Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  Shallan walked to the door. By now, her absence in the other room would have been noticed. She should get back and give her lie, of seeking a drink for her parched throat. First, though, she’d want to put back on the ardent disguise. She sucked in some Stormlight, then breathed out, using the still-fresh memory of the ardent to create—

  “Aaaaaaaah!”

  The madman leaped to his feet, screaming. He lurched for her, moving with incredible speed. As Shallan yelped in surprise, he grabbed her and shoved her out of her cloud of Stormlight. The image fell apart, evaporating, and the madman smashed her up against the wall, his eyes wide, his breathing ragged. He searched her face with frantic eyes, pupils darting back and forth.

  Shallan trembled, breath catching.

  Ten heartbeats.

  “One of Ishar’s Knights,” the madman whispered. His eyes narrowed. “I remember . . . He founded them? Yes. Several Desolations ago. No longer just talk. It hasn’t been talk for thousands of years. But . . . When . . .”

  He stumbled back from her, hand to his head. Her Shardblade dropped into her hands, but she no longer appeared to need it. The man turned his back to her, walked to his bed, then lay down and curled up.

  Shallan inched forward, and found he was back to whispering the same things as before. She dismissed the Blade.

  Mother’s soul . . .

  “Shallan?” Pattern asked. “Shallan, are you mad?”

  She shook herself. How much time had passed? “Yes,” she said, walking hurriedly for the door. She peeked outside. She couldn’t risk using Stormlight again in this room. She’d just have to slip out—

  Blast. Several people approached down the hallway. She would have to wait for them to pass. Except, they seemed to be heading right to this very door.

  One of those men was Highlord Amaram.

  Yes, I’m disappointed. Perpetually, as you put it.

  Kaladin lay on his bench, ignoring the afternoon bowl of steamed, spiced tallew on the floor.

  He had begun to imagine himself as that whitespine in the menagerie. A predator in a cage. Storms send that he didn’t end up like that poor beast. Wilted, hungry, confused. They don’t do well in captivity, Shallan had said.

  How many days had it been? Kaladin found himself not caring. That worried him. During his time as a slave, he’d also stopped caring about the date.

  He wasn’t so far removed from that wretch he’d once been. He felt himself slipping back toward that same mindset, like a man climbing a cliff covered in crem and slime. Each time he tried to pull himself higher, he slid back. Eventually he’d fall.

  Old ways of thinking . . . a slave’s ways of thinking . . . churned within him. Stop caring. Worry only about the next meal, and keeping it away from the others. Don’t think too much. Thinking is dangerous. Thinking makes you hope, makes you want.

  Kaladin shouted, throwing himself off his bench and pacing in the small room, hands to his head. He’d thought himself so strong. A fighter. But all they had to do to take that away was stuff him in a box for a few weeks, and the truth returned! He slammed himself against the bars and stretched a hand between them, toward one of the lamps on the wall. He sucked in a breath.

  Nothing happened. No Stormlight. The sphere continued to glow, even and steady.

  Kaladin cried out, reaching farther, pushing his fingertips toward that distant light. Don’t let the darkness take me, he thought. He . . . prayed. How long had it been since he’d done that? He didn’t have someone to properly write and burn the words, but the Almighty listened to hearts, didn’t he? Please. Not again. I can’t go back to that.

  Please.

  He strained for that sphere, breathing in. The Light seemed to resist, then gloriously streamed out into his fingertips. The storm pulsed in his veins.

  Kaladin held his breath, eyes shut, savoring it. The power strained against him, trying to escape. He pushed off the bars and started pacing again, eyes closed, not so frantic as before.

  “I’m worried about you.” Syl’s voice. “You’re growing dark.”

  Kaladin opened his eyes and finally found her, sitting between two of the bars as if on a swing.

  “I’ll be all right,” Kaladin said, letting Stormlight rise from his lips like smoke. “I just need to get out of this cage.”

