Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

“Which is?”

  “Reminding us all that there are worse things than his odor. It’s really quite a noble Calling.”

  “Shallan!” Wikim said. He looked dramatically unlike Jushu. Spindly and sunken-eyed, Wikim had hair cut so short he almost looked like an ardent. “Don’t say such things where Father could hear.”

  “He’s engrossed in conversation,” Shallan said. “But you are right. I probably shouldn’t mock our family. House Davar is distinctive and enduring.”

  Jushu raised his cup. Wikim nodded sharply.

  “Of course,” she added, “the same could be said for a wart.”

  Jushu just about spat out his wine. Balat let out another roaring laugh.

  “Stop that racket!” Father shouted at them.

  “It’s a feast!” Balat called back. “Did you not ask us to be more Veden!”

  Father glared at him, then returned to his conversation with the messenger. The two huddled together at the high table, Father’s posture supplicating, the highprince’s bastard sitting back with an arched eyebrow and a still face.

  “Storms, Shallan,” Balat said. “When did you become so clever?”

  Clever? She didn’t feel clever. Suddenly, the forwardness of what she’d said caused her to shrink back into her chair. These things, they’d simply slid out of her mouth. “Those are just things . . . just things I read in a book.”

  “Well, you should read more of those books, small one,” Balat said. “It seems brighter in here for it.”

  Father slammed his hand down on the table, shaking cups, rattling plates. Shallan glanced at him, worried as he pointed his finger at the messenger and said something. It was too soft and far away for Shallan to make it out, but she knew that look in her father’s eyes. She had seen it many times before he took his cane—or even once the fireplace poker—to one of the servants.

  The messenger stood up in a smooth motion. His refinement seemed a shield that rebuffed Father’s temper.

  Shallan envied him.

  “It appears I will get nowhere with this conversation,” the messenger said loudly. He looked at Father, but his tone seemed to imply that his words were for them all. “I came prepared for that inevitability. The highprince has given me authority, and I would very much like to know the truth of what happened in this household. Any lighteyes of birth who can provide witness will be welcomed.”

  “They need the testimony of a lighteyes,” Jushu said softly to his siblings. “Father is important enough that they can’t just remove him.”

  “There was one,” the messenger said loudly, “who was willing to speak to us of the truth. He has since made himself unavailable. Do any of you have his courage? Will you come with me and testify to the highprince of the crimes committed on these lands?”

  He looked toward the four of them. Shallan huddled in her chair, trying to look small. Wikim didn’t look away from the flames. Jushu looked like he might stand, but then turned to his wine, cursing, his face growing red.

  Balat. Balat grabbed the sides of his chair as if to stand, but then glanced at Father. That intensity in Father’s eyes remained. When his rage was red-hot, he yelled, he threw things at the servants.

  It was now, when his rage became cold, that he grew truly dangerous. This was when Father got quiet. This was when the yelling stopped.

  Father’s yelling, at least.

  “He’ll kill me,” Balat whispered. “If I say a word, he’ll kill me.” His earlier bravado melted away. He seemed not a man any longer, but a youth—a terrified teenager.

  “You could do it, Shallan,” Wikim hissed at her. “Father won’t dare hurt you. Besides, you actually saw what happened.”

  “I didn’t,” she whispered.

  “You were there!”

  “I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember it.”

  It didn’t happen. It didn’t.

  A log shifted in the hearth. Balat stared at the floor, and did not stand. None of them would. A whirling group of translucent flower petals stirred among them, fading into view. Shamespren.

  “I see,” the messenger said. “If any of you . . . remember the truth at some point in the future, you will find willing ears in Vedenar.”

  “You will not tear this house apart, bastard,” Father said, standing. “We stand by one another.”

  “Save for those who can no longer stand, I assume.”

  “Leave this house!”

  The messenger gave Father a look of disgust, a demeaning sneer. It said, I am a bastard, but even I am not as low as you. He then left, sweeping from the room and gathering his men outside, his terse orders indicating that he wished to be back on the road despite the late hour, on another errand beyond Father’s estates.

