Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  “If Surgebindings are back,” Davim said to Consideration, “then it might indicate that the gods are returning anyway. If so, we’d best be prepared to deal with them. Forms of power will help with that.”

  “We don’t know they will come,” Eshonai said to Resolve. “We don’t know any of this. Who knows if men even have Surgebindings—it might be one of the Honorblades. We left one in Alethkar that night.”

  Chivi hummed to Skepticism. Her nimbleform face had elongated features, her hairstrands tied back in a long tail. “We are fading as a people. I passed some today who had taken dullform, and not to remember our past. They did so because they worried that men would kill them otherwise! They prepare themselves to become slaves!”

  “I saw them too,” Davim said to Resolve. “We must do something, Eshonai. Your soldiers are losing this war, beat by beat.”

  “The next storm,” Venli said. She used the Rhythm of Pleading. “I can test this at the next storm.”

  Eshonai closed her eyes. Pleading. It was a rhythm not often attuned. It was hard to deny her sister in this.

  “We must be unified in this decision,” Davim said. “I will accept nothing else. Eshonai, do you insist on objecting? Will we need to spend hours here making this decision?”

  She took a deep breath, coming to a decision that had been working its way through the back of her mind. The decision of an explorer. She glanced at the sack of maps she’d set on the floor beside her.

  “I will agree to this test,” Eshonai said.

  Nearby, Venli hummed to Appreciation.

  “However,” Eshonai continued to Resolve, “I must be the one who tries the new form first.”

  All humming stopped. The others of the Five gaped at her.

  “What?” Venli said. “Sister, no! It is my right.”

  “You are too valuable,” Eshonai said. “You know too much about the forms, and much of your research is held only in your head. I am simply a soldier. I can be spared if this goes wrong.”

  “You are a Shardbearer,” Davim said. “Our last.”

  “Thude has trained with my Blade and Plate,” Eshonai said. “I will leave both with him, just in case.”

  The others of the Five hummed to Consideration.

  “This is a good suggestion,” Abronai said. “Eshonai has both strength and experience.”

  “It was my discovery!” Venli said to Irritation.

  “And you are appreciated for it,” Davim said. “But Eshonai is right; you and your scholars are too important to our future.”

  “More than that,” Abronai added. “You are too close to the project, Venli. The way you speak makes that clear. If Eshonai enters the storms and discovers that something is off about this form, she can halt the experiment and return to us.”

  “This is a good compromise,” Chivi said, nodding. “Are we in agreement?”

  “I believe so,” Abronai said, turning toward Zuln.

  The representative of the dullforms rarely spoke. She wore the smock of a parshman, and had indicated that she considered it her duty to represent them—those with no songs—along with any dullforms among them.

  Hers was as noble a sacrifice as Abronai holding to mateform. More so. Dullform was a difficult form to suffer, one that only a few ever experienced for longer than a stormpause or so.

  “I agree to this,” Zuln said.

  The others hummed to Appreciation. Only Venli did not join in the song. If this stormform turned out to be real, would they add another person to the Five? At first, the Five had all been dullforms, then all workers. It was only at the discovery of nimbleform that it had been decided that they would have one of each form.

  A question for later. The others of the Five stood up, then began to make their way down the long flight of steps spiraling around the tower. Wind blew from the east, and Eshonai turned toward it, looking out over the broken Plains—toward the Origin of Storms.

  During a coming highstorm, she would step into the winds and become something new. Something powerful. Something that would change the destiny of the listeners, and perhaps the humans, forever.

  “I nearly had cause to hate you, Sister,” Venli said to Reprimand, idling beside where Eshonai sat.

  “I did not forbid this test,” Eshonai said.

  “Instead you take its glory.”

  “If there is glory to be had,” Eshonai said to Reprimand, “it will be yours for discovering the form. That should not be a consideration. Only our future should matter.”

