Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  She smiled, though she felt unsettled. Wikim had been carrying this poison around? He felt he needed to give it to her?

  He jogged after Balat, and Shallan stuffed the pouch in her satchel. She’d find a way to destroy it later. She picked up her pencils and went back to drawing.

  Shouting from inside the manor distracted her a short time later. She looked up, uncertain even how much time had passed. She rose, satchel clutched to her chest, and crossed the yard. Vines shook and withdrew before her, though as her pace sped up, she stepped on more and more of them, feeling them writhe beneath her feet and try to yank back. Cultivated vines had poor instincts.

  She reached the house to more shouting.

  “Father!” Asha Jushu’s voice. “Father, please!”

  Shallan pushed open the slatted wood doors, silk dress rustling against the floor as she stepped in and found three men in old-style clothing—skirtlike ulatu to their knees, bright loose shirts, flimsy coats that draped to the ground—standing before Father.

  Jushu knelt on the floor, hands bound behind his back. Over the years, Jushu had grown plump from his periods of excess.

  “Bah,” Father said. “I will not suffer this extortion.”

  “His credit is your credit, Brightlord,” one of the men said in a calm, smooth voice. He was darkeyed, though he didn’t sound it. “He promised us you would pay his debts.”

  “He lied,” Father said, Ekel and Jix—house guards—at his sides, hands on weapons.

  “Father,” Jushu whispered through his tears. “They’ll take me—”

  “You were supposed to be riding our outer holdings!” Father bellowed. “You were supposed to be checking on our lands, not dining with thieves and gambling away our wealth and our good name!”

  Jushu hung his head, sagging in his bonds.

  “He’s yours,” Father said, turning and storming from the chamber.

  Shallan gasped as one of the men sighed, then gestured toward Jushu. The other two grabbed him. They didn’t seem pleased to be leaving without payment. Jushu trembled as they towed him away, past Balat and Wikim, who watched nearby. Outside, Jushu cried for mercy and begged the men to let him speak to Father again.

  “Balat,” Shallan said, walking to him, taking his arm. “Do something!”

  “We all knew where the gambling would take him,” Balat said. “We told him, Shallan. He wouldn’t listen.”

  “He’s still our brother!”

  “What do you expect me to do? Where would I get spheres enough to pay his debt?”

  Jushu’s weeping grew softer as the men left the manor.

  Shallan turned and dashed after her father, passing Jix scratching his head. Father had gone into his study two rooms over; she hesitated in the doorway, looking in at her father slumped in his chair beside the hearth. She stepped in, passing the desk where his ardents—and sometimes his wife—tallied his ledgers and read him reports.

  Nobody stood there now, but the ledgers were open, displaying a brutal truth. She raised a hand to her mouth, noticing several letters of debt. She’d helped with minor accounts, but never seen so much of the full picture, and was stunned by what she saw. How could the family owe that much money?

  “I’m not going to change my mind, Shallan,” Father said. “Leave. Jushu prepared this pyre himself.”

  “But—”

  “Leave me!” Father roared, standing.

  Shallan cringed back, eyes widening, heart nearly stopping. Fearspren wriggled up around her. He never yelled at her. Never.

  Father took a deep breath, then turned to the room’s window. His back to her, he continued, “I can’t afford the spheres.”

  “Why?” Shallan asked. “Father, is this because of the deal with Brightlord Revilar?” She looked at the ledgers. “No, it’s bigger than that.”

  “I will finally make something of myself,” Father said, “and of this house. I will stop them from whispering about us; I will end the questioning. House Davar will become a force in this princedom.”

  “By bribing favor from supposed allies?” Shallan asked. “Using money we don’t have?”

  He looked at her, face shadowed but eyes reflecting light, like twin embers in the dark of his skull. In that moment, Shallan felt a terrifying hatred from her father. He strode over, grabbing her by the arms. Her satchel dropped to the floor.

  “I’ve done this for you,” he growled, holding her arms in a tight, painful grip. “And you will obey. I’ve gone wrong, somewhere, in letting you learn to question me.”