  Once he was gone, Father placed both of his hands on the table and breathed out deeply. “Go,” he said to the four of them, lowering his head.

  They hesitated.

  “Go!” Father roared.

  They fled the room, Shallan scrambling after her brothers. She was left with the sight of her father sinking down into his seat, holding his head. The gift he’d given her, the fine necklace, sat forgotten in the opened box on the table just before him.

  That they responded immediately and with great consternation is undeniable, as these were primary among those who would forswear and abandon their oaths. The term Recreance was not then applied, but has since become a popular title by which this event is named.

  —From Words of Radiance, chapter 38, page 6

  Sebarial shared his carriage with Shallan as they left the king’s palace and rode toward his warcamp. Pattern kept vibrating softly on the folds of her skirt, and she had to shush him.

  The highprince sat across from her, head tilted back against the cushioned wall, snoring softly as the carriage rattled. The ground here had been scraped clean of rockbuds and set with a line of flagstones down the center, to divide left from right.

  Her soldiers were safe, and would catch up later. She had a base of operations and an income. In the tension of the meeting, and then Navani’s withdrawal, the Kholin house hadn’t yet demanded that Shallan turn over Jasnah’s things. She still needed to approach Navani about helping with the research, but so far, the day had actually worked out quite well.

  Now Shallan just needed to save the world.

  Sebarial snorted and shook awake from his short nap. He settled into his seat, wiping his cheek. “You’ve changed.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You look younger. In there, I would have guessed you were twenty, maybe twenty-five. But now I see that you can’t be older than fourteen.”

  “I am seventeen,” Shallan said dryly.

  “Same difference.” Sebarial grunted. “I could have sworn your dress was more vibrant before, your features sharper, prettier . . . Must have been the light.”

  “Do you always make a habit of insulting the looks of young ladies?” Shallan asked. “Or is it only after you drool in front of them?”

  He grinned. “You weren’t trained in the court, obviously. I like that. But be careful—insult the wrong people in this place, and retribution can be swift.”

  Through the carriage window Shallan saw that they were finally approaching a warcamp flying Sebarial’s banner. It bore the glyphs sebes and laial stylized into a skyeel, deep gold on a black field.

  The soldiers at the gates saluted, and Sebarial gave orders for one to conduct Shallan’s men to his manor when they arrived. The carriage continued, and Sebarial settled back to watch her, as if anticipating something.

  She couldn’t fathom what. Perhaps she was reading him wrong. She turned her attention out the window, and soon decided that this place was a warcamp in name only. The streets were straighter than you might have in a city that had grown naturally, but Shallan saw far more civilians than she did soldiers.

  They passed taverns, open markets, shops, and tall buildings that surely could hold a dozen different families. People crowded many of the streets. The plac
e wasn’t as varied and vibrant as Kharbranth had been, but the buildings were of solid wood and stone, constructed up against one another to share support.

  “Rounded roofs,” Shallan said.

  “My engineers say they repel the winds better,” Sebarial said proudly. “Also, buildings with rounded corners and sides.”

  “So many people!”

  “Almost all permanent residents. I have the most complete force of tailors, artisans, and cooks in the camps. Already, I’ve set up twelve manufactories—textiles, shoes, ceramics, several mills. I control the glassblowers as well.”

  Shallan turned back toward him. That pride in his voice didn’t at all match what Jasnah had written of the man. Of course, most of her notes and knowledge of the highprinces came from infrequent visits to the Shattered Plains, and none had been recent.

  “From what I’ve heard,” Shallan said, “your forces are among the least successful in the war against the Parshendi.”

  Sebarial got a twinkle in his eyes. “The others hunt quick income from gemhearts, but what will they spend their money on? My textile mills will soon produce uniforms at a much cheaper price than they can be shipped in for, and my farmers will provide food far more varied than what is supplied through Soulcasting. I’m growing both lavis and tallew, not to mention my hog farms.”

