Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  It had been three weeks now since Renarin had been given his Plate. Why had Adolin waited so long to bring him here for training? Had he been waiting until the duel, so he could win the lad a Blade too?

  Syl landed on Kaladin’s shoulder. “Adolin and Renarin are both bowing to her.”

  “Yeah,” Kaladin said.

  “But isn’t the ardent a slave? One their father owns?”

  Kaladin nodded.

  “Humans don’t make sense.”

  “If you’re only now learning that,” Kaladin said, “then you haven’t been paying attention.”

  Syl tossed her hair, which moved realistically. The gesture itself was very human. Perhaps she’d been paying attention after all. “I don’t like them,” she said airily. “Either one. Adolin or Renarin.”

  “You don’t like anyone who carries Shards.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You called the Blades abominations before,” Kaladin said. “But the Radiants carried them. So were the Radiants wrong to do so?”

  “Of course not,” she said, sounding like he was saying something completely stupid. “The Shards weren’t abominations back then.”

  “What changed?”

  “The knights,” Syl said, growing quiet. “The knights changed.”

  “So it’s not that the weapons are abominations specifically,” Kaladin said. “It’s that the wrong people are carrying them.”

  “There are no right people anymore,” Syl whispered. “Maybe there never were. . . .”

  “And where did they come from in the first place?” Kaladin asked. “Shardblades. Shardplate. Even modern fabrials are nowhere near as good. So where did the ancients get weapons so amazing?”

  Syl fell silent. She had a frustrating habit of doing that when his questions got too specific.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  “I wish I could tell you.”

  “Then do.”

  “I wish it worked that way. It doesn’t.”

  Kaladin sighed, turning his attention back to Adolin and Renarin, where it was supposed to be. The senior ardent had led them to the very back of the courtyard, where another group of people sat on the ground. They were ardents too, but something was different about them. Teachers of some sort?

  As Adolin spoke to them, Kaladin did another quick scan around the courtyard, then frowned.

  “Kaladin?” Syl asked.

  “Man in the shadows over there,” Kaladin said, gesturing with his spear toward a place under the eaves. A man stood there, leaning cross-armed against a waist-high wooden railing. “He’s watching the princelings.”

  “Um, so is everyone else.”

  “He’s different,” Kaladin said. “Come on.”

  Kaladin wandered over casually, unthreatening. The man was probably just a servant. Long-haired, with a short but scruffy black beard, he wore loose tan clothing tied with ropes. He looked out of place in the sparring yard, and that itself was probably enough to indicate he wasn’t an assassin. The best assassins never stood out.

  Still, the man had a robust build and a scar on his cheek. So he’d seen fighting. Best to check on him. The man watched Renarin and Adolin intently and, from this angle, Kaladin couldn’t see if his eyes were light or dark.

  As Kaladin got close, his foot audibly scraped the sand. The man spun immediately, and Kaladin leveled his spear by instinct. He could see the man’s eyes now—they were brown—but Kaladin had trouble placing his age. Those eyes seemed old somehow, but the man’s skin didn’t seem wrinkled enough to match them. He could have been thirty-five. Or he could have been seventy.

  Too young, Kaladin thought, though he couldn’t say why.

  Kaladin lowered his spear. “Sorry, I’m a little jumpy. First few weeks on the job.” He tried to say it disarmingly.

  It didn’t work. The man looked him up and down, still showing the chained menace of a warrior deciding whether or not to strike. Finally, he turned away from Kaladin and relaxed, watching Adolin and Renarin.

  “Who are you?” Kaladin asked, stepping up beside the man. “I’m new, as I said. I’m trying to learn everyone’s names.”

  “You’re the bridgeman. The one who saved the highprince.”

  “I am,” Kaladin said.

  “You don’t need to keep prying,” the man said. “I’m not going to hurt your Damnation prince.” He had a low, grinding voice. Scratchy. Strange accent too.

  “He’s not my prince,” Kaladin said. “Just my responsibility.” He looked the man over again, noticing something. The light clothing, tied with ropes, was very similar to what some of the ardents were wearing. The full head of hair had thrown Kaladin off.

