Words of Radiance

“Does anyone among the Alethi elite care about the Almighty anymore? Sure, they curse by his name. Sure, they talk about the Heralds, burn glyphwards. But what do they do? Do they change their lives? Do they listen to the Arguments? Do they transform, recasting their souls into something greater, something better?”

“They have Callings,” Lhan said, fidgeting with his fingers. Digiting, then? “The devotaries help.”

She shook her head. “Why don’t we hear from Him, Lhan? The Heralds said we defeated the Voidbringers, that Aharietiam was the great victory for mankind. But shouldn’t He have sent them to speak with us, to counsel us? Why didn’t they come during the Hierocracy and denounce us? If what the Church had been doing was so evil, where was the word of the Almighty against it?”

“I . . . Surely you’re not suggesting we return to that?” He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his neck and head. This conversation was getting worse and worse.

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” she whispered. “Only that something is wrong. All of this is just so very wrong.” She looked to him, then climbed to her feet. “I have accepted your proposal.”

“You have?”

“I will not leave Kholinar,” she said. “I will stay here and do what good I can.”

“You won’t get the other ardents into trouble?”

“My problem is not with the ardents,” she said, offering a hand to help him to his feet. “I will simply try to be a good example for all to follow.”

“Well, then. That seems like a fine choice.”

She walked off, and he dabbed his head. She hadn’t promised, not exactly. He wasn’t certain how worried he should be about that.

Turned out, he should have been very worried.

The next morning, he stumbled into the People’s Hall—a large, open building in the shadow of the palace where the king or queen addressed the concerns of the masses. A murmuring crowd of horrified ardents stood just inside the perimeter.

Lhan had already heard, but he had to see for himself. He forced his way to the front. Pai knelt on the floor here, head bowed. She’d painted all night, apparently, writing glyphs on the floor by spherelight. Nobody had noticed. The place was usually locked up tight when not in use, and she’d started working well after everyone was either asleep or drunk.

Ten large glyphs, written directly on the stone of the floor running up to the dais with the king’s Common Throne. The glyphs listed the ten foolish attributes, as represented by the ten fools. Beside each glyph was a written paragraph in women’s script explaining how the queen exemplified each of the fools.

Lhan read with horror. This . . . this didn’t just chastise. It was a condemnation of the entire government, of the lighteyes, and of the Throne itself!

Pai was executed the very next morning.

The riots started that evening.

That voice deep within Eshonai still screamed. Even when she didn’t attune the old Rhythm of Peace. She kept herself busy to quiet it, walking the perfectly circular plateau just outside of Narak, the one where her soldiers often practiced.

Her people had become something old, yet something new. Something powerful. They stood in lines on this plateau, humming to Fury. She divided them by combat experience. A new form would not a soldier make; many of these had been workers all their lives.

They would have a part to play. They would bring about something grand.

“The Alethi will come,” Venli said, strolling at Eshonai’s side and absently bringing energy to her fingers and letting it play between two of them. Venli smiled often while wearing this new form. Otherwise, it didn’t seem to have changed her at all.

Eshonai knew that she herself had changed. But Venli . . . Venli acted the same.

Something felt wrong about that.

“The agent who sent this report is certain of it,” Venli continued. “Your visit to the Blackthorn seems to have encouraged them to action, and the humans intend to strike toward Narak in force. Of course, this could still turn into a disaster.”

“No,” Eshonai said. “No. It is perfect.”

Venli looked to her, stopping on the rock field. “We need no more training. We should act, right now, to bring a highstorm.”

“We will do it when the humans near,” Eshonai said.

“Why? Let us do it tonight.”

“Foolishness,” Eshonai said. “This is a tool to use in battle. If we produce an unexpected storm now, the Alethi won’t come, and we won’t win this war. We must wait.”

Venli seemed thoughtful. Finally, she smiled, then nodded.

“What do you know that you aren’t telling me?” Eshonai demanded, taking her sister by the shoulder.

