Words of Radiance

Sebarial laughed. “All right. That I can do.”

“I want Teleb in command of your army,” Dalinar said. “And I’m sending both Serugiadis and Rust to join him. Your men will fight better against these things with a few Shardbearers at their head.” All three were men who had been given Shards following Adolin’s dueling spree.

“I’ll give the order that Teleb is to be obeyed.”

“And Sebarial?” Dalinar asked.

“Yes?”

“If you have a mind for it, burn some prayers. I don’t know if anyone up there is listening anymore, but it can’t hurt.” Dalinar turned toward the sea of red eyes. Why were they just standing there watching?

Sebarial hesitated. “Not as confident as you acted to the other two, eh?” He smiled, as if that comforted him, then sauntered off. What a strange man. Dalinar nodded to one of his aides, who went to give the orders to the three Kholin Shardbearers, first picking Serugiadis—a lanky young man whose sister Adolin had once courted—out of his command post along the ranks, then running off to fetch Teleb and explain Dalinar’s orders.

That seen to, Dalinar stepped up to Navani. “I need to know you’re safe in the command tent. As safe as anyone can be.”

“Then pretend I’m there,” she said.

“But—”

“You want my help with fabrials?” Navani said. “I can’t set up that sort of thing remotely, Dalinar.”

He ground his teeth, but what could he say? He was going to need every edge he could get. He looked out at the red eyes again.

“Campfire tales come alive,” said Rock, the massive Horneater bridgeman. Dalinar had never seen that one guarding him or his sons; he was a quartermaster, Dalinar believed. “These things should not be. Why do they not move?”

“I don’t know,” Dalinar said. “Send a few of your men to fetch Rlain. I want to see if he can provide any explanations.” As two bridgemen ran off, Dalinar turned to Navani. “Gather your scribes to write my words. I will speak to the soldiers.”

Within moments, she had a pair of scribes—shivering as they stood under umbrellas with pencils out to write—ready to record his words. They’d send women down the lines and read his message to all the men.

Dalinar climbed into Gallant’s saddle to get a little height. He turned toward the ranks of men nearby. “Yes,” he shouted over the sound of the rain, “these are Voidbringers. Yes, we’re going to fight them. I don’t know what they can do. I don’t know why they’ve returned. But we came here to stop them.

“I know you’re scared, but you have heard of my visions in the highstorms. In the warcamps, the lighteyes mocked me and dismissed what I’d seen as delusions.” He thrust his arm to the side, pointing at the sea of red eyes. “Well out there, you see proof that my visions were true! Out there, you see what I have been told would come!”

Dalinar licked wet lips. He had given many battlefield speeches in his life, but never had he said anything like what came to him now. “I,” he shouted, “have been sent by the Almighty himself to save this land from another Desolation. I have seen what those things can do; I have lived lives broken by the Voidbringers. I’ve seen kingdoms shattered, peoples ruined, technology forgotten. I’ve seen civilization itself brought to the trembling edge of collapse.

“We will prevent this! Today you fight not for the wealth of a lighteyes, or even for the honor of your king. Today, you fight for the good of all men. You will not fight alone! Trust in what I have seen, trust in my words. If those things have returned, then so must the forces that once defeated them. We will see miracles before this day is out, men! We merely have to be strong enough to deserve them.”

He looked across a sea of hopeful eyes. Storms. Were those gloryspren about his head, spinning like golden spheres in the rain? His scribes finished writing down the short speech, then hurriedly started making copies to send with runners. Dalinar watched them go, hoping to the Tranquiline Halls that he hadn’t just lied to everyone.

His force seemed small in this darkness, surrounded by enemies. Soon, he heard his own words being spoken in the distance, read out to the troops. Dalinar remained seated, Shallan beside his horse, though Navani moved off to see to several of her contraptions.

The battle plan called for them to wait a little longer, and Dalinar was content to do so. With these chasms to cross, it was far better to be assaulted than to assault. Perhaps the separate armies forming up would encourage the Parshendi to start the battle by coming to him. Fortunately, the rain meant no arrows. The bowstrings wouldn’t stand the dampness, nor would the animal glue in the Parshendi recurve bows.

