Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  “Adolin Kholin!” she shouted. “This is a duel, not a wrestling match!”

  “Did I break any rules?” he shouted back.

  Silence. It struck him, through the rush in his ears, that the entire crowd had gone quiet. He could hear their breathing.

  “Did I break any rules?” Adolin demanded again.

  “This is not how a duel—”

  “So I win,” Adolin said.

  The woman sputtered. “This duel was to three broken pieces of Plate. You broke only two.”

  Adolin looked down at the dazed Salinor. Then he reached down, ripped off the man’s pauldron, and smashed it between two fists. “Done.”

  Stunned silence.

  Adolin knelt beside his opponent. “Your Blade.”

  Salinor tried to stand, but with the breastplate missing, doing so was more difficult. His armor wouldn’t work properly, and he’d need to roll onto his side and work his way to his feet. Doable, but he obviously didn’t have the experience with Plate to perform the maneuver. Adolin slammed him back down to the sand by his shoulder.

  “You’ve lost,” Adolin growled.

  “You cheated!” Salinor sputtered.

  “How?”

  “I don’t know how! It just— It’s not supposed to . . .”

  He trailed off as Adolin carefully placed a gauntleted hand against his neck. Salinor’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

  Fearspren crawled out of the sand around him.

  “My prize,” Adolin said, suddenly feeling drained. The Thrill faded from him. Storms, he’d never before felt like this in a duel.

  Salinor’s Blade appeared in his hand.

  “Judgment,” the highjudge said, sounding reluctant, “goes to Adolin Kholin, the victor. Salinor Eved forfeits his Shard.”

  Salinor let the Blade slip from his fingers. Adolin took it and knelt beside Salinor, holding the weapon with pommel toward the man. “Break the bond.”

  Salinor hesitated, then touched the ruby at the weapon’s pommel. The gemstone flashed with light. The bond had been broken.

  Adolin stood, ripping the ruby free, then crushing it in a gauntleted hand. That wouldn’t be needed, but it was a nice symbol. Sound finally rose in the crowd, frantic chattering. They’d come for a spectacle and had instead been given brutality. Well, that was how things often went in war. Good for them to see it, he supposed, though as he ducked back into the waiting room he was uncertain of himself. What he’d done was reckless. Dismissing his Blade? Putting himself in a position where the enemy could have gotten at his feet?

  Adolin entered the staging room, where Renarin looked at him wide-eyed. “That,” his younger brother said, “was incredible. It has to be the shortest Shard bout on record! You were amazing, Adolin!”

  “I . . . Thanks.” He handed Salinor’s Shardblade toward Renarin. “A present.”

  “Adolin, are you sure? I mean, I’m not exactly the best with the Plate I already have.”

  “Might as well have the full set,” Adolin said. “Take it.”

  Renarin seemed hesitant.

  “Take it,” Adolin said again.

  Reluctantly, Renarin did so. He grimaced as he took it. Adolin shook his head, sitting down on one of the reinforced benches intended to hold a Shardbearer. Navani stepped into the room, having come down from the seats above.

  “What you did,” she noted, “would not have worked on a more skillful opponent.”

  “I know,” Adolin said.

  “It was wise, then,” Navani said. “You mask your true skill. People can assume this was won by trickery, pit-fighting instead of proper dueling. They might continue to underestimate you. I can work with this to get you more duels.”

  Adolin nodded, pretending that was why he’d done it.

  Workform worn for strength and care.

  Whispering spren breathe at your ear.

  Seek first this form, its mysteries to bear.

  Found here is freedom from fear.

  —From the Listener Song of Listing, 19th stanza

  “Tradesman Tvlakv,” Shallan said, “I believe that you are wearing a different pair of shoes today than you were on the first day of our trip.”

  Tvlakv stopped on his way to the evening fire, but adapted smoothly to her challenge. He turned toward her with a smile, shaking his head. “I fear you must be mistaken, Brightness! Just after leaving on this trip, I lost one of my clothing trunks to a storm. I have but this one pair of shoes to my name.”

  It was a flat-out lie. However, after six days of traveling together, she had discovered that Tvlakv didn’t much mind being caught in a lie.

