Words of Radiance

“You can’t protect us all, son,” Teft said. “You can’t stop people from feeling pain, can’t stop men from dying.”

Kaladin opened his eyes, but did not challenge those statements. Not vocally, at least.

“Kal,” Teft said, voice getting even softer. “At the end there, right before you arrived . . . Storms, son, I swear I saw a couple of the lads glowing. Faintly, with Stormlight.”

“What?”

“I’ve been listening to readings of those visions Brightlord Dalinar sees,” Teft continued. “I think you should do the same. From what I can guess, it seems that the orders of the Knights Radiant were made up of more than just the knights themselves.”

Kaladin looked over the men of Bridge Four, and found himself smiling. He shoved down the pain at his losses, at least for the time being. “I wonder,” he said softly, “what it will do to Alethi social structure when an entire group of former slaves starts going about with glowing skin.”

“Not to mention those eyes of yours,” Teft said with a grunt.

“Eyes?” Kaladin said.

“Haven’t you seen?” Teft said. “What am I saying? Ain’t no mirrors out on the Plains. Your eyes, son. Pale blue, like glassy water. Lighter than that of any king.”

Kaladin turned away. He’d hoped his eyes wouldn’t change. The truth, that they had, made him uncomfortable. It said worrisome things. He didn’t want to believe that lighteyes had any grounds upon which to build the oppression.

They still don’t, he thought, infusing the gemstones in the lanterns as Sigzil instructed him. Perhaps the lighteyes rule because of the memory, buried deeply, of the Radiants. But just because they look a little like Radiants doesn’t mean they should have been able to oppress everyone.

Storming lighteyes. He . . .

He was one of them now.

Storm it!

He summoned Syl as a Blade, following Sigzil’s instructions, and used her as a key to work the fabrial.

* * *

Shallan stood at the front gates of Urithiru, looking up, trying to comprehend.

Inside, voices echoed in the grand hall and lights bobbed as people explored. Adolin had taken command of that endeavor, while Navani set up a camp to see to the wounded and to measure supplies. Unfortunately, they’d left most of their food and gear behind on the Shattered Plains. In addition, the travel through the Oathgate had not been as cheap as Shallan had first assumed. Somehow, the trip had drained the majority of the gemstones held by the men and women on the plateau—including Navani’s fabrials, clutched in the hands of engineers and scholars.

They had run a few tests. The more people you moved, the more Light was required. It seemed that Stormlight, and not just the gemstones that contained it, would become a valuable resource. Already, they had to ration their gemstones and lanterns to explore the building.

Several scribes passed by, bringing paper to draw out maps of Adolin’s exploration. They bobbed quick, uncomfortable bows to Shallan and called her “Brightness Radiant.” She still hadn’t talked at length with Adolin about what had happened to her.

“Is it true?” Shallan asked, tilting her head all the way back, looking up the side of the enormous tower toward the blue sky high above. “Am I one of them?”

“Mmm . . .” Pattern said from her skirt. “Almost you are. Still a few Words to say.”

“What kind of words? An oath?”

“Lightweavers make no oaths beyond the first,” Pattern said. “You must speak truths.”

Shallan stared up at the heights for a time longer, then turned and walked back down toward their improvised camp. It was not the Weeping here. She wasn’t certain if that was because they were actually above the rainclouds, or if the weather patterns had simply been thrown off by the arrival of the strange highstorms.

In camp, men sat on the stone, divided by ranks, shivering in their wet coats. Shallan’s breath puffed before her, though she had taken in Stormlight—just a dash—to keep herself from noticing the cold. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to use for fires. The large stone field in front of the tower city bore very few rockbuds, and the ones that did grow were tiny, smaller than a fist. They would provide little wood for fires.

The field was ringed by ten columnar plateaus, with steps winding around their bases. The Oathgates. Beyond that extended the mountain range.

Crem did cover some of the steps here, and dripped over the sides of the open field. There wasn’t nearly as much as there had been on the Shattered Plains. Less rain must fall up here.

