Words of Radiance by Brandon Sanderson
Eshonai gasped, the rhythms fleeing her mind, and fell to her knees. She felt it wash through her, the transformation.
I AM SORRY.
The rains came again, and her body began to change.
Someone was near.
Zahel awoke, snapping his eyes open, knowing instantly that someone was approaching his room.
Blast! It was the middle of the night. If this was another lighteyed brat he’d turned away, come to beg . . . He grumbled to himself, climbing off his cot. I am far, far too old for this.
He pulled open his door, revealing the courtyard of the practice grounds at night. The air was wet. Oh, right. One of those storms had come, Invested to the hilt and looking for a place to stick it all. Cursed things.
A young man, hand poised to knock, jumped back in surprise from the opening door. Kaladin. The bridgeman-turned-bodyguard. The one with that spren Zahel could sense always spinning about.
“You look like death itself,” Zahel snapped at the boy. Kaladin’s clothing was bloodied, his uniform ripped up on one side. The right sleeve was missing. “What happened?”
“Attempt on the king’s life,” the boy said softly. “Not two hours ago.”
“Huh.”
“Is your offer to learn how to fight a Shardblade still good?”
“No.” Zahel slammed the door. He turned to walk back toward his cot.
The boy pushed the door open, of course. Blasted monks. Saw themselves as property and couldn’t own anything, so they figured they didn’t need locks on the doors.
“Please,” the boy said. “I—”
“Kid,” Zahel said, turning back toward him. “Two people live in this room.”
The boy frowned, looking at the single cot.
“The first,” Zahel said, “is a grouchy swordsman who has a soft spot for kids who are in over their heads. He comes out by day. The other is a very, very grouchy swordsman who finds everything and everyone utterly contemptible. He comes out when some fool wakes him at a horrid hour of the night. I suggest you ask the first man and not the second. All right?”
“All right,” the boy said. “I’ll be back.”
“Good,” Zahel said, settling down on the bed. “And don’t be green from the ground.”
The boy paused by the door. “Don’t be . . . Huh?”
Stupid language, Zahel thought, climbing into his cot. No proper metaphors at all. “Just leave your attitude and come to learn. I hate beating up people younger than me. It makes me feel like a bully.”
The kid grunted, sliding the door shut. Zahel pulled up his blanket—damn monks only got one—and turned over on his cot. He expected a voice to speak in his mind as he drifted off. Of course, there wasn’t one.
Hadn’t been one in years.
Of fires that burned and yet they were gone. Of heat he could feel when others felt not. Of screams his own that nobody heard. Of torture sublime, for life it meant.
“He just stares like that, Your Majesty.”
Words.
“He doesn’t seem to see anything. Sometimes he mumbles. Sometimes he shouts. But always, he just stares.”
The Gift and words. Not his. Never his. Now his.
“Storms, it’s haunting, isn’t it? I had to ride all this way with that, Your Majesty. Listening to him ranting in the back of the wagon half the time. Then feeling him stare at the back of my head the rest.”
“And Wit? You mentioned him.”
“Started on the trip with me, Your Majesty. But on the second day, he declared that he needed a rock.”
“A . . . rock.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. He hopped out of the wagon and found one, then, er, he hit himself on the head with it, Your Majesty. Did it three or four times. Came right back to the wagon with an odd grin, and said . . . um . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, he said that he’d needed, uh, I had this remembered for you. He said, ‘I needed an objective frame of reference by which to judge the experience of your company. Somewhere between four and five blows, I place it.’ I don’t rightly understand what he meant, sir. I think he was mocking me.”
“Safe bet.”
Why didn’t they scream? That heat! Of death. Of death and the dead and the dead and their talking and not screaming of death except of the death that did not come.
“After that, Your Majesty, Wit just kind of, well, ran off. Into the hills. Like some storming Horneater.”
“Don’t try to understand Wit, Bordin. You’ll only cause yourself pain.”
“Yes, Brightlord.”
“I like this Wit.”
“We’re quite aware, Elhokar.”
“Honestly, Your Majesty, I preferred the madman for company.”
“Well of course you did. If people liked to be around Wit, he wouldn’t be much of a Wit, would he?”
They were on fire. The walls were on fire. The floor was on fire. Burning and the inside of a cannot where to be and then at all. Where?
A trip. Water? Wheels?
Fire. Yes, fire.
“Can you hear me, madman?”
“Elhokar, look at him. I doubt he understands.”
“I am Talenel’Elin, Herald of War.” Voice. He spoke it. He didn’t think it. The words came, like they always came.
“What was that? Speak louder, man.”
“The time of the Return, the Desolation, is near at hand. We must prepare. You will have forgotten much, following the destruction of the times past.”
“I can make out some of it, Elhokar. It’s Alethi. Northern accent. Not what I’d have expected from one with such dark skin.”
“Where did you get the Shardblade, madman? Tell me. Most Blades are accounted for through the generations, their lineage and history recorded. This one is completely unknown. From whom did you take it?”
