Words of Radiance (The Stormlight Archive, #2)

by Brandon Sanderson

“I have taken the initial steps in arranging for you to be betrothed to one of my cousins, son of my uncle Dalinar Kholin. The boy’s name is Adolin. He is handsome and well-acquainted with amiable discourse.”

“No, sir. I wasn’t freed from Bridge Four. I was freed by it. I wouldn’t trade my time there for anything.”

A body in a thin nightgown, eyes staring sightlessly, blood blossoming from the breast. Jasnah.

Jasnah was dead.

Jasnah had been trying to save everyone, protect the world itself. And they’d killed her for it.

The soldier said a name. Kaladin’s heart became ice.

Highlord Amaram. The man who had stolen Kaladin’s Shardblade, branded his forehead, and sold him into slavery.

They marched over the uneven surface of the plateaus and saw only natural rock, never knowing that they traversed the bones of a city long dead.

“They break. Their minds break. You did not break. Only cracked.”

It was a picture of Jasnah, drawn by Shallan herself. Shallan had given it to the woman after being accepted as her ward. She’d assumed Jasnah had thrown it away—the woman had little fondness for visual arts, which she considered a frivolity. Instead, she’d kept it here with her most precious things.

Im ill.

“My sketchpads . . .” she whispered. “All gone.”

“I will not stop vibrating. The wind will not stop blowing. You will not stop drawing.”

“You ate chicken?” Renarin asked as Adolin took the helm. “For breakfast.” “And you talked to the sword?” “Had an entire conversation.” “Mother’s chain in your pocket?” “Checked three times.” Navani folded her arms. “You still hold to those foolish superstitions?” Both brothers looked at her sharply. “They’re not superstitions,” Adolin said at the same time Renarin said, “It’s just good luck, Aunt.” She rolled her eyes.

“I will learn what I can of you before you kill me.” “You think . . . You think I’m going to kill you?” “It happened to the others,” Pattern said, his voice softer now. “It will happen to me. It is . . . a pattern.”

Adolin Kholin was cleverer than Sadeas had given him credit for.

“Are they back?” he demanded. “Are they all back?” “Yes,” Kaladin said.

a brilliantly silver Blade formed there, spearing Tyn through the chest.

what. Shallan wth

“Your job is to be offensive and asinine?” “No, I’m offensive and asinine on my own time too.

“The dungeons sound wonderful!” she said. “At least there, I’d be away from you, idiot man!” “Only for a short time. I’d be by to interrogate you.” “What? I couldn’t pick a more pleasant option? Like being executed?” “You’re assuming I could find a hangman willing to put up with your blathering long enough to fit the rope.” “Well, if you want to kill me, you could always let your breath do the job.”

“How’s your sister?” “Off limits.” Oh, right. That was what he’d done. Honest mistake.

“I like to walk,” Shallan said. Stupid! Quick, say something witty. “Um. Your hair is nice.”

“Yes, sir!” Renarin said with an enthusiasm Kaladin had never heard from anyone assigned washing duty. Renarin jogged over and began happily snatching up bowls.

“Things always go so well at first, and then . . . they fall apart on me. I can never figure out where I go wrong. I thought, maybe if there were something more formal in place . . .”

“Come to watch you, I see,” Kaladin said. “Completely fascinated by you, obviously.” “Shut up,” Adolin growled.

“So yes, I, Adolin Kholin—cousin to the king, heir to the Kholin princedom—have shat myself in my Shardplate. Three times, all on purpose.”

“I mean,” she said, “the stench alone—” “I suspect I’m never going to live down telling you about that.”

“What happens tomorrow?” “You’re feeding me dinner.” “I am?” “And taking me on a walk,” she said. “I am?” “Yes.” “I’m a lucky man.”

“They’re scared of you.” Zahel’s voice, drifting again above the crowd. “Do you see it in them? Show them why.”

Don’t you get yourself killed on me, Adolin Kholin, she thought, glancing back up at him as he struggled against his three opponents. Please . . .

“What are you doing here, bridgeboy?” Adolin hissed from within his helmet. “Playing one of the ten fools.” Adolin grunted. “Welcome to the party.”

“You going to yield?” Kaladin growled. “Or do I get to kill my second Shardbearer?”

They ignore the greater assumption—that a “place” for women must be defined and set forth to begin with. Half of the population must somehow be reduced to the role arrived at by a single conversation. No matter how broad that role is, it will be—by nature—a reduction from the infinite variety that is womanhood. I say that there is no role for women—there is, instead, a role for each woman, and she must make it for herself. For some, it will be the role of scholar; for others, it will be the role of wife. For others, it will be both. For yet others, it will be neither.

“Brightlord Adolin insisted. So long as you were in here, he wouldn’t leave.

“Why?” “Didn’t seem right, you in here,” Adolin said, eyes forward. “I ruined your chance to duel Sadeas.” “I’d be crippled or dead without you,” Adolin said. “So I wouldn’t have had the chance to fight Sadeas anyway.” The prince stopped in the hallway, and looked at Kaladin. “Besides. You saved Renarin.” “It’s my job,” Kaladin said. “Then we need to pay you more, bridgeboy,” Adolin said.

Adolin hesitated, then held out a hand. Kaladin clasped it.

“You won’t have a Shardblade, but won’t need one, because of . . . you know.” “I know?” Kaladin felt a spike of alarm. “Yeah . . . you know.” Adolin glanced away and shrugged, as if trying to act nonchalant. “That thing.” “What thing?” “The thing . . . with the . . . um, stuff?”

“There’s something odd about you, bridgeboy,” he said. “Admit it.” “I admit nothing.” “You survived that fall with the assassin,” Adolin said. “And at first, I worried you were working with him. Now . . .” “Now what?” “Well, I’ve decided that whatever you are, you’re on my side.”

“Oddly, I do. Trust you, I mean. It’s a very strange sensation.”

“The moss grows in a strange pattern here. What could cause that?” “Alcohol,” Adolin said. She glanced at him. He shrugged. “Makes me do crazy things.” He looked at Kaladin, who shook his head. “That was funny,” Adolin said. “It was a joke! Well, kind of.”

“You’re good at military thinking, for a bridgeboy,” Adolin said. “Coincidentally,” Kaladin said, “you’re good at not being unobnoxious, for a prince.” “Thanks,” Adolin said.

She gestured with the pencil toward where Adolin was laughing with the darkeyed water boys. The groom walked up with Adolin’s horse, and Adolin took his Shardplate helm off the carrying post, handing it over, letting one of the water boys try it on.

“Insult! Now!” “I’d rather walk these chasms with a compulsive murderer than you. At least then, when the conversation got tedious, I’d have an easy way out.”

“You’re a strange woman.” “Thank you.”

I would that the world was only full of people like you, Shallan Davar.”

He saw it in her eyes. The anguish, the frustration. The terrible nothing that clawed inside and sought to smother her. She knew. It was there, inside. She had been broken. Then she smiled. Oh, storms. She smiled anyway. It was the single most beautiful thing he’d seen in his entire life.

The chasm just seemed a little brighter. Tien always did that to me . . . he thought. Even on the darkest day.

“Pit-tance,” he said, gesturing toward the depth of the hole they were in. “You know. We’re in a pit . . .”

“Hey, up there? Anyone? We’re down here, and we’re making bad puns. Please save us from ourselves!”

“Apologize to Adolin for me. I actually kind of like him. He’s a good man. Not just for a lighteyes. Just . . . a good person. I’ve never given him the credit he deserves.”

“When did you get so peppy?” she shouted. “Ever since I assumed I was dead, then I suddenly wasn’t.”