Shallan stepped up to one edge of the stone field. A sheer drop. If Nohadon really had walked to this city, as The Way of Kings claimed, then his path would have included scaling cliff faces. So far, they had found no way down other than through the Oathgates—and even if there were such a way, one would still be stranded in the middle of the mountains, weeks from civilization. Judging from the sun height, the scholars placed them near the center of Roshar, somewhere in the mountains near Tu Bayla or maybe Emul.

The remote location made the city incredibly defensible, or so Dalinar said. It also left them isolated, potentially cut off. And that, in turn, explained why everyone looked at Shallan as they did. They’d tried other Shardblades; none were effective at making the ancient fabrial work. Shallan was literally their only way out of these mountains.

One of the soldiers nearby cleared his throat. “You certain you should be that close to the edge, Brightness Radiant?”

She gave the man a droll look. “I could survive that drop and stroll away, soldier.”

“Um, yes, Brightness,” he said, blushing.

She left the edge and continued on to find Dalinar. Eyes followed her as she walked: soldiers, scribes, lighteyes, and highlords alike. Well, let them see Shallan the Radiant. She could always find freedom later, wearing another face.

Dalinar and Navani supervised a group of women near the center of the army. “Any luck?” Shallan asked, approaching.

Dalinar glanced at her. The scribes wrote letters using every spanreed they had, delivering messages of warning to the warcamps and to the relay room in Tashikk. A new storm might come, blowing in from the west, not the east. Prepare.

New Natanan, on the very eastern coast of Roshar, would be struck today after the everstorm left the Shattered Plains. Then it would enter the eastern ocean and move toward the Origin.

None of them knew what would happen next. Would it round the world and come crashing into the western coast? Were the highstorms all one storm that rounded the planet, or did a new one start at the Origin each time, as mythology claimed?

Scholars and stormwardens thought the former, these days. Their calculations said that, assuming the everstorm moved at the same speed as a highstorm this time of year, they’d have a few days before it returned and hit Shinovar and Iri, then blew across the continent, laying waste to cities thought protected.

“No news,” Dalinar said, voice tense. “The king seems to have vanished. What’s more, Kholinar appears to be in a state of riot. I haven’t been able to get straight answers on either question.”

“I’m sure the king is somewhere safe,” Shallan said, glancing at Navani. The woman maintained a composed face, but as she gave instructions to a scribe, her voice was terse and clipped.

One of the pillarlike plateaus nearby flashed. It happened with a wall of light revolving around its perimeter, leaving streaks of blurred afterimage to fade. Someone had activated the Oathgate.

Dalinar stepped up beside her and they waited tensely, until a group of figures in blue appeared at the plateau edge and started down the steps. Bridge Four.

“Oh, thank the Almighty,” Shallan whispered. It was him, not the assassin.

One of the figures pointed down toward where Dalinar and the rest of them stood. Kaladin separated from his men, dropping off the steps and floating over the army. He landed on the stones in stride, carrying a Shardblade on his shoulder, his long officer’s coat unbuttoned and coming down to his knees.

He still has the slave brands, she thought, though his long hair obscured them. His eyes had become a pale blue. They glowed softly.

“Stormblessed,” Dalinar called.

“Highprince,” Kaladin said.

“The assassin?”

“Dead,” Kaladin said, hefting the Blade and sticking it down into the rock before Dalinar. “We need to talk. This—”

“My son, bridgeman,” Navani asked from behind. She stepped up and took Kaladin by the arm, as if completely unconcerned by the Stormlight that drifted from his skin like smoke. “What happened to my son?”

“There was an assassination attempt,” Kaladin said. “I stopped it, but the king was wounded. I put him someplace safe before coming to help Dalinar.”

“Where?” Navani demanded. “We’ve had our people in the warcamps search monasteries, mansions, the barracks . . .”

“Those places were too obvious,” Kaladin said. “If you could think to look there, so might the assassins. I needed someplace nobody would think of.”

“Where, then?” Dalinar asked.

Kaladin smiled.

* * *

The Lopen made a fist with his hand, clutching the sphere inside. In the next room over, his mother scolded a king.