  She whimpered at the pain.

  “There will be changes in this house,” Father said. “No more weakness. I’ve found a way . . .”

  “Please, stop.”

  He looked down at her and seemed to see the tears in her eyes for the first time.

  “Father . . .” she whispered.

  He looked upward. Toward his rooms. She knew he was looking toward Mother’s soul. He dropped her then, causing her to tumble to the floor, red hair covering her face.

  “You are confined to your rooms,” he snapped. “Go, and do not leave until I give you permission.”

  Shallan scrambled to her feet, snatching her satchel, then left the room. In the hallway, she pressed her back against the wall, panting raggedly, tears dripping from her chin. Things had been going better . . . her father had been better . . .

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Emotion stormed inside of her, twisting about. She couldn’t control it.

  Jushu.

  Father actually looked like he wanted to hurt me, Shallan thought, shivering. He’s changed so much. She started to sink down toward the floor, arms wrapped around herself.

  Jushu.

  Keep cutting at those thorns, strong one . . . Make a path for the light . . .

  Shallan forced herself to her feet. She ran, still crying, back into the feast hall. Balat and Wikim had taken seats, Minara quietly serving them drinks. The guards had left, perhaps to their post at the manor grounds.

  When Balat saw Shallan, he stood, eyes widening. He rushed to her, knocking over his cup in his haste, spilling wine to the floor.

  “Did he hurt you?” Balat asked. “Damnation! I’ll kill him! I’ll go to the highprince and—”

  “He didn’t hurt me,” Shallan said. “Please. Balat, your knife. The one Father gave you.”

  He looked to his belt. “What of it?”

  “It’s worth good money. I’m going to try to trade it for Jushu.”

  Balat lowered his hand protectively to the knife. “Jushu built his pyre himself, Shallan.”

  “That’s exactly what Father said to me,” Shallan replied, wiping her eyes, then meeting those of her brother.

  “I . . .” Balat looked over his shoulder in the direction Jushu had been taken. He sighed, then unhooked the sheath from his belt and handed it to her. “It won’t be enough. They say he owes almost a hundred emerald broams.”

  “I have my necklace too,” Shallan said.

  Wikim, silently drinking his wine, reached to his belt and took off his knife. He set it at the edge of the table. Shallan scooped it up as she passed, then ran from the room. Could she catch the men in time?

  Outside, she spotted the carriage only a short way down the road. She hurried as best she could on slippered feet down the cobbled drive and out the gates onto the road. She wasn’t fast, but neither were chulls. As she drew closer, she saw that Jushu had been tied to walk behind the carriage. He didn’t look up as Shallan passed him.

  The carriage stopped, and Jushu dropped to the ground and curled up. The darkeyed man with the haughty air pushed open his door to look at Shallan. “He sent the child?”

  “I came on my own,” she said, holding up the daggers. “Please, they are very fine work.”

  The man raised an eyebrow, then gestured for one of his companions to step down and fetch them. Shallan unhooked her necklace and dropped it into the man’s hands with the two knives. The man took out one of the knives, inspecting
it as Shallan waited, apprehensive, shifting from foot to foot.

  “You’ve been weeping,” said the man in the carriage. “You care for him that much?”

  “He is my brother.”

  “So?” the man asked. “I killed my brother when he tried to cheat me. You shouldn’t let relations cloud your eyes.”

  “I love him,” Shallan whispered.

  The man looking over the daggers slid them both back in their sheaths. “They are masterworks,” he admitted. “I’d value them at twenty emerald broams.”

  “The necklace?” Shallan asked.

  “Simple, but of aluminum, which can only be made by Soulcasting,” the man said to his boss. “Ten emerald.”

  “Together half what your brother owes,” said the man in the carriage.

  Shallan’s heart sank. “But . . . what would you do with him? Selling him as a slave cannot redeem so great a debt.”

