Words of Radiance

by Brandon Sanderson

  “Ooo . . .” Shallan said, eyes wide. She looked like she’d been given a pile of jewelry—only instead, it was a slimy lump of something that Kaladin would have expected to find stuck to the bottom of his boot.

  “That,” Adolin said, “is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like the stuff in the middle of a hasper, only without the shell.”

  “It’s one of the sarpenthyn,” Shallan said.

  “Poor thing,” Adolin said. “Did its mother give it that name?”

  Shallan swatted him on the shoulder. “It’s a family.”

  “So the mother was behind it.”

  “A family of animals, idiot. They have more of them in the west, where the storms aren’t as strong. I’ve only seen a few of them—we’ve got little ones in Jah Keved, but nothing like this. I don’t even know what species this is.” She hesitated, then stuck her fingers through the bars and grabbed one of the tentacle arms.

  The thing pulled away immediately, inflating to look bigger, raising two of its arms behind its head in a threatening way. Adolin yelped and pulled Shallan back.

  “He said not to touch any of them!” Adolin said. “What if it’s poisonous?”

  Shallan ignored him, digging a notebook from her satchel. “Warm to the touch,” she mumbled to herself. “Truly warm-blooded. Fascinating. I need a sketch of it.” She squinted at a little plaque on the cage. “Well, that’s useless.”

  “What does it say?” Adolin asked.

  “‘Devil rock captured in Marabethia. The locals claim it is the reborn vengeful spirit of a child who was murdered.’ Not even a mention of its species. What kind of scholarship is this?”

  “It’s a menagerie, Shallan,” Adolin said, chuckling. “Brought all this distance to entertain soldiers and camp followers.”

  Indeed, the menagerie was popular. As Shallan sketched, Kaladin kept busy watching those who passed by, making certain they kept their distance. He saw everything from washmaids and tenners to officers, and even some higher lighteyes. Behind them, a lighteyed woman was paraded past in her palanquin, barely even glancing at the cages. It provided quite a contrast to Shallan’s eager drawing and Adolin’s good-natured gibes.

  Kaladin wasn’t giving those two enough credit. They might ignore him, but they weren’t actively mean to him. They were happy and pleasant. Why did that annoy him so?

  Eventually, Shallan and Adolin moved on to the next cage, which contained skyeels and a large tub of water for them to dip in. They didn’t look as comfortable as the “devil rock.” There wasn’t much room to move in the cage, and they didn’t often take to the air. Not very interesting.

  Next was a cage with a creature that looked like a small chull, but with larger claws. Shallan wanted a sketch of this one too, so Kaladin found himself lounging beside the cage, watching people pass and listening to Adolin try to crack jokes to amuse his betrothed. He wasn’t very good at it, but Shallan laughed anyway.

  “Poor thing,” Syl said, landing on the floor of the cage, looking at its crab occupant. “What kind of life is this?”

  “A safe one.” Kaladin shrugged. “At least it has no need to worry about predators. Always kept fed. I doubt a chull-thing could ask for more than that.”

  “Oh?” Syl asked. “And you’d be all right if that were you.”

  “Of course not. I’m not a chull-thing. I’m a soldier.”

  They moved on, passing cage after cage of animals. Some Shallan wanted to draw, others she concluded didn’t need an immediate sketch. The one she found the most fascinating was also the strangest, a kind of colorful chicken with red, blue, and green feathers. She dug out colored pencils to do that sketch. Apparently, she’d missed a chance at sketching one of these a long time ago.

  Kaladin had to admit the thing was pretty. How did it survive, though? It had shell on the very front of its face, but the rest of it wasn’t squishy, so it couldn’t hide in cracks like the devil rock. What did this chicken do when a storm came?

  Syl landed on Kaladin’s shoulder.

  “I’m a soldier,” Kaladin repeated, speaking very softly.

  “That’s what you were,” Syl said.

  “It’s what I want to be again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Mostly.” He folded his arms, spear leaning against his shoulder. “The only thing is . . . It’s crazy, Syl. Insane. My time as a bridgeman was the worst in my life. We suffered death, oppression, indignity. Yet I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive as I did in those final weeks.”

