Words of Radiance

This should never have been possible. The thing looked as if it had been constructed of wood and rope first, then Soulcast into iron. Shaking another section, he found it incredibly secure. Even a few footings giving out shouldn’t have let the whole thing fall off—the metal pieces would have had to come apart.

He moved to the right, inspecting some of those that had ripped free of one another. The two pieces of metal had been sheared at a joint. Smoothly, cleanly.

The doorway into the king’s chamber darkened as Dalinar Kholin stepped out onto the balcony. “In,” he said to Moash and the other guards. “Close the door. I’d like to speak to Captain Kaladin.”

They obeyed, though Moash went reluctantly. Dalinar walked up to Kaladin as the windows closed, giving them privacy. Despite his age, the highprince’s figure was an intimidating one, wide shouldered, built like a brick wall.

“Sir,” Kaladin said. “I should have—”

“This wasn’t your fault,” Dalinar said. “The king wasn’t under your care. Even if he was, I wouldn’t reprimand you—just as I won’t reprimand Idrin. I wouldn’t expect bodyguards to inspect architecture.”

“Yes, sir,” Kaladin said.

Dalinar knelt down to inspect the mountings. “You like to take responsibility for things, don’t you? A commendable attribute in an officer.” Dalinar rose and looked at the place where the rail had been cut. “What is your assessment?”

“Someone definitely chipped at the mortar,” Kaladin said, “and sabotaged the railing.”

Dalinar nodded. “I agree. This was a deliberate attempt on the king’s life.”

“However . . . sir . . .”

“Yes?”

“Whoever tried this is an idiot.”

Dalinar looked to him, raising an eyebrow in the lantern light.

“How could they know where the king would lean?” Kaladin said. “Or even that he would? This trap could easily have caught someone else, and then the would-be assassins would have exposed themselves for nothing. In fact, that is what happened. The king survived, and now we’re aware of them.”

“We’ve been expecting assassins,” Dalinar said. “And not just because of the incident with the king’s armor. Half the powerful men in this camp are probably contemplating some kind of assassination attempt, so an attempt on Elhokar’s life doesn’t tell us as much as you’d think. As to how they knew to catch him here, he has a favorite spot for standing, leaning against the rail and looking out over the Shattered Plains. Anyone who watches his patterns would have known where to apply their sabotage.”

“But sir,” Kaladin said, “it’s just so convoluted. If they have access to the king’s private chambers, then why not hide an assassin inside? Or use poison?”

“Poison is as unlikely to work as this was,” Dalinar said, waving toward the railing. “The king’s food and drink is tasted. As for a hidden assassin, one might run into guards.” He stood up. “But I agree that such methods would probably have had a greater chance at success. The fact that they didn’t try it that way tells us something. Assuming these are the same people who planted those flawed gemstones in the king’s armor, they prefer nonconfrontational methods. It’s not that they’re idiots, they’re . . .”

“They’re cowards,” Kaladin realized. “They want to make the assassination look like an accident. They’re timid. They may have waited this long so that suspicion would die down.”

“Yes,” Dalinar said, rising, looking troubled.

“This time, though, they made a big mistake.”

“How?”

Kaladin walked to the cut section he had inspected earlier and knelt down to rub the smooth section. “What cuts iron so cleanly?”

Dalinar leaned down, inspecting the cut, then took out a sphere for more light. He grunted. “It’s supposed to look like the joint came apart, I’d guess.”

“And does it?” Kaladin asked.

“No. That was a Shardblade.”

“Narrows down our suspects a tad, I’d think.”

Dalinar nodded. “Don’t tell anyone else. We’ll hide that we noticed the Shardblade cut, maybe gain an edge. It’s too late to pretend that we think this was an accident, but we don’t have to reveal everything.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The king is insisting that I put you in charge of guarding him,” Dalinar said. “We might have to move up our timetable for that.”

“I’m not ready,” Kaladin said. “My men are stretched thin with the duties they already have.”

