Words of Radiance

“They patrol,” Adolin said, “to create a better Alethkar.”

“Is that what Dalinar wants? I am surprised to hear it. He talks of justice, of course, but he doesn’t allow justice to take its course. Not properly.”

“And I know where you’re going, Sadeas,” Adolin snapped. “You’re annoyed that we haven’t been letting you put judges into our warcamp as Highprince of Information. Well, I’ll have you know that Father has decided to let—”

“Highprince of . . . Information? You didn’t hear? I recently renounced the title.”

“What?”

“Yes,” Sadeas said. “I fear I was never a good match for the position. My Shalashian temperament, perhaps. I wish Dalinar good fortune in finding a replacement—though from what I’ve heard, the other highprinces have come to an agreement that none of us are . . . suited to these kinds of appointments.”

He renounces the king’s authority, Adolin thought. Storms, this was bad. He gritted his teeth, and found himself reaching his hand to the side to summon his Blade. No. He pulled the hand back. He’d find a way to force this man into the dueling ring. Killing Sadeas now—no matter how much he deserved it—would undermine the very laws and codes Adolin’s father was working so hard to uphold.

But storms . . . Adolin was tempted.

Sadeas smiled again. “Do you think me an evil man, Adolin?”

“That’s too simple a term,” Adolin snapped. “You’re not just evil, you’re a selfish, crem-crusted eel who is trying to strangle this kingdom with his bulbous, bastard hand.”

“Eloquent,” Sadeas said. “You realize I created this kingdom.”

“You only helped my father and uncle.”

“Men who are both gone,” Sadeas said. “The Blackthorn is as dead as old Gavilar. Instead, two idiots rule this kingdom, and each one is—in a way—a shadow of a man I loved.” He leaned forward, looking Adolin straight in the eyes. “I’m not strangling Alethkar, son. I’m trying with everything I have to keep a few chunks of it strong enough to weather the collapse your father is bringing.”

“Don’t call me son,” Adolin hissed.

“Fine,” Sadeas said, standing. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m glad you survived the events on the Tower that day. You’ll make a fine highprince in the coming months. I have a feeling that in ten years or so—following an extended civil war between the two of us—our alliance will be a strong one. By then, you’ll understand why I did what I did.”

“I doubt it. I’ll have rammed my sword through your gut long before that, Sadeas.”

Sadeas raised his cup of wine, then walked off, joining a different group of lighteyes. Adolin let out a long sigh of exhaustion, then leaned back against the chair. Nearby, his short bridgeman guard—the one with the silver at his temples—gave Adolin a nod of respect.

Adolin slumped there, feeling drained, until long after the highstorm ended and people started to depart. Adolin preferred to wait until the rain stopped completely before leaving, anyway. He never had liked how his uniform looked when it got wet.

Eventually, he rose, collected his two guards, and stepped out of the winehouse to a grey sky and a deserted Outer Market. He was mostly over the conversation with Sadeas, and kept reminding himself that up to that point the day had been going very well.

Shallan and her carriage had already gone, of course. He could have ordered a ride for himself, but after being locked away for so long, it felt good to be walking in the open air; chill, wet, and fresh from the storm.

Hands in the pockets of his uniform, he started along a pathway through the Outer Market, strolling around puddles. Gardeners had begun growing ornamental shalebark along the sides of the path, though it wasn’t very high yet, just a few inches. A good shalebark ridge could take years to grow properly.

Those two insufferable bridgemen followed along behind him. Not that Adolin minded the men personally—they seemed like amiable enough fellows, particularly when away from their commander. Adolin just didn’t like needing minders. Though the storm had passed into the west, the afternoon felt gloomy. Clouds obscured the sun, which had moved from its zenith and was drooping slowly toward the distant horizon. He didn’t pass many people, so his only companions were the bridgemen—well, those and a legion of cremlings that had emerged to feast upon plants that lapped at water in pools.

Why did plants spend so much more time in their shells out here than they did back home? Shallan probably knew. He smiled, forcing thoughts of Sadeas into the back of his mind. This thing with Shallan, it was working. It always worked at first though, so he contained his enthusiasm.