  Next to the work he’d done with Bridge Four, being a simple soldier—even a highly respected one, like captain of a highprince’s guard—just felt mundane. Ordinary.

  But soaring on the winds—that had been anything but ordinary.

  “You’re almost ready, aren’t you?” Syl whispered.

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

  The next cage in line had a large crowd around it, and even a few fearspren wiggling out of the ground. Kaladin pushed in, though he didn’t have to clear a space—the people made room for Dalinar’s heir as soon as they realized who he was. Adolin walked past them without a second glance, obviously accustomed to such deference.

  This cage was different from the others. The bars were closer together, the wood reinforced. The animal inside didn’t seem to deserve the special treatment. The sorry beast lay in front of some rocks, eyes closed. The square face showed sharpened mandibles—like teeth, only somehow more vicious—and a pair of long, toothlike tusks that pointed down from the upper jaw. The stark spikes running from the head along the sinuous back, along with powerful legs, were clues as to what this beast was.

  “Whitespine,” Shallan breathed, stepping closer to the cage.

  Kaladin had never seen one. He remembered a young man, lying dead on the operating table, blood everywhere. He remembered fear, frustration. And then misery.

  “I expected,” Kaladin said, trying to sort through it all, “the thing to be . . . more.”

  “They don’t do well in captivity,” Shallan said. “This one probably would have gone dormant in crystal long ago, if it had been allowed. They must keep dousing it to wash away the shell.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for the thing,” Adolin said. “I’ve seen what they can do to a man.”

  “Yeah,” Kaladin said softly.

  Shallan got out her drawing things, though as she started, people began to move away from the cage. At first, Kaladin thought it was something about the beast itself—but the animal continued to just lie there, eyes closed, occasionally snorting out of its nose holes.

  No, people were congregating at the other side of the menagerie. Kaladin caught Adolin’s attention, then pointed. I’m going to go check that out, the gesture implied. Adolin nodded and rested his hand on his sword. I’ll be on the watch, that said.

  Kaladin jogged off, spear on his shoulder, to investigate. Unfortunately, he soon recognized a familiar face above the crowd. Amaram was a tall man. Dalinar stood at his side, guarded by several of Kaladin’s men, who were keeping the gawking crowd back a safe distance.

  “. . . heard my son was here,” Dalinar was saying to the well-dressed owner of the menagerie.

  “You needn’t pay, Highprince!” the menagerie owner said, speaking with a lofty accent similar to Sigzil’s. “Your presence is a grand blessing from the Heralds upon my humble collection. And your distinguished guest.”

  Amaram. He wore a strange cloak. Bright yellow-gold, with a black glyph on the back. Oath? Kaladin didn’t recognize the shape. It looked familiar, though.

  The double eye, he realized. Symbol of . . .

  “Is it true?” the menagerie owner asked, inspecting Amaram. “The rumors around camp are most intriguing. . . .”

  Dalinar sighed audibly. “We were going to announce this at the feast tonight, but as Amaram insists on wearing the cloak, I suppose it needs to be stated. Under the king’s direction, I have commanded the refounding of the Knights Radiant
. Let it be spoken of in the camps. The ancient oaths are spoken again, and Brightlord Amaram was—at my request—the first to speak them. The Knights Radiant have been reestablished, and he stands at their head.”

  Twenty-three cohorts followed behind, that came from the contributions of the King of Makabakam, for though the bond between man and spren was at times inexplicable, the ability for bonded spren to manifest in our world rather than their own grew stronger through the course of the oaths given.

  —From Words of Radiance, chapter 35, page 9

  “Amaram obviously doesn’t have any Surgebinding abilities,” Sigzil said softly, standing beside Kaladin.

  Dalinar, Navani, the king, and Amaram climbed out of their carriage ahead. The dueling arena rose before them, another of the craterlike formations that rimmed the Shattered Plains. It was much smaller than the ones that held the warcamps, however, and had tiered seats inside.

  With both Elhokar and Dalinar in attendance—not to mention Navani and both of Dalinar’s sons—Kaladin had brought every guard he could. That included some of the men from Bridge Seventeen and Bridge Two. Those stood proudly, with spears held high, obviously excited to finally be trusted with their first bodyguard assignment. In total, he had forty men on duty.

