Words of Radiance

“Ever been to the Purelake, bridgeman?” Zahel asked.

“No,” Kaladin said. “One of my men talks about it, though.”

“What have you heard?”

“It’s an ocean that’s so shallow, you can wade across it.”

“It’s ridiculously shallow,” Zahel said. “Like an endless bay, mere feet deep. Warm water. Calm breezes. Reminds me of home. Not like this cold, damp, godsforsaken place.”

“So why aren’t you there instead of here?”

“Because I can’t stand being reminded of home, idiot.”

Oh. “Why are we talking about it, then?”

“Because you were wondering why we made our own little Purelake down below.”

“I was?”

“Of course you were. Damnation boy. I know you well enough by now to know that questions bother you. You don’t think like a spearman.”

“Spearmen can’t be curious?”

“No. Because if they are, they either get killed or they end up showing someone in charge how smart they are. Then they get put somewhere more useful.”

Kaladin raised an eyebrow, waiting for more explanation. Finally, he sighed, and asked, “Why have you blocked off the courtyard below?”

“Why do you think?”

“You are a really annoying person, Zahel. Do you realize that?”

“Sure do.” He took a drink of his honu.

“I assume,” Kaladin said, “that you blocked off the front of the practice grounds so that the rain wouldn’t wash the sand away.”

“Excellent deduction,” Zahel said. “Like fresh blue paint on a wall.”

“Whatever that means. The problem is, why is it necessary to keep the sand in the courtyard? Why not just put it away, like you do before highstorms?”

“Did you know,” Zahel said, “that rains during the Weeping don’t drop crem?”

“I . . .” Did he know that? Did it matter?

“Good thing too,” Zahel said, “or our entire camp here would end up clogged with the stuff. Anyway, rain like this, it’s great for washing.”

“You’re telling me that you’ve turned the floor of the dueling grounds into a bath?”

“Sure did.”

“You wash in that?”

“Sure do. Not ourselves, of course.”

“Then what?”

“Sand.”

Kaladin frowned, then peered over the side, looking at the pool below.

“Every day,” Zahel said, “we go in there and stir it up. The sand settles back down to the bottom, and all the yuck floats away, carried by the rain in little streams out of the camp. Did you ever consider that sand might need washing?”

“No, actually.”

“Well it does. After a year’s worth of being kicked by stinky bridgeman feet and equally stinky—but far more refined—lighteyes feet, after a year of having people like me spill food on it, or having animals find their way in here to do business, the sand needs cleaning.”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“Because it’s important,” Zahel said, taking a drink. “Or something. I don’t know. You came to me, kid, interrupting my vacation. That means you have to listen to me blab.”

“You’re supposed to say something profound.”

“Did you miss the part about me being on vacation?”

Kaladin stood in the rain. “Do you know where the King’s Wit is?”

“That fool, Dust? Not here, blessedly. Why?”

Kaladin needed someone to talk to, and had spent the better part of the day searching for Wit. He hadn’t found the man, though he had broken down and bought some chouta from a lonely street vendor.

It had tasted good. That hadn’t helped his mood.

So, he’d given up on finding Wit and had come to Zahel instead. That appeared to have been a mistake. Kaladin sighed, turning back down the stairs.

“What was it you wanted?” Zahel called to him. The man had cracked an eye, looking toward Kaladin.

“Have you ever had to choose between two equally distasteful choices?”

“Every day I choose to keep breathing.”

“I worry something awful is going to happen,” Kaladin said. “I can prevent it, but the awful thing . . . it might be best for everyone if it does happen.”

“Huh,” Zahel said.

“No advice?” Kaladin asked.

“Choose the option,” Zahel said, rearranging his pillow, “that makes it easiest for you to sleep at night.” The old ardent closed his eyes and settled back. “That’s what I wish I’d done.”

Kaladin continued down the steps. Below, he didn’t get out his umbrella. He was already soaked anyway. Instead, he poked through the racks at the side of the practice grounds until he found a spear—real, not practice. Then he set down his crutch and hobbled out into the water.

