Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  The captain of the King’s Guard stood near the door, red-faced. He looked away, then stalked out into the hallway. Kaladin raised a hand to his head, bewildered. Comments like that one from the king were not going to help his men get along with Dalinar’s soldiers.

  Inside the room, a mess of guards, servants, and members of Bridge Four stood around, looking confused or embarrassed. Natam was there—he’d been on duty with the King’s Guard—as was Moash.

  “Moash,” Kaladin called. “You’re supposed to be back in the camp asleep.”

  “So are you,” Moash said.

  Kaladin grunted, trotting over, speaking more softly. “Were you here when it happened?”

  “I’d just left,” Moash said. “Finishing my shift with the King’s Guard. I heard yelling, and came back as quickly as I could.” He nodded toward the open balcony door. “Come have a look.”

  They walked out onto the balcony, which was a circular stone pathway that ran around the peak rooms of the palace—a terrace cut into the stone itself. From such a height, the balcony offered an unparalleled view overlooking the warcamps and the Plains beyond. Some members of the King’s Guard stood here, inspecting the balcony railing with sphere lamps. A section of the ironwork structure had twisted outward and hung precariously over the drop.

  “From what we’ve figured,” Moash said, pointing, “the king came out here to think, as he likes to do.”

  Kaladin nodded, walking with Moash. The stone floor beneath was still wet from highstorm rain. They reached the place where the railing was ripped, several guards making way for them. Kaladin looked down over the side. The drop was a good hundred feet onto the rocks below. Syl drifted through the air down there, making lazy glowing circles.

  “Damnation, Kaladin!” Moash said, taking his arm. “Are you trying to make me panic?”

  I wonder if I could survive that fall. . . . He’d dropped half that once before, filled with Stormlight, and had landed without trouble. He stepped back for Moash’s sake, though even before gaining his special abilities, heights had fascinated him. It felt liberating to be up so high. Just you and the air itself.

  He knelt down, looking at the places where the footings of the iron railing had been mortared into holes in the stone. “The railing pulled free of its mountings?” he asked, poking his finger into a hole, then pulling it out with mortar dust on his fingers.

  “Yeah,” Moash said, several of the men of the king’s guard nodding.

  “Could just be a flaw in the design,” Kaladin said.

  “Captain,” said one of the guardsmen. “I was here when it happened, watching him on the balcony. It fell right out. Barely a sound. I was standing here, looking out at the Plains and thinking to myself, and next I knew His Majesty was hanging right there, holding on for his life and cursing like a caravan worker.” The guard blushed. “Sir.”

  Kaladin stood, inspecting the metalwork. So the king had leaned against this section of the railing, and it had bent forward—the mountings at the bottom giving way. It had almost come free completely, but fortunately one bar had held tight. The king had grabbed hold and clung to it long enough to be rescued.

  This should never have been possible. The thing looked as if it had been constructed of wood and rope first, then Soulcast into iron. Shaking another section, he found it incredibly secure. Even a few footings giving out shouldn’t have let the whole thing fall off—the metal pieces would have had to come apart.

  He moved to the right, inspecting some of those that had ripped free of one another. The two pieces of metal had been sheared at a joint. Smoothly, cleanly.

  The doorway into the king’s chamber darkened as Dalinar Kholin stepped out onto the balcony. “In,” he said to Moash and the other guards. “Close the door. I’d like to speak to Captain Kaladin.”

  They obeyed, though Moash went reluctantly. Dalinar walked up to Kaladin as the windows closed, giving them privacy. Despite his age, the highprince’s figure was an intimidating one, wide shouldered, built like a brick wall.

  “Sir,” Kaladin said. “I should have—”

  “This wasn’t your fault,” Dalinar said. “The king wasn’t under your care. Even if he was, I wouldn’t reprimand you—just as I won’t reprimand Idrin. I wouldn’t expect bodyguards to inspect architecture.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kaladin said.

  Dalinar knelt down to inspect the mountings. “You like to take responsibility for things, don’t you? A commendable attribute in an officer.” Dalinar rose and looked at the place where the rail had been cut. “What is your assessment?”