  “It’s worse than that. It’s the darkness . . . the darkness . . .” She looked to the side, then giggled suddenly, streaking off to inspect something on the floor. A little cremling that was creeping along the edge of the room. She stood over it, eyes widening at the stark red and violet color of its shell.

  Kaladin smiled. She was still a spren. Childlike. The world was a place of wonder to Syl. What would that be like?

  He sat down and ate his meal, feeling as if he’d pushed aside the gloom for a time. Eventually, one of the guards checked on him and found the dun sphere. He pulled it out, frowning, shaking his head before replacing it and moving on.

  * * *

  Amaram was coming into this room.

  Hide!

  Shallan was proud of how quickly she spat out the rest of her Stormlight, wreathing herself in it. She didn’t even give thought to how the madman had reacted to her Lightweaving before, though perhaps she should have. Regardless, this time he didn’t seem to notice.

  Should she become an ardent? No. Something much simpler, something faster.

  Darkness.

  Her clothing turned black. Her skin, her hat, her hair—everything pure black. She scrambled back away from the door into the corner of the room, farthest from the slot of a window, stilling herself. With her illusion in place, the Lightweaving consumed the trails of Stormlight that would normally rise from her skin, further masking her presence.

  The door opened. Her heart thundered within her. She wished she’d had time to create a false wall. Amaram entered the room with a young darkeyed man, obviously Alethi, with short dark hair and prominent eyebrows. He wore Kholin livery. They shut the door quietly behind themselves, Amaram pocketing a key.

  Shallan felt an immediate anger at seeing her brother’s murderer here, but found that it had quieted somewhat. A smoldering loathing instead of an intense hatred. It had been a long time since she’d seen Helaran, now. And Balat had a point in that her older brother had abandoned them.

  To try to kill this man, apparently—or so she’d been able to put together from what she’d read of Amaram and his Shardblade. Why had Helaran gone to kill this man? And could she really blame Amaram when, in truth, he’d probably just been defending himself?

  She felt like she knew so little. Though Amaram was still a bastard, of course.

  Together, Amaram and the Alethi darkeyes turned to the madman. Shallan couldn’t make out much of their features in the mostly dark room. “I don’t know why you need to hear it for yourself, Brightlord,” the servant said. “I told you what he said.”

  “Hush, Bordin,” Amaram said, crossing the room. “Listen at the door.”

  Shallan stood stiff, pressed back in the corner. They’d see her, wouldn’t they?

  Amaram knelt beside the bed. “Great Prince,” he whispered, hand to the madman’s shoulder. “Turn. Let me see you.”

  The madman looked up, still muttering.

  “Ah . . .” Amaram said, breathing out. “Almighty above, ten names, all true. You are beautiful. Gavilar, we have done it. We have finally done it.”

  “Brightlord?” Bordin said from the door. “I don’t like being here. If we’re discovered, people might ask questions. The treasure . . .”

  “He truly spoke of Shardblades?”

  “Yes,” Bordin said. “A whole cache of them.”

  “The Honorblades,” Amaram whispered. “Great Prince, please, give me the same words you spoke to this one.”

  The madman muttered on, the same as Shallan had heard. Amaram continued kneeling, but eventually he turned toward the nervous Bordin. “Well?”

  “He repeated those words every day,” Bordin said, “but he onl
y spoke of the Blades once.”

  “I would hear of them for myself.”

  “Brightlord . . . We could wait here days and not hear those words. Please. We must go. The ardents will eventually come by on their rounds.”

  Amaram stood up with obvious reluctance. “Great Prince,” he said to the huddled figure of the madman, “I go to recover your treasures. Speak not of them to the others. I will put the Blades to good use.” He turned to Bordin. “Come. Let us search out this place.”

  “Today?”

  “You said it was close.”

  “Yes, well, that was why I brought him all the way out here. But—”

  “If he accidentally speaks of this to others, I would have them go to the place and find it empty of treasures. Come, quickly. You will be rewarded.”

  Amaram strode out. Bordin lingered at the door, looking at the madman, then trailed out and shut the door with a click.

