Words of Radiance

by Brandon Sanderson

  By the time they gave him his helm, he had recovered most of his rhythm—the anticipation that was an odd blend of anxiety in his stomach and relaxation in his muscles. You couldn’t fight while tense. You could fight while nervous, but not while tense.

  He nodded to the servants, and they pushed open the doors, letting him stride out onto the sand. He could tell from their cheering where the darkeyes sat. In contrast, the lighteyes grew softer, instead of louder, when he emerged. It was good that Elhokar reserved space for the darkeyes. Adolin liked the noise. It reminded him of a battlefield.

  There was a time, he thought, when I didn’t like the battlefield because it wasn’t quiet, like a duel. Despite his original reluctance, he had become a soldier.

  He strode out into the center of the arena. The others hadn’t left their preparation room yet. Take Relis first, Adolin told himself. You know his dueling style. The man preferred Vinestance, slow and steady, but with sudden, quick lunges. Adolin wasn’t sure whom he’d bring along to fight with him, though he’d borrowed a full set of the King’s Blade and Plate. Perhaps his cousin wanted to try again, for vengeance?

  Shallan was there, on the opposite side of the arena, her red hair standing out like blood on stone. She had two bridgeman guards. Adolin found himself nodding in appreciation of that, and raised a fist to her. She waved back.

  Adolin danced from one foot to the other, letting the power of the Plate flow through him. He could win, even without Mother’s chain. The problem was, he intended to challenge Sadeas after this. So he had to retain enough strength for that duel.

  He checked, anxious. Was Sadeas there? Yes; he sat only a little ways from Father and the king. Adolin narrowed his eyes, remembering the crushing moment of realization when he’d seen Sadeas’s armies retreating from the Tower.

  That steadied him. He’d stewed long about that betrayal. It was time, finally, to do something.

  The doors across from him opened.

  Four men in Shardplate strode out.

  * * *

  “Four?” Dalinar said, leaping to his feet.

  Kaladin took a step downward toward the arena floor. Yes, those were all Shardbearers, entering the sands of the dueling arena below. One wore a set of the King’s Plate; the other three wore their own, ornamented and painted.

  Down below, the highjudge for the bout turned and cocked her head toward the king.

  “What is this?” Dalinar bellowed toward Sadeas, who sat only a short distance away. The lighteyes on the benchlike rows of seats between them hunched down or fled, leaving a direct line of sight between the highprinces.

  Sadeas and his wife turned about, lazily. “Why do you ask me?” Sadeas called back. “None of those men are mine. I’m just an observer today.”

  “Oh, don’t be tiresome, Sadeas,” Elhokar called. “You know full well what is happening. Why are there four? Is Adolin supposed to pick the two he wants to duel?”

  “Two?” Sadeas asked. “When was it said that he would fight two?”

  “That’s what he said when he set up the duel!” Dalinar shouted. “Paired disadvantaged duel, two against one, as per the dueling conventions!”

  “Actually,” Sadeas replied, “that is not what young Adolin agreed to. Why, I have it on very good authority that he told Prince Relis: ‘I’ll fight you and whomever you bring.’ I don’t hear a specification of a number in there—which subjects Adolin to a full disadvantaged duel, not a paired duel. Relis may bring as many as he wishes. I know several scribes who recorded Adolin’s precise words, and I hear the highjudge asked him specifically if he understood what he was doing, and he said that he did.”

  Dalinar growled softly. It was a sound Kaladin had never heard from him, the growl of a beast on a chain. It surprised him. The highprince contained himself, however, sitting down with a curt motion.

  “He outthought us,” Dalinar said softly to the king. “Again. We’ll need to retreat and consider our next move. Someone tell Adolin to pull out of the contest.”

  “Are you certain?” the king said. “Pulling out would require that Adolin forfeit, Uncle. That’s six Shards, I believe. Everything you own.”

  Kaladin could read the conflict in Dalinar’s features—the scrunched-up brow, the red fury rising on his cheeks, the indecision in his eyes. Give up? Without a fight? It was probably the right thing to do.

  Kaladin doubted he could have done it.

