Words of Radiance

  “We placed them before even contacting you,” the woman said. She hesitated, then took a few steps upward. “Iyatil.”

  Shallan cocked her head.

  “My name,” the woman said. “Iyatil.”

  “I’ve never heard one like it.”

  “Unsurprising. Your task today was to investigate a certain new arrival into Dalinar’s camp. We wish to know about this person, and Dalinar’s allegiances are uncertain.”

  “He’s loyal to the king and the Throne.”

  “Outwardly,” the woman said. “His brother knew things of an extraordinary nature. We are uncertain if Dalinar was told of these things or not, and his interactions with Amaram worry us. This newcomer is linked.”

  “Amaram is making maps of the Shattered Plains,” Shallan said. “Why? What is out there that he wants?” And why would he want to return the Voidbringers?

  Iyatil didn’t answer.

  “Well,” Shallan said, rising, “let’s get to it, then. Shall we?”

  “Together?” Iyatil said.

  Shallan shrugged. “You can sneak along behind, or you can just go with me.” She extended her hand.

  Iyatil inspected the hand, then clasped it with her own gloved freehand in acceptance. She kept her other hand on the dagger at her side the entire time, though.

  * * *

  Shallan flipped through the instructions Mraize had left, as the oversized palanquin lurched along toward Dalinar’s warcamp. Iyatil sat across from Shallan, legs tucked beneath her, watching with beady, masked eyes. The woman wore simple trousers and a shirt, such that Shallan had originally mistaken her for a boy that first time.

  Her presence was thoroughly unsettling.

  “A madman,” Shallan said, flipping to the next page of instructions. “Mraize is this interested in a simple madman?”

  “Dalinar and the king are interested,” Iyatil said. “So, then, are we.”

  There did seem to be some sort of cover-up involved. The madman had arrived in the custody of a man named Bordin, a servant whom Dalinar had stationed in Kholinar years ago. Mraize’s information indicated that this Bordin was no simple messenger, but instead one of Dalinar’s most trusted footmen. He had been left behind in Alethkar to spy on the queen, or so the Ghostbloods inferred. But why would someone need to keep an eye on the queen? The briefing didn’t say.

  This Bordin had come to the Shattered Plains in haste a few weeks ago, bearing the madman and other mysterious cargo. Shallan’s charge was to find out who this madman was and why Dalinar had hidden him away in a monastery with strict instructions that nobody was to be allowed access save specific ardents.

  “Your master knows more about this,” Shallan said, “than he is telling me.”

  “My master?” Iyatil asked.

  “Mraize.”

  The woman laughed. “You mistake. He is not my master. He is my student.”

  “In what?” Shallan asked.

  Iyatil stared at her with a level gaze and gave no reply.

  “Why the mask?” Shallan asked, leaning forward. “What does it mean? Why do you hide?”

  “I have many times asked myself,” Iyatil said, “why those of you here go about so brazenly with features exposed to all who would see them. My mask reserves my self. Besides, it gives me the ability to adapt.”

  Shallan sat back, thoughtful.

  “You are willing to ponder,” Iyatil said. “Rather than asking question after question. This is good. Your instincts, however, must be judged. Are you the hunter, or are you the quarry?”

  “Neither,” Shallan said immediately.

  “All are one or the other.”

  The palanquin’s porters slowed. Shallan peeked out the curtains and found that they had finally reached the edge of Dalinar’s warcamp. Here, soldiers at the gates stopped each person in line waiting to enter.

  “How will you get us in?” Iyatil asked as Shallan closed the curtains. “Highprince Kholin has grown cautious of late, with assassins appearing in the night. What lie will gain us access to his realm?”

  Delightful, she thought, revising her list of tasks. Shallan not only had to infiltrate the monastery and discover information about this madman, she had to do it without revealing too much about herself—or what she could do—to Iyatil.

  She had to think quickly. The soldiers at the front called for the palanquin to approach—lighteyes wouldn’t be required to wait in the ordinary line, and the soldiers would assume this nice a vehicle had someone rich inside. Taking a deep breath, Shallan removed her hat, pulled her hair forward over her shoulder, then pushed her face out of the curtains so that her hair hung down before her outside the palanquin. At the same moment, she withdrew her illusion and pulled the curtains closed behind her head, tight against her neck, to prevent Iyatil from seeing the transformation.

  The porters were parshmen, and she doubted the parshmen would say anything about what they saw her do. Their lighteyed master was turned away, fortunately. Her palanquin wobbled up to the front of the line, and the guards started when they saw her. They waved her through immediately. The face of Adolin’s betrothed was well known by this point.