  “Someone definitely chipped at the mortar,” Kaladin said, “and sabotaged the railing.”

  Dalinar nodded. “I agree. This was a deliberate attempt on the king’s life.”

  “However . . . sir . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Whoever tried this is an idiot.”

  Dalinar looked to him, raising an eyebrow in the lantern light.

  “How could they know where the king would lean?” Kaladin said. “Or even that he would? This trap could easily have caught someone else, and then the would-be assassins would have exposed themselves for nothing. In fact, that is what happened. The king survived, and now we’re aware of them.”

  “We’ve been expecting assassins,” Dalinar said. “And not just because of the incident with the king’s armor. Half the powerful men in this camp are probably contemplating some kind of assassination attempt, so an attempt on Elhokar’s life doesn’t tell us as much as you’d think. As to how they knew to catch him here, he has a favorite spot for standing, leaning against the rail and looking out over the Shattered Plains. Anyone who watches his patterns would have known where to apply their sabotage.”

  “But sir,” Kaladin said, “it’s just so convoluted. If they have access to the king’s private chambers, then why not hide an assassin inside? Or use poison?”

  “Poison is as unlikely to work as this was,” Dalinar said, waving toward the railing. “The king’s food and drink is tasted. As for a hidden assassin, one might run into guards.” He stood up. “But I agree that such methods would probably have had a greater chance at success. The fact that they didn’t try it that way tells us something. Assuming these are the same people who planted those flawed gemstones in the king’s armor, they prefer nonconfrontational methods. It’s not that they’re idiots, they’re . . .”

  “They’re cowards,” Kaladin realized. “They want to make the assassination look like an accident. They’re timid. They may have waited this long so that suspicion would die down.”

  “Yes,” Dalinar said, rising, looking troubled.

  “This time, though, they made a big mistake.”

  “How?”

  Kaladin walked to the cut section he had inspected earlier and knelt down to rub the smooth section. “What cuts iron so cleanly?”

  Dalinar leaned down, inspecting the cut, then took out a sphere for more light. He grunted. “It’s supposed to look like the joint came apart, I’d guess.”

  “And does it?” Kaladin asked.

  “No. That was a Shardblade.”

  “Narrows down our suspects a tad, I’d think.”

  Dalinar nodded. “Don’t tell anyone else. We’ll hide that we noticed the Shardblade cut, maybe gain an edge. It’s too late to pretend that we think this was an accident, but we don’t have to reveal everything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The king is insisting that I put you in charge of guarding him,” Dalinar said. “We might have to move up our timetable for that.”

  “I’m not ready,” Kaladin said. “My men are stretched thin with the duties they already have.”

  “I know,” Dalinar said softly. He seemed hesitant. “This was done by someone on the inside, you realize.”

  Kaladin felt cold.

  “The king’s own chambers? That means a servant. Or one of his guards. Men in the King’s Guard might have had access to his armor, too.” Dalinar looked at Ka
ladin, face lit by the sphere in his hand. A strong face, with a nose that had once been broken. Blunt. Real. “I don’t know whom I can trust these days. Can I trust you, Kaladin Stormblessed?”

  “Yes. I swear it.”

  Dalinar nodded. “I’m going to relieve Idrin of this post and assign him to a command in my army. It will sate the king, but I’ll make certain Idrin knows he isn’t being punished. I suspect he’ll enjoy the new command more anyway.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll ask him for his best men,” Dalinar said, “and those will be under your command for now. Use them as little as possible. I eventually want the king being guarded only by men from the bridge crews—men you trust, men who have no part in warcamp politics. Choose carefully. I don’t want to replace potential traitors with former thieves who can be easily bought.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kaladin said, feeling a large weight settle on his shoulders.

  Dalinar stood up. “I don’t know what else to do. A man needs to be able to trust his own guards.” He walked back toward the door into the room. The tone of his voice sounded deeply troubled.

  “Sir?” Kaladin asked. “This wasn’t the assassination attempt you were expecting, was it?”