  “I’m often in the mood to remind myself that lighteyes bleed the same as darkeyes,” the man said. “And sometimes it is useful to have a deterrent for others, a way to remind them not to take loans they cannot repay. He may save me more than he cost, if I display him prudently.”

  Shallan felt small. She clasped her hands, one covered, one not. Had she lost, then? The women from Father’s books, the women she was coming to admire, would not have made pleas to win this man’s heart. They would have tried logic.

  She wasn’t good at that. She didn’t have the training for it, and she certainly didn’t currently have the temperament. But as the tears began again, she forced out the first thing that came to mind.

  “He may save you money that way,” Shallan said. “But he may not. It is a gamble, and you do not strike me as the kind of man who gambles.”

  The man laughed. “What makes you say that? Gambling is what brought me here!”

  “No,” she said, blushing at her tears. “You are the type of man who profits from the gambling of others. You know that it usually leads to loss. I give you items of real value. Take them. Please?”

  The man considered. He held out his hands for the daggers, and his man passed them over. He unsheathed one of the daggers and inspected it. “Name for me one reason I should show this man pity. In my house, he was an arrogant glutton, acting without thought for the difficulty he would cause you, his family.”

  “Our mother was murdered,” Shallan said. “That night, as I cried, Jushu held me.” It was all she had.

  The man considered. Shallan felt her heart pounding. Finally, he tossed the necklace back to her. “Keep that.” He nodded to his man. “Cut the little cremling free. Child, if you are wise, you will teach your brother to be more . . . conservative.” He pulled the door closed.

  Shallan stepped back as the servant cut Jushu free. The man then climbed onto the back of the vehicle and knocked. It pulled away.

  Shallan knelt beside Jushu. He blinked one eye—the other was bruised and beginning to swell shut—as she untied his bloodied hands. It had not been a quarter hour since Father had declared that the men could have him, but they had obviously taken that time to show Jushu what they thought of not being paid.

  “Shallan?” he asked, lips bloodied. “What happened?”

  “You weren’t listening?”

  “My ears ring,” he said. “Everything is spinning. I . . . am I free?”

  “Balat and Wikim traded their knives for you.”

  “Mill took so little in trade?”

  “Obviously, he did not know your true worth.”

  Jushu smiled a toothy smile. “Always quick with your tongue, aren’t you?” He climbed to his feet with Shallan’s help and began to limp back toward the house.

  Halfway there, Balat joined them, taking Jushu under his arm. “Thank you,” Jushu whispered. “She says you saved me. Thank you, Brother.” He started weeping.

  “I . . .” Balat looked to Shallan, then back to Jushu. “You’re my brother. Let’s get you back and cleaned up.”

  Content that Jushu would be cared for, Shallan left them and entered the manor house. She climbed the stairs, passed Father’s glowing room, and entered her chambers. She sat down on the bed.

  There, she waited for the highstorm.

  Shouts rose from below. Shallan squeezed her eyes shut.

  Finally, the door to her rooms opened.

  She opened her eyes. Father stood outside. Shallan could make out a crumpled form beyond him, lying on the floor of the hallway. Minara, the serving maid. Her body didn’t lie right, one arm bent at the wrong angle. Her figure stirred, whimpering, leaving blood on the wall as she tried to crawl away.

  Father entered Shallan’s room and shut the door behind him. “You know I would never hurt you, Shallan,” he said softly.

  She nodded, tears leaking from her eyes.

  “I’ve found a way to control myself,” her father said. “I just have to let the anger out. I can’t blame myself for that anger. Others create it when they disobey me.”

  Her objection—that he hadn’t told her to go immediately to her room, only that she shouldn’t leave it once she was there—died on her lips. A foolish excuse. They both knew she’d intentionally disobeyed.

  “I would not want to have to punish anyone else because of you, Shallan,” Father said.

  This cold monster, was this really her father?

  “It is time.” Father nodded. “No more indulgences. If we are to be important in Jah Keved, we cannot be seen as weak. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, unable to stop the tears.

  “Good,” he said, resting his hand on her head, then running his fingers through her hair. “Thank you.”