She was marvelous. Exotic, witty, and not smothered in Alethi propriety. She was smarter than he was, but she didn’t make him feel stupid. That was a large point in her favor.

He passed out of the market, then crossed the open ground beyond it, eventually reaching Dalinar’s warcamp. The guards let him through with crisp salutes. He idled in the warcamp market, comparing the wares he saw here with those in the market near the Pinnacle.

What will happen to this place, Adolin thought, when the war stops? It would end someday. Perhaps tomorrow, with the negotiations with the Parshendi Shardbearer.

The Alethi presence wouldn’t end here, not with the chasmfiends to hunt, but surely this large a population couldn’t continue, could it? Could he really be witnessing a permanent shift of the king’s seat?

Hours later—after spending some time at jewelry shops looking for something for Shallan—Adolin and his guards reached his father’s complex. By then, Adolin’s feet were starting to ache and the camp had grown dark. He yawned, making his way through the cavernous guts of his father’s bunkerish dwelling. Wasn’t it about time they built a proper mansion? Being an example for the men was all well and good, but there were certain standards a family like theirs should uphold. Particularly if the Shattered Plains were going to remain as important as they had been. It was . . .

He hesitated, stopping at an intersection and looking right. He’d been intending to visit the kitchens for a snack, but a group of men moved and threw shadows in the other direction. Hushed whispers.

“What is this?” Adolin demanded, marching toward the gathering, his two guards following. “Soldiers? What have you found?”

The men scrambled to turn and salute, spears to shoulders. They were more bridgemen from Kaladin’s unit. Just beyond them were the doors to the wing where Dalinar, Adolin, and Renarin all made their quarters. Those doors lay open, and the men had set spheres on the ground.

What was going on? Normally, two or maybe four men would be on guard here. Not eight. And . . . why was there a parshman wearing a guardsman uniform, holding a spear with the others?

“Sir!” said a lanky, long-armed man at the front of the bridgemen. “We were just heading in to check on the highprince, when . . .”

Adolin didn’t hear the rest. He pushed through the bridgemen, finally seeing what the spheres illuminated on the floor of the sitting room.

More scratched glyphs. Adolin knelt down, trying to read them. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been drawn in any kind of picture to help. He thought they were numbers . . .

“Thirty-two days,” said one of the bridgemen, a short Azish man. “Seek the center.”

Damnation. “Have you told anyone of this?” Adolin asked.

“We just found it,” the Azish man said.

“Post guards at either end of the hallway,” Adolin said. “And send for my aunt.”

* * *

Adolin summoned his Blade, then dismissed it, then summoned it again. A nervous habit. The white fog appeared—manifesting as little vines sprouting in the air—before snapping into the form of a Shardblade, which suddenly weighed down his hand.

He stood in the sitting room, those foreboding markings staring up at him, as if in silent challenge. The closed door kept the bridgemen out so only he, Dalinar, and Navani would be privy to the discussion. Adolin wanted to use the Blade to cut those cursed glyphs away. Dalinar had proven that he was sane. Aunt Navani almost had an entire document of the Dawnchant translated, using the words of Father’s visions as a guide!

The visions were from the Almighty. It all made sense.

Now this.

“They were made with a knife,” Navani said, kneeling beside the glyphs. The sitting room was a large open area, used for receiving callers or holding meetings. Doors beyond led to the study and the bedrooms.

“This knife,” Dalinar replied, holding up a side knife of the style most lighteyes wore. “My knife.”

The edge was blunted and still bore flecks of stone from the gouges. The scratches matched the size of the blade. They’d found it just in front of the door to Dalinar’s study, where he’d spent the highstorm. Alone. Navani’s carriage had been delayed, and she’d been forced to return to the palace or risk being caught in the storm.

“Someone else could have taken it and done this,” Adolin snapped. “They could have sneaked into your study, grabbed it while you were consumed by the visions, and come out here . . .”

The other two looked at him.