  Now, how to get Veil’s appearance back on? There were people on the street here; she wasn’t about to breathe Stormlight while hanging out the window.

  “Pattern,” she whispered. “Go make a noise at the window on the other side of the palanquin.”

  Tyn had drilled into her the need to make a distracting motion with one hand while palming an object with the other. The same principle might work here.

  A sharp yelp sounded from the other window. Shallan moved her head back into the palanquin with a quick motion, breathing out Stormlight. She flipped the curtains in a diverting way and obscured her face with the hat as she put it on.

  Iyatil looked back toward her from the window where the yelp had sounded, but Shallan was Veil again. She settled back, meeting Iyatil’s gaze. Had the smaller woman seen?

  They rode in silence for a moment.

  “You bribed the guards ahead of time,” Iyatil finally guessed. “I would know how you did this. Kholin’s men are difficult to bribe. You got to one of the supervisors, perhaps?”

  Shallan smiled in what she hoped was a frustrating way.

  The palanquin continued on toward the warcamp’s temple, a part of Dalinar’s camp that she’d never visited. Actually, she hadn’t been to visit Sebarial’s ardents very often either—though when she had gone, she’d found them surprisingly devout, considering who owned them.

  She peeked out the window as they approached. Dalinar’s temple grounds were as plain as she would have expected. Grey-robed ardents passed the palanquin in pairs or small groups, mixing among people of all stations. Those had come for prayers, instruction, or advice—a good temple, properly equipped, could provide each of these things and more. Darkeyes from almost any nahn could come to be taught a trade, exercising their divine Right to Learn, as mandated by the Heralds. Lesser lighteyes came to learn trades as well, and the higher dahns came to learn the arts or progress in their Callings to please the Almighty.

  A large population of ardents like this one would have true masters in every art and trade. Perhaps she should come and seek Dalinar’s artists for training.

  She winced, wondering where she would find time for such a thing. What with courting Adolin, infiltrating the Ghostbloods, researching the Shattered Plains, and doing Sebarial’s ledgers, it was a wonder she had time to sleep. Still, it felt impious of her to expect success in her duties while ignoring the Almighty. She did need to have more concern for such things.

  And what is the Almighty to think of you? she wondered. And the lies you’re growing so proficient at producing. Honesty was among the divine attributes of the Almighty, after all, which everyone was supposed to seek.

  The temple complex here included more than one building, though most people would only visit the main structure. Mraize’s instructions had included a map, so she knew the s
pecific building she needed—one near the back, where the ardent healers saw to the sick and cared for people with long-term illnesses.

  “It will not be easy to enter,” Iyatil said. “The ardents are protective of their charges, and have them locked away in the back, kept from the eyes of other men. They will not welcome an attempt at intrusion.”

  “The instructions indicated that today was the perfect time to sneak in,” Shallan said. “I was to make haste to not miss the opportunity.”

  “Once a month,” Iyatil said, “all may come to the temple to ask questions or see a physician with no offering requested. Today will be a busy day, a day of confusion. That will make for an easier time infiltrating, but it does not mean they will simply let you saunter in.”

  Shallan nodded.

  “If you would rather do this at night,” Iyatil said, “perhaps I can persuade Mraize that the matter can wait until then.”

  Shallan shook her head. She had no experience sneaking about in the darkness. She’d just make a fool of herself.

  But how to get in . . .

  “Porter,” she commanded, sticking her head out the window and pointing, “take us to that building there, then set us down. Send one of your number to seek the master healers. Tell them I need their aid.”

  The tenner who led the parshmen—hired with Shallan’s spheres—nodded brusquely. Tenners were a strange lot. This one didn’t own the parshmen; he just worked for the woman who rented them out. Veil, with dark eyes, would be beneath him socially, but was also the one paying his wage, and so he just treated her as he would any other master.

  The palanquin settled down and one of the parshmen walked off to deliver her request.

  “Going to feign sickness?” Iyatil asked.

  “Something like that,” Shallan said as footsteps arrived outside. She climbed out to meet a pair of square-bearded ardents, conferring as the parshmen led them in her direction. They looked her over, noting her dark eyes and her clothing—which was well-made but obviously intended for rugged use. Likely, they placed her in one of the upper-middle nahns, a citizen, but not a particularly important one.

  “What is the problem, young woman?” asked the older of the two ardents.

  “It is my sister,” Shallan said. “She has put on this strange mask and refuses to remove it.”

