Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  “Their willingness to come to us, Hatham,” Dalinar said, “has proved to be a problem, because it puts the battle on their terms. No, our situation hasn’t changed. Merely our resolve. This war has persisted far too long already. I will finish it, one way or another.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Sadeas repeated. “Will you be off tomorrow or wait until the next day?”

  Dalinar gave him a disdainful look.

  “Just trying to estimate when there will be an open warcamp,” Sadeas said innocently. “I’ve almost outgrown mine, and wouldn’t mind spilling into a second once the Parshendi slaughter you and yours. To think, after all the trouble you got yourself into by getting surrounded out there, that you’re going to go do it again.”

  Adolin stood up behind his father, face red, angerspren bubbling at his feet like pools of blood. His brother coaxed him back down into his seat. There was something here, obviously, that Shallan was missing.

  I wandered into the middle of all this without nearly enough context, she thought. Storms, I’m lucky I haven’t been chewed up already. Suddenly, she wasn’t quite so proud of her accomplishments this day.

  “Before the highstorm last night,” Dalinar said, “we had a messenger from the Parshendi—the first willing to speak with us in ages. He said that his leaders wished to discuss the possibility of peace.”

  The highprinces looked stunned. Peace? Shallan thought, heart leaping. That would certainly make it easier to get out and search for Urithiru.

  “That very night,” Dalinar said softly, “the assassin struck. Again. Last time he came was just after we had signed a peace treaty with the Parshendi. Now, he comes again the day of another peace offer.”

  “Those bastards,” Aladar said softly. “Is this some kind of twisted ritual of theirs?”

  “It might be a coincidence,” Dalinar said. “The assassin has been striking all over the world. Surely the Parshendi haven’t contacted all of these people. However, the events make me wary. Almost, I wonder if the Parshendi are being framed—if someone is using this assassin to make certain that Alethkar never knows peace. But then, the Parshendi did claim to have hired him to kill my brother. . . .”

  “Maybe they’re desperate,” Roion said, hunkering down in his chair. “One faction among them sues for peace while the other does whatever it can to destroy us.”

  “Either way, I intend to plan for the worst,” Dalinar said, looking to Sadeas. “I will be making my way to the center of the Shattered Plains—either to defeat the Parshendi for good, or to accept their surrender and disarmament—but such an expedition will take time to arrange. I’ll need to train my men for an extended operation and send scouts to map farther into the middle of the Plains. Beyond that, I need to choose some new Shardbearers.”

  “. . . new Shardbearers?” Roion asked, turtle-like head rising in curiosity.

  “I will soon come into the possession of more Shards,” Dalinar said.

  “And are we allowed to know the source of this amazing trove?” Aladar asked.

  “Why, Adolin is going to win them from all of you,” Dalinar said.

  Some of the others chuckled, as if it were a joke. Dalinar did not seem to intend it as one. He sat back down, and the others took this as marking an end to the meeting—once again, it seemed that Dalinar, and not the king, truly led.

  The entire balance of power has shifted here, Shallan thought. As has the nature of the war. Jasnah’s notes about the court were definitely outdated.

  “Well, I suppose you’re going to accompany me back to my camp now,” Sebarial said to her, rising. “Which means this meeting wasn’t just the usual waste of time listening to blowhards make veiled threats to one another—it actually cost me money as well.”

  “It could be worse,” Shallan said, helping the older man rise, as he seemed somewhat unsteady on his feet. That passed once he was standing, and he pulled his arm free.

  “Worse? How?”

  “I could be boring as well as expensive.”

  He looked at her, then laughed. “I suppose that’s true. Well, come on then.”

  “Just a moment,” Shallan said, “you go on ahead, and I’ll catch up at your carriage.”

  She walked off, seeking the king, to whom she personally delivered news of Jasnah’s death. He took it well, with regal dignity. Dalinar had probably already informed him.