  Shallan breathed out a long, deep breath, slumping down to the floor. “It’s like that sea of spheres.”

  “Shallan?” Pattern asked.

  “I’ve fallen in,” she said, “and it isn’t that the water is over my head—it’s that the stuff isn’t even water, and I have no idea how to swim in it.”

  “I do not understand this lie,” Pattern said.

  She shook her head, the color bleeding back into her skin and clothing. She made herself look like Veil again, then walked to the door, accompanied by the sound of the madman’s rambling. Herald of War. The time of the Return is near at hand. . . .

  Outside, she found her way back to the room with Iyatil, then apologized profusely to the ardents there who were looking for her. She pled that she had gotten lost, but said she’d accept an escort to take her back to her palanquin.

  Before going, however, she leaned down to hug Iyatil, as if to wish her sister farewell.

  “You can escape?” Shallan whispered.

  “Don’t be stupid. Of course I can.”

  “Take this,” Shallan said, pressing a sheet of paper into Iyatil’s gloved freehand. “I wrote upon it the ramblings of the madman. They repeat without change. I saw Amaram sneak into the room; he seems to think these words are authentic, and he seeks a treasure the madman spoke of earlier. I will write a thorough report via spanreed to you and the others tonight.”

  Shallan moved to pull back, but Iyatil held on. “Who are you really, Veil?” the woman asked. “You caught me in stealth spying upon you, and you can lose me in the streets. This is not easily accomplished. Your clever drawings fascinate Mraize, another near-impossible task, considering all that he has seen. Now what you have done today.”

  Shallan felt a thrill. Why should she feel so excited to have the respect of these people? They were murderers.

  But storms take her, she had earned that respect.

  “I seek the truth,” Shallan said. “Wherever it may be, whoever may hold it. That’s who I am.” She nodded to Iyatil, then pulled away and escaped the monastery.

  Later on that night, after sending in a full report of the day’s events—as well as promising drawings of the madman, Amaram, and Bordin for good measure—she received back a simple message from Mraize.

  The truth destroys more people than it saves, Veil. But you have proven yourself. You no longer need fear our other members; they have been instructed not to touch you. You are required to get a specific tattoo, a symbol of your loyalty. I will send a drawing. You may add it to your person wherever you wish, but must prove it to me when we next meet.

  Welcome to the Ghostbloods.

  ONE AND A HALF YEARS AGO

  What is a woman’s place in this modern world? Jasnah Kholin’s words read. I rebel against this question, though so many of my peers ask it. The inherent bias in the inquiry seems invisible to so many of them. They consider themselves progressive because they are willing to challenge many of the assumptions of the past.

  They ignore the greater assumption—that a “place” for women must be defined and set forth to begin with. Half of the population must somehow be reduced to the role arrived at by a single conversation. No matter how broad that role is, it will be—by nature—a reduction from the infinite variety that is womanhood.

  I say that there is no role for women—there is, instead, a role for each woman, and she must make it for herself. For some, it will be the role of scholar; for others, it will be the role of wife. For others, it will be both. For yet others, it will be neither.

  Do not mistake me in assuming I value one woman’s role above another. My point is not to stratify our society—we have done that far too well already—my point is to diversify our discourse.

  A woman’s strength should not be in her role, whatever she chooses it to be, but in the power to choose that role. It is amazing to me that I even have to make this point, as I see it as the very foundation of our conversation.

  Shallan closed the book. Not two hours had passed since Father had ordered Helaran’s assassination. After Shallan had retreated to her room, a pair of Father’s guards had appeared in the hallway outside. Probably not to watch her—she doubted that Father knew that she’d overheard his order for Helaran to be killed. The guards were to see that Malise, Shallan’s stepmother, did not try to flee.

  That could be a mistaken assumption. Shallan didn’t even know if Malise was still alive, following her screaming and Father’s cold, angry ranting.

