Words of Radiance

“There is a weakness here we can exploit,” Sadeas said. “Dalinar has always had a problem giving up authority. He never really trusts anyone to do their job. He didn’t come to me when he should have. This weakens his claims that all parts of the kingdom should work together. It’s a chink in his armor. Can you ram a dagger in it?”

Ialai nodded. She’d use her informants to start questions in court: Why, if Dalinar was trying to forge a better Alethkar, was he unwilling to give up any power? Why hadn’t he involved Sadeas in the king’s protection? Why wouldn’t he open his doors to Sadeas’s judges?

What authority did the Throne have, really, if it made assignments like the one to Sadeas, only to pretend they hadn’t been given?

“You should renounce your appointment as Highprince of Information in protest,” Ialai said.

“No. Not yet. We wait until the rumors have nipped at old Dalinar, made him decide he needs to let me do my job. Then, the moment before he tries to involve me, I renounce.”

It would widen the cracks that way, both in Dalinar, and in the kingdom itself.

Adolin’s bout continued below. He certainly didn’t look like his heart was in it. He kept leaving himself open, taking hits. This was the youth who had bragged about his skill so often? He was good, of course, but not nearly that good. Not as good as Sadeas had himself seen when the boy had been on the battlefield fighting the . . .

He was faking.

Sadeas found himself grinning. “Now that’s almost clever,” he said softly.

“What?” Ialai asked.

“Adolin is fighting beneath his capacity,” Sadeas explained as the youth got a hit—barely—on Eranniv’s helm. “He’s reluctant to display his real skill, as he fears it will scare others away from dueling him. If he looks barely capable enough to win this fight, others might decide to pounce.”

Ialai narrowed her eyes, watching the fight. “Are you sure? Couldn’t he just be having an off day?”

“I’m sure,” Sadeas said. Now that he knew what to watch for, he could easily read it in Adolin’s specific moves, the way he teased Eranniv to attack him, then barely fended off the blows. Adolin Kholin was cleverer than Sadeas had given him credit for.

Better at dueling as well. It took skill to win a bout—but it took true mastery to win while making it look the whole time that you were behind. As the fight progressed, the crowd got into it, and Adolin made it a close contest. Sadeas doubted many others would see what he did.

When Adolin, moving lethargically and leaking Light from a dozen hits—all carefully allowed on different sections of Plate, so none shattered and exposed him to real danger—managed to bring down Eranniv with a “lucky” blow at the end, the crowd roared in appreciation. Even the lighteyes seemed drawn in.

Eranniv stormed off, shouting about Adolin’s luck, but Sadeas found himself quite impressed. There might be a future for this boy, he thought. More so than his father, at least.

“Another Shard won,” Ialai said with dissatisfaction as Adolin raised a hand and walked off the field. “I’ll redouble my efforts to make certain this doesn’t happen again.”

Sadeas tapped his finger against the side of his seat. “What was it you said about duelists? That they’re brash? Hotheaded?”

“Yes. And?”

“Adolin is both of those things and more,” Sadeas said softly, considering. “He can be goaded, pushed around, brought to anger. He has passion like his father, but he controls it less securely.”

Can I get him right up to the cliff’s edge, Sadeas thought, then shove him off?

“Stop discouraging people from fighting him,” Sadeas said. “Don’t encourage them to fight him, either. Step back. I want to see how this develops.”

“That sounds dangerous,” Ialai said. “That boy is a weapon, Torol.”

“True,” Sadeas said, standing, “but you are rarely cut by a weapon if you are the one holding its hilt.” He helped his wife to her feet. “I also want you to tell Ruthar’s wife that he can ride with me next time I decide to strike out on my own for a gemheart. Ruthar is eager. He can be of use to us.”

She nodded, walking toward the exit. Sadeas followed, but hesitated, casting a glance toward Dalinar. How would this be if the man weren’t trapped in the past? If he’d been willing to see the real world, rather than imagining it?

You’d probably have ended up killing him then too, Sadeas admitted to himself. Don’t try to pretend otherwise.

Best to be honest, at the very least, with oneself.