  “You’re a soldier,” Kaladin guessed. “Ex-soldier, I mean.”

  “Yeah,” the man said. “They call me Zahel.”

  Kaladin nodded, the irregularities clicking into place. Occasionally, a soldier retired to the ardentia, if he had no other life to return to. Kaladin would have expected them to require the man to at least shave his head.

  I wonder if Hav is in one of these monasteries somewhere, Kaladin thought idly. What would he think of me now? He’d probably be proud. He always had seen guard duty as the most respectable of a soldier’s assignments.

  “What are they doing?” Kaladin asked Zahel, nodding toward Renarin and Adolin—who, despite the encumbrance of their Shardplate, had seated themselves on the ground before the elder ardents.

  Zahel grunted. “The younger Kholin has to be chosen by a master. For training.”

  “Can’t they just pick whichever one they want?”

  “Doesn’t work that way. It’s kind of an awkward situation, though. Prince Renarin, he’s never practiced much with a sword.” Zahel paused. “Being chosen by a master is a step that most lighteyed boys of suitable rank take by the time they’re ten.”

  Kaladin frowned. “Why didn’t he ever train?”

  “Health problems of some sort.”

  “And they’d really turn him down?” Kaladin asked. “The highprince’s own son?”

  “They could, but they probably won’t. Not brave enough.” The man narrowed his eyes as Adolin stood up and gestured. “Damnation. I knew it was suspicious that he waited for this until I got back.”

  “Swordmaster Zahel!” Adolin called. “You aren’t sitting with the others!”

  Zahel sighed, then gave Kaladin a resigned glance. “I’m probably not brave enough either. I’ll try not to hurt him too much.” He walked around the railing and jogged over. Adolin clasped Zahel’s hand eagerly, then pointed to Renarin. Zahel looked distinctly out of place among the other ardents with their bald heads, neatly trimmed beards, and cleaner clothing.

  “Huh,” Kaladin said. “Did he seem odd to you?”

  “You all seem odd to me,” Syl said lightly. “Everyone but Rock, who is a complete gentleman.”

  “He thinks you’re a god. You shouldn’t encourage him.”

  “Why not? I am a god.”

  He turned his head, looking at her flatly as she sat on his shoulder. “Syl . . .”

  “What? I am!” She grinned and held up her fingers, as if pinching something very small. “A little piece of one. Very, very little. You have permission to bow to me now.”

  “Kind of hard to do when you’re sitting on my shoulder,” he mumbled. He noticed Lopen and Shen arriving at the gate, likely bearing the daily reports from Teft. “Come on. Let’s see if Teft has anything he needs from me, then we’ll do a circuit and check on Drehy and Moash.”

  Dullform dread, with the mind most lost.

  The lowest, and one not bright.

  To find this form, one need banish the cost.

  It finds you and brings you to blight.

  —From the Listener Song of Listing, final stanza

  Riding on her wagon, Shallan covered her anxiety with scholarship. There was no way to tell if the deserters had spotted the trails of crushed rockbuds made by the caravan. They might be following. They might not be.r />
  No use dwelling on it, she told herself. And so she found a distraction. “The leaves can start their own shoots,” she said, holding up one of the small, round leaves on the tip of her finger. She turned it toward the sunlight.

  Bluth sat beside her, hulking like a boulder. Today, he wore a hat that was entirely too stylish for him—dusty white, with a brim that folded upward at the sides. He would occasionally flick his guiding reed—it was at least as long as Shallan was tall—on the shell of the chull ahead.

  Shallan had made a small list of the beats he used in the back of her book. Bluth hit twice, paused, and hit again. That made the animal slow as the wagon in front of them—driven by Tvlakv—began moving up a hillside covered in tiny rockbuds.

  “You see?” Shallan said, showing him the leaf. “That’s why the plant’s limbs are so fragile. When the storm comes, it will shatter these branches and break off the leaves. They will blow away and start new shoots, building their own shell. They grow so quickly. Faster than I’d have expected out here, in these infertile lands.”