Venli smiled more broadly. “I’m simply persuaded. We must wait. The storm will blow the wrong way, after all. Or is it all other storms that have blown the wrong way, and this one will be the first to blow the right way?”

The wrong way? “How do you know? About the direction?”

“The songs.”

The songs. But . . . they said nothing about . . .

Something deep within Eshonai nudged her to move on. “If that is true,” she said, “we’ll have to wait until the humans are practically on top of us to catch them in it.”

“Then that is what we do,” Venli said. “I will set to the teaching. Our weapon will be ready.”

She spoke to the Rhythm of Craving, a rhythm like the old Rhythm of Anticipation, but more violent.

Venli walked away, joined by her once-mate and many of her scholars. They seemed comfortable in these forms. Too comfortable. They couldn’t have held these forms before . . . could they?

Eshonai shoved down the screams and went to prepare another battalion of new soldiers. She had always hated being a general. How ironic, then, that she would be recorded in their songs as the warleader who had finally crushed the Alethi.

Taravangian, king of Kharbranth, awoke to stiff muscles and an ache in his back. He didn’t feel stupid. That was a good sign.

He sat up with a groan. Those aches were perpetual now, and his best healers could only shake their heads and promise him that he was fit for his age. Fit. His joints cracked like logs on the fire and he couldn’t stand quickly, lest he lose his balance and topple to the floor. To age truly was to suffer the ultimate treason, that of one’s body against oneself.

He sat up in his cot. Water lapped quietly against the hull of his cabin, and the air smelled of salt. He heard shouts in the near distance, however. The ship had arrived on schedule. Excellent.

As he settled himself, one servant approached with a table and another with a warm, wet cloth for wiping his eyes and hands. Behind them waited the King’s Testers. How long had it been since Taravangian had been alone, truly alone? Not since before the aches had come upon him.

Maben knocked on the open door, bearing his morning meal on a tray, stewed and spiced grain mush. It was supposed to be good for his constitution. Tasted like dishwater. Bland dishwater. Maben stepped forward to set out the meal, but Mrall—a Thaylen man in a black leather cuirass who wore both his head and eyebrows shaved—stopped her with a hand to the arm.

“Tests first,” Mrall said.

Taravangian looked up, meeting the large man’s gaze. Mrall could loom over a mountain and intimidate the wind itself. Everyone assumed he was Taravangian’s head bodyguard. The truth was more disturbing.

Mrall was the one who got to decide whether Taravangian would spend the day as king or as a prisoner.

“Surely you can let him eat first!” Maben said.

“This is an important day,” Mrall said, voice low. “I would know the result of the testing.”

“But—”

“It is his right to demand this, Maben,” Taravangian said. “Let us be on with it.”

Mrall stepped back, and the testers approached, a group of three stormwardens in deliberately esoteric robes and caps. They presented a series of pages covered in figures and glyphs. They were today’s variation on a sequence of increasingly challenging mathematical problems devised by Taravangian himself on one of his better days.

He picked up his pen with hesitant fingers. He did not feel stupid, but he rarely did. Only on the worst of days did he immediately recognize the difference. On those days, his mind was thick as tar, and he felt like a prisoner in his own mind, aware that something was profoundly wrong.

Today wasn’t one of those, fortunately. He wasn’t a complete idiot. At worst, he’d just be very stupid.

He set to his task, solving what mathematical problems he could. It took the better part of an hour, but during the process, he was able to gauge his capacity. As he had suspected, he was not terribly smart—but he was not stupid, either. Today . . . he was average.

That would do.

He turned over the problems to the stormwardens, who consulted in low voices. They turned to Mrall. “He is fit to serve,” one proclaimed. “He may not offer binding commentary on the Diagram, but he may interact outside of supervision. He may change government policy so long as there is a three-day delay before the changes take effect, and he may also freely pass judgment in trials.”

Mrall nodded, looking to Taravangian. “Do you accept this assessment and these restrictions, Your Majesty?”