’Tis said it was warm in the land far away

When Voidbringers entered our songs.

We brought them home to stay

And then those homes became their own,

It happened gradually.

And years ahead ’twil still be said ’tis how it has to be.

—From the Listener Song of Histories, 12th stanza

Shallan gasped at the sudden flare of color.

It disrupted the landscape like breaking lightning in an otherwise clear sky. Shallan set down her spheres—Tyn was having her practice palming them—and stood up in the wagon, steadying herself with her freehand on the back of her seat. Yes, it was unmistakable. Brilliant red and yellow on an otherwise dull canvas of brown and green.

“Tyn,” Shallan said. “What’s that?”

The other woman lounged with feet out, a wide-brimmed white hat tipped over her eyes despite the fact that she was supposed to be driving. Shallan wore Bluth’s hat, which she’d recovered from his things, to keep the sun off.

Tyn turned to the side, lifting her hat. “Huh?”

“Right there!” Shallan said. “The color.”

Tyn squinted. “I don’t see anything.”

How could she miss that color, so vibrant when compared to the rolling hills full of rockbuds, reeds, and patches of grass? Shallan took the woman’s spyglass and raised it to look more closely. “Plants,” Shallan said. “There’s a rock overhang there, sheltering them from the east.”

“Oh, is that all?” Tyn settled back, closing her eyes. “Thought it might be a caravan tent or something.”

“Tyn, it’s plants.”

“So?”

“Divergent flora in an otherwise uniform ecosystem!” Shallan exclaimed. “We’re going! I’ll go tell Macob to steer the caravan that way.”

“Kid, you’re kind of strange,” Tyn said as Shallan yelled at the other wagons to stop.

Macob was reluctant to agree to the detour, but fortunately he accepted her authority. The caravan was about a day out from the Shattered Plains. They’d been taking it easy. Shallan struggled to contain her excitement. So much out here in the Frostlands was uniformly dull; something new to draw was exciting beyond normal reason.

They approached the ridge, which had caused a high shelf of rock at exactly the right angle to form a windbreak. Larger versions of these formations were called laits. Sheltered valleys where a town could flourish. Well, this wasn’t nearly so large, but life had still found it. A grove of short, bone-white trees grew here. They had vivid red leaves. Vines of numerous varieties draped the rock wall itself, and the ground teemed with rockbuds, a variety that remained open even when there wasn’t rain, blossoms drooping with heavy petals from the inside, along with tonguelike tendrils that moved like worms, seeking water.

A small pond reflected the blue sky, feeding the rockbuds and trees. The leafy shade in turn gave shelter to a bright green moss. The beauty was like veins of ruby and emerald in a drab stone.

Shallan hopped down the moment the wagons pulled up. She frightened something in the underbrush, and a few very small, feral axehounds burst away. She wasn’t sure of the breed—she honestly wasn’t even sure they were axehounds, they moved so quickly.

Well, she thought, walking into the tiny lait, that probably means I don’t have to worry about anything larger. A predator like a whitespine would have frightened away smaller life.

Shallan walked forward with a smile. It was almost like a garden, though the plants were obviously wild rather than cultivated. They moved quickly to retract blooms, feelers, and leaves, opening a patch around her. She stifled a sneeze and pushed through to find a dark green pond.

Here, she set down a blanket on a boulder, then settled herself to sketch. Others from the caravan went scouting through the lait or around the top of the rock wall.

Shallan breathed in the wonderful humidity as the plants relaxed. Rockbud petals stretching out, timid leaves unfolding. Color swelled around her like nature blushing. Stormfather! She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the variety of beautiful plants. She opened her sketchbook and drew out a quick prayer in the name of Shalash, Herald of Beauty, Shallan’s namesake.

The plants retracted again as someone moved through them. Gaz stumbled past a group of rockbuds, cursing as he tried not to step on their vines. He came up to her, then hesitated, looking down at the pool. “Storms!” he said. “Are those fish?”

“Eels,” Shallan guessed as something rippled the green surface of the pool. “Bright orange ones, it appears. We had some like them back in my father’s ornamental garden.”