  Bluth grunted.

  Shallan sighed, lowering her finger and putting the tiny plant back in the cup she’d been using to nurture it. She glanced over her shoulder.

  No sign of pursuit. She really should just stop worrying.

  She turned back to her new sketchbook—one of Jasnah’s notebooks that didn’t have many pages filled—then began a quick sketch of the small leaf. She didn’t have very good materials, only a single charcoal pencil, some pens, and a little ink, but Pattern had been right. She could not stop.

  She had begun with a replacement sketch of the santhid as she remembered it from her dip in the sea. The picture wasn’t equal to the one she’d crafted right after the event, but having it again—in any form—had started healing the wounds inside.

  She finished the leaf, then turned the page and began a sketch of Bluth. She didn’t particularly want to restart her collection of people with him, but her options were limited. Unfortunately, that hat really did look silly—it was far too small for his head. The image of him huddled forward like a crab, back to the sky and hat on his head . . . well, at least it would be an interesting composition.

  “Where did you get the hat?” she asked as she sketched.

  “Traded for it,” Bluth mumbled, not looking at her.

  “Did it cost much?”

  He shrugged. Shallan had lost her own hats in the sinking, but had persuaded Tvlakv to give her one of the ones woven by the parshmen. It wasn’t particularly attractive, but it kept the sun off her face.

  Despite the bumping wagon, Shallan eventually managed to finish her sketch of Bluth. She inspected it, dissatisfied. It was a poor way to start her collection, particularly as she felt she’d caricatured him somewhat. She pursed her lips. What would Bluth look like if he weren’t always scowling at her? If his clothing were neater, if he carried a proper weapon instead of that old cudgel?

  She flipped the page and started again. A different composition—idealized, perhaps, but somehow also right. He could actually look dashing, once you dressed him up properly. A uniform. A spear, planted to his side. Eyes toward the horizon. By the time she’d finished, she was feeling much better about the day. She smiled at the product, then held it up to Bluth as Tvlakv called the midday halt.

  Bluth glanced at the picture, but said nothing. He gave the chull a few whacks to stop it alongside the one pulling Tvlakv’s wagon. Tag rolled up his wagon—he carried the slaves, this time.

  “Knobweed!” Shallan said, lowering her sketch and pointing at a patch of thin reeds growing behind a nearby rock.

  Bluth groaned. “More of that plant?”

  “Yes. Would you kindly fetch them for me?”

  “Can’t the parshmen do it? I’m supposed to feed the chulls. . . .”

  “Which would you rather make wait, guardsman Bluth? The chulls, or the lighteyed woman?”

  Bluth scratched his head underneath the hat, then sullenly climbed down from the wagon and walked toward the reeds. Nearby, Tvlakv stood on his wagon, watching the horizon to the south.

  A thin trail of smoke rose in that direction.

  Shallan felt an immediate chill. She scrambled from the wagon and hurried to Tvlakv. “Storms!” Shallan said. “Is it the deserters? They are following us?”

  “Yes. They have stopped to cook for midday, it seems,” Tvlakv said from his perch atop his wagon. “They do not care about us seeing their fire.” He forced out a laugh. “That is a good sign. They probably know we are only three wagons, and are barely worth chasing. So long as we keep moving and don’t stop often, they will give up the chase. Yes. I’m certain.”

  He hopped down from his wagon, then hurriedly began to water the slaves. He didn’t bother to make the parshmen do it—he did the work himself. That, more than anything, testified to his nervousness. He wanted to be moving again quickly.

  That left the parshmen to continue weaving in their cage behind Tvlakv’s wagon. Anxious, Shallan stood there watching. The deserters had spotted the wagons’ trail of broken rockbuds.

  She found herself sweating, but what could she do? She couldn’t hurry the caravan. She had to simply hope, as Tvlakv said, that they could stay ahead of pursuit.

  That didn’t seem likely. The chull wagons couldn’t be faster than marching men.