  “You sly eel,” Shallan said. “While the others fight a war, you’ve been building an economy.”

  “I’ve had to be careful,” he confided, leaning in. “I didn’t want them to notice what I was doing at first.”

  “Clever,” Shallan said. “But why are you telling me?”

  “You’ll see it anyway, if you’re to act as one of my clerks. Besides, the secrecy doesn’t matter anymore. The manufactories are now producing, and my armies barely go on a single plateau run a month. I have to pay Dalinar’s fines for avoiding them and forcing him to send someone else, but it’s worth the cost. Anyway, the smarter highprinces have figured out what I’m up to. The others just think I’m a lazy fool.”

  “And so you’re not a lazy fool?”

  “Of course I am!” he exclaimed. “Fighting is too much work. Besides, soldiers die, and that makes me pay out to their families. It’s just useless all around.” He looked out the window. “I saw the secret three years back. Everyone was moving here, but nobody thought of the place as permanent—despite the value of those gemhearts, which ensured that Alethkar would always have a presence here. . . .” He smiled.

  The carriage eventually pulled up to a modest manor-style home amid the taller tenement buildings. The manor had grounds filled with ornamental shalebark, a flagstone drive, and even some trees. The stately home, while not enormous, had a refined classical design, with pillars along the front. It used the row of taller stone buildings behind it as a perfect windbreak.

  “We probably have a room for you,” Sebarial said. “Maybe in the cellars. Never do seem to have enough space for all of the stuff I’m expected to have. Three full sets of dining furniture. Bah! As if I’m ever going to have anyone over.”

  “You really don’t think highly of the others, do you?” Shallan asked.

  “I hate them,” Sebarial said. “But I try to hate everyone. That way, I don’t risk leaving out anyone who is particularly deserving. Anyway, here we are. Don’t expect me to help you out of the carriage.”

  She didn’t need his help, as a footman quickly arrived and assisted her as she stepped out onto the stone steps built in beside the driveway. Another footman went to Sebarial, who cursed at him, but accepted the aid.

  A short woman in a fine dress stood on the manor’s steps, hands on her hips. She had curly dark hair. From northern Alethkar, then?

  “Ah,” Sebarial said as he and Shallan walked up toward the woman. “The bane of my existence. Please try to hold your laughter until we separate. My frail, aging ego can no longer handle the mockery.”

  Shallan gave him a confused look.

  Then the woman spoke. “Please tell me you didn’t kidnap her, Turi.”

  No, not Alethi at all, Shallan thought, trying to judge the woman’s accent. Herdazian. The fingernails, with a rocklike cast to them, proved that. She was darkeyed, but her fine dress indicated she was not a servant.

  Of course. The mistress.

  “She insisted on coming with me, Palona,” Sebarial said, climbing the steps. “I couldn’t dissuade her. We’ll have to give her a room or something.”

  “And who is she?”

  “Some foreigner,” Sebarial said. “When she said she wanted to come with me, it seemed to annoy old Dalinar, so I allowed it.” He hesitated. “What was your name?” he asked, turning to Shallan.

  “Shallan Davar,” Shallan said, bowing to Palona. She might be darkeyed, but she was apparently head of this household.

  The Herdazian woman cocked an eyebrow. “Well, she is polite, which means she probably won’t fit in here. I honestly can’t believe you brought home a random girl because you thought it would annoy one of the other highprinces.”

  “Bah!” Sebarial said. “Woman, you make me the most henpecked man in all of Alethkar—”

  “We aren’t in Alethkar.”

  “—and I’m not even storming married!”

  “I’m not marrying you, so stop asking,” Palona said, folding her arms, looking Shallan up and down speculatively. “She’s far too young for you.”

  Sebarial grinned. “I used that line already. On Ruthar. It was delightful—he sputtered so much, you could have mistaken him for a storm.”

  Palona smiled, then waved him inside. “There’s mulled wine in your study.”

  He sauntered toward the door. “Food?”

  “You ran the cook off. Remember?”

  “Oh, right. Well, you could have made the food.”