  Below, after an extended pause—frozen on the sand—Adolin raised his hand in a sign of agreement. The judge began the duel.

  * * *

  I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot. I’m a storm-cursed idiot!

  Adolin jogged backward across the sand-covered circle of the arena. He’d need to put his back to the wall to avoid being completely surrounded. That meant he’d start the duel with no place to retreat, locked in a box. Cornered.

  Why hadn’t he been more specific? He could see the holes in his challenge—he’d agreed to a full disadvantaged duel without realizing it. He should have stated, specifically, that Relis could bring one other. But no, doing so would have been smart. And Adolin was a storming idiot!

  He recognized Relis from his Plate and Blade, colored completely a deep black, breakaway cloak bearing his father’s glyphpair. The man in King’s Plate—judging by his height and the way he walked—would indeed be Elit, Relis’s cousin, returned for a rematch. He carried an enormous hammer, rather than a Blade. The two moved across the field carefully, and their two companions took the flanks. One in orange, the other in green.

  Adolin recognized the Plate. That would be Abrobadar, a full Shardbearer from Aladar’s camp and . . . and Jakamav, bearing the King’s Blade that Relis had borrowed.

  Jakamav. Adolin’s friend.

  Adolin cursed. Those two were among the best duelists in the camp. Jakamav would have won his own Blade years ago if he’d been allowed to risk his Plate. That had apparently changed. Had he, and his house, been bought with a promise of a share in the spoils?

  Blade forming in his hand, Adolin backed into the cool shade of the wall around the arena grounds. Just above him, darkeyes roared on their benches. Whether they were thrilled or horrified by what he faced, Adolin could not tell. He’d come here intending to give a spectacular show. They’d get the opposite instead. A quick slaughter.

  Well, he’d made this pyre himself. If he was going to burn on it, he’d at least put up a fight first.

  Relis and Elit prowled closer—one in slate grey, the other in black—as their allies worked around the sides. Those would hang back to try to make Adolin focus on the two in front of him. Then the others could attack him from the sides.

  “One at a time, lad!” One shout from the stands seemed to separate from the others. Was that Zahel’s voice? “You’re not cornered!”

  Relis stepped forward in a quick motion, testing Adolin. Adolin danced away in Windstance—certainly the best against so many foes—with both hands holding the Blade in front of him, positioned sideways with one foot forward.

  You’re not cornered! What did Zahel mean? Of course he was cornered! It was the only way to face four. And how could he possibly face them one at a time? They’d never allow that.

  Relis tested forward again, making Adolin shuffle sideways along the wall, focused on him. He had to turn somewhat to face Relis, however, and that put Abrobadar—moving up the other way, wearing orange—in his blind spot. Storms!

  “They’re scared of you.” Zahel’s voice, drifting again above the crowd. “Do you see it in them? Show them why.”

  Adolin hesitated. Relis stepped forward, making a Stonestance strike. Stonestance, to be immobile. Elit came in next, hammer held wardingly. They backed Adolin along the wall toward Abrobadar.

  No. Adolin had demanded this duel. He had wanted it. He would not become a frightened rat.

  Show them why.

  Adolin attacked. He leaped forward, sweeping with a barrage of strikes at Relis. Elit jumped away with a curse as he did so.
They were like men with spears prodding at a whitespine.

  And this whitespine was not yet caged.

  Adolin shouted, beating against Relis, scoring strikes on his helm and left vambrace, cracking the latter. Stormlight rose from Relis’s forearm. As Elit recovered, Adolin spun on him and struck, leaving Relis dazed from the attack. His assault forced Elit to hold his hammer back and block with his forearm, lest Adolin slice the hammer in two and leave him unarmed.

  This was what Zahel meant. Attack with fury. Don’t allow them time to respond or assess. Four men. If he could intimidate them into hesitating . . . Maybe . . .

  Adolin stopped thinking. He let the flow of the fight consume him, let the rhythm of his heart guide the beating of his sword. Elit cursed and pulled away, leaking Stormlight from his left shoulder and forearm.