“Kalak will teach you to cast bronze, if you have forgotten this. We will Soulcast blocks of metal directly for you. I wish we could teach you steel, but casting is so much easier than forging, and you must have something we can produce quickly. Your stone tools will not serve against what is to come.”
“He said something about bronze. And stone?”
“Vedel can train your surgeons, and Jezrien . . . he will teach you leadership. So much is lost between Returns . . .”
“The Shardblade! Where did you get it?”
“How did you separate it from him, Bordin?”
“We didn’t, Brightlord. He just dropped it.”
“And it didn’t vanish away? Not bonded, then. He couldn’t have had it for long. Were his eyes this color when you found him?”
“Yes, sir. A darkeyed man with a Shardblade. Odd sight, that.”
“I will train your soldiers. We should have time. Ishar keeps talking about a way to keep information from being lost following Desolations. And you have discovered something unexpected. We will use that. Surgebinders to act as guardians . . . Knights . . .”
“He’s said this all before, Your Majesty. When he mumbles, uh, he just keeps at it. Over and over. I don’t think he even knows what he’s saying. Eerie, how his expression doesn’t change as he talks.”
“That is an Alethi accent.”
“He looks like he’s been living in the wild for some time, with that long hair and those broken nails. Perhaps a villager lost their mad father.”
“And the Blade, Elhokar?”
“Surely you don’t think it’s his, Uncle.”
“The coming days will be difficult, but with training, humanity will survive. You must bring me to your leaders. The other Heralds should join us soon.”
“I am willing to consider anything, these days. Your Majesty, I suggest you send him to the ardents. Perhaps they can help his mind to recover.”
“What will you do with the Shardblade?”
“I’m certain we can find a good use for it. In fact, something occurs to me right now. I might have need of you, Bordin.”
“Whatever you need, Brightlord.”
How long had it been?
How long had it been?
How long had it been?
How long had it been?
How long had it been?
How long had it been?
How long had it been?
Too long.
They were waiting for Eshonai when she returned.
A gathering of thousands crowded the edge of the plateau just outside of Narak. Workers, nimbles, soldiers, and even some mates who had been drawn away from their hedonism by the prospect of something novel. A new form, a form of power?
Eshonai strode toward them, marveling at the energy. Tiny, almost invisible lines of red lightning flared from her hand if she made a fist quickly. Her marbled skin tone—mostly black, with a slight grain of red streaks—had not changed, but she’d lost the bulky armor of warform. Instead, small ridges peeked out through the skin of her arms, which was stretched tightly in places. She’d tested the new armor against stones and found it very durable.
She had hairstrands again. How long had it been since she’d felt those? More wondrous, she felt focused. No more worries about the fate of her people. She knew what to do.
Venli pushed to the front of the crowd as Eshonai reached the edge of the chasm. They looked across the void at one another, and Eshonai could see the question on her sister’s lips. It worked?
Eshonai leapt the chasm. She didn’t require the running start that warform used; she crouched down, then threw herself up and into the air. The wind seemed to writhe around her. She shot over the chasm and landed among her people, red lines of power running up her legs as she crouched, absorbing the impact of the landing.
People backed away. So clear. Everything was so clear.
“I have returned from the storms,” she said to Praise, which could also be used for true satisfaction. “I bring with me the future of two peoples. Our time of loss is at an end.”
“Eshonai?” It was Thude, wearing his long coat. “Eshonai, your eyes.”
“Yes?”
“They’re red.”
“They are a representation of what I’ve become.”
“But, in the songs—”
“Sister!” Eshonai called to Resolve. “Come look upon what you have wrought!”
Venli approached, timid at first. “Stormform,” she whispered to Awe. “It works, then? You can move in the storms without danger?”
“More than that,” Eshonai said. “The winds obey me. And Venli, I can feel something . . . something building. A storm.”
“You feel a storm right now? In the rhythms?”
“Beyond the rhythms,” Eshonai said. How could she explain it? How could she describe taste to one with no mouth, sight to one who had never seen? “I feel a tempest brewing just beyond our experience. A powerful, angry tempest. A highstorm. With enough of us bearing this form together, we could bring it. We could bend the storms to our will, and could bring them down upon our enemies.”
Humming to the Rhythm of Awe spread through those who watched. As they were listeners, they could feel the rhythm, hear it. All were in tune, all were in rhythm with one another. Perfection.
Eshonai held out her arms to the sides and spoke in a loud voice. “Cast aside despair and sing to the Rhythm of Joy! I have looked into the depths of the Storm Rider’s eyes, and I have seen his betrayal. I know his mind, and have seen his intent to help the humans against us. But my sister has discovered salvation! With this form we can stand on our own, independent, and we can sweep our enemies from this land like leaves before the tempest!”
The humming to Awe grew louder, and some began to sing. Eshonai gloried in it.
She pointedly ignored the voice deep within her that was screaming in horror.
They also, when they had settled their rulings in the nature of each bond’s placement, called the name of it the Nahel bond, with regard to its effect upon the souls of those caught in its grip; in this description, each was related to the bonds that drive Roshar itself, ten Surges, named in turn and two for each order; in this light, it can be seen that each order would by necessity share one Surge with each of its neighbors.