  “As could you.”

  “Bah. You’re useless, woman! All you do is spend my money. Why do I put up with you, again?”

  “Because you love me.”

  “Can’t be that,” Sebarial said, pausing beside the front doors. “I’m not capable of love. Too much a curmudgeon. Well, do something with the girl.” He walked inside.

  Palona beckoned Shallan up to join her. “What really happened, child?”

  “He didn’t say anything untrue,” Shallan said, realizing that she was blushing. “But he did leave out a few facts. I have come for the purpose of an arranged marriage to Adolin Kholin. I thought staying in the Kholin household might leave me too restricted, so I sought other options.”

  “Huh. That actually makes it sound like Turi—”

  “Don’t call me that!” a voice called from inside.

  “—that the idiot did something politically savvy.”

  “Well,” Shallan said, “I did kind of bully him into taking me in. And I implied publicly that he was going to give me a very generous stipend.”

  “Too large a one!” the voice said from inside.

  “Is he . . . standing in there listening?” Shallan asked.

  “He’s good at skulking,” Palona said. “Well, come along. Let’s get you settled. Make sure you tell me how much he’s promised—even by implication—for your stipend. I’ll make sure it happens.”

  Several footmen unloaded Shallan’s trunks from the coach. Her soldiers hadn’t arrived yet. Hopefully, they hadn’t run into trouble. She followed Palona into the building, which proved to have as classic a decor as the exterior implied. Lots of marble and crystal. Statues trimmed in gold. A sweeping, broad staircase leading to a second-floor balcony overlooking the entrance hall. Shallan didn’t notice the highprince around, skulking or otherwise.

  Palona led Shallan to a very nice set of rooms in the eastern wing. They were all white, and richly furnished, the hard stone walls and floors softened with silk hangings and thick rugs. She hardly deserved such rich decor.

  I suppose I shouldn’t feel that way, Shallan thought as Palona checked the closet for towels and linen. I’m betrothed to a prince.

  Still,
so much finery reminded her of her father. The lace, jewelry, and silk he’d given her in attempts to make her forget about . . . other times . . .

  Shallan blinked, turning to Palona, who was speaking about something.

  “Excuse me?” Shallan asked.

  “Servants,” Palona said. “You have your own lady’s maid?”

  “I don’t,” Shallan said. “I’ve got eighteen soldiers, though, and five slaves.”

  “And they’ll be helping you change clothes?”

  Shallan blushed. “I mean that I’d like them to be housed, if you can manage it.”

  “I can,” Palona said lightly. “I can probably even find something productive for them to do. You’ll want them paid out of your stipend, I assume—your maid as well, which I’ll get for you. Food is served at second bell, noon, and tenth bell. If you want something at other times, ask at the kitchens. Cook might swear at you, assuming I can get him to come back this time. We’ve a storm cistern, so there’s usually running water. If you want it warm for a bath, the boys will need an hour or so to heat it.”

  “Running water?” Shallan said, eager. She’d seen this for the first time in Kharbranth.

  “As I said, storm cistern.” Palona pointed upward. “Each highstorm fills it, and the shape of the cistern sifts out the crem. Don’t use the system until midday after a highstorm, or the water will be brown. And you look entirely too eager about this.”

  “Sorry,” Shallan said. “We didn’t have this sort of thing in Jah Keved.”

  “Welcome to civilization. I trust you left your club and loincloth at the door. Let me set to finding you a maid.” The short woman started to leave.

  “Palona?” Shallan asked.

  “Yes, child?”

  “Thank you.”

  Palona smiled. “Winds know, you’re not the first stray he’s brought home. Some of us even end up staying.” She left.

  Shallan sat down on the plush, white bed, and sank almost down to her neck. What had they made the thing out of? Air and wishes? It felt luxurious.

  In her sitting room—her sitting room—thumps announced the footmen arriving with her trunks. They left a moment later, closing the door. For the first time in quite a long while, Shallan found herself not fighting for her survival or worrying about being murdered by one of her traveling companions.