  That task done, she sought out the king’s scribes. A short time later, she left the conference chamber and found Vathah and Gaz waiting nervously outside. She handed a sheet of paper to Vathah.

  “What’s this?” he asked, twisting it about.

  “Writ of pardon,” she said. “Sealed by the king. It’s for you and your men. We’ll soon receive specific ones with their names on them, but meanwhile this will keep you from being arrested.”

  “You actually did it?” Vathah asked, looking it over, though he obviously couldn’t make sense of the writing. “Storms, you actually kept your word?”

  “Of course I did,” Shallan said. “Note that it only covers past crimes, so tell the men to be on their best behavior. Now, let’s be going. I have arranged a place for us to stay.”

  FOUR YEARS AGO

  Father held feasts because he wanted to pretend that everything was all right. He invited local brightlords from nearby hamlets, he fed them and gave them wine, he displayed his daughter.

  Then, the next day after everyone was gone, he sat at his table and listened to his scribes tell him how impoverished he had grown. Shallan saw him afterward sometimes, holding his forehead, staring straight ahead at nothing.

  For tonight, however, they feasted and pretended.

  “You’ve met my daughter, of course,” Father said, gesturing to Shallan as his guests were seated. “The jewel of House Davar, our pride above all others.”

  The visitors—lighteyes from two valleys over—nodded politely as Father’s parshmen brought wine. Both the drink and the slaves were a way to display riches Father didn’t actually possess. Shallan had begun helping with the accounts, her duty as daughter. She knew the truth of their finances.

  The evening’s chill was offset by the crackling hearth; this room might have felt homey somewhere else. Not here.

  The servants poured her wine. Yellow, mildly intoxicating. Father drank violet, prepared in its strength. He settled himself down at the high table, which ran the width of the room—the same room where Helaran had threatened to kill him a year and a half ago. They’d received a brief letter from Helaran six months back, along with a book by the famous Jasnah Kholin for Shallan to read.

  Shallan had read his note to her father in a trembling whisper. It hadn’t said much. Mostly veiled threats. That night, Father had beaten one of the maids near to death. Isan still walked with a limp. The servants no longer gossiped about Father having killed his wife.

  Nobody does anything at all to resist him, Shallan thought, glancing toward her father. We’re all too scared.

  Shallan’s three other brothers sat in a huddled knot at their own table. They avoided looking at their father or interacting with the guests. Several small sphere goblets glowed on the tables, but the room as a whole could have used more light. Neither spheres nor hearthlight were enough to drive out the gloom. She thought that her father liked it that way.

  The visiting lighteyes—Brightlord Tavinar—was a slender, well-dressed man with a deep red silk coat. He and his wife sat close together at the high table, their teenaged daughter between them. Shallan had not caught her name.

  As the evening progressed, Father tried to speak to them a few times, but they gave only terse responses. For all that it was supposed to be a feast, nobody seemed to be enjoying themselves. The visitors looked as if they wished they’d never accepted the invitation, but Father was more politically important than they, and good relations with him would be valuable.

  Shallan picked at her own food, listening to her father boast about his new axehound breeding stud. He spoke of their prosperi
ty. Lies.

  She did not want to contradict him. He had been good to her. He was always good to her. Yet, shouldn’t someone do something?

  Helaran might have. He’d left them.

  It’s growing worse and worse. Someone needs to do something, say something, to change Father. He shouldn’t be doing the things that he did, growing drunk, beating the darkeyes . . .

  The first course passed. Then Shallan noticed something. Balat—whom Father had started calling Nan Balat, as if he were the oldest—kept glancing at the guests. That was surprising. He usually ignored them.

  Tavinar’s daughter caught his eye, smiled, then looked back at her food. Shallan blinked. Balat . . . and a girl? How odd to consider.

  Father didn’t seem to notice. He eventually stood and raised his cup to the room. “Tonight, we celebrate. Good neighbors, strong wine.”

