Words of Radiance (The Stormlight Archive, #2)

by Brandon Sanderson

“If honor is dead,” Kaladin whispered. “He is,” Syl said. “But he lives on in men. And in me.” Kaladin frowned.

He leaped over a large pool of water, but misjudged its size. He came down—about to splash into the shallow water. But by reflex, he looked upward and Lashed himself toward the sky. For a brief moment, Kaladin stopped falling down and fell up instead. His momentum continued forward, and he cleared the pool, then Lashed himself downward again. He landed in a trot, sweating. I could Lash myself upward, he thought, and fall into the sky forever. But no, that was how an ordinary person thought. A skyeel didn’t fear falling, did it? A fish didn’t fear drowning.

The sky was now his.

“I’ll take it,” Kaladin said. “Whatever it is that gives me that edge. I’ll use it. I’ll need it to beat him.” Syl nodded, still sitting on his shoulder. “You don’t think he has a spren,” Kaladin said. “But how does he do what he does?” “The weapon,” Syl said, more confidently than she had before. “It’s something special. It was created to give abilities to men, much as our bond does.” Kaladin nodded, light wind ruffling his jacket as he fell through the night. “Syl . . .” How to broach this? “I can’t fight him without a Shardblade.” She looked the other way, squeezing her arms together, hugging herself. Such human gestures. “I’ve avoided the training with the Blades that Zahel offers,” Kaladin continued. “It’s hard to justify. I need to learn how to use one of those weapons.” “They’re evil,” she said in a small voice. “Because they’re symbols of the knights’ broken oaths,” Kaladin said. “But where did they come from in the first place? How were they forged?” Syl didn’t answer. “Can a new one be forged? One that doesn’t bear the stain of broken promises?” “Yes.”

“Honor is dead,” a voice whispered from beside him. Dalinar turned and looked at Captain Kaladin. He hadn’t noticed the bridgeman walking down the steps behind him. Kaladin took a deep breath, then looked at Dalinar. “But I’ll see what I can do. If this goes poorly, take care of my men.” Spear in hand, he grabbed the edge of the wall and flung himself over, dropping to the sands of the arena floor below.

HONOR IS DEAD, BUT I’LL SEE WHAT I CAN DO. Ahhhhhhhgoydyrsousurwotr That’s MF right KALADIN MF STORMBLESSED BABYYYYY

Curls of embroidery everywhere. Carpets so fine, they probably drove some poor woman blind weaving them. Dark colors and dim lights. Paintings on the walls. Huh, Lift thought, someone scratched a face off of that one. Who’d ruin a painting like that, and such a fine one, the Heralds all in a row?

“What has become of me?” Wyndle asked. “Thieving in the night, chased by abominations. I was a gardener. A wonderful gardener! Cryptics and honorspren alike came to see the crystals I grew from the minds of your world. Now this. What have I become?” “A whiner,” Lift said, puffing.

“Why do you care?” Wyndle asked again. He sounded curious. Not a challenge. An attempt to understand. “Because someone has to.”

But this was who she was, who she had to be. I will remember those who have been forgotten.

“I saved him,” Lift said. “I did something good, didn’t I?” “Goodness is irrelevant,” Darkness said. His Shardblade dropped into his fingers. “You don’t even care, do you?” “No,” he said. “I don’t.” “You should,” she said, exhausted. “You should . . . should try it, I mean. I wanted to be like you, once. Didn’t work out. Wasn’t . . . even like being alive . . .” Darkness raised his Blade.

Adolin met his eyes. “Oddly, I do. Trust you, I mean. It’s a very strange sensation.” “Yeah, well, I’ll try to hold myself back from going skipping across the plateau in joy.” Adolin grinned. “I’d pay to see that.” “Me skipping?” “You happy,” Adolin said, laughing. “You’ve got a face like a storm! I half think you could frighten off a storm.” Kaladin grunted.

The cosmere itself may depend upon our restraint.

The Heralds??????

Contradictions. Those were what made people real. Jasnah exhausted, yet somehow still strong—stronger, even, because of the vulnerability she revealed. Jasnah terrified, yet also brave, for one allowed the other to exist. Jasnah overwhelmed, yet powerful.

And then, like a falling star, a blazing fireball of light and motion shot down in front of Dalinar. It crashed into the ground, sending out a ring of Stormlight like white smoke. At the center, a figure in blue crouched with one hand on the stones, the other clutching a glowing Shardblade. His eyes afire with a light that somehow made the assassin’s seem dull by comparison, he wore the uniform of a bridgeman, and bore the glyphs of slavery on his forehead. The expanding ring of smoky light faded, save for a large glyph—a swordlike shape—which remained for a brief moment before puffing away. “You sent him to the sky to die, assassin,” Kaladin said, Stormlight puffing from his lips, “but the sky and the winds are mine. I claim them, as I now claim your life.”

STORMBLESSED speechless

“You are what I’ve been looking for.” “Yes. Finally.”

KISS

“You ready?” he whispered. Of course, Syl said in his head. I’m not the one we’ve been waiting on.

That crescent . . . He recognized it, didn’t he? “You, Szeth,” the man said, “worship order, do you not? You follow the laws of your society to perfection. This attracted me, though I worry that emotion has clouded your ability to discern. Your ability to . . . judge.” Judgment. “Nin,” he whispered. “The one they call Nalan, or Nale, here. Herald of Justice.” Nin nodded.

DARKNESS

“Expectation. That is the true soul of art. If you can give a man more than he expects, then he will laud you his entire life. If you can create an air of anticipation and feed it properly, you will succeed.