The Parshendi started singing.

It came in a sudden roar over the rains, startling his men, making them shy backward in a wave. The song wasn’t one Dalinar had ever heard during plateau runs. This was more staccato, more frenetic. It rose all around, coming from the three surrounding plateaus, shouted like thrown axes at the Alethi in the center.

Dalinar shivered. Wind blew against him, stronger than was normal during the Weeping. The gust drove raindrops against the side of his face. Cold bit his skin.

“Brightlord!”

Dalinar turned in his saddle, noting four bridgemen approaching along with Rlain—he still had the man under guard at all times. He waved for his guards to part, allowing the Parshendi bridgeman to scramble up to his horse.

“That song!” Rlain said. “That song.”

“What is it, man?”

“It is death,” Rlain whispered. “Brightlord, I have never heard it before, but the rhythm is one of destruction. Of power.”

Across the chasm, the Parshendi started to glow. Tiny lines of red sparked around their arms, blinking and shaking, like lightning.

“What is that?” Shallan asked.

Dalinar narrowed his eyes, and another burst of wind washed over him.

“You have to stop it,” Rlain said. “Please. Even if you have to kill them. Do not let them finish that song.”

It was the day of the countdown he had scribbled on the walls without knowing. The last day.

Dalinar made his decision based on instinct. He called for a messenger, and one jogged up—Teshav’s ward, a girl in her fifteenth year. “Pass the word,” he commanded her. “Send to General Khal at the command tent, the battalionlords, my son, Teleb, and the other highprinces. We’re changing strategies.”

“Brightlord?” the messenger asked. “What change?”

“We attack. Now!”

* * *

Kaladin stopped at the entrance to the lighteyed training grounds, rainwater streaming off his umbrella’s waxed cloth, surprised at what he saw. In preparation for a storm, the ardents normally swept and shoveled the sand into covered trenches at the edges of the ground to keep it from being blown away.

He had expected to see something similar during the Weeping. Instead, they had left the sand out, but had then placed a short wooden barrier across the gateway in. It plugged the front of the sparring grounds, allowing them to fill up with water. A small cascade of rainwater poured over the lip of the barrier and into the roadway.

Kaladin regarded the small lake that now filled the courtyard, then sighed and reached down, undoing his laces, then pulling off both boots and socks. When he stepped in, the cold water came up to his calves.

Soft sand squished between his toes. What was the purpose of this? He crossed the courtyard, crutch under his arm, boots joined by the laces and slung over his shoulder. The chill water numbed his wounded foot, which actually felt nice, though his leg still hurt with each step. It seemed that the two weeks of healing hadn’t done much for his wounds. His continued insistence that he walk so much probably wasn’t helping.

He’d been spoiled by his abilities; a soldier with such a wound normally would take months to recover. Without Stormlight, he’d just have to be patient and heal like everyone else.

He had expected to find the training grounds as abandoned as most of the camp. Even the markets were relatively empty, people preferring to remain indoors during the Weeping. Here, however, he found the ardents laughing and chatting as they sat in chairs in the raised arcades framing the sparring grounds. They sewed leather practice jerkins, cups of auburn wine on tables at their sides. That area rose enough above the yard floor to stay dry.

Kaladin walked along, searching among them, but didn’t find Zahel. He even peeked in the man’s room, but it was empty.

“Up above, bridgeman!” one of the ardents called. The bald woman pointed toward the stairwell at the corner, where Kaladin had often sent guards to secure the roof when Adolin and Renarin practiced.

Kaladin waved in thanks, then hobbled over and awkwardly made his way up the steps. He had to close his umbrella to fit. Rain fell on his head as he poked it out of the opening in the roof, where the stairwell ended. The roof was made of tile set into hardened crem, and Zahel lay there in a hammock he’d strung between two poles. Kaladin thought they might be lightning rods, which didn’t strike him as safe. A tarp hung above the hammock and kept Zahel almost dry.

The ardent swung gently, eyes closed, holding a square bottle of hard honu, a type of lavis grain liquor. Kaladin inspected the rooftop, judging his ability to cross those sloped tiles without toppling off and breaking his neck.