  Venli hummed to Irritation. “They called you wise, experienced. It makes one wonder if they’ve forgotten who you were—that you went off recklessly into the wilds, ignoring your people, while I stayed home and memorized songs. When did everyone start believing you were the responsible one?”

  It’s this cursed uniform, Eshonai thought, rising. “Why didn’t you tell us what you were researching? You let me believe your studies were to find artform or mediationform. Instead, you were looking for one of the forms of ancient power.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Yes. It makes all the difference, Venli. I love you, but your ambition frightens me.”

  “You don’t trust me,” Venli said to Betrayal.

  Betrayal. That was a song rarely sung. It stung enough to make Eshonai wince.

  “We’ll see what this form does,” Eshonai said, picking up her maps and the gemstone with the trapped spren. “Then we will talk further. I just want to be careful.”

  “You want to do it yourself,” Venli said to Irritation. “You always want to be first. But enough. It is done. Come with me; I will need to train you in the proper mindset to help the form work. Then we will pick a highstorm for the transformation.”

  Eshonai nodded. She would go through this training. In the meantime, she would consider. Perhaps there was another way. If she could get the Alethi to listen to her, find Dalinar Kholin, sue for peace . . .

  Perhaps then, this would not be needed.

  Warform is worn for battle and reign,

  Claimed by the gods, given to kill.

  Unknown, unseen, but vital to gain.

  It comes to those with the will.

  —From the Listener Song of Listing, 15th stanza

  The wagon rattled and shook its way across the stone ground, Shallan perched on the hard seat next to Bluth, one of the slab-faced mercenaries Tvlakv employed. He guided the chull pulling the wagon, and didn’t speak much, though when he thought she wasn’t looking, he would inspect her with eyes like beads of dark glass.

  It was chilly. She wished the weather would turn, and spring—or even summer—would come for a time. That wasn’t likely in a place notorious for its permanent chill. Having improvised a blanket from the lining of Jasnah’s trunk, Shallan draped it over her knees and down to her feet, as much to obscure how tattered her skirt had become as against the cold.

  She tried to distract herself by studying the surroundings; the flora out here in the southern Frostlands was completely unfamiliar to her. If there was grass, it grew in patches along the leeward sides of rocks, with short spiky blades rather than long, waving ones. The rockbuds never grew larger than a fist, and they didn’t open all the way, even when she’d tried pouring water on one. Their vines were lazy and slow, as if numbed by the cold. There were also spindly little shrubs that grew in cracks and along hillsides. Their brittle branches scraped the sides of the wagon, their tiny green leaves the size of raindrops folding and pulling into the stalks.

  The shrubs grew prolifically, spreading wherever they could find purchase. As the wagon rolled past a particularly tall clump, Shallan reached out and snapped off a branch. It was tubular, with an open center, and felt rough like sand.

  “These are too fragile for highstorms,” Shallan said, holding it up. “How does this plant survive?”

  Bluth grunted.

  “It is common, Bluth,” Shallan said, “to engage one’s traveling companion in mutually diverting dialogue.”

&
nbsp; “I’d do that,” he said darkly, “if I knew what in Damnation half those words meant.”

  Shallan started. She honestly hadn’t expected a response. “Then we are even,” she said, “as you use plenty of words I don’t know. Admittedly, I think most of them are curses. . . .”

  She’d meant it lightheartedly, but his expression only darkened further. “You think I’m as dumb as that stick.”

  Stop insulting my stick. The words came to her mind, and almost to her lips, unbidden. She should have been better at holding her tongue, considering her upbringing. But freedom—without the fear that her father was looming behind every closed door—had severely diminished her self-control.

  She suppressed the taunt this time. “Stupidity is a function of one’s surroundings,” she said instead.

  “You’re saying I’m dumb because I was raised that way?”

  “No. I’m saying that everyone is stupid in some situations. After my ship was lost, I found myself ashore but unable to make a fire to warm myself. Would you say that I’m stupid?”

  He shot her a glance, but did not speak. Perhaps to a darkeyes, that question sounded like a trap.