  Tavinar and his wife hesitantly raised their cups. Shallan had only just begun to study propriety—it was hard to do, as her tutors kept leaving—but she knew that a good Vorin brightlord was not supposed to celebrate drunkenness. Not that they wouldn’t get drunk, but it was the Vorin way not to talk about it. Such niceties were not her father’s strong point.

  “It is an important night,” Father said after taking a sip of his wine. “I have just received word from Brightlord Gevelmar, whom I believe you know, Tavinar. I have been without a wife for too long. Brightlord Gevelmar is sending his youngest daughter along with writs of marriage. My ardents will perform the service at the end of the month, and I will have a wife.”

  Shallan felt cold. She pulled her shawl closer. The aforementioned ardents sat at their own table, dining silently. The three men were greying in equal measure, and had served long enough to know Shallan’s grandfather as a youth. They treated her with kindness, however, and studying with them brought her pleasure when all other things seemed to be collapsing.

  “Why does nobody speak?” Father demanded, turning around the room. “I have just become betrothed! You look like a bunch of storming Alethi. We’re Veden! Make some noise, you idiots.”

  The visitors clapped politely, though they looked even more uncomfortable than they had before. Balat and the twins shared looks, and then lightly thumped the table.

  “To the void with all of you.” Father slumped back into his chair as his parshmen approached the low table, each bearing a box. “Gifts for my children to mark the occasion,” Father said with a wave of the hand. “Don’t know why I bother. Bah!” He drank the rest of his wine.

  The boys got daggers, very fine pieces engraved like Shardblades. Shallan’s gift was a necklace of fat silvery links. She held it silently. Father didn’t like her speaking much at feasts, though he always placed her table close to the high table.

  He never shouted at her. Not directly. Sometimes, she wished he would. Maybe then Jushu wouldn’t resent her so. It—

  The door to the feast hall slammed open. The poor light revealed a tall man in dark clothing standing at the threshold.

  “What is this!” Father demanded, rising, slamming his hands on the table. “Who interrupts my feast?”

  The man strode in. His face was so long and slender, it looked as if it had been pinched. He wore ruffles at the cuffs of his soft maroon coat, and the way he pursed his lips made him look as if he’d just found a latrine that had overflowed in the rain.

  One of his eyes was intense blue. The other dark brown. Both lighteyed and dark. Shallan felt a chill.

  A Davar house servant dashed up to the high table, then whispered to Father. Shallan did not catch what was said, but whatever it was, it drained the thunder right out of Father’s expression. He remained standing, but his jaw dropped.

  A handful of servants in maroon livery filed in around the newcomer. He stepped forward with a precise air, as if choosing his steps with some care to avoid stepping in anything. “I have been sent by His Highness, Highprince Valam, ruler of these lands. It has come to his attention that dark rumors persist in these lands. Rumors regarding the death of a lighteyed woman.” He met Father’s eyes.

  “My wife was killed by her lover,” Father said. “Who then killed himself.”

  “Others tell a different story, Brightlord Lin Davar,” the newcomer said. “Such rumors are . . . troublesome. They provoke dissatisfaction with His Highness. If a brightlord under his rule were to have murdered a lighteyed woman of rank, it is not something he can ignore.”

  Father did not respond with the outrage Shallan would have predicted. Instead he waved his hands toward Shallan and the visitors. “Away,” he said. “Give me space. You there, messenger, let us speak alone. No need to drag mud into the hallway.”

  The Tavinars rose, looking all too eager to be going. The girl did glance back at Balat as they left, whispering softly.

  Father looked toward Shallan, and she realized she’d frozen in place again at the mention of her mother, sitting at her table just before the high table.

  “Child,” Father said softly, “go sit with your brothers.”

  She withdrew, passing the messenger as he stepped up to the high table. Those eyes . . . It was Redin, the highprince’s bastard son. His father used him as an executioner and assassin, it was said.

  Since her brothers hadn’t been explicitly banished from the room, they took chairs around the hearth, far enough away to give father privacy. They left a spot for Shallan, and she settled down, the fine silk of her dress rumpling. The voluminous way it enveloped her made her feel as if she weren’t really there and only the dress mattered.