  Adolin turned and smashed his shoulder into Relis, who was stepping back into his stance. His shove threw the black-Plated man tumbling to the ground. Then, with a shout, Adolin turned and met Abrobadar head-on as the man came dashing up to help. Adolin fell into Stonestance himself, smashing his Blade down again and again against Abrobadar’s raised sword until he heard grunts, curses. Until he could feel the fear coming off the man in orange like a stench, and could see fearspren on the ground.

  Elit approached, wary, as Relis scrambled up to his feet. Adolin fell back into Windstance and swept about himself in a wide, fluid motion. Elit jumped away and Abrobadar stumbled back, gauntleted hand against the wall of the arena.

  Adolin turned back toward Relis, who had recovered well, all things considered. Still, Adolin got in a second strike at the champion’s breastplate. If this had been a battlefield and these common foes, Relis would be dead, Elit maimed. Adolin was yet untouched.

  But they weren’t common foes. They were Shardbearers, and a second strike against Relis’s breastplate didn’t break the armor. Adolin was forced to turn on Abrobadar before he wanted to, and the man was now braced for the fury of the assault, sword raised defensively. Adolin’s barrage didn’t stun him this time. The man weathered it while Elit and Relis got into position.

  Just need to—

  Something crashed into Adolin from behind.

  Jakamav. Adolin had taken too long, and had allowed the fourth man—his supposed friend—to get into position. Adolin spun about, moving into a puff of Stormlight rising from his back plate. He raised his sword into Jakamav’s next attack, but that opened his left flank. Elit swung, hammer crashing into Adolin’s side. Plate cracked, and the blow shoved Adolin off balance.

  He swept around himself, growing desperate. This time, his foes didn’t back away. Instead, Jakamav charged in, head down, not even swinging. Smart man. His green armor was unscored. Even though the move let Adolin slam his sword down and hit the man on the back, it threw Adolin completely out of his stance.

  Adolin stumbled backward, barely keeping from being thrown to the ground as Jakamav crashed into him. Adolin shoved the man aside, somehow keeping hold of his Shardblade, but the other three moved in. Blows rained on his shoulders, helm, breastplate. Storms. That hammer hit hard.

  Adolin’s head rang from a blow. He’d almost done it. He let himself grin as they beat on him. Four at once. And he’d almost done it.

  “I yield,” he said, voice muffled by his helm.

  They continued attacking. He said it louder.

  Nobody listened.

  He raised his hand to signal to the judge to stop the proceedings, but someone slammed his arm downward.

  No! Adolin thought, swinging about himself in a panic.

  The judge could not end the fight. If he left this duel alive, he would do so as a cripple.

  * * *

  “That’s it,” Dalinar said, watching the four Shardbearers take turns coming in to swing at Adolin, who was obviously disoriented, barely able to fight them off. “The rules allow Adolin to have help, so long as his side is disadvantaged—one less than Relis’s team. Elhokar, I’ll need your Shardblade.”

  “No,” Elhokar said. The king sat with folded arms beneath the shade. Those around them watched the duel . . . no, the beating . . . in silence.

  “Elhokar!” Dalinar said, turning. “That is my son.”

  “You’re without Plate,” Elhokar said. “If you take the time to put some on, you’ll be too late. If you go down, you won’t save Adolin. You’ll simply lose my Blade as well as all the others.”

  Dalinar clenched his teeth. There was a drop of wisdom in that, and he knew it. Adolin was finished. They needed to end the match now and not put more on the line.

  “You could help him, you know.” Sadeas’s voice.

  Dalinar spun toward the man.

  “The dueling conventions don’t forbid it,” Sadeas said, speaking loudly enough for Dalinar to hear. “I checked to make sure. Young Adolin can be helped by up to two people. The Blackthorn I once knew would have been down there already, fighting with a rock if he had to. I guess you’re not that man anymore.”

  Dalinar sucked in a breath, then stood. “Elhokar, I’ll pay the fee and borrow your Blade by right of the tradition of the King’s Blade. You won’t risk it that way. I’m going to fight.”

  Elhokar caught him by the arm, standing. “Don’t be a fool, Uncle. Listen to him! Do you see what he’s doing? He obviously wants you to go down and fight.”

  Dalinar turned to meet the king’s eyes. Pale green. Like his father’s.