  “Well I am,” Shallan said. “In many areas, I’m stupid. Perhaps when it comes to large words, you’re stupid. That’s why we need both scholars and caravan workers, guardsman Bluth. Our stupidities complement one another.”

  “I can see why we need fellows who know how to light fires,” Bluth said. “But I don’t see why we need people to use fancy words.”

  “Shhhh,” Shallan said. “Don’t say that so loudly. If the lighteyes hear, they might stop wasting their time making up new words, and instead start interfering with the business of honest men.”

  He glanced at her again. Not even a glimmer of humor in the eyes beneath that thick brow. Shallan sighed, but turned her attention back to the plants. How did they survive highstorms? She should get out her sketchpad and—

  No.

  She blanked her mind and let it go. A short time later, Tvlakv called the midday halt. Shallan’s wagon slowed, and one of the others pulled up beside it.

  Tag drove this one, with the two parshmen sitting in the cage behind, working quietly at weaving hats from reeds they’d gathered in the morning. People often ordered parshmen to do such menial work—something to make sure all of their time was spent earning money for those who owned them. Tvlakv would sell the hats for a few chips at his destination.

  They kept working as the wagon stopped. They would have to be told to do something else, and had to be trained specifically for each job they did. But once they were trained, they would work without complaint.

  Shallan had difficulty not seeing their quiet obedience as something pernicious. She shook her head, then held out her hand to Bluth, who helped her from the wagon without further prodding. On the ground, she rested her hand on the side of the vehicle and breathed in sharply through her teeth. Stormfather, what had she done to her feet? Painspren wiggled out of the wall beside her, little orange bits of sinew—like hands with the flesh removed.

  “Brightness?” Tvlakv said, waddling her direction. “I’m afraid we haven’t much to offer you in the way of meals. We are poor for merchants, you see, and cannot afford delicacies.”

  “Whatever you have will suffice,” Shallan said, trying to keep the pain from showing in her face, though the spren had already given her away. “Please have one of your men get down my trunk.”

  Tvlakv did so without complaint, though he watched hungrily as Bluth lowered it to the ground. It seemed a particularly bad idea to let him see what was inside; the less information he had, the better off she would be.

  “These cages,” Shallan said, looking over the back of her wagon, “from those clasps at top, it looks like the wooden sides can be affixed over the bars.”

  “Yes, Brightness,” Tvlakv said. “For highstorms, you see.”

  “You only have enough slaves to fill one of the three wagons,” Shallan said. “And the parshmen ride in another. This one is empty, and will make an excellent traveling wagon for me. Put the sides on.”

  “Brightness?” he said with surprise. “You want to be put into the cage?”

  “Why not?” Shallan asked, meeting his eyes. “Certainly I’m safe in your custody, tradesman Tvlakv.”

  “Er . . . yes . . .”

  “You and your men must be well acquainted with rough travel,” Shallan said calmly, “but I am not. Sitting day in and out in the sun on a hard bench will not suit me. A proper carriage, however, would be a welcome amelioration of this wilderness journey.”

  “Carriage?” Tvlakv said. “It’s a slave wagon!”

  “Mere words, tradesman Tvlakv,” Shallan said. “If you please?”

  He sighed, but gave the order, and the men pulled the sides out from beneath the wagon and hooked them up on the outside. They left off the back one, where the cage door was. The result did not look especially comfortable, but it would offer some privacy. Shallan had Bluth haul her chest up and inside, to Tvlakv’s dismay. Then, she climbed in and pulled the cage door shut. She held her hand out through the bars toward Tvlakv.

  “Brightness?”

  “The key,” she said.

  “Oh.” He pulled it out of a pocket, regarding it for a moment—too long a moment—before handing it to her.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “You may send Bluth with my meal when it is ready, but I shall require a bucket of clean water immediately. You have been most accommodating. I will not forget your service.”

  “Er . . . Thank you.” It almost sounded like a question, and as he walked away, he seemed confused. Good.