  None of them would be worth a drop of rain if the Assassin in White attacked.

  “Can we be certain?” Kaladin asked, nodding toward Amaram, who still wore his yellow-gold cloak with the symbol of the Knights Radiant on the back. “I haven’t shown anyone my powers. There have to be others training as I am. Storms, Syl all but promised me there were.”

  “He’d have displayed the abilities if he had them,” Sigzil said. “Gossip is moving through the ten warcamps like floodwater. Half the people think it’s blasphemous and stupid, what Dalinar is doing. The other half are undecided. If Amaram displayed Surgebinding powers, Brightlord Dalinar’s move would look a lot less precarious.”

  Sigzil was probably right. But . . . Amaram? The man walked with such pride, head held high. Kaladin felt his neck growing hot, and for a moment it seemed the only thing he could see was Amaram. Golden cloak. Haughty face.

  Bloodstained. That man was bloodstained. Kaladin told Dalinar about it!

  Dalinar wouldn’t do anything.

  Someone else would have to.

  “Kaladin?” Sigzil asked.

  Kaladin realized he’d stepped toward Amaram, hands clenched on his spear. He took a deep breath, then pointed. “Put men up on the rim of the arena there. Skar and Eth are in the preparation room with Adolin, for all the good it will do him out on the field. Put another few down at the arena bottom, just in case. Three men at every door. I’ll take six with me to the king’s seats.” Kaladin paused, then added, “Let’s also put two men guarding Adolin’s betrothed, just in case. She’ll be sitting with Sebarial.”

  “Will do.”

  “Tell the men to keep focused, Sig. This is likely to be a dramatic fight. I want their minds on the possibility of assassins, not on the duel.”

  “Is he really going to fight two men at once?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can he possibly win that?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t really care. Our job is to watch for other threats.”

  Sigzil nodded, and moved to leave. He hesitated, however, taking Kaladin by the arm. “You could join them, Kal,” he said softly. “If the king’s refounding the Knights Radiant, you have an excuse to show what you are. Dalinar is trying, but so many think of the Radiants as an evil force, forgetting the good they did before they betrayed mankind. But if you showed your powers, it could change minds.”

  Join. Under Amaram. Not likely.

  “Go pass my orders,” Kaladin said, gesturing, then pulled his arm free of Sigzil’s grip and jogged after the king and his retinue. At least the sun was out today, the spring air warm.

  Syl bobbed along behind Kaladin. “Amaram is ruining you, Kaladin,” she whispered. “Don’t let him.”

  He gritted his teeth and didn’t reply. Instead, he moved up beside Moash, who was in charge of a team who would watch Brightness Navani—she preferred to watch the duels from down below, in the preparation rooms.

  A part of him wondered if he should let Moash guard anyone other than Dalinar, but storm it, Moash had sworn to him that he’d take no more actions against the king. Kaladin trusted him on that count. They were Bridge Four.

  I’ll get you out of this, Moash, Kaladin thought, pulling the man aside. We’ll fix this.

  “Moash,” Kaladin said, speaking softly. “Starting tomorrow, I’m putting you on patrol duty.”

  Moash frowned. “I thought you always wanted me guarding . . .” His expression grew hard. “This is about what happened. In the tavern.”

  “I want you to take a deep patrol,” Kaladin said. “Head out toward New Natanan. I don’t want you here when we move against Graves and his people.” It had been too long already.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “You will, and it’s not subject to—”

  “What they’re doing is right, Kal!”

  Kaladin frowned. “Have you still been meeting with them?”

  Moash looked away. “Only once. To assure them that you’d come around.”

  “You still disobeyed an order!” Kaladin said. “Storm it, Moash!”

  The noise inside the arena was building.

  “Almost time for the match,” Moash said, pulling his arm free of Kaladin’s grip. “We can talk about this later.”

  Kaladin ground his teeth, but unfortunately, Moash was right. This wasn’t the time.

  Should have grabbed him this morning, Kaladin thought. No, what I should have done was make a decision on this days ago.

