Words of Radiance

Amaram’s expression grew distant. Even the way he walked was so full of decorum, straight back, nodding with respect to many they passed. The perfect lighteyed general—brilliantly capable, yet not lofty. A sword for his highprince to employ. He’d spent the majority of the war diligently training new troops and sending the best of them to Sadeas while guarding sections of Alethkar. Amaram was half the reason that Sadeas had been so effective out here on the Shattered Plains.

“Your father is a man who cannot bend,” Amaram said. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Adolin—but it does mean that the man he has become is not someone who can work with Highprince Sadeas.”

“And you’re different?”

“Yes.”

Adolin snorted. Amaram was one of the finest the kingdom had, a man with a sterling reputation. “I doubt that.”

“Sadeas and I agree that the means we choose to reach an honorable goal are allowed to be distasteful. Your father and I agree on what that goal should be—a better Alethkar, a place without all of this squabbling. It is a matter of perspective. . . .”

He continued talking, but Adolin found his mind drifting. He’d heard enough of this speech from his father. If Amaram started quoting The Way of Kings at him, he’d probably scream. At least—

Who was that?

Gorgeous red hair. There wasn’t a single lock of black in it. A slender build, so different from the curvaceous Alethi. A silken blue dress, simple yet elegant. Pale skin—it almost had a Shin look to it—matched by light blue eyes. A slight dusting of freckles under the eyes, giving her an exotic cast.

The young woman seemed to glide through the room. Adolin twisted about, watching her pass. She was so different.

“Ash’s eyes!” Amaram said, chuckling. “You’re still doing that, are you?”

Adolin pried his eyes away from the girl. “Doing what?”

“Letting your eyes be drawn by every flitting little thing that swishes by. You need to settle down, son. Pick one. Your mother would be mortified to find you still unwed.”

“Jasnah’s unwed too. She’s a decade older than me.” Assuming she was still alive, as Aunt Navani was convinced.

“Your cousin is hardly a role model in that regard.” His tone implied more. Or any regard.

“Look at her, Amaram,” Adolin said, craning to the side and watching the young woman approach his father. “That hair. Have you ever seen anything such a deep shade of red?”

“Veden, I’d warrant,” Amaram said. “Horneater blood. There are family lines that pride themselves on it.”

Veden. It couldn’t be . . . Could it?

“Excuse me,” Adolin said, breaking away from Amaram and shoving—politely—his way over to where the young woman was speaking to his father and his aunt.

“Brightlady Jasnah did go down with the ship, I’m afraid,” the woman was saying. “I’m sorry for your loss . . .”

Now, as the Windrunners were thus engaged, arose the event which has hitherto been referenced: namely, that discovery of some wicked thing of eminence, though whether it be some rogueries among the Radiants’ adherents or of some external origin, Avena would not suggest.

—From Words of Radiance, chapter 38, page 6

“. . . sorry for your loss,” Shallan said. “I have brought with me what things of Jasnah’s I was able to recover. My men have them outside.”

She found it surprisingly difficult to say the words with an even tone. She’d grieved for Jasnah during her weeks traveling, yet speaking of the death—remembering that terrible night—returned the emotions like surging waves, threatening to overwhelm again.

The image she’d drawn of herself came to her rescue. She could be that woman today—and that woman, while not emotionless, could push through the loss. She focused her attention on the moment, and the task at hand—specifically the two people in front of her. Dalinar and Navani Kholin.

The highprince was exactly what she’d expected him to be: a man with blunted features, short black hair silvering at the sides. His stiff uniform made him seem the only one in the room who knew anything about combat. She wondered if those bruises on his face were the result of the campaign against the Parshendi. Navani looked like a version of Jasnah twenty years older, still pretty, though with a motherly air. Shallan could never imagine Jasnah being motherly.

Navani had been smiling as Shallan approached, but now that levity was gone. She still had hope for her daughter, Shallan thought as the woman sat down in a nearby seat. I just crushed it.

“I thank you for bringing us this news,” Brightlord Dalinar said. “It is . . . good to have confirmation.”

