Words of Radiance

“The storm approached and found him there. It stilled and stopped upon its course! The rains they fell, the winds they blew, but forward they could not progress.

“For glory lit, and life alive, for goals unreached and aims to strive. All men must try, the wind did see. It is the test, it is the dream.”

Kaladin stepped slowly up to the bars. Even with eyes open, he could see it. Imagine it.

“So in that land of dirt and soil, our hero stopped the storm itself. And while the rain came down like tears, our Fleet refused to end this race. His body dead, but not his will, within those winds his soul did rise.

“It flew upon the day’s last song, to win the race and claim the dawn. Past the sea and past the waves, our Fleet no longer lost his breath. Forever strong, forever fast, forever free to race the wind.”

Kaladin rested his hands against the bars of his cage. The music rang in the room, then slowly died.

Kaladin gave it a moment, Wit looking at his instrument, a proud smile on his lips. Finally, he tucked his instrument under his arm, took his bag and sword, and walked toward the doorway out.

“What does it mean?” Kaladin whispered.

“It’s your story. You decide.”

“But you already knew it.”

“I know most stories, but I’d never sung this one before.” Wit looked back at him, smiling. “What does it mean, Kaladin of Bridge Four? Kaladin Stormblessed?”

“The storm caught him,” Kaladin said.

“The storm catches everyone, eventually. Does it matter?”

“I don’t know.”

“Good.” Wit tipped his sword up toward his forehead, as if in respect. “Then you have something to think about.”

He left.

Have you given up on the gemstone, now that it is dead? And do you no longer hide behind the name of your old master? I am told that in your current incarnation you’ve taken a name that references what you presume to be one of your virtues.

“Aha!” Shallan said. She scrambled across her fluffy bed—sinking down practically to her neck with each motion—and leaned precariously over the side. She scrabbled among the stacks of papers on the floor, tossing aside irrelevant sheets.

Finally, she retrieved the one she wanted, holding it up while pushing hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ears. The page was a map, one of those ancient ones that Jasnah had talked about. It had taken forever to find a merchant at the Shattered Plains who had a copy.

“Look,” Shallan said, holding the map beside a modern one of the same area, copied by her own hand from Amaram’s wall.

Bastard, she noted to herself.

She turned the maps around so that Pattern—who decorated the wall above her headboard—could see them.

“Maps,” he said.

“A pattern!” Shallan exclaimed.

“I see no pattern.”

“Look right here,” she said, edging over beside the wall. “On this old map, the area is . . .”

“Natanatan,” Pattern read, then hummed softly.

“One of the Epoch Kingdoms,” Shallan said. “Organized by the Heralds themselves for divine purposes and blah blah. But look.” She stabbed the page with her finger. “The capital of Natanatan, Stormseat. If you were to judge where we’d find the ruins of it, comparing this old map to the one Amaram had . . .”

“It would be in those mountains somewhere,” Pattern said, “between the words ‘Dawn’s Shadow’ and the U in ‘Unclaimed Hills.’”

“No, no,” Shallan said. “Use a little imagination! The old map is wildly inaccurate. Stormseat was right here. On the Shattered Plains.”

“That is not what the map says,” Pattern said, humming.

“Close enough.”

“That is not a pattern,” he said, sounding offended. “Humans; you do not understand patterns. Like right now. It is second moon. Each night, you sleep during this time. But not tonight.”

“I can’t sleep tonight.”

“More information, please,” Pattern said. “Why not tonight? Is it the day of the week? Do you always not sleep on Jesel? Or is it the weather? Has it grown too warm? The position of the moons relative to—”

“It’s none of that,” Shallan said, shrugging. “I just can’t sleep.”

“Your body is capable of it, surely.”

“Probably,” Shallan said. “But not my head. It surges with too many ideas, like waves against the rocks. Rocks that . . . I guess . . . are also in my head.” She cocked her head. “I don’t think that metaphor makes me sound particularly bright.”