—From Words of Radiance, chapter 8, page 6
Adolin threw his Shardblade.
Wielding the weapons was about more than just practicing stances and growing accustomed to the too-light swordplay. A master of the Blade learned to do more with the bond. He learned to command it to remain in place after being dropped, and learned to summon it back from the hands of those who might have picked it up. He learned that man and sword were, in some ways, one. The weapon became a piece of your soul.
Adolin had learned to control his Blade in this way. Usually. Today, the weapon disintegrated almost immediately after leaving his fingers.
The long, silvery Blade transmuted to white vapor—holding its shape for just a brief moment, like a smoke ring—before exploding in a puff of writhing white streams. Adolin growled in frustration, pacing back and forth on the plateau, hand held out to the side as he resummoned the weapon. Ten heartbeats. At times, it felt like an eternity.
He wore his Plate without the helm, which sat atop a nearby rock, and so his hair blew free in the early morning breeze. He needed the Plate; his left shoulder and side were a mass of purple bruises. His head still ached from slamming into the ground during the assassin’s attack last night. Without the Plate, he wouldn’t be nearly so nimble today.
Besides, he needed its strength. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting the assassin to be there. He’d stayed up all night last night, sitting on the floor outside his father’s room, wearing Plate, arms crossed on his knees, chewing ridgebark to stay awake.
He’d been caught without his Plate once. Not again.
And what will you do? he thought to himself as his Blade reappeared. Wear it all the time?
The part of him that asked such questions was rational. He didn’t want to be rational right now.
He shook the condensation from his Blade, then twisted and hurled it, transmitting the mental commands that would tell it to hold together. Once again, the weapon shattered to mist moments after it left his fingers. It didn’t even cross half the distance to the rock formation he was aiming for.
What was wrong with him? He’d mastered Blade commands years ago. True, he hadn’t often practiced throwing his sword—such things were forbidden in duels, and he hadn’t ever thought he’d need to use the maneuver. That was before he’d been trapped on the ceiling of a hallway, unable to properly engage an assassin.
Adolin walked to the edge of the plateau, staring out over the uneven expanse of the Shattered Plains. A huddle of three guards watched him nearby. Laughable. What would three bridgemen do if the Assassin in White returned?
Kaladin was worth something in the attack, Adolin thought. More than you were. That man had been suspiciously effective.
Renarin said that Adolin was unfair toward the bridgeman captain, but there was something strange about that man. More than his attitude—the way he always acted like by talking to you, he was doing you a favor. The way he seemed so decidedly gloomy at everything, angry at the world itself. He was unlikable, plain and simple, but Adolin had known plenty of unlikable people.
Kaladin was also strange. In ways Adolin couldn’t explain.
Well, for all that, Kaladin’s men were just doing their duty. No use in snapping at them, so he gave them a smile.
Adolin’s Shardblade dropped into his fingers again, too light for its size. He had always felt a certain strength when holding it. Never before had Adolin felt powerless when bearing his Shards. Even surrounded by the Parshendi, even certain he was going to die, he’d still felt power.
Where was that feeling now?
He spun and threw the weapon, focusing as Zahel had taught him years before, sending a direct instruction to the Blade—picturing what he needed it to do. It held together, spinning end over end, flashing in t
“Come,” he said to his bodyguards, snatching his helm from the rock and walking toward the nearby warcamp. As one might expect, the crater edge that formed the warcamp wall was most weathered here, in the east. The camp had spilled out like the contents of a broken turtle egg, and—over the years—had even started to creep down onto the near plateaus.
Emerging from that creep of civilization was a distinctly odd procession. The congregation of robed ardents chanted in unison, surrounding parshmen who carried large poles upright like lances. Silk cloth shimmered between these poles, a good forty feet wide, rippling in the breeze and cutting off the view of something in the center.
Soulcasters? They didn’t normally come out during the day. “Wait here,” he told his bodyguards, then jogged over toward the ardents.
The three bridgemen obeyed. If Kaladin had been with them, he would have insisted on following. Maybe the way the fellow acted was a result of his strange position. Why had father put a darkeyed soldier outside the command structure? Adolin was all for treating men with respect and honor regardless of eye shade, but the Almighty had put some men in command and others beneath them. It was simply the natural order of things.
The parshmen carrying the poles watched him come, then looked down at the ground. Nearby ardents let Adolin pass, though they looked uncomfortable. Adolin was allowed to see Soulcasters, but having him visit them was irregular.
Inside the temporary silk room, Adolin found Kadash—one of the foremost of Dalinar’s ardents. The tall man had once been a soldier, as the scars on his head testified. He spoke with ardents in bloodred robes.
Soulcasters. It was the word for both the people who performed the art and the fabrials they used. Kadash was not one himself; he wore the standard grey robes instead of red, his head shaven, face accented by a square beard. He noticed Adolin, hesitated briefly, then bowed his head in respect. Like all of the ardents, Kadash was technically a slave.