  Shallan perched on her wagon’s front seat in the dim light, feet bandaged, staring Tvlakv down. She’d spent most of the day milking knobweed stems for their sap, then rubbing it on her feet to keep away the rotspren. She felt extremely satisfied to have noticed the plants—it showed that though she lacked much practical knowledge, some of her studies could be useful in the wild.

  Did she confront him about his lie? What would it accomplish? He didn’t seem to get embarrassed by such things. He watched her in the darkness, eyes beady, shadowed.

  “Well,” Shallan said to him, “that is unfortunate. Perhaps in our travels we will meet another merchant group with whom I can trade for proper footwear.”

  “I will be certain to look for such an opportunity, Brightness.” Tvlakv gave her a bow and a fake smile, then continued toward the evening cook fire, which was burning fitfully—they were out of wood, and the parshmen had gone out into the evening to search for more.

  “Lies,” Pattern said softly, his shape nearly invisible on the seat beside her.

  “He knows if I can’t walk, I’m more dependent upon him.”

  Tvlakv settled down beside the struggling fire. Nearby, the chulls—unhooked from their wagons—lumbered around, crunching tiny rockbuds beneath their gargantuan feet. They never strayed far.

  Tvlakv started whispering quietly with Tag, the mercenary. He kept a smile on his face, but she didn’t trust those dark eyes of his, glittering in the firelight.

  “Go see what he’s saying,” Shallan told Pattern.

  “See . . . ?”

  “Listen to his words, then come back and repeat them to me. Don’t get too close to the light.”

  Pattern moved down the side of the wagon. Shallan leaned back against the hard seat, then took a small mirror she’d found in Jasnah’s trunk out of her safepouch along with a single sapphire sphere for light. Just a mark, nothing too bright, and it was failing at that. When is that next highstorm due? Tomorrow?

  It was nearing the start of a new year—and that meant the Weeping was coming, though not for a number of weeks. It was a Light Year, wasn’t it? Well, she could endure highstorms out here. She’d already been forced to suffer that indignity once, locked within her wagon.

  In the mirror, she could see that she looked awful. Red eyes with bags under them, her hair a frazzled mess, her dress frayed and soiled. She looked like a beggar who had found a once-nice dress in a trash heap.

  It didn’t bother her overly much. Was she worried about looking pretty for slavers? Hardly. However, Jasnah hadn’t cared what people thought of her, yet had always kept her appearance immaculate. Not that Jasnah had acted alluringly—never for a moment. In fact, she’d disparaged such behavior in no uncertain terms. Using a fetching face to make men do as you wish is no different from a man using muscle to force a woman to his will, she’d said. Both are base, and both will fail a person as they age.

  No, Jasnah had not approved of seduction as a tool. However, people responded differently to those who looked in control of themselves.

  But what can I do? Shallan thought. I have no makeup; I don’t even have shoes to wear.

  “. . . she could be someone important,” Tvlakv’s voice said abruptly nearby. Shallan jumped, then looked to the side, where Pattern now rested on the seat beside her. The voice came from there.

  “She is troub
le,” Tag’s voice said. Pattern’s vibrations produced a perfect imitation. “I still think we should just leave her and go.”

  “It is fortunate for us,” Tvlakv’s voice said, “that the decision is not yours. You worry about making dinner. I shall worry about our little lighteyed companion. Someone is missing her, someone rich. If we can sell her back to them, Tag, it could be what finally digs us out.”

  Pattern imitated the sounds of a crackling fire for a short time, then fell silent.

  The precise reproduction of the conversation was marvelous. This, Shallan thought, could be very useful.

  Unfortunately, something needed to be done about Tvlakv. She couldn’t have him regarding her as something to be sold back to those missing her—that was discomfortingly close to viewing her as a slave. If she let him continue in such a mindset, she’d spend the entire trip worrying about him and his thugs.

  So what would Jasnah do, in this situation?

  Gritting her teeth, Shallan slipped down off the wagon, stepping gingerly on her wounded feet. She could walk, barely. She waited for the painspren to retreat, then—covering up her agony—she approached the meager fire and sat down. “Tag, you are excused.”