  The highprince’s bastard settled down at the table with Father. At least someone was confronting him. But what if the highprince’s bastard decided Father was guilty? What then? Inquest? She didn’t want Father to fall; she wanted to stop the darkness that was slowly strangling them all. It seemed like their light had gone out when Mother died.

  When Mother . . .

  “Shallan?” Balat asked. “Are you well?”

  She shook herself. “Can I see the daggers? They looked quite fine from my table.”

  Wikim just stared at the fire, but Balat tossed his to her. She caught it clumsily, then pulled it from its sheath, admiring the way the metal folds reflected the hearthlight.

  The boys watched the flamespren dance on the fire. The three brothers never talked anymore.

  Balat glanced over his shoulder, toward the high table. “I wish I could hear what was being said,” he whispered. “Maybe they’ll drag him away. That would be fitting, for what he’s done.”

  “He didn’t kill Mother,” Shallan said softly.

  “Oh?” Balat snorted. “Then what did happen?”

  “I . . .”

  She didn’t know. She couldn’t think. Not of that time, that day. Had Father actually done it? She felt cold again, despite the fire’s warmth.

  The silence returned.

  Someone . . . someone needed to do something.

  “They’re talking about plants,” Shallan said.

  Balat and Jushu looked at her. Wikim continued staring at the fire.

  “Plants,” Balat said flatly.

  “Yes. I can hear them faintly.”

  “I can’t hear a thing.”

  Shallan shrugged from within her too-enveloping dress. “My ears are better than yours. Yes, plants. Father is complaining that the trees in his gardens never listen when he tells them to obey. ‘They have been dropping their leaves because of a sickness,’ he says, ‘and they refuse to grow new ones.’

  “‘Have you tried beating them for their disobedience?’ the messenger asks.

  “‘All the time,’ Father replies. ‘I even break off their limbs, yet they still do not obey! It is untidy. At the very least, they should clean up after themselves.’

  “‘A problem,’ the messenger says, ‘as trees without foliage are hardly worth keeping. Fortunately, I have the solution. My cousin once had trees that acted this way, and he found that all he needed to do was sing to them and their leaves poppe
d right back out.’

  “‘Ah, of course,’ Father says. ‘I will try that immediately.’

  “‘I hope that it works for you.’

  “‘Well, if it does, I will certainly be relieved.’”

  Her brothers stared at her, baffled.

  Finally, Jushu cocked his head. He was the youngest of the brothers, just above Shallan herself. “Re . . . leaf . . . ed . . .”

  Balat burst into laughter—loud enough that their father glared at them. “Oh, that is awful,” Balat said. “That is purely awful, Shallan. You should be ashamed.”

  She huddled down in her dress, grinning. Even Wikim, the older twin, cracked a smile. She hadn’t seen him smile in . . . how long?

  Balat wiped his eyes. “I actually thought, for a moment, you could really hear them. You little Voidbringer.” He let out a deep breath. “Storms, but that felt good.”

  “We should laugh more,” Shallan said.

  “This hasn’t been a place for laughter,” Jushu said, sipping his wine.

  “Because of Father?” Shallan asked. “There’s one of him and four of us. We just need to be more optimistic.”

  “Being optimistic does not change facts,” Balat said. “I wish Helaran hadn’t left.” He thumped his fist down on the side of his chair.

  “Do not begrudge him his travels, Tet Balat,” Shallan said softly. “There are so many places to see, places we will probably never visit. Let one of us go to them. Think of the stories he will bring back to us. The colors.”

  Balat looked across the drab blackrock room, with its muted hearths glowing red-orange. “Colors. I wouldn’t mind a little more color around here.”

  Jushu smiled. “Anything would be a nice change from Father’s face.”

  “Now, don’t be down on Father’s face,” Shallan said. “It’s quite adept at doing its duty.”