  “Uncle,” Elhokar said, grip tightening on his arm, “listen to me for once. Be a little paranoid. Why would Sadeas want you down there? It’s so that an ‘accident’ can occur! He wants you removed, Dalinar. I guarantee that if you step onto those sands, all four will attack you straight out. Shardblade or none, you’ll be dead before you get into stance.”

  Dalinar puffed in and out. Elhokar was right. Storm him, but he was right. Dalinar had to do something though.

  A murmur rose from the watching crowd, whispers like scratches on paper. Dalinar spun to see that someone else had joined the battle, stepping from the preparation room, Shardblade held nervously in two hands but wearing no Plate.

  Renarin.

  Oh no . . .

  * * *

  One of the attackers moved away, Plated feet crunching on sand. Adolin threw himself in that direction, battering his way out from among the three others. He spun and backed away. His Plate was starting to feel heavy. How much Stormlight had he lost?

  No broken sections, he thought, keeping his sword toward the three other men who fanned out to advance on him. He could maybe . . .

  No. Time to end this. He felt a fool, but better a live fool than a dead one. He turned toward the highjudge to signal his surrender. Surely she could see him now.

  “Adolin,” Relis said, prowling forward, his Plate leaking from small cracks on his chest. “Now, we wouldn’t want to end this prematurely, would we?”

  “What glory do you think will come of such a fight?” Adolin spat back, sword held carefully, ready to give the signal. “You think people will cheer you? For beating a man four against one?”

  “This isn’t for honor,” Relis said. “It’s simple punishment.”

  Adolin snorted. Only then did he notice something on the other side of the arena. Renarin in Kholin blue, holding a wobbly Shardblade and facing down Abrobadar, who stood with sword on his shoulder as if completely unthreatened.

  “Renarin!” Adolin shouted. “What in the storms are you doing! Go back—”

  Abrobadar attacked, and Renarin parried awkwardly. Renarin had done all of his sparring in Shardplate so far, but hadn’t had the time to fetch his Plate. Abrobadar’s blow just about knocked the weapon from Renarin’s hands.

  “Now,” Relis said, stepping closer to Adolin, “Abrobadar there is fond of young Renarin, and doesn’t want to hurt him. So he’ll just keep the young man engaged, make a good fight of it. So long as you’re willing to keep up what you promised, and have a good duel with us. Surrender like a coward, or get the king to end
the bout, and Abrobadar’s sword might just slip.”

  Adolin felt a panic rising. He looked toward the highjudge. She could call this on her own, if she felt it had gone too far.

  She sat imperiously in her seat, watching him. Adolin thought he saw something behind her calm expression. They got to her, he thought. With a bribe, perhaps.

  Adolin tightened his grip on his Blade and looked back toward his three foes. “You bastards,” he whispered. “Jakamav, how dare you be a part of this?”

  Jakamav didn’t reply, and Adolin could not see his face behind his green helm.

  “So,” Relis said. “Shall we?”

  Adolin’s response was a charge.

  * * *

  Dalinar reached the judge’s seat, which sat on its own small, stone dais hanging out a few inches over the dueling grounds.

  Brightness Istow was a tall, greying woman who sat with hands in her lap, watching the duel. She did not turn as Dalinar stepped up beside her.

  “It is time to end this, Istow,” Dalinar said. “Call the fight. Award the victory to Relis and his team.”

  The woman kept her eyes forward, watching the duel.

  “Did you hear me?” Dalinar demanded.

  She said nothing.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll end it then.”

  “I am highprince here, Dalinar,” the woman said. “In this arena, my word is the only law, granted me by the authority of the king.” She turned to him. “Your son has not surrendered and he is not incapacitated. The terms of the duel have not been met, and I will not end it until they have been. Have you no respect for the law?”

  Dalinar ground his teeth together, then looked back at the arena. Renarin fought one of the men. The lad had barely any training in the sword. In fact, as Dalinar watched, Renarin’s shoulder began to twitch, pulling up toward his head violently. One of his fits.

  Adolin fought the other three, having cast himself among them again. He fought marvelously, but could not fend off all of them. The three surrounded him and struck.