Words of Radiance

It would also put them out on the Shattered Plains, alone, within days of the date that had been scratched on the walls and floor. . . . Adolin’s spine crawled.

“We have to beat them to it,” Dalinar said softly, scanning the maps. “Interrupt whatever it is they are planning. Before the countdown ends.” He looked up at Adolin. “I need you to duel more. High-profile matches, as high profile as you can manage. Win Shards for me, son.”

“I’m dueling Elit tomorrow,” Adolin said. “From there, I have a plan for my next target.”

“Good. To succeed out on the Plains, we will need Shardbearers—and we will need the loyalty of as many highprinces as will follow me. Focus your dueling on the Shardbearers of the faction loyal to Sadeas, and beat them with as much fanfare as you can manage. I will go to the neutral highprinces, and will remind them of their oaths to fulfill the Vengeance Pact. If we can take Shards from those who follow Sadeas and use them to end the war, it will go a long way toward proving what I’ve been saying all along. That unity is the path to Alethi greatness.”

Adolin nodded. “I’ll see it done.”

Now, as the Truthwatchers were esoteric in nature, their order being formed entirely of those who never spoke or wrote of what they did, in this lies frustration for those who would see their exceeding secrecy from the outside; they were not naturally inclined to explanation; and in the case of Corberon’s disagreements, their silence was not a sign of an exceeding abundance of disdain, but rather an exceeding abundance of tact.

—From Words of Radiance, chapter 11, page 6

Kaladin strolled along the Shattered Plains at night, passing tufts of shalebark and vines, lifespren spinning about them as motes. Puddles still lingered in low spots from the previous day’s highstorm, fat with crem for the plants to feast upon. To his left, Kaladin heard the sounds of the warcamps, busy with activity. To the right . . . silence. Just those endless plateaus.

When he’d been a bridgeman, Sadeas’s troops hadn’t stopped him from walking this path. What was there for men out here, on the Plains? Instead, Sadeas had posted guards at the edges of the camps and at bridges, so the slaves couldn’t escape.

What was there for men out here? Nothing but salvation itself, discovered in the depths of those chasms.

Kaladin turned and strolled out along one of the chasms, passing soldiers on guard duty at bridges, torches shivering in the wind. They saluted him.

There, he thought, picking his way along a particular plateau. The warcamps to his left stained the air with light, enough to see where he was. At the plateau’s edge he came to the place where he had met with the King’s Wit on that night weeks ago. A night of decision, a night of change.

Kaladin stepped up to the edge of the chasm, looking eastward.

Change and decision. He checked over his shoulder. He’d passed the guard post, and now nobody was close enough to see him. So, belt laden with bags of spheres, Kaladin stepped off into the chasm.

* * *

Shallan did not care for Sadeas’s warcamp.

The air was different here than it was in Sebarial’s camp. It stank, and it smelled of desperation.

Was desperation even a smell? She thought she could describe it. The scent of sweat, of cheap drink, and of crem that had not been cleaned off the streets. That all churned above roads that were poorly lit. In Sebarial’s camp, people walked in groups. Here, they loped along in packs.

Sebarial’s camp smelled of spice and industry—of new leather and, sometimes, livestock. Dalinar’s camp smelled of polish and oil. Around every second corner in Dalinar’s camp, someone was doing something practical. There were too few soldiers in Dalinar’s camp these days, but each wore his uniform, as if it were a shield against the chaos of the times.

In Sadeas’s camp, the men who wore their uniforms wore them with unbuttoned jackets and wrinkled trousers. She passed tavern after tavern, each spitting forth a racket. The women who idled in front of some indicated that not all were simply taverns. Whorehouses were common in every camp, of course, but they seemed more blatant here.

She passed fewer parshmen than she commonly saw in Sebarial’s camp. Sadeas preferred traditional slaves: men and women with branded foreheads, scurrying about with backs bowed and shoulders slumped.

This was, honestly, what she’d expected from all of the warcamps. She’d read accounts of men at war—of camp followers and discipline problems. Of tempers flaring, of the attitudes of men who were trained to kill. Perhaps, instead of wondering at the awfulness of Sadeas’s camp, she should be marveling that the others weren’t the same.