  Shallan wanted to hide, to hunker down in her closet with blankets wrapped around her, eyes squeezed shut. The words in Jasnah Kholin’s book strengthened her, though in some ways it seemed laughable for Shallan to even be reading it. Highlady Kholin talked about the nobility of choice, as if every woman had such opportunity. The decision between being a mother or a scholar seemed a difficult decision in Jasnah’s estimation. That wasn’t a difficult choice at all! That seemed like a grand place to be! Either would be delightful when compared to a life of fear in a house seething with anger, depression, and hopelessness.

  She imagined what Highlady Kholin must be, a capable woman who did not do as others insisted she must. A woman with power, authority. A woman who had the luxury of seeking her dreams.

  What would that be like?

  Shallan stood up. She walked to the door, then cracked it open. Though the evening had grown late, the two guards still stood at the other end of the hallway. Shallan’s heart thumped, and she cursed her timidity. Why couldn’t she be like women who acted, instead of being someone who hid in her room with a pillow around her head?

  Shaking, she slipped from the room. She padded toward the soldiers, feeling their eyes on her. One raised his hand. She didn’t know the man’s name. Once, she’d known all of the guards’ names. Those men, whom she’d grown up with, had been replaced now.

  “My father will need me,” she said, not stopping at the guard’s gesture. Though he was lighteyed, she did not need to obey him. She might spend most of every day in her rooms, but she was still of a much higher rank than he.

  She walked by the men, trembling hands clenched tight. They let her go. When she passed her father’s door, she heard soft weeping inside. Malise still lived, thankfully.

  She found Father in the feast hall, sitting alone with both firepits roaring, full of flames. He slumped at the high table, lit by harsh light, staring at the tabletop.

  Shallan slipped into the kitchen before he noticed her, and mixed his favorite. Deep violet wine, spiced with cinnamon and warmed against the chill day. He looked up as she walked back into the feast hall. She set the cup before him, looking into his eyes. No darkness there today. Just him. That was very rare, these days.

  “They won’t listen, Shallan,” he whispered. “Nobody will listen. I hate that I have to fight my own house. They should support me.” He took the drink. “Wikim just stares at the wall half the time. Jushu is worthless, and Balat fights me every step. Now Malise too.”

  “I will speak to them,” Shallan said.

  He drank the wine, then nodded. “
Yes. Yes, that would be good. Balat is still out with those cursed axehound corpses. I’m glad they’re dead. That litter was full of runts. He didn’t need them anyway. . . .”

  Shallan stepped into the chill air. The sun had set, but lanterns hung on the eaves of the manor house. She had rarely seen the gardens at night, and they took on a mysterious cast in the darkness. Vines looked like fingers reaching from the void, seeking something to grab and pull away into the night.

  Balat lay on one of the benches. Shallan’s feet crunched on something as she stepped up to him. Claws from cremlings, pulled free of their bodies one after another, then tossed to the ground. She shivered.

  “You should go,” she said to Balat.

  He sat up. “What?”

  “Father can no longer control himself,” Shallan said softly. “You need to leave, while you can. I want you to take Malise with you.”

  Balat ran his hand through his mess of curly dark hair. “Malise? Father will never let her go. He’d hunt us down.”

  “He’ll hunt you anyway,” Shallan said. “He hunts Helaran. Earlier today, he ordered one of his men to find our brother and assassinate him.”

  “What!” Balat stood. “That bastard! I’ll . . . I . . .” He looked to Shallan in the darkness, face lit by starlight. Then he crumpled, sitting back down, holding his head in his hands. “I’m a coward, Shallan,” he whispered. “Oh, Stormfather, I’m a coward. I won’t face him. I can’t.”

  “Go to Helaran,” Shallan said. “Could you find him, if you needed to?”

  “He . . . Yes, he left me the name of a contact in Valath who could put me in touch with him.”

  “Take Malise and Eylita. Go to Helaran.”

  “I won’t have time to find Helaran before Father catches up.”

  “Then we will contact Helaran,” Shallan said. “We will make plans for you to meet him, and you can schedule your flight for a time when Father is away. He is planning another trip to Vedenar a few months from now. Leave when he’s gone, get a head start.”