  He looked to Tvlakv, who nodded. Tag retreated to check on the parshmen. Bluth had gone to scout the area, as he often did at night, checking for signs of others passing this way.

  “It is time to discuss your payment,” Shallan said.

  “Service to one so illustrious is payment in itself, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said, meeting his eyes. Don’t back down. You can do this. “But a merchant must make a living. I am not blind, Tvlakv. Your men do not agree with your decision to help me. They think it a waste.”

  Tvlakv glanced at Tag, looking unsettled. Hopefully, he wondered what else she had guessed.

  “Upon arriving at the Shattered Plains,” Shallan said, “I will acquire a grand fortune. I do not have it yet.”

  “That is . . . unfortunate.”

  “Not in the slightest,” Shallan said. “It is an opportunity, tradesman Tvlakv. The fortune I will acquire is the result of a betrothal. If I arrive safely, those who rescued me—saved me from pirates, sacrificed greatly to see me brought to my new family—will undoubtedly be well rewarded.”

  “I am but a humble servant,” Tvlakv said with a broad, false smile. “Rewards are the farthest thing from my mind.”

  He thinks I’m lying about the fortune. Shallan ground her teeth in frustration, anger beginning to burn inside of her. This was just what Kabsal had done! Treating her like a plaything, a means to an end, not a real person.

  She leaned closer to Tvlakv into the firelight. “Do not toy with me, slaver.”

  “I wouldn’t dare—”

  “You have no idea the storm you have wandered into,” Shallan hissed, holding his eyes. “You have no idea what stakes have been wagered upon my arrival. Take your petty schemes and stuff them in a crevice. Do as I say, and I will see your debts canceled. You will be a free man again.”

  “What? How . . . how did you—”

  Shallan stood up, cutting him off. She felt somehow stronger than she had before. More determined. Her insecurities fluttered in the pit of her stomach, but she paid them no heed.

  Tvlakv didn’t know she was timid. He didn’t know she had been raised in rural isolation. To him, she was a woman of the court, accomplished at argument and accustomed to being obeyed.

  Standing before him, feeling radiant in the glow of the flames—towering above him and his grubby machinations—she saw. Expectation wasn’t just about what people expected of you.

  It was about what you expected of yourself.

  Tvlakv leaned away from her like a man before a raging bonfire. He shrank back, eyes wide, raising an arm. Shallan realized that she was glowing faintly with the light of spheres. Her dress no longer bore the tears and smudges it had before. It was majestic.

  Instinctively, she let the glow from her skin fade, hoping Tvlakv would think it a trick of the firelight. She spun and left him shaking beside the fire as she walked back to the wagon. Darkness was fully upon them, the first moon having yet to rise. As she walked, her feet didn’t hurt nearly as much as they had. Was the knobweed sap doing that much good?

  She reached the wagon and began climbing back into the seat, but Bluth chose that moment to crash into camp.

  “Put out the fire!” he cried.

  Tvlakv looked at him dumbfounded.

  Bluth dashed ahead, passing Shallan and reaching the fire, where he grabbed the pot of steaming broth. He turned it over onto the flames, splashing out ashes and steam with a hiss, scattering flamespren, which faded away.

  Tvlakv jumped up, looking down as filthy broth—faintly lit by the dying embers—ran past his feet. Shallan, gritting her teeth against the pain, got off the wagon and approached. Tag ran up from the other direction.

  “. . . seem to be several dozen of them,” Bluth was saying in a low voice. “They are well armed, but have no horses or chulls, so they are not rich.”

  “What is this?” Shallan demanded.

  “Bandits,” Bluth said. “Or mercenaries. Or whatever you want to call them.”

  “Nobody polices this area, Brightness,” Tvlakv said. He glanced at her, then looked away quickly, obviously still shaken. “It is truly a wilderness, you see. The presence of the Alethi on the Shattered Plains means many like to come and go. Trading caravans like ours, craftsmen seeking work, lowborn lighteyed sellswords with an eye toward enlisting. Those two conditions—no laws, but plenty of travelers—attract a certain kind of ruffian.”