It felt terrible. Not just to be reminded of the death, but to weigh others down with it as well. “I have information for you,” Shallan said, trying to be delicate. “About the things Jasnah was working on.”

“More about those parshmen?” Navani snapped. “Storms, that woman was too fascinated by them. Ever since she got it into her head that she was to blame for Gavilar’s death.”

What was this? That wasn’t a side of all this that Shallan had ever heard.

“Her research can wait,” Navani said, eyes fierce. “I want to know exactly what happened when you think you saw her die. Precisely as you remember it, girl. No details passed over.”

“Perhaps after the meeting . . .” Dalinar said, resting a hand on Navani’s shoulder. The touch was surprisingly tender. Was this not his brother’s wife? That look in his eyes; was that familial affection for his sister, or was it something more?

“No, Dalinar,” Navani said. “Now. I would hear it now.”

Shallan took a deep breath, preparing to begin, steeling herself against the emotions—and finding herself surprisingly in control. As she gathered her thoughts, she noticed a blond-haired young man watching her. That would likely be Adolin. He was handsome, as rumors indicated, and wore a blue uniform like his father. And yet Adolin’s was somehow more . . . stylish? Was that the right word? She liked how his somewhat unruly hair contrasted with the crisp uniform. It made him seem more real, less picturesque.

She turned back to Navani. “I woke in the middle of the night to shouting and the smell of smoke. I opened my door to unfamiliar men crowded around the doorway to Jasnah’s cabin, across the companionway from my own. They had her body on the floor, and . . . Brightness, I watched them stab her through the heart. I’m sorry.”

Navani tensed, head flinching, as if she’d been slapped.

Shallan continued. She tried to give Navani as much truth as she could, but obviously the things Shallan had done—weaving light, Soulcasting the ship—weren’t wise to share, at least for now. Instead, she indicated that she’d barricaded herself in her cabin, a lie she’d already prepared.

“I heard the men yelling up above as they were being executed, one by one,” Shallan said. “I realized that the only hope I could give them was a crisis for the brigands, so I used the torch I’d taken and set the ship on fire.”

“On fire?” Navani asked, horrified. “With my daughter unconscious?”

“Navani—” Dalinar said, squeezing her shoulder.

“You doomed her,” Navani said, locking eyes with Shallan. “Jasnah wouldn’t have been able to swim, like the others. She—”

“Navani,” Dalinar repeated, more firmly. “This child’s choice was a good one. You can hardly expect her to have taken on a band of men single-handed. And what she saw . . . Jasnah was not unconscious, Navani. It was too late to do anything for her at that point.”

The woman took a deep breath, obviously struggling to keep her emotions in check. “I . . . apologize,” she said to Shallan. “I am not myself at the moment, and I stray toward the irrational. Thank . . . thank you for bringing word to us.” She stood. “Excuse me.”

Dalinar nodded, letting her make a reasonably graceful exit. Shallan stepped back, hands clasped before herself, feeling impotent and strangely ashamed as she watched Navani leave. She hadn’t expected that to go particularly well. And it hadn’t.

She took the moment to check on Pattern, who was on her skirt, practically invisible. Even if he was noticed, he’d be thought an odd part of the fabric design—assuming, that was, he did as she’d ordered and didn’t move or speak.

“I assume your trip here was an ordeal,” Dalinar said, turning to Shallan. “Shipwrecked in the Frostlands?”

“Yes. Fortunately, I met with a caravan and traveled with them this way. We did encounter bandits, I regret to say, but were rescued by the timely arrival of some soldiers.”

“Soldiers?” Dalinar said, surprised. “From what banner?”

“They did not say,” Shallan replied. “I take it they were formerly of the Shattered Plains.”

“Deserters?”

“I have not asked for specifics, Brightlord,” Shallan said. “But I did promise them clemency for previous crimes, in recognition of their act of nobility. They saved dozens of lives. Everyone in the caravan I joined can vouch for the bravery of these men. I suspect they sought atonement and a chance to start over.”