Words of Radiance

Of course Mraize would send someone to tail her. Her cold sweat returning, Shallan forced herself to move, not looking over her shoulder. “How many?” she asked Pattern, who had climbed up onto the side of her coat.

“One,” Pattern said. “The person with the mask, though she now wears a black cloak. Should we go speak with her? You are friends now, right?”

“No. I wouldn’t say that.”

“Mmm . . .” Pattern said. She suspected he was trying to figure out the nature of human interactions. Good luck.

What to do? Shallan doubted she could lose her tail. The woman would have practice with this sort of thing, while Shallan . . . well, she had a lot of practice reading books and sketching pictures.

Lightweaving, she thought. Can I do something with that? Her disguise was still working—the dark hair trailing down her shoulder proved that. Could she change to a different image overlaying herself?

She drew in Stormlight, and that made her increase her pace. Up ahead, an alley turned between two groups of tenements. Ignoring memories of a similar alleyway in Kharbranth, Shallan turned in to this one with a quick step, then immediately breathed out Stormlight, trying to shape it. Perhaps into the image of a large man, to cover over her coat, and . . .

And the Stormlight just puffed in front of her, doing nothing. She panicked, but forced herself to keep moving down the alleyway.

It didn’t work. Why didn’t it work? She’d been able to make it work in her rooms!

The only thing she could think that was different was her sketch. In her rooms, she’d drawn a detailed picture. She didn’t have that now.

She reached into her pocket, taking out the sheet of paper with the map sketched on it. The back was blank. She fished in the other pocket for the pencil she’d instinctively put there and tried to draw while walking. Impossible. Salas had almost set, and it was too dark. Besides, she couldn’t do good detail while moving and with nothing firm to back the paper. If she stopped and sketched, would that arouse suspicion? Storms, she was so nervous, she had trouble keeping the pencil straight.

She needed a place where she could hide, crouch down, and do a solid sketch. Like one of those doorway nooks she’d passed in the alleyway.

She started to draw a wall.

That she could do while walking. She turned down a side street, the light from an open tavern spilling across her. She ignored the ruckus of laughter and shouts, though a few of those seemed to be directed at her, and drew a simple stone wall on her sheet.

She had no idea if this would work, but she might as well try. She turned in to another alleyway—almost stumbling over the snoring form of a drunk who was missing his shoes—then took off at a run. A short distance in, she ducked into a doorway recess a couple of feet deep. Breathing out her remaining Stormlight, she imagined the wall she’d drawn covering over the doorway.

Everything went black.

The alley had been dark anyway, but now she couldn’t see anything. No phantom light of the moon, no glow from the torchlit tavern at the end of the alley. Did that mean her image was working? She pushed back against the door behind her, pulling off her hat, trying to make sure none of her poked through the illusory wall. She heard a faint scrape outside, boots on stone, and a sound like clothing brushing against the wall across from her. Then nothing.

Shallan remained there, frozen, straining her ears but hearing only the thud of her heart. Finally, she whispered, “Pattern. Are you here?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Go and see if the woman is outside somewhere near.”

He made no sound as he left and then returned. “She is gone.”

Shallan let out the breath she’d been holding. Then, bracing herself, she stepped through the wall. A glow, like that of Stormlight, filled her vision. Then she was out, standing in the alleyway. The illusion behind her swirled briefly like disturbed smoke, then quickly re-formed.

The imitation was actually pretty good. Examined closely, the joints between her stones didn’t align perfectly with the real ones, but that was hard to see at night. Only a few moments later, though, the illusion shattered back to swirling Stormlight and evaporated. She had no Light left to sustain it.

“Your disguise is gone,” Pattern noted.

Red hair. Shallan gasped, then immediately shoved her safehand into her pocket. The darkeyed con woman that Tyn had trained could go about half-clothed, but not Shallan herself. It just wasn’t right.

It was also stupid, and she knew that, but she couldn’t change her feelings. She hesitated briefly, then took off the coat. With that and the hat removed, and with her hair and face changed, she was a different person. She left out the opposite end of the alley from where she assumed the masked woman had gone.