“But—”

“No more complaints,” Shallan said, raising a finger. “Tonight, I am doing scholarship.”

She put the page down on her bed, then leaned over the side, fishing out several others.

“I wasn’t complaining,” Pattern complained. He moved down onto the bed beside her. “I do not remember well, but did Jasnah not use a desk when . . . ‘doing scholarship’?”

“Desks are for boring people,” Shallan said. “And for people who don’t have a squishy bed.” Would Dalinar’s camp have had such a plush bed for her? Likely, the workload would have been smaller. Though, finally, she’d managed to finish sorting through Sebarial’s personal finances and was almost ready to present him with a set of relatively neat books.

In a stroke of insight, she’d slipped a copy of one of her pages of quotes about Urithiru—its potential riches, and its connection to the Shattered Plains—in among the other reports she’d sent Palona. At the bottom, she wrote, “Among Jasnah Kholin’s notes are these indications of something valuable hidden out on the Shattered Plains. Will keep you informed of my discoveries.” If Sebarial thought there was opportunity beyond gemhearts out on the Plains, she might be able to get him to take her out there with his armies, in case Adolin’s promises didn’t come through.

Getting all of that ready had left her with little time for studying, unfortunately. Perhaps that was why she couldn’t sleep. This would be easier, Shallan thought, if Navani would agree to meet with me. She’d written again, and gotten the reply that Navani was busy caring for Dalinar, who had come down with a sickness. Nothing life-threatening, apparently, but he had withdrawn for a few days to recuperate.

Did Adolin’s aunt blame her for botching the dueling agreement? After what Adolin had decided to do last week . . . Well, at least his preoccupation left Shallan with some time to read and think about Urithiru. Anything other than worrying about her brothers, who still hadn’t responded to her letters pleading for them to leave Jah Keved and come to her.

“I find sleeping very odd,” Pattern said. “I know that all beings in the Physical Realm engage in it. Do you find it pleasant? You fear nonexistence, but is not unconsciousness the same thing?”

“With sleep, it’s only temporary.”

“Ah. It is all right, because in the morning, you each return to sentience.”

“Well, that depends on the person,” Shallan said absently. “For many of them, ‘sentience’ might be too generous a term. . . .”

Pattern hummed, trying to sort through to the meaning of what she said. Finally, he buzzed an approximation of a laugh.

Shallan cocked an eyebrow at him.

“I have guessed that what you said is humorous,” Pattern said. “Though I do not know why. It was not a joke. I know of jokes. A soldier came running into camp after going to see the prostitutes. He was white in the face. His friends asked if he had found a good time. He said that he had not. They asked why. He said that when he’d asked how much the woman charged, she’d said one mark plus the tip. He told his friends that he hadn’t realized they were charging body parts now.”

Shallan grimaced. “You heard that from Vathah’s men, didn’t you?”

“Yes. It is funny because the word ‘tip’ means several different things. A payment made in addition to the sum initially charged, usually given voluntarily, and the top piece of something. In addition, I believe that ‘the tip’ means something in the slang of the soldiers, and so the man in the joke thought she was going to cut off his—”

“Yes, thank you,” Shallan said.

“That is a joke,” Pattern continued. “I understand why it is funny. Ha ha. Sarcasm is similar. You replace an expected result with one grossly unexpected, and the humor is in the juxtaposition. But why was your earlier comment funny?”

“It’s debatable whether it was, at this point. . . .”

“But—”

“Pattern, nothing is less funny than explaining humor,” Shallan said. “We have more important things to discuss.”

“Mmm . . . Such as why you have forgotten how to make your images produce sound? You did it once, long ago.”

. . .

Shallan blinked, then held up the modern map. “The capital of Natanatan was here, on the Shattered Plains. The old maps are misleading. Amaram notes that the Parshendi use weapons of masterly design, far beyond their skill in craftsmanship. Where would they have gotten those? From the ruins of the city that once was here.”