Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  Dalinar cleared his throat. Shallan blinked. She’d completely forgotten that the highprince was there.

  “Adolin,” he said, “fetch me some wine.”

  “Father?” Adolin turned to him. “Oh. All right, then.” He walked off. Ash’s eyes, that man was handsome. She turned to Dalinar who, well, wasn’t. Oh, he was distinguished, but his nose had been broken at some point, and his face was a tad unfortunate. The bruises didn’t help either.

  In fact, he was downright intimidating.

  “I would know more of you,” he said softly, “the precise status of your family, and why you are so eager to be involved with my son.”

  “My family is destitute,” Shallan said. Frankness seemed the right approach with this man. “My father is dead, though the people to whom we owe money do not yet know it. I had not considered a union with Adolin until Jasnah suggested it, but I would seize it eagerly, if allowed. Marriage into your house would provide my family with a great deal of protection.”

  She still didn’t know what to do about the Soulcaster her brothers owed. One step at a time.

  Dalinar grunted. He wouldn’t have expected her to be so direct. “So you have nothing to offer,” he said.

  “From what Jasnah said to me of your opinions,” Shallan said, “I did not assume that my monetary or political offerings would be your first consideration. If such a union was your goal, you’d have had Prince Adolin married off years ago.” She winced at her forwardness. “With all due respect, Brightlord.”

  “No offense taken,” Dalinar said. “I like it when people are direct. Just because I want to let my son have a say in the matter doesn’t mean I don’t want him to marry well. A woman from a minor foreign house who professes her family is destitute and who brings nothing to the union?”

  “I did not say I could offer nothing,” Shallan replied. “Brightlord, how many wards has Jasnah Kholin taken in the last ten years?”

  “None that I know of,” he admitted.

  “Do you know how many she has turned away?”

  “I’ve an inkling.”

  “Yet she took me. Might that not constitute an endorsement of what I can offer?”

  Dalinar nodded slowly. “We will maintain the causal for now,” he said. “The reason I agreed to it in the first place still stands—I want Adolin to be seen as unavailable to those who would manipulate him for political gain. If you can somehow persuade me, Brightness Navani, and of course the lad himself, we can progress the causal to a full betrothal. In the meantime, I’ll give you a position among my lesser clerks. You can prove yourself there.”

  The offer, though generous, felt like ropes tightening about her. The stipend of a lesser clerk would be enough to live on, but nothing to brag about. And she had no doubt that Dalinar would be watching her. Those eyes of his were scarily discerning. She wouldn’t be able to move without her actions being reported to him.

  His charity would be her prison.

  “That is generous of you, Brightlord,” she found herself saying, “but I actually have—”

  “Dalinar!” one of the others in the room called. “Are we going to start this meeting again sometime today, or am I going to have to order in a proper dinner!”

  Dalinar turned toward a plump, bearded man in traditional clothing—an open-fronted robe over a loose shirt and warrior’s skirt, called a takama. Highprince Sebarial, Shallan thought. Jasnah’s notes dismissed him as obnoxious and useless. She’d had kinder words even for Highprince Sadeas, whom she had noted was not to be trusted.

  “Fine, fine, Sebarial,” Dalinar said, breaking away from Shallan and walking to a group of seats in the center of the room. He settled down in one beside the desk there. A proud man with a prominent nose settled down next to him. That would be the king, Elhokar. He was younger than Shallan had pictured. Why had Sebarial called on Dalinar to reconvene the meeting, and not the king?

  The next few moments were a test of Shallan’s preparation as highborn men and women settled themselves in the lavish chairs. Beside each one was a small table and behind that, a master-servant for important needs. A number of parshmen kept the tables filled with wine, nuts, and fresh and dried fruit. Shallan shivered each time one of those passed her.

  She counted the highprinces off in her head. Sadeas was easy to pick out, red-faced from visible veins under the skin, like her father had displayed after drinking. Others nodded to him and let him seat himself first. He seemed to command as much respect as Dalinar. His wife, Ialai, was a slender-necked woman with thick lips, large bust, and a wide mouth. Jasnah had noted that she was as shrewd as her husband.

