Words of Radiance (The Stormlight Archive, #2)

by Brandon Sanderson

Jasnah Kholin pretended to enjoy the party, giving no indication that she intended to have one of the guests killed.

All save Elhokar’s wife, Aesudan, who snickered primly behind a handkerchief.

“This is the tiresome part of the feast, where the conversation grows louder but no smarter, and the company drunken.”

Shadesmar, she thought. That is what it is called in the nursery tales. Shadesmar, the mythological kingdom of the spren.

It meant she would have a chance to study Parshendi traditions and histories at her leisure. Could it be, she wondered, that scholars have been searching in the wrong ruins all these years?

You always knew, a voice whispered deep inside of her. You grew up with horrors, Shallan. You just won’t let yourself remember them.

“All things have three components: the soul, the body, and the mind.

Emperor's Soul

Well, Shadesmar is the way that your cognitive self—your unconscious self—experiences the world. Through your hidden senses touching that realm, you make intuitive leaps in logic and you form hopes. It is likely through those extra senses that you, Shallan, create art.”

and Shallan’s mental image of Jasnah Kholin was of someone almost divine. It was, upon reflection, an odd way to regard a determined atheist.

“No,” Jasnah said. “What are they?” “I . . .” Shallan looked up at a pair of windspren spinning through the air above. They looked like tiny ribbons of light, glowing softly, dancing around one another. “They’re living ideas.”

“By my best guess, spren are elements of the Cognitive Realm that have leaked into the physical world. They’re concepts that have gained a fragment of sentience, perhaps because of human intervention.

In others, they do not trust me because of our ancient betrayal.” Shallan frowned, looking to her teacher. “Betrayal?” “They tell me of it,” Jasnah said, “but they won’t say what it was. We broke an oath, and in so doing offended them greatly. I think some of them may have died, though how a concept can die, I do not know.”

“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.”

“What is it you think that I am?” Shallan whispered, meeting the older woman’s eyes, finally asking the question that she hadn’t dared. “Right now, you are but a promise,” Jasnah said. “A chrysalis with the potential for grandeur inside.

Power is an illusion of perception.”

“The Knights Radiant,” the Almighty said, standing up beside Dalinar, watching the knight attack the nightmare beast. “They were a solution, a way to offset the destruction of the Desolations. Ten orders of knights, founded with the purpose of helping men fight, then rebuild.”

I did not teach my Heralds this. It was the spren—wishing to imitate what I had given men—who made it possible. You will need to refound them. This is your task. Unite them. Create a fortress that can weather the storm. Vex Odium, convince him that he can lose, and appoint a champion. He will take that chance instead of risking defeat again, as he has suffered so often. This is the best advice I can give you.”

“You were surprised by the coming of the knights,” Dalinar said to the Almighty. “And this force, this enemy, managed to kill you. You were never God. God knows everything. God cannot be killed. So who were you?”

“I have to refound the Knights Radiant.”

I’ll have more than that.” He tapped the windowsill. “I’m going to refound the Knights Radiant.” Kaladin nearly dropped his spear in shock. Fortunately, nobody was watching him—they were leaping to their feet, staring at Dalinar.

“Among the Knights Radiant, there was an order known as the Lightweavers. I know precious little about them, but of all the sources I’ve read, this one has the most information.” Shallan took the volume eagerly. Words of Radiance, the title read. “Go,” Jasnah said. “Read.”

“If I toss something upward, it comes back down.” “Except when it doesn’t.” “It’s a law.” “No,” Syl said, looking upward. “It’s more like . . . more like an agreement among friends.”

Father started to whisper, blinking tears. “Now go to sleep in chasms deep, with darkness all around you

Forest ofhell?

the listeners, as they called their race. “Parshendi” was a human term.

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.

Instead, she and the others had ordered the murder of the Alethi king in a desperate gambit to stop the listener gods from returning.

To live was to be a fragment of the cosmere that was experiencing itself.

So far, Ym had used this ability only a handful of times, and had always disguised it as medicine. It was unlike anything he had ever heard of. Perhaps that was why he had been given it—so the cosmere could experience it.

“As One, we knew truth,” Ym said, “but as many, we need ignorance. We exist in variety to experience all kinds of thought. That means some of us must know and others must not—just like some must be rich, and others must be poor.”