  It was his own fault. “You will go on that patrol, Moash,” he said. “You don’t get to be insubordinate just because you’re my friend. Go on.”

  The man jogged ahead, collecting his squad.

  * * *

  Adolin knelt beside his sword in the preparation room and found he didn’t know what to say.

  He looked at his reflection in the Blade. Two Shardbearers at once. He’d never even tried that outside of the practice grounds.

  Fighting multiple opponents was tough. In the histories, if you heard of a man fighting six men at once or whatnot, the truth was probably that he managed to take them one at a time somehow. Two at once was hard, if they were prepared and careful. Not impossible, but really hard.

  “It comes down to this,” Adolin said. He had to say something to the sword. It was tradition. “Let’s go be spectacular. Then let’s wipe that smile off Sadeas’s face.”

  He stood up, dismissing his Blade. He left the small preparation room, walking down the tunnel with carved, painted duelists. In the room beyond, Renarin sat in his Kholin uniform—he wore that to official functions like this, instead of the blasted Bridge Four uniform—waiting anxiously. Aunt Navani was screwing the lid off a jar of paint to do a glyphward.

  “No need,” Adolin said, taking one from his pocket. Painted in Kholin blue, it read “excellence.”

  Navani cocked an eyebrow. “The girl?”

  “Yeah,” Adolin said.

  “The calligraphy isn’t bad,” Navani said, grudgingly.

  “She’s quite wonderful, Aunt,” Adolin said. “I wish you’d give her more of a chance. And she does want to share her scholarship with you.”

  “We’ll see,” Navani said. She sounded more thoughtful than she had before, regarding Shallan. A good sign.

  Adolin placed the glyphward in the brazier, then bowed his head as it burned. A prayer to the Almighty for aid. His combatants for the day would probably be burning their own prayers. How did the Almighty decide whom to help?

  I can’t believe, Adolin thought, raising his head from the prayer, that he’d want those who serve Sadeas, even indirectly, to succeed.

  “I’m worried,” Navani said.

  “Father thinks the plan could work, and Elhokar really likes
it.”

  “Elhokar can be impulsive,” Navani said, folding her arms and watching the remnants of the glyphward burn. “The terms change things.”

  The terms—agreed upon with Relis and spoken in front of the highjudge just earlier—indicated that this duel would go until surrender, not until a certain number of Plate sections were broken. That meant if Adolin did manage to beat one of his foes, making the man give in, the other could keep fighting.

  It also meant that Adolin didn’t have to stop fighting until he was convinced he was bested.

  Or until he was incapacitated.

  Renarin walked over, resting a hand on Adolin’s shoulder. “I think the plan is a good one,” he said. “You can do this.”

  “They’re going to try to break you,” Navani said. “That’s why they insisted this be a match until the surrender. They’ll leave you crippled if they can, Adolin.”

  “No different from the battlefield,” he said. “Actually, in this case, they will want to leave me alive. I’ll work better as an object lesson with Blade-dead legs than I would as ashes.”

  Navani closed her eyes, drawing in a breath. She looked pale. It was a little like having his mother back. A little.

  “Make sure you don’t give Sadeas any outs,” Renarin said to him as the armorers entered with Adolin’s Shardplate. “When you corner him with a challenge, he will look for a way to escape. Don’t let him. Bring him down on those sands and beat him bloody, Brother.”

  “With pleasure.”

  “Now, you ate chicken?” Renarin asked.

  “Two plates of the stuff, with curry.”

  “Mother’s chain?”

  Adolin felt in his pocket.

  Then he felt in his other one.

  “What?” Renarin asked, fingers tightening on Adolin’s shoulder.

  “I could have sworn I slipped it in.”

  Renarin cursed.

  “Might be back in my rooms,” Adolin said. “In the warcamps. On my end table.” Assuming he hadn’t grabbed it, then lost it on the way. Storms.

  It was just a good luck charm. It didn’t mean anything. He started sweating anyway as Renarin scrambled to send a runner off to search. They wouldn’t get back in time. Already he could hear the crowd outside, the growing roar that came before a duel. Adolin reluctantly allowed his armorers to begin putting on his Plate.