to choose between two equally distasteful choices?”

  “Every day I choose to keep breathing.”

  “I worry something awful is going to happen,” Kaladin said. “I can prevent it, but the awful thing . . . it might be best for everyone if it does happen.”

  “Huh,” Zahel said.

  “No advice?” Kaladin asked.

  “Choose the option,” Zahel said, rearranging his pillow, “that makes it easiest for you to sleep at night.” The old ardent closed his eyes and settled back. “That’s what I wish I’d done.”

  Kaladin continued down the steps. Below, he didn’t get out his umbrella. He was already soaked anyway. Instead, he poked through the racks at the side of the practice grounds until he found a spear—real, not practice. Then he set down his crutch and hobbled out into the water.

  There, he fell into a spearman’s stance and closed his eyes. Rain fell around him. It splattered in the water of the pool, sprinkled the rooftop, pattered the streets outside. Kaladin felt drained, like his blood had been sucked from him. The gloom made him want to sit still.

  Instead, he started dancing with the rain. He went through spear forms, doing his best to avoid putting weight on his wounded leg. He splashed in the waters. He sought peace and purpose in the comfortable forms.

  He didn’t find either.

  His balance was off, and his leg screamed. The rain didn’t accompany him; it just annoyed him. Worse, the wind didn’t blow. The air felt stale.

  Kaladin stumbled over his own feet. He twisted the spear about him, then dropped it clumsily. It spun away to splash into the pool. As he fetched it, he noticed the ardents watching him with looks ranging from befuddled to amused.

  He tried again. Simple spear forms. No spinning the weapon, no showing off. Step step thrust.

  The spear’s shaft felt wrong in his fingers. Off balance. Storms. He’d come here seeking solace, but he only grew more and more frustrated as he tried to practice.

  How much of his ability with the spear had come from his powers? Was he nothing without them?

  He dropped the spear again after trying a simple twist and thrust. He reached for it, and found a rainspren sitting next to it in the water, looking upward, unblinking.

  He snatched the spear with a growl, then looked up toward the sky. “He deserves it!” he bellowed at those clouds.

  Rain pelted him.

  “Give me a reason why he doesn’t!” Kaladin yelled, uncaring if the ardents heard. “It might not be his fault, and he might be trying, but he’s still failing.”

  Silence.

  “It’s right to remove the wounded limb,” Kaladin whispered. “This is what we have to do. To . . . To . . .”

  To stay alive.

  Where had those words come from?

  Gotta do what you can to stay alive, son. Turn a liability into an advantage whenever you can.

  Tien’s death.

  That moment, that horrible moment, when he watched unable to do anything as his brother died. Tien’s own squadleader had sacrificed the untrained to gain a moment’s advantage.

  That squadleader had spoken to Kaladin after it was all over. Gotta do what you can to stay alive. . . .

  It made a twisted, horrible kind of sense.

  It hadn’t been Tien’s fault. Tien had tried. He’d still failed. So they’d killed him.

  Kaladin fell to his knees in the water. “Almighty, oh Almighty.”

  The king . . .

  The king was Dalinar’s Tien.

  * * *

  “Attack?” Adolin asked. “Are you certain that is what my father said?”

  The young woman who had run the message nodded a rain-slicked head, looking miserable in her slitted dress and runner’s sash. “You’re to stop that singing, if you can, Brightlord. Your father indicated it was important.”

  Adolin looked over his battalions, which held the southern flank. Just beyond them, on one of the three plateaus that surrounded their army, the Parshendi sang a horrible song. Sureblood danced, snorting.

  “I don’t like it either,” Adolin said softly, patting the horse on the neck. That song put him on edge. And those threads of red light on their arms, in their hands. What were those?

  “Perel,” he said to one of his field commanders, “tell the men to get ready for the mark. We’re going to charge across those bridges onto the southern plateau. Heavy infantry first, shortspears behind, longspears at the ready in case we’re overrun. I want the men ready to form blocks on the other side until we’re sure where the Parshendi lines will fall. Storms, I wish we had archers. Go!”

  The word spread, and Adolin nudged Sureblood up beside one of the bridges, which had
already been set. His bridgeman guards for the day followed, a pair named Skar and Drehy.

  “You two going to sit out?” Adolin asked the bridgemen, his eyes forward. “Your captain doesn’t like you going into battle against Parshendi.”

  “To Damnation with that!” Drehy said. “We’ll fight, sir. Those aren’t Parshendi anyway. Not anymore.”

  “Good answer. They’ll advance once we start our assault. We need to hold the bridgehead for the rest of our army. Try to keep up with me, if you can.” He glanced over his shoulder, waiting. Watching until . . .

  A large blue gemstone rose into the air, hoisted high on a distant pole near the command tent.

  “Go!” Adolin kicked Sureblood into motion, thundering across the bridge and splashing through a pool on the other side. Rainspren wavered. His two bridgemen followed at a run. Behind them, the heavy infantry in thick armor with hammers and axes—perfect for splitting Parshendi carapace—surged into motion.

  The bulk of the Parshendi continued their chanting. A smaller group broke off, perhaps two thousand in number, and moved to intercept Adolin. He growled, leaning low, Shardblade appearing in his hand. If they—

  A flash of light.

  The world lurched, and Adolin found himself skidding on the ground, his Shardplate grinding against stones. The armor absorbed the blow of the fall, but could do nothing for Adolin’s own shock. The world spun, and a spray of water spurted in through the slits in his helm, washing over his face.

  As he came to rest, he heaved himself backward, up to his feet. He stumbled, clanking, thrashing about in case any Parshendi had gotten close. He blinked away water inside his helm, then oriented himself on a change in the landscape in front of him. White amid the brown and grey. What was that . . .

  He finally blinked his eyes clear enough to get a good look. The whiteness was a horse, fallen to the ground.

  Adolin screamed something raw, a sound that echoed in his helm. He ignored the shouts of soldiers, the sound of rain, the sudden and unnatural crack behind him. He ran to the body on the ground. Sureblood.

  “No, no, no,” Adolin said, skidding to his knees beside the horse. The animal bore a strange, branching burn all down the side of his white coat. Wide, jagged. Sureblood’s dark eyes, open to the rain, did not blink.