Words of Radiance

A woman with a sword. An odd sight. Of course, was it any odder than darkeyed men holding a Shardblade?

Ivis gave them lengths of wood that, weight and balance wise, were decent approximations of a Shardblade. Like a child’s scribble with chalk could be a decent approximation of a person. Then she put them through several routines, demonstrating the ten Shardblade sword stances.

Kaladin had been looking to kill lighteyes from the moment he’d first touched a spear, and during the later years—before being enslaved—he’d gotten pretty good at it. But those lighteyes he’d hunted on the battlefield hadn’t been terribly skilled. The majority of men who were truly good with a sword had made their way to the Shattered Plains. So the stances were new to him.

He started to see and understand. Knowing the stances would let him anticipate a swordsman’s next move. He didn’t have to be wielding a sword himself—he still thought it an inflexible weapon—to make use of that.

An hour or so later, Kaladin set down his practice sword and stepped over to the water barrel. No ardents or parshmen ran drinks to him or his men. He was just fine with that; he wasn’t some pampered rich boy. He leaned against the barrel, taking a ladle of water, feeling the good exhaustion deep in his muscles that told him he’d been doing something worthwhile.

He scanned the grounds for Adolin and Renarin. He wasn’t on duty watching either of them—Adolin would have come with Mart and Eth, and Renarin was under the watch of the three that Kaladin had assigned earlier. Still, he couldn’t help looking to see how they were. An accident here could be—

A woman was on the practice grounds. Not an ardent, but a true lighteyed woman, the one with the vibrant red hair. She had just wandered in, and was scanning the grounds.

He didn’t bear a grudge about the incident with his boots. It simply typified how, to a lighteyes, men like Kaladin were playthings. You toyed with darkeyes, took what you needed from them, and gave no thought to having left them far worse for the interaction.

It was how Roshone had been. It was how Sadeas was. It was how this woman was. She wasn’t evil, really. She just didn’t care.

She’s probably a good match for the princeling, he thought as Yake and Teft jogged over for some water. Moash stayed with his practice, intent on his sword forms.

“Not bad,” Yake said, following Kaladin’s gaze.

“Not bad at what?” Kaladin asked, trying to figure out what the woman was doing.

“Not bad looking, Captain,” Yake said with a laugh. “Storms! Sometimes, it seems the only thing you think about is who has to be on duty next.”

Nearby, Syl nodded emphatically.

“She’s lighteyed,” Kaladin said.

“So?” Yake said, slapping him on the shoulder. “A lighteyed lady can’t be attractive?”

“No.” It was as simple as that.

“You are a strange one, sir,” Yake said.

Eventually, Ivis called for Yake and Teft to stop idling and return to practice. She didn’t call for Kaladin. He seemed to intimidate many of the ardents.

Yake jogged back, but Teft lingered for a moment, then nodded toward the girl, Shallan. “You think we have to worry about her? Foreign woman about whom we know very little, sent in to suddenly be Adolin’s betrothed. Sure would make a good assassin.”

“Damnation,” Kaladin said. “I should have seen that. Good eye, Teft.”

Teft shrugged modestly, then jogged back to his training.

He’d assumed the woman was an opportunist, but could she actually be an assassin? Kaladin picked up his practice sword and wandered toward her, passing Renarin, who was training in some of the same stances that Kaladin’s men were practicing.

As Kaladin walked toward Shallan, Adolin clanked up beside him in Shardplate.

“What is she doing here?” Kaladin asked.

“Come to watch me while I spar, presumably,” Adolin said. “I usually have to kick them out.”

“Them?”

“You know. Girls who want to gawk at me while I fight. I wouldn’t mind, but if we allowed it, they’d clog the entire grounds every time I came. Nobody would be able to get any sparring done.”

Kaladin raised an eyebrow at him.

“What?” Adolin asked. “You don’t get women coming to watch while you spar, bridgeboy? Little darkeyed ladies, missing seven teeth and afraid of bathing . . .”

Kaladin looked away from Adolin, drawing his lips to a line. Next time, he thought, I let the assassin have this one.