Shallan hurried on her way. She wore the face of a young darkeyed man, her hair pushed up into her cap. She wore a pair of sturdy gloves. Even disguised as a boy, she wasn’t about to go around with her safehand exposed.

Before leaving tonight, she had done a series of sketches to use as new faces, if need be. Testing had proven she could draw a sketch in the morning, then use it for an image in the afternoon. If she waited longer than about a day, though, the image she created was blurred and sometimes looked melted. That made perfect sense to Shallan. The process of creation left a picture in her mind that eventually wore thin.

Her current face had been based on the messenger youths who moved in Sadeas’s camp. Though her heart thumped every time she passed a pack of soldiers, nobody gave her a second glance.

Amaram was a highlord—a man of third dahn, which made him a full rank higher than Shallan’s father had been, two ranks higher than Shallan herself. That entitled him to his own little domain within his liege’s warcamp. His manor flew his own banner, and he had his own personal military force occupying nearby buildings. Posts set into the stone and striped with his colors—burgundy and forest green—delineated his sphere of influence. She passed them without pausing.

“Hey, you!”

Shallan froze in place, feeling very small in the darkness. Not small enough. She turned slowly as a pair of patrolling guards walked up. Their uniforms were sharper than any she’d seen in this camp. Even the buttons were polished, though at the waists they wore skirtlike takama instead of trousers. Amaram was a traditionalist, and his uniforms reflected that.

The guards loomed over her, as most Alethi did. “Messenger?” one asked. “This time of night?” He was a solid fellow with a greying beard and a thick, wide nose.

“It’s not even second moon yet, sir,” Shallan said in what she hoped was a boyish voice.

He frowned at her. What had she said? Sir, she realized. He’s not an officer.

“Report at the guard posts from now on when you visit,” the man said, pointing toward a small, lit area in the distance behind them. “We’re going to start keeping a secure perimeter.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Oh, stop harassing the lad, Hav,” the other soldier said. “You can’t expect him to know rules that half the soldiers don’t even know yet.”

“On with you,” Hav said, waving Shallan through. She hastened to obey. A secure perimeter? She didn’t envy these men that task. Amaram didn’t have a wall to keep people out, just some striped posts.

Amaram’s manor was relatively small—two stories, with a handful of rooms on each floor. It might once have been a tavern, and was temporary, as he’d only just arrived at the warcamps. Stacked piles of crembrick and stone nearby indicated some far grander building was being planned. Near the piles stood other buildings that had been appropriated as barracks for Amaram’s personal guard, which included only about fifty men. Most of the soldiers he’d brought, recruited from Sadeas’s lands and sworn to him, would billet elsewhere.

Once she got close to Amaram’s home, she ducked beside an outbuilding and squatted down. She’d spent three evenings scouting this area, wearing a different face each time. Perhaps that had been overly cautious. She wasn’t certain. She’d never done anything like this before. Fingers trembling, she took off her cap—that part of the costume was real—and let her hair spill around her shoulders. Then she dug a folded picture out of her pocket and waited.

Minutes passed as she stared at the manor. Come on . . . she thought. Come on . . .

Finally, a young darkeyed woman stepped out of the manor, arm-in-arm with a tall man in trousers and a loose buttoned shirt. The woman tittered as her friend said something, then she scampered off into the night, the man calling after her and following. The maid—Shallan still hadn’t been able to learn her name—left every night at this time. Twice with this man. Once with another.

Shallan took a deep breath, drawing in Stormlight, then held up the picture she’d drawn of the girl earlier. About Shallan’s height, hair about the same length, similar enough build . . . It would have to do. She breathed out, and became someone else.

She giggles and laughs, Shallan thought, plucking off her masculine gloves and replacing the one on the safehand with a tan feminine one, and often prances about, walking on her toes. Her voice is higher than mine, and she doesn’t have an accent.

Shallan had practiced sounding right, but hopefully she wouldn’t need to find out how believable her voice was. All she had to do was go in the door, up the stairs, and slip into the appropriate room. Easy.