“I know,” Dalinar said softly. He seemed hesitant. “This was done by someone on the inside, you realize.”

Kaladin felt cold.

“The king’s own chambers? That means a servant. Or one of his guards. Men in the King’s Guard might have had access to his armor, too.” Dalinar looked at Kaladin, face lit by the sphere in his hand. A strong face, with a nose that had once been broken. Blunt. Real. “I don’t know whom I can trust these days. Can I trust you, Kaladin Stormblessed?”

“Yes. I swear it.”

Dalinar nodded. “I’m going to relieve Idrin of this post and assign him to a command in my army. It will sate the king, but I’ll make certain Idrin knows he isn’t being punished. I suspect he’ll enjoy the new command more anyway.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll ask him for his best men,” Dalinar said, “and those will be under your command for now. Use them as little as possible. I eventually want the king being guarded only by men from the bridge crews—men you trust, men who have no part in warcamp politics. Choose carefully. I don’t want to replace potential traitors with former thieves who can be easily bought.”

“Yes, sir,” Kaladin said, feeling a large weight settle on his shoulders.

Dalinar stood up. “I don’t know what else to do. A man needs to be able to trust his own guards.” He walked back toward the door into the room. The tone of his voice sounded deeply troubled.

“Sir?” Kaladin asked. “This wasn’t the assassination attempt you were expecting, was it?”

“No,” Dalinar said, hand on the doorknob. “I agree with your assessment. This wasn’t the work of someone who knows what they’re doing. Considering how contrived it was, I’m actually surprised at how close it came to working.” He leveled his gaze at Kaladin. “If Sadeas decides to strike—or, worse, the assassin who claimed my brother’s life—it will not go so well for us. The storm is yet to come.”

He pulled open the door, letting out the complaints of the king, which had been muffled behind it. Elhokar was ranting that nobody took his safety seriously, that nobody listened, that they should be looking for the things he saw over his shoulder in the mirror, whatever that meant. The tirade sounded like the whining of a spoiled child.

Kaladin looked at the twisted rail, imagining the king dangling from it. He had good reason to be out of sorts. But then, wasn’t a king supposed to be better than that? Didn’t his Calling demand that he be able to keep his composure under pressure? Kaladin found it difficult to imagine Dalinar reacting with such ranting, regardless of the situation.

Your job isn’t to judge, he told himself, waving to Syl and walking away from the balcony. Your job is to protect these people.

Somehow.

Decayform destroys the souls of dreams.

A form of gods to avoid, it seems.

Seek not its touch, nor beckon its screams, deny it.

Watch where you walk, your toes to tread,

O’er hill or rocky riverbed

Hold dear the fears that fill your head, defy it.

—From the Listener Song of Secrets, 27th stanza

“Well, you see,” Gaz said as he sanded the wood on Shallan’s wagon. She sat nearby, listening as she worked. “Most of us, we joined the fight at the Shattered Plains for revenge, you know? Those marbles killed the king. It was gonna be this grand thing and such. A fight for vengeance, a way to show the world that the Alethi don’t stand for betrayal.”

“Yeah,” Red agreed. The lanky, bearded soldier pulled free a bar from her wagon. With this one removed, it left only three at each corner to hold up the roof. He dropped the bar with satisfaction, then dusted off his work gloves. This would help transform the vehicle from a rolling cage into a conveyance more suitable for a lighteyed lady.

“I remember it,” Red continued, sitting down on the wagon’s bed, legs dangling. “The call to arms came to us from Highprince Vamah himself, and it moved through Farcoast like a bad stench. Every second man of age joined the cause. People wondered if you were a coward if you went to the pub for a drink but didn’t wear a recruit’s patch. I joined up with five of my buddies. They’re all dead now, rotting in those storm-cursed chasms.”

“So you just . . . got tired of fighting?” Shallan asked. She had a desk now. Well, a table—a small piece of travel furniture that could be taken apart easily. They’d moved it out of the wagon, and she was using it to review some of Jasnah’s notes.