Adolin chuckled for a moment, though his laughter trailed off awkwardly. “Anyway,” he continued, “she probably has a better reason to be here than others, considering our relationship. We’ll still have to kick her out. Can’t set a bad precedent.”

“You really let this happen?” Kaladin asked. “A betrothal to a woman you’d never met?”

Adolin shrugged armored shoulders. “Things always go so well at first, and then . . . they fall apart on me. I can never figure out where I go wrong. I thought, maybe if there were something more formal in place . . .”

He scowled, as if remembering who he was talking to, and tromped forward at a faster pace to get away from Kaladin. Adolin reached Shallan, who—humming to herself—passed him right by without looking. Adolin raised a hand, mouth opened to speak, as he turned and watched her walk farther across the courtyard. Her eyes were on Nall, head ardent of the practice grounds. Shallan bowed to her in reverence.

Adolin scowled, turning to jog after Shallan, passing Kaladin, who smirked at him.

“Come to watch you, I see,” Kaladin said. “Completely fascinated by you, obviously.”

“Shut up,” Adolin growled.

Kaladin strolled after Adolin, reaching Shallan and Nall in the middle of a conversation.

“. . . visual records of these suits are pathetic, Sister Nall,” Shallan was saying, handing Nall a bound leather portfolio. “We need new sketches. Though much of my time will be spent clerking for Brightlord Sebarial, I would like a few projects of my own during my time at the Shattered Plains. With your blessing, I wish to proceed.”

“Your talent is admirable,” Nall said, flipping through pages. “Art is your Calling?”

“Natural History, Sister Nall, though sketching is a priority for me in that line of study as well.”

“As well it should be.” The ardent turned another page. “You have my blessing, dear child. Tell me, which devotary do you call your own?”

“That is . . . a subject of some consternation on my part,” Shallan said, taking the portfolio back. “Oh! Adolin. I didn’t notice you there. My, but you do loom when you wear that armor, don’t you?”

“You’re letting her stay?” Adolin asked Nall.

“She wishes to update the royal record of Shardplate and Shardblades in the warcamps with new sketches,” Nall said. “This seems wise. The king’s current accounting of the Shards includes many rough sketches, but few detailed drawings.”

“So you’re going to need me to pose for you?” Adolin asked, turning to Shallan.

“Actually, the sketches of your Plate are quite complete,” Shallan said, “thanks to your mother. I’ll focus first on the King’s Plate and Blades, which nobody has thought to sketch in any detail.”

“Just stay out of the way of the men sparring, child,” Nall said as someone called for her. She walked off.

“Look,” Adolin said, turning to Shallan. “I can see what you’re up to.”

“Five foot six inches,” Shallan said. “I suspect that’s all I will ever be up to, unfortunately.”

“Five foot . . .” Adolin said, frowning.

“Yes,” Shallan said, scanning the practice grounds. “I thought it was a good height, then I came here. You Alethi really are freakishly tall, aren’t you? I’d guess everyone here is a good two inches taller than the Veden average.”

“No, that’s not . . .” Adolin frowned. “You’re here because you want to watch me spar. Admit it. The sketching is a ruse.”

“Hmmm. Someone has a high opinion of himself. Comes with being royalty, I suppose. Like funny hats and a fondness for beheadings. Ah, and it’s our captain of the guard. Your boots are on the way to your barracks via courier.”

Kaladin started as he realized she was talking to him. “Is that so?”

“I had the soles replaced,” Shallan said. “They were terribly uncomfortable.”

“I liked how they fit!”

“Then you must have stones for feet.” She glanced down, then cocked an eyebrow.

“Wait,” Adolin said, frowning more deeply. “You wore the bridgeboy’s boots? How did that happen?”

“Awkwardly,” Shallan replied. “And with three pairs of socks.” She patted Adolin’s armored arm. “If you really want me to sketch you, Adolin, I will. No need to act jealous, though I do still want that walk you promised me. Oh! I need to get that. Excuse me.”

She strode toward where Renarin was taking hits on his armor from Zahel, presumably to get him used to taking a beating while wearing Plate. Shallan’s green gown and red hair were vibrant slashes of color on the grounds. Kaladin inspected her, wondering just how far she could be trusted. Probably not far.