“If we’re all just the same person trying out different lives,” the boy said, “you don’t need to give away shoes. ’Cuz it don’t matter.” “You wouldn’t hit yourself in the face, would you? If I make your life better, I make my own better.” “That’s crazy talk,” the boy said. “I think you’re just a nice person.” He ducked out, not speaking another word.

Do not let your assumptions about a culture block your ability to perceive the individual, or you will fail.”

“The Last Legion, that was our name then. Warriors who had been set to fight in the farthest plains, this place that had once been a nation and was now rubble. Dead was the freedom of most people. The forms, unknown, were forced upon us. Forms of power, yes, but also forms of obedience. The gods commanded, and we did obey, always. Always.”

She did not hasten her pace. She let the steady, sweeping beats of the Rhythm of Peace carry her forward. Unless you concentrated on attuning a certain rhythm, your body would naturally choose the one that fit your mood. Therefore, it was always a conscious decision to listen to a rhythm that did not match how you felt. She did this now with Peace.

“But you are certain that Jasnah was right?” Shallan said. “The Voidbringers are going to return?” “Yes. Spren . . . spren of him. They come.”

Expectation wasn’t just about what people expected of you. It was about what you expected of yourself.

“that you think Dalinar Kholin is only pretending to be honorable?” “I—” “Don’t you lie to me, Kaladin,” she said, stepping forward, pointing. Diminutive though she was, in that moment, she seemed as vast as a highstorm. “No lies. Ever.” He took a deep breath. “No,” he finally said. “No, Dalinar gave up his Blade for us. He’s a good man.

“You called the Blades abominations before,” Kaladin said. “But the Radiants carried them. So were the Radiants wrong to do so?” “Of course not,” she said, sounding like he was saying something completely stupid. “The Shards weren’t abominations back then.” “What changed?” “The knights,” Syl said, growing quiet. “The knights changed.”

“You’re a soldier,” Kaladin guessed. “Ex-soldier, I mean.” “Yeah,” the man said. “They call me Zahel.”

“Why not? I am a god.” He turned his head, looking at her flatly as she sat on his shoulder. “Syl . . .” “What? I am!” She grinned and held up her fingers, as if pinching something very small. “A little piece of one. Very, very little. You have permission to bow to me now.”

And soap. And a dozen other things. “Yes,” Pattern said. “The knights killed their spren.” “How? Why?” “Their oaths,” Pattern said. “It is all I know.

“So that’s what you get out of it,” Shallan said, untangling her hair with her fingers. “Symbiosis. I get access to Surgebinding, you get thought.” “Sapience,” Pattern said. “Thought. Life. These are of humans. We are ideas. Ideas that wish to live.”

“You live lies,” Pattern said. “It gives you strength. But the truth . . . Without speaking truths you will not be able to grow, Shallan. I know this somehow.”

“I’m old, son,” Zahel said. “Repeating myself makes me eat the wrong flower.”

“Helaran . . .” The passion seemed to have bled from Father, like the color from his face, which had gone stark white. “You don’t know what you think you know. Your mother—” “I will not listen to your lies,” Helaran said, rotating his wrist, twisting the sword in his hand, point still against Father’s chest. “So easy.” “No,” Shallan whispered.

“Brightness,” the man said as she stepped up to him, “we aren’t what you think we are.” “No,” Shallan replied. “You aren’t what you think yourselves to be.”

Those dark eyes of his seemed dead. “We can’t change the past.” “I can change your future.” “We are wanted men.” “Yes, I came here wanting men. Hoping to find men. You are offered the chance to be soldiers again.

“Ah . . . You are good with lies.” “No, I mean, that was a figure of speech. It seems impossible that they’d actually listen to me. Hardened criminals.” “You are lies and truth,” Pattern said softly. “They transform.”

What separates the heroes from the villains? One speech in the night?

There, stuffed in his pocket, was her picture of him. The one that depicted him not as he was, but as she imagined he might once have been. A soldier in an army, in a crisp uniform. Eyes forward, rather than looking down all the time. A hero.

“I was wrong,” she whispered. “You were a fine way to restart my collection, Bluth. Fight well for the Almighty in your sleep, bold one.”