  Two highprinces sat to either side of the couple. One was Aladar, a renowned duelist. The short man was listed in Jasnah’s notes as a powerful highprince, fond of taking risks, known to gamble in the type of games of random chance that the devotaries forbade. He and Sadeas seemed to be on very friendly terms. Weren’t they enemies? She’d read that they often squabbled over lands. Well, that was obviously a broken stone, for they seemed united as they regarded Dalinar.

  Joining them were Highprince Ruthar and his wife. Jasnah considered them to be little more than thieves, but warned that the pair were dangerous and opportunistic.

  The room seemed oriented so that all eyes were on those two factions. The king and Dalinar against Sadeas, Ruthar, and Aladar. Obviously, the political alignments had changed since Jasnah made her notes.

  The room hushed, and nobody seemed to care that Shallan was watching. Adolin took a seat behind his father, next to a younger man in spectacles and an empty seat probably vacated by Navani. Shallan carefully rounded the room—the peripheries were clogged with guards, attendants, and even some men in Shardplate—getting out of Dalinar’s direct line of sight, just in case he noticed her and decided to eject her.

  Brightlady Jayla Ruthar spoke first, leaning forward over clasped hands. “Your Majesty,” she said, “I fear that our conversation this day has run in circles, and that nothing is being accomplished. Your safety is, of course, our greatest concern.”

  Across the circle of highprinces, Sebarial snorted loudly as he chewed on slices of melon. Everyone else seemed to pointedly ignore the obnoxious, bearded man.

  “Yes,” Aladar said. “The Assassin in White. We must do something. I will not wait in my palace to be assassinated.”

  “He is murdering princes and kings all across the world!” Roion added. The man looked like a turtle to Shallan, with those hunched shoulders and that balding head. What had Jasnah said about him . . . ?

  That he’s a coward, Shallan thought. He always chooses the safe option.

  “We must present a unified Alethkar,” Hatham said—she recognized him immediately, with that long neck and refined way of speaking. “We must not allow ourselves to be attacked one at a time, and we must not squabble.”

  “That’s precisely why you should follow my commands,” the king said, frowning at the highprinces.

  “No,” Ruthar said, “it is why we must abandon these ludicrous restrictions you have placed upon us, Your Majesty! This is not a time to look foolish before the world.”

  “Listen to Ruthar,” Sebarial said dryly, leaning back in his chair. “He’s an expert at looking like a fool.”

  The arguing continued, and Shallan got a better feel for the room. There were actually three factions. Dalinar and the king, the team with Sadeas, and what she dubbed the peacemakers. Led by Hatham—who seemed, when he spoke, the most natural politician in the room—this third group sought to mediate.

  So that’s what it’s really about, she thought, listening as Ruthar argued with the king and Adolin Kholin. They’re each trying to persuade these neutral highprinces to join their faction.

  Dalinar said little. The same for Sadeas, who seemed content to let Highprince Ruthar and his wife speak for him. The two watched each other, Dalinar with a neutral expression, Sadeas with a faint smile. It seemed innocent enough until you saw their eyes. Locked on to one another,
rarely blinking.

  There was a storm in this room. A silent one.

  Everyone seemed to fall into one of the three factions except for Sebarial, who kept rolling his eyes, occasionally throwing out commentary that bordered on the obscene. He obviously made the other Alethi, with their haughty airs, uncomfortable.

  Shallan slowly picked apart the conversation’s subtext. This talk of prohibitions and rules placed by the king . . . it wasn’t the rules themselves that seemed to matter, but the authority behind them. How much would the highprinces submit to the king, and how much autonomy could they demand? It was fascinating.

  Right up to the moment when one of them mentioned her.

  “Wait,” said Vamah—one of the neutral highprinces. “Who is that girl over there? Does someone have a Veden in their retinue?”

  “She was speaking with Dalinar,” Roion said. “Is there news of Jah Keved that you’re keeping from us, Dalinar?”