  “No,” Dalinar said, hand on the doorknob. “I agree with your assessment. This wasn’t the work of someone who knows what they’re doing. Considering how contrived it was, I’m actually surprised at how close it came to working.” He leveled his gaze at Kaladin. “If Sadeas decides to strike—or, worse, the assassin who claimed my brother’s life—it will not go so well for us. The storm is yet to come.”

  He pulled open the door, letting out the complaints of the king, which had been muffled behind it. Elhokar was ranting that nobody took his safety seriously, that nobody listened, that they should be looking for the things he saw over his shoulder in the mirror, whatever that meant. The tirade sounded like the whining of a spoiled child.

  Kaladin looked at the twisted rail, imagining the king dangling from it. He had good reason to be out of sorts. But then, wasn’t a king supposed to be better than that? Didn’t his Calling demand that he be able to keep his composure under pressure? Kaladin found it difficult to imagine Dalinar reacting with such ranting, regardless of the situation.

  Your job isn’t to judge, he told himself, waving to Syl and walking away from the balcony. Your job is to protect these people.

  Somehow.

  Decayform destroys the souls of dreams.

  A form of gods to avoid, it seems.

  Seek not its touch, nor beckon its screams, deny it.

  Watch where you walk, your toes to tread,

  O’er hill or rocky riverbed

  Hold dear the fears that fill your head, defy it.

  —From the Listener Song of Secrets, 27th stanza

  “Well, you see,” Gaz said as he sanded the wood on Shallan’s wagon. She sat nearby, listening as she worked. “Most of us, we joined the fight at the Shattered Plains for revenge, you know? Those marbles killed the king. It was gonna be this grand thing and such. A fight for vengeance, a way to show the world that the Alethi don’t stand for betrayal.”

  “Yeah,” Red agreed. The lanky, bearded soldier pulled free a bar from her wagon. With this one removed, it left only three at each corner to hold up the roof. He dropped the bar with satisfaction, then dusted off his work gloves. This would help transform the vehicle from a rolling cage into a conveyance more suitable for a lighteyed lady.

  “I remember it,” Red continued, sitting down on the wagon’s bed, legs dangling. “The call to arms came to us from Highprince Vamah himself, and it moved through Farcoast like a bad stench. Every second man of age joined the cause. People wondered if you were a coward if you went to the pub for a drink but didn’t wear a recruit’s patch. I joined up with five of my buddies. They’re all dead now, rotting in those storm-cursed chasms.”

  “So you just . . . got tired of fighting?” Shallan asked. She had a desk now. Well, a table—a small piece of travel furniture that could be taken apart easily. They’d moved it out of the wagon, and she was using it to review some of Jasnah’s notes.

  The caravan was making camp as the day waned; they’d traveled well today, but Shallan wasn’t pushing them hard, after what they’d all been through. After four days of travel, they were approaching the section of the corridor where bandit strikes were much less likely. They were getting close to the Shattered Plains, and the safety they offered.

  “Tired of fighting?” Gaz said, chuckling as he took a hinge and began nailing it in place. Occasionally, he would glance to the side, a kind of nervous tic. “Damnation, no. It wasn’t us, it was the storming lighteyes! No offense intended, Brightness. But storm them, and storm them good!”

  “They stopped fighting to win,” Red softly added. “And they started fighting for spheres.”

  “Every day,” Gaz said. “Every storming day, we’d get up and fight on those plateaus. And we wouldn’t make any progress. Who cared if we made progress? It was the gemhearts the highprinces were after. And there we were, locked into virtual slavery by our military oaths. No right of travel as good citizens should have, since we’d enlisted. We were dying, bleeding, and suffering so they could get rich! That was all. So we left. A bunch of us who drank together, though we served different highprinces. We left them and their war behind.”

  “Now, Gaz,” Red said. “That isn’t everything. Be honest with the lady. Didn’t you owe some spheres to the debtmongers too? What was that you told us about being one step from being turned into a bridgeman—”

  “Here now,” Gaz said. “That’s my old life. Ain’t nothing in that old life that matters anymore.” He finished with the hammer. “Besides. Brightness Shallan said our debts would be taken care of.”