Shallan hesitated, getting her bearings. Where was the mansion? She tried retracing her route mentally, but had trouble fixing her position. She needed something she could see. She took out her wrinkled paper and drew a quick map of the path she’d taken so far.

“I can lead you back to the mansion,” Pattern said.

“I can manage.” Shallan held up the map and nodded.

“Mmm. It is a pattern. You can see this one?”

“Yes.”

“But not the pattern of letters with the spanreed?”

How could she explain? “Those were words,” Shallan said. “The warcamp is a place, something I can draw.” The picture of the path back was clear to her.

“Ah . . .” Pattern said.

She returned to the mansion without incident, but she couldn’t be certain she’d cleanly slipped the tail, nor whether someone from Sebarial’s staff had seen her crossing the grounds and climbing into the window. That was the problem with sneaking about. If nothing seemed to have gone wrong, you rarely knew if it was because you were safe, or if someone had spotted you and just hadn’t done anything. Yet.

After pulling her shutters closed and snapping the drapes into place, Shallan threw herself back onto the plush bed, breathing deeply and trembling.

That was, she thought, the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.

And yet she found herself excited, flushed with the thrill of it. Storms! She’d enjoyed that. The tension, the sweat, the talking her way out of being killed, even the chase at the end. What was wrong with her? When she’d tried to steal from Jasnah, every part of the experience had made her sick.

I’m not that girl anymore, Shallan thought, smiling and staring at the ceiling. I haven’t been for weeks now.

She would find a way to investigate this Brightlord Amaram, and she would earn the trust of Mraize so she could find out what he knew. I still need an alliance with the Kholin family, she thought. And the path to that is Prince Adolin. She’d have to find a way to interact with him again as soon as possible, but somehow that didn’t make her look desperate.

The part involving him seemed likely to be the most pleasant of her tasks. Still smiling, she threw herself off the bed and went to see if any food remained on that tray she’d been left.

But as for the Bondsmiths, they had members only three, which number was not uncommon for them; nor did they seek to increase this by great bounds, for during the times of Madasa, only one of their order was in continual accompaniment of Urithiru and its thrones. Their spren was understood to be specific, and to persuade them to grow to the magnitude of the other orders was seen as seditious.

—From Words of Radiance, chapter 16, page 14

Kaladin never felt more uncomfortably conspicuous than when visiting Dalinar’s lighteyed training grounds, where all of the other soldiers were highborn.

Dalinar mandated that his soldiers wear uniforms during duty hours, and these men obeyed. In his own blue uniform, Kaladin shouldn’t have felt set off from them, but he did. Theirs were more lavish, with bright buttons up the sides of the fine coats and gemstones set into the buttons. Others ornamented their uniforms with embroidery. Colorful scarves were growing popular.

The lighteyed looked over Kaladin and his men as they entered. As much as the regular soldiers treated his men like heroes—as much as even these officers respected Dalinar and his decisions—their postures were hostile toward him and his.

You are not wanted here, those stares said. Everyone has a place. You’re out of yours. Like a chull in a dining hall.

“May I be relieved from duty for today’s training, sir?” Renarin asked Kaladin. The youth wore a Bridge Four uniform.

Kaladin nodded. His departure made the other bridgemen relax. Kaladin pointed toward three watch positions, and three of his men ran off to stand guard. Moash, Teft, and Yake stayed with him.

Kaladin marched them up to Zahel, who stood at the back of the sand-covered courtyard. Though the other ardents all busied themselves carrying water, towels, or sparring weapons to dueling lighteyes, Zahel had drawn a circle in the sand and was throwing little colored rocks into it.

“I’m taking you up on your offer,” Kaladin said, stepping up to him. “I brought three of my men to learn with me.”

“Didn’t offer to train four of you,” Zahel said.

“I know.”

Zahel grunted. “Do forty laps around the outside of this building at a jog, then report back. You have until I get tired of my game to return.”

Kaladin gestured sharply, and all four of them took off at a run.