  “You, girl,” said Ialai Sadeas. “What can you tell us of your homeland’s succession war? Do you have information on this assassin? Why would someone in the employ of the Parshendi seek to undermine your throne?”

  All eyes in the room turned toward Shallan. She felt a moment of sheer panic. The most important people in the world, interrogating her, their eyes drilling into her—

  And then she remembered the drawing. That was who she was.

  “Alas,” Shallan said, “I will be of little use to you, Brightlords and Brightladies. I was away from my homeland when that tragic assassination occurred, and I have no insight into its cause.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Hatham asked, polite, but insistent.

  “She’s watching the zoo, obviously,” Sebarial said. “The lot of you making fools of yourselves is the best free entertainment to be found in this frozen wasteland.”

  It probably was wise to ignore that one. “I am the ward of Jasnah Kholin,” Shallan said, meeting Hatham’s eyes. “My purpose here is of a personal nature.”

  “Ah,” Aladar said. “The phantom betrothal I’ve heard rumors of.”

  “That’s right,” Ruthar said. He had a decidedly oily look about him, with dark slicked hair, burly arms, and a beard around the mouth. Most disturbing, however, was that smile of his—a smile that seemed far too predatory. “Child, what would it take for you to visit my warcamp and speak to my scribes? I need to know what is happening in Jah Keved.”

  “I will do better than that,” Roion said. “Where are you staying, girl? I offer an invitation to visit my palace. I too would hear of your homeland.”

  But . . . she’d just said she didn’t know anything . . .

  Shallan dredged up Jasnah’s training. They didn’t care about Jah Keved. They wanted to get information about her betrothal—they suspected that there was more to the story.

  The two who had just invited her were among those Jasnah rated the least politically savvy. The others—like Aladar and Hatham—would wait until a private time to make the invitation, so they didn’t reveal their interest in public.

  “Your concern is unwarranted, Roion,” Dalinar said. “She is, of course, staying in my warcamp and has a position among my clerks.”

  “Actually,” Shallan said, “I didn’t get a chance to respond to your offer, Brightlord Kholin. I would love the opportunity to be in your service, but alas, I have already taken a position in another warcamp.”

  Stunned silence.

  She knew what she wanted to say next. A huge gamble, one of which Jasnah would never have approved. She found herself speaking anyway, trusting her instincts. It worked in art, after all.

  “Brightlord Sebarial,” Shallan said, looking toward the bearded man that Jasnah so thoroughly detested, “was the first to offer me a position and invite me to stay with him.”

  The man almost choked on his wine. He looked up over the cup toward her, narrowing his eyes.

  She shrugged with what she hoped was an innocent gesture, and smiled. Please . . .

  “Uh, that’s right,” Sebarial said, leaning back. “She’s a distant family relation. Couldn’t possibly live with myself if I didn’t give her a place to stay.”

  “His offer was quite generous,” Shallan said. “Three full broams a week support.”

  Sebarial’s eyes bugged out.

  “I wasn’t aware of this,” Dalinar said, looking from Sebarial to her.

  “I’m sorry, Brightlord,” Shallan said. “I should have told you. I didn’t find it appropriate to be staying in the house of someone who was courting me. Surely you understand.”

  He frowned. “What I’m having trouble understanding is why anyone would want to be closer to Sebarial than they need to be.”

  “Oh, Uncle Sebarial is quite tolerable, once you get used to him,” Shallan said. “Like a very annoying noise that you eventually learn to ignore.”

  Most seemed horrified at her comment, though Aladar smiled. Sebarial—as she’d hoped—laughed out loud.

  “I guess that is settled,” Ruthar said, dissatisfied. “I do hope you’ll at least be willing to come brief me.”

  “Give it up, Ruthar,” Sebarial said. “She’s too young for you. Though with you involved, I’m sure it would be brief.”

  Ruthar sputtered. “I wasn’t implying . . . You moldy old . . . Bah!”

  Shallan was glad that attention then turned from her back to the topics at hand, because that last comment had her blushing. Sebarial was inappropriate. Still, he seemed to be making an effort to leave himself out of these political discussions, and that seemed like the place where Shallan wanted to be. The position with the most freedom. She would still work with Dalinar and Navani on Jasnah’s notes, but she didn’t want to be beholden to them.