  “Everything will be forgiven,” Shallan said.

  “See?”

  “Except your breath,” she added.

  Gaz looked up, a blush rising on his scarred face, but Red just laughed. After a moment, Gaz gave in to chuckling. There was something desperately affable about these soldiers. They had seized the chance to live a normal life again and were determined to hold to it. There hadn’t been a single problem with discipline in the days they’d been together, and they were quick, even eager, to be of service to her.

  Evidence of that came as Gaz folded the side of her wagon back up—then opened a latch and lowered a small window to let the light in. He gestured with a smile at his new window. “Maybe not nice enough to befit a lighteyed lady, but at least you’ll be able to see out now.”

  “Not bad,” Red said, clapping slowly. “Why didn’t you tell us you’d trained as a carpenter?”

  “I haven’t trained as one,” Gaz said, expression turning oddly solemn. “I spent some time around a lumberyard, that’s all. You pick up a few things.”

  “It’s very nice, Gaz,” Shallan said. “I appreciate it deeply.”

  “It’s nothing. You should probably have one on the other side too. I’ll see if I can scrounge another hinge off the merchants.”

  “Already kissing the feet of our new master, Gaz?” Vathah stepped up to the group. Shallan hadn’t noticed him approaching.

  The leader of the former deserters held a small bowl of steaming curry from the dinner cauldron. Shallan could smell the pungent peppers. While it would have made a nice change from the stew she’d eaten with the slavers, the caravan had proper women’s food, which she was obliged to eat. Maybe she could sneak a bite of the curry when nobody was looking.

  “You didn’t ever offer to make things like this for me, Gaz,” Vathah said, dipping his bread and tearing off a chunk with his teeth. He spoke while chewing. “You seem happy to have been made a servant to the lighteyes again. It’s a wonder your shirt isn’t torn up from all the crawling and scraping you’ve been doing.”

  Gaz blushed again.

  “So far as I know, Vathah,” Shallan said, “you didn’t have a wagon. So what is it you’d have wanted Gaz to make
a window in? Your head, perhaps? I’m certain we can arrange that.”

  Vathah smiled as he ate, though it wasn’t a particularly pleasant smile. “Did he tell you about the money he owes?”

  “We will handle that problem when the time comes.”

  “This lot is going to be more trouble than you think, little lighteyes,” Vathah said, shaking his head as he dipped his bread again. “Going right back to where they were before.”

  “This time they’ll be heroes for rescuing me.”

  He snorted. “This lot will never be heroes. They’re crem, Brightness. Pure and simple.”

  Nearby Gaz looked down and Red turned away, but neither disagreed with the assessment.

  “You’re trying very hard to beat them down, Vathah,” Shallan said, standing. “Are you that afraid of being wrong? One would assume you’d be accustomed to it by now.”

  He grunted. “Be careful, girl. You wouldn’t want to accidentally insult a man.”

  “The last thing I’d want to do is accidentally insult you, Vathah,” Shallan said. “To think that I couldn’t manage it on purpose if I wanted!”

  He looked at her, then flushed and took a moment, trying to come up with a response.

  Shallan cut in before he could do so. “I’m not surprised you’re at a loss for words, as it’s also an experience I’m sure you’re accustomed to. You must feel it every time someone asks you a challenging question—such as the color of your shirt.”

  “Cute,” he said. “But words aren’t going to change these men or the troubles they are in.”

  “On the contrary,” Shallan said, meeting his eyes, “in my experience, words are where most change begins. I have promised them a second chance. I will keep my promise.”

  Vathah grunted, but wandered away without further comment. Shallan sighed, sitting down and returning to her work. “That one always walks around acting like a chasmfiend ate his mother,” she said with a grimace. “Or perhaps the chasmfiend was his mother.”

  Red laughed. “If you don’t mind me saying, Brightness. You have quite the clever tongue on you!”

  “I’ve never actually had someone’s tongue on me,” Shallan said, turning a page and not looking up, “clever or not. I’d hazard to consider it an unpleasant experience.”