There, he fell into a spearman’s stance and closed his eyes. Rain fell around him. It splattered in the water of the pool, sprinkled the rooftop, pattered the streets outside. Kaladin felt drained, like his blood had been sucked from him. The gloom made him want to sit still.

Instead, he started dancing with the rain. He went through spear forms, doing his best to avoid putting weight on his wounded leg. He splashed in the waters. He sought peace and purpose in the comfortable forms.

He didn’t find either.

His balance was off, and his leg screamed. The rain didn’t accompany him; it just annoyed him. Worse, the wind didn’t blow. The air felt stale.

Kaladin stumbled over his own feet. He twisted the spear about him, then dropped it clumsily. It spun away to splash into the pool. As he fetched it, he noticed the ardents watching him with looks ranging from befuddled to amused.

He tried again. Simple spear forms. No spinning the weapon, no showing off. Step step thrust.

The spear’s shaft felt wrong in his fingers. Off balance. Storms. He’d come here seeking solace, but he only grew more and more frustrated as he tried to practice.

How much of his ability with the spear had come from his powers? Was he nothing without them?

He dropped the spear again after trying a simple twist and thrust. He reached for it, and found a rainspren sitting next to it in the water, looking upward, unblinking.

He snatched the spear with a growl, then looked up toward the sky. “He deserves it!” he bellowed at those clouds.

Rain pelted him.

“Give me a reason why he doesn’t!” Kaladin yelled, uncaring if the ardents heard. “It might not be his fault, and he might be trying, but he’s still failing.”

Silence.

“It’s right to remove the wounded limb,” Kaladin whispered. “This is what we have to do. To . . . To . . .”

To stay alive.

Where had those words come from?

Gotta do what you can to stay alive, son. Turn a liability into an advantage whenever you can.

Tien’s death.

That moment, that horrible moment, when he watched unable to do anything as his brother died. Tien’s own squadleader had sacrificed the untrained to gain a moment’s advantage.

That squadleader had spoken to Kaladin after it was all over. Gotta do what you can to stay alive. . . .

It made a twisted, horrible kind of sense.

It hadn’t been Tien’s fault. Tien had tried. He’d still failed. So they’d killed him.

Kaladin fell to his knees in the water. “Almighty, oh Almighty.”

The king . . .

The king was Dalinar’s Tien.

* * *

“Attack?” Adolin asked. “Are you certain that is what my father said?”

The young woman who had run the message nodded a rain-slicked head, looking miserable in her slitted dress and runner’s sash. “You’re to stop that singing, if you can, Brightlord. Your father indicated it was important.”

Adolin looked over his battalions, which held the southern flank. Just beyond them, on one of the three plateaus that surrounded their army, the Parshendi sang a horrible song. Sureblood danced, snorting.

“I don’t like it either,” Adolin said softly, patting the horse on the neck. That song put him on edge. And those threads of red light on their arms, in their hands. What were those?

“Perel,” he said to one of his field commanders, “tell the men to get ready for the mark. We’re going to charge across those bridges onto the southern plateau. Heavy infantry first, shortspears behind, longspears at the ready in case we’re overrun. I want the men ready to form blocks on the other side until we’re sure where the Parshendi lines will fall. Storms, I wish we had archers. Go!”

The word spread, and Adolin nudged Sureblood up beside one of the bridges, which had already been set. His bridgeman guards for the day followed, a pair named Skar and Drehy.

“You two going to sit out?” Adolin asked the bridgemen, his eyes forward. “Your captain doesn’t like you going into battle against Parshendi.”

“To Damnation with that!” Drehy said. “We’ll fight, sir. Those aren’t Parshendi anyway. Not anymore.”

“Good answer. They’ll advance once we start our assault. We need to hold the bridgehead for the rest of our army. Try to keep up with me, if you can.” He glanced over his shoulder, waiting. Watching until . . .