  “Dangerous,” Tag agreed. “These types take what they want. Leave only corpses.”

  “Did they see our fire?” Tvlakv asked, wringing his cap in his hands.

  “Don’t know,” Bluth said, glancing over his shoulder. Shallan could barely make out his expression in the darkness. “Didn’t want to get close. I snuck up to get a count, then ran back here fast.”

  “How can you be sure they’re bandits?” Shallan asked. “They might just be soldiers on their way to the Shattered Plains, as Tvlakv said.”

  “They fly no banners, display no sigils,” Bluth said. “But they have good equipment and keep a tight guard. They’re deserters. I’d bet the chulls on it.”

  “Bah,” Tvlakv said. “You’d bet my chulls on a hand with the tower, Bluth. But Brightness, for all his terrible gambling sense, I believe the fool is right. We must harness the chulls and depart immediately. The night’s darkness is our ally, and we must make the most of it.”

  She nodded. The men moved quickly, even the portly Tvlakv, breaking down camp and hooking up the chulls. The slaves grumbled at not getting their food for the night. Shallan stopped beside their cage, feeling ashamed. Her family had owned slaves—and not just parshmen and ardents. Ordinary slaves. In most cases, they were nothing worse than darkeyes without the right of travel.

  These poor souls, however, were sickly and half-starved.

  You’re only one step from being in one of those pens yourself, Shallan, she thought with a shiver as Tvlakv passed, hissing curses at the captives. No. He wouldn’t dare put you in there. He’d just kill you.

  Bluth had to be reminded again to give her a hand up into the wagon. Tag ushered the parshmen into their wagon, cursing at them for moving so slowly, then climbed into his seat and took up the tail position.

  The first moon began to rise, making it lighter than Shallan would have liked. It seemed to her that each crunching footstep of the chulls was as loud as a highstorm’s thunder. They brushed the plants she’d named crustspines, with their branches like tubes of sandstone. Those cracked and shook.

  Progress was not quick—chulls never were. As they moved, she picked out lights on a hillside, frighteningly close. Campfires not a ten-minute walk away. A shifting of winds brought the sound of distant voices, of metal on metal, perhaps men sparring.

  Tvlakv turned the wagons eastward. Shallan fro
wned in the night. “Why this way?” she whispered.

  “Remember that gully we saw?” Bluth whispered. “Putting it between us and them, in case they hear and come looking.”

  Shallan nodded. “What can we do if they catch us?”

  “It won’t be good.”

  “Couldn’t we bribe our way past them?”

  “Deserters ain’t like common bandits,” Bluth said. “These men, they’ve given up everything. Oaths. Families. When you desert, it breaks you. It leaves you willing to do anything, because you’ve already given away everything you could have cared about losing.”

  “Wow,” Shallan said, looking over her shoulder.

  “I . . . Yeah, you spend your whole life with a decision like that, you do. You wish any honor were left for you, but know you’ve already given it away.”

  He fell silent, and Shallan was too nervous to prod him further. She continued watching those lights on the hillside as the wagons—blessedly—rolled farther and farther into the night, eventually escaping into the darkness.

  Nimbleform has a delicate touch.

  Gave the gods this form to many,

  Tho’ once defied, by the gods they were crushed.

  This form craves precision and plenty.

  —From the Listener Song of Listing, 27th stanza

  “You know,” Moash said from Kaladin’s side, “I always thought this place would be . . .”

  “Bigger?” Drehy offered in his lightly accented voice.

  “Better,” Moash said, looking around the practice grounds. “It looks just like where darkeyed soldiers practice.”

  These sparring grounds were reserved for Dalinar’s lighteyes. In the center, the large open courtyard was filled with a thick layer of sand. A raised wooden walkway ran around the perimeter, stretching between the sand and the narrow surrounding building, which was just one room deep. That narrow building wrapped around the courtyard except at the front, which had a wall with an archway for the entrance, and had a wide roof that extended, giving shade to the wooden walkway. Lighteyed officers stood chatting in the shade or watching men sparring in the sunlight of the yard, and ardents moved this way and that, delivering weapons or drinks.