  She waited for Bluth to bring the water, then crawled—to stay off her feet—through the enclosed wagon. It stank of dirt and sweat, and she grew nauseated thinking of the slaves who had been held here. She would ask Bluth to have the parshmen scrub it later.

  She stopped before Jasnah’s trunk, then knelt and gingerly raised the lid. Light spilled out from the infused spheres inside. Pattern waited there as well—she had instructed him not to be seen—his shape raising the cover of a book.

  Shallan had survived, so far. She certainly wasn’t safe, but at least she wasn’t going to freeze or starve immediately. That meant she finally had to face greater questions and problems. She rested her hand on the books, ignoring her throbbing feet for the moment. “These have to reach the Shattered Plains.”

  Pattern vibrated with a confused sound—a questioning pitch that implied curiosity.

  “Someone needs to continue Jasnah’s work,” Shallan said. “Urithiru must be found, and the Alethi must be convinced that the return of the Voidbringers is imminent.” She shivered, thinking of the marbled parshmen working just one wagon over.

  “You . . . mmm . . . continue?” Pattern asked.

  “Yes.” She’d made that decision the moment she’d insisted that Tvlakv head for the Shattered Plains. “That night before the sinking, when I saw Jasnah with her guard down . . . I know what I must do.”

  Pattern hummed, again sounding confused.

  “It’s hard to explain,” Shallan said. “It’s a human thing.”

  “Excellent,” Pattern said, eager.

  She raised an eyebrow toward him. He’d quickly come a long way from spending hours spinning in the center of a room or climbing up and down walls.

  Shallan took out some spheres for better light, then removed one of the cloths Jasnah had wrapped around her books. It was immaculately clean. Shallan dipped the cloth into the bucket of water and began to wash her feet.

  “Before I saw Jasnah’s expression that night,” she explained, “before I talked to her through her fatigue and got a sense of just how worried she was, I had fallen into a trap. The trap of a scholar. Despite my initial horror at what Jasnah had described about the parshmen, I had come to see it all as an intellectual puzzle. Jasnah was so outwardly dispassionate that I assumed she did the same.”

  Shallan winced as she dug a bit
of rock from a crack in her foot. More painspren wiggled out of the floor of the wagon. She wouldn’t be walking great distances anytime soon, but at least she didn’t see any rotspren yet. She had better find some antiseptic.

  “Our danger isn’t just theoretical, Pattern. It is real and it is terrible.”

  “Yes,” Pattern said, voice sounding grave.

  She looked up from her feet. He had moved up onto the inside of the chest’s lid, lit by the varied light of the differently colored spheres. “You know something about the danger? The parshmen, the Voidbringers?” Perhaps she was reading too much into his tones. He wasn’t human, and often spoke with strange inflections.

  “My return . . .” Pattern said. “Because of this.”

  “What? Why haven’t you said something!”

  “Say . . . speaking . . . Thinking . . . All hard. Getting better.”

  “You came to me because of the Voidbringers,” Shallan said, moving closer to the trunk, bloodied rag forgotten in her hand.

  “Yes. Patterns . . . we . . . us . . . Worry. One was sent. Me.”

  “Why to me?”

  “Because of lies.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  He buzzed in dissatisfaction. “You. Your family.”

  “You watched me with my family? That long ago?”

  “Shallan. Remember . . .”

  Again those memories. This time, not a garden seat, but a sterile white room. Her father’s lullaby. Blood on the floor.

  No.

  She turned away and began cleaning her feet again.

  “I know . . . little of humans,” Pattern said. “They break. Their minds break. You did not break. Only cracked.”

  She continued her washing.

  “It is the lies that save you,” Pattern said. “The lies that drew me.”

  She dipped her rag in the bucket. “Do you have a name? I’ve called you Pattern, but it’s more of a description.”

  “Name is numbers,” Pattern said. “Many numbers. Hard to say. Pattern . . . Pattern is fine.”