  Distract yourself, Shallan thought as she started to panic. Find something to take your mind off the pursuit.

  What about Tvlakv’s parshmen? Shallan eyed them. Perhaps a drawing of the two of them in their cage?

  No. She was too nervous for drawing, but perhaps she could find something out. She walked to the parshmen. Her feet complained, but the pain was manageable. In fact, in contrast to how she’d covered it up on previous days, now she exaggerated her winces. Better to make Tvlakv think she was less well than she was.

  She stopped at the cage’s bars. The back was unlocked—parshmen never ran. Buying these two must have been quite an investment for Tvlakv. Parshmen weren’t cheap, and many monarchs and powerful lighteyes hoarded them.

  One of the two glanced at Shallan, then turned back to his work. Her work? It was difficult to tell the males from the females without undressing them. Both of these two had red on white marbled skin. They had squat bodies, perhaps five feet tall, and were bald.

  It was so difficult to see these two humble workers as a threat. “What are your names?” Shallan asked.

  One looked up. The other kept working.

  “Your name,” Shallan prodded.

  “One,” the parshman said. He pointed at his companion. “Two.” He put his head down and kept working.

  “Are you happy with your life?” Shallan asked. “Would you rather be free, given the chance?”

  The parshman looked up at her and frowned. He scrunched up his brow, mouthing a few of the words, then shook his head. He didn’t understand.

  “Freedom?” Shallan prodded.

  He hunched down to work.

  He actually looks uncomfortable, Shallan thought. Embarrassed for not understanding. His posture seemed to say, “Please stop asking me questions.” Shallan tucked her sketchbook under her arm and took a Memory of the two of them working there.

  These are evil monsters, she told herself forcefully, creatures of legend who will soon be bent on destroying everyone and everything around them. Standing here, looking in at them, she found it difficult to believe, even though she had accepted the evidence.

  Storms. Jasnah was right. Persuading the lighteyes to rid themselves of their parshmen was going to be nearly impossible. She would need very, very solid proof. Troubled, she walked back to her seat and climbed up, making sure to wince. Bluth had left her a bundle of knobweed, and was now caring for the chulls. Tvlakv was digging out some food for a quick lunch, which they’d probably eat while moving.

  She quieted her nerves and forced herself to do some sketches of nearby plants. She soon moved on to a sketch of the horizon and the rock formatio
ns nearby. The air didn’t feel as cold as it had during her first days with the slavers, though her breath still steamed before her in the mornings.

  As Tvlakv passed by, he gave her an uncomfortable glance. He had treated her differently since their confrontation at the fire last night.

  Shallan continued sketching. It was certainly a lot flatter out here than back home. And there were far fewer plants, though they were more robust. And . . .

  . . . And was that another column of smoke up ahead? She stood up and raised a hand to shade her eyes. Yes. More smoke. She looked southward, toward the pursuing mercenaries.

  Nearby, Tag stopped, noticing what she had. He hustled over to Tvlakv, and the two started arguing softly.

  “Tradesman Tvlakv”—Shallan refused to call him “Trademaster,” as would be his proper title as a full merchant—“I would hear your discussion.”

  “Of course, Brightness, of course.” He waddled over, wringing his hands. “You have seen the smoke ahead. We have entered a corridor running between the Shattered Plains and the Shallow Crypts and its sister villages. There is more traffic here than in other parts of the Frostlands, you see. So it is not unexpected that we should encounter others . . .”

  “Those ahead?”

  “Another caravan, if we are lucky.”

  And if we’re unlucky . . . She didn’t need to ask. It would mean more deserters or bandits.

  “We can avoid them,” Tvlakv said. “Only a large group would dare make smoke for midday meals, as it is an invitation—or a warning. The small caravans, like ourselves, do not risk it.”

  “If it’s a large caravan,” Tag said, rubbing his brow with a thick finger, “they’ll have guards. Good protection.” He looked southward.

  “Yes,” Tvlakv said. “But we could also be placing ourselves between two enemies. Danger on all sides . . .”