  He left her, shutting the door.

  These Lightweavers, by no coincidence, included many who pursued the arts; namely: writers, artists, musicians, painters, sculptors. Considering the order’s general temperament, the tales of their strange and varied mnemonic abilities may have been embellished.

  —From Words of Radiance, chapter 21, page 10

  After leaving her carriage at a stable in the Outer Market, Shallan was led to a stairwell carved into the stone of a hillside. She climbed this, then stepped hesitantly out onto a terrace that had been cut from the side of the hill here. Lighteyes wearing stylish clothing chatted over cups of wine at the patio’s numerous ironwork tables.

  They were high enough here to look out over the warcamps. The perspective was eastward, toward the Origin. What an unnatural arrangement; it made her feel exposed. Shallan was accustomed to balconies, gardens, and patios all facing away from the storms. True, nobody was likely to be out here when a highstorm was expected, but it just felt off to her.

  A master-servant in black and white arrived and bowed, calling her Brightness Davar without need of an introduction. She’d have to get used to that; in Alethkar she was a novelty, and an easily recognizable one. She let the servant lead her among the tables, sending her guards for the day off toward a larger room cut farther into the stone to the right. This one had a proper roof and walls, so it could be completely closed off, and a group of other guards waited here upon the whims of their masters.

  Shallan drew the eyes of the other patrons. Well, good. She had come here to upset their world. The more people spoke of her, the better her chances of persuading them, when the time came, to listen to her regarding the parshmen. Those were everywhere in camp, even here in this luxurious winehouse. She spotted three in the corner, moving wine bottles from wall-mounted racks to crates. They moved at a plodding yet implacable pace.

  A few more steps brought her to the marble balustrade right at the edge of the terrace. Here Adolin had a table set off by itself with an unobstructed view directly east. Two members of Dalinar’s house guard stood by the wall a short distance away; Adolin was important enough, apparently, that his guards didn’t need to wait with the others.

  Adolin browsed a folio, oversized by design so it wouldn’t be mistaken for a woman’s book. Shallan had seen some folios containing battle
maps, others with designs for armor or pictures of architecture. She was amused as she caught sight of the glyphs for this one, with women’s script underneath for further clarification. Fashions out of Liafor and Azir.

  Adolin looked as handsome as he had before. Maybe more so, now that he was obviously more relaxed. She would not let him muddle her mind. She had a purpose to this meeting: an alliance with House Kholin to help her brothers and give her resources for exposing the Voidbringers and discovering Urithiru.

  She couldn’t afford to come off as weak. She had to control the situation, could not act like a sycophant, and she couldn’t—

  Adolin saw her and closed the portfolio. He stood up, grinning.

  —oh, storms. That smile.

  “Brightness Shallan,” he said, holding out a hand toward her. “You are settling well in Sebarial’s camp?”

  “Yeah,” she said, grinning at him. That mop of unruly hair just made her want to reach out and run her fingers through it. Our children would have the strangest hair ever, she thought. His gold and black Alethi locks, my red ones, and . . .

  And was she really thinking about their children? Already? Foolish girl.

  “Yes,” she continued, trying to de-melt a little. “He has been quite kind to me.”

  “It’s probably because you’re family,” Adolin said, letting her sit, then pushing in her chair. He did it himself, rather than allowing the master-servant to do so. She would not have expected that of someone so highborn. “Sebarial only does what he feels he’s forced to.”

  “I think he may surprise you,” Shallan said.

  “Oh, he’s already done that on several occasions.”

  “Really? When?”

  “Well,” Adolin said, sitting, “he once produced a very, um, loud and inappropriate noise at a meeting with the king. . . .” Adolin smiled, shrugging as if embarrassed, but he didn’t blush as Shallan might have in a similar situation. “Does that count?”

  “I’m not sure. Knowing what I do of Uncle Sebarial, I doubt that such a thing is particularly surprising from him. Expected is more like it.”

  Adolin laughed, tossing his head back. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. That you are.”