  Who is to say being beholden to this man is any different? Shallan thought, rounding the room to approach where Sebarial sat, without wife or family members to attend him. He was unmarried.

  “Almost threw you out on your ear, girl,” Sebarial said quietly, sipping his wine and not looking at her. “Stupid move, putting yourself in my hands. Everyone knows I like to set things on fire and watch them burn.”

  “And yet you didn’t throw me out,” she said. “So it wasn’t a stupid move. Merely a risk that paid rewards.”

  “Still might drop you. I’m certainly not paying that three broams. That’s almost as much as my mistress costs, and at least I get something from that arrangement.”

  “You’ll pay,” Shallan said. “It’s a matter of public record now. But don’t worry. I will earn my keep.”

  “You have information about Kholin?” Sebarial asked, studying his wine.

  So he did care.

  “Information, yes,” Shallan said. “Less about Kholin, and more about the world itself. Trust me, Sebarial. You’ve just entered into a very profitable arrangement.”

  She’d have to figure out why that was.

  The others continued arguing about the Assassin in White, and she gathered that he had attacked here but had been fought off. As Aladar steered the conversation to a complaint that his gemstones were being taken by the Crown—Shallan didn’t know the reason they’d been seized—Dalinar Kholin slowly stood up. He moved like a rolling boulder. Inevitable, implacable.

  Aladar trailed off.

  “I passed a curious pile of stones along my path,” Dalinar said. “Of a type I found remarkable. The fractured shale had been weathered by highstorms, blown up against stone of a more durable nature. This pile of thin wafers lay as if stacked by some mortal hand.”

  The others looked at Dalinar as if he were mad. Something about the words tugged at Shallan’s memory. They were a quotation from something she’d once read.

  Dalinar turned, walking toward the open windows on the leeward side of the room. “But no man had stacked these stones. Precarious though they looked, they were actually quite solid, a formation from once-buried strata now exposed to open air. I wondered how it was possible they remained in such a neat stack, with the fury of th
e tempests blowing against them.

  “I soon ascertained their true nature. I found that force from one direction pushed them back against one another and the rock behind. No amount of pressure I could produce in that manner caused them to shift. And yet, when I removed one stone from the bottom—pulling it out instead of pushing it in—the entire formation collapsed in a miniature avalanche.”

  The room’s occupants stared at him until Sebarial finally spoke for all of them. “Dalinar,” the plump man said, “what in Damnation’s eleventh name are you on about?”

  “Our methods aren’t working,” Dalinar said, looking back at the lot of them. “Years at war, and we find ourselves in the same position as before. We can no more fight this assassin now than on the night he killed my brother. The king of Jah Keved put three Shardbearers and half an army up against the creature, then died with a Blade through the chest, his Shards left to be scavenged by opportunists.

  “If we cannot defeat the assassin, then we must remove his reason for attacking. If we can capture or eliminate his employers, then perhaps we can invalidate whatever contract binds him. Last we knew, he was employed by the Parshendi.”

  “Great,” Ruthar said dryly. “All we have to do is win the war, which we’ve only been trying to do for five years.”

  “We haven’t been trying,” Dalinar said. “Not hard enough. I intend to make peace with the Parshendi. If they will not have it on our terms, then I will set out into the Shattered Plains with my army and any who will join me. No more games on plateaus, fighting over gemhearts. I will strike toward the Parshendi camp, find it, and defeat them once and for all.”

  The king sighed softly, leaning back behind his desk. Shallan guessed he’d been expecting this.

  “Out onto the Shattered Plains,” Sadeas said. “That sounds like a marvelous thing for you to try.”

  “Dalinar,” Hatham said, speaking with obvious care, “I don’t see that our situation has changed. The Shattered Plains are still largely unexplored, and the Parshendi camp could be literally anywhere out there, hidden among miles and miles of terrain that our army cannot traverse without great difficulty. We agreed that attacking their camp was imprudent, so long as they were willing to come to us.”