  A soft groan rose from inside the palanquin.

  “Child,” said the lead ardent, his tone suffering, “a stubborn sister is not a matter for the ardents.”

  “I understand, good brother,” Shallan said, raising her hands before her. “But this is no simple stubbornness. I think . . . I think one of the Voidbringers has inhabited her!”

  She pushed aside the curtains of the palanquin, revealing Iyatil inside. Her strange mask made the ardents pull back and break off their objections. The younger of the two men peered in at Iyatil with wide eyes.

  Iyatil turned to Shallan, and with an almost inaudible sigh, started rocking back and forth in place. “Should we kill them?” she muttered. “No. No, we shouldn’t. But someone will see! No, do not say these things. No. I will not listen to you.” She started humming.

  The younger ardent turned to look back at the senior.

  “This is dire,” the ardent said, nodding. “Porter, come. Have your parshmen bring the palanquin.”

  * * *

  A short time later, Shallan waited in the corner of a small monastery room, watching Iyatil sit and resist the ministration of several ardents. She kept warning them that if they removed her mask, she would have to kill them.

  That did not seem to be part of the act.

  Fortunately, she otherwise played her part well. Her ravings, mixed with her hidden face, gave even Shallan shivers. The ardents seemed alternately fascinated and horrified.

  Concentrate on the drawing, Shallan thought to herself. It was a sketch of one of the ardents, a portly man about her own height. The drawing was rushed but capable. She idly found herself wondering what a beard would feel like. Would it itch? But no, hair on your head didn’t itch, so why should hair on your face? How did they keep food out of the things?

  She finished with a few quick marks, then rose quietly. Iyatil kept the ardents’ attention with a new bout of raving. Shallan nodded to her in thanks, then slipped out of the door, entering the hallway. After glancing to the sides to see that she was alone, she used a cloud of Stormlight to transform into the ardent. That done, she reached up and tucked her straight red hair—the only part of her that threatened to pop out of the illusion—inside the back of her coat.

  “Pattern,” she whispered, turning and walking down the hallway with a relaxed demeanor.

  “Mmm?”

  “Find him,” she said, removing from her satchel a sketch of the madman that Mraize had left in the tree. The sketch had been done at a distance, and wasn’t terribly good. Hopefully . . .

  “Second hallway on the left,” Pattern said.

  Shallan looked down at him, though her new costume—an ardent’s robe—obscured him where he sat on her coat. “How do you know?”

  “You were distracted by your drawing,” he said. “I peeked about. There is a very interesting woman four doors down. She appears to be rubbing excrement on the wall.”

  “Ew.” Shallan thought she could smell it.

  “Patterns . . .” he said as they walked. “I did not get a good look at what she was writing, but it seemed very interesting. I think I shall go and—”

  “No,” Shallan whispered, “stay with me.” She smiled, nodding to several ardents who strolled past. They didn’t speak to her, fortunately, merely nodding back.

  The monastery building, like most everything in Dalinar’s warcamp, was sliced through with dull, unornamented hallways. Shallan followed Pattern’s instructions to a thick door set into the stone. The lock clicked open with Pattern’s help, and Shallan quietly slipped inside.

  A single small window—more of a slit—proved insufficient to fully illuminate the large figure sitting on the bed. Dark-skinned, like a man from the Makabaki kingdoms, he had dark, ragged hair and hulking arms. Those were the arms of either a laborer or a soldier. The man sat slumped, back bowed, head down, frail light from the window cutting a slice across his back in white. It made for a grim, powerful silhouette.

  The man was whispering. Shallan couldn’t make out the words. She shivered, her back to the door, and held up the sketch Mraize had given her. This seemed to be the same person—at least, the skin color and stout build were the same, though this man was far more muscled than the picture indicated. Storms . . . those hands of his looked as if they could crush her like a cremling.

  The man did not move. He did not look up, did not shift. He was like a boulder that had rolled to a stop here.

  “Why is it kept so dark in this room?” Pattern asked, perfectly cheerful.

  The madman didn’t react to the comment, or even Shallan, as she stepped forward.

  “Modern theory for helping the mad suggests dim confines,” Shallan whispered. “Too much light stimulates them, and can reduce the effectiveness of treatment.” That was what she remembered, at least. She hadn’t read much on this subject. The room was dark. That window couldn’t be more than a few fingers wide.

  What was he whispering? Shallan cautiously continued forward. “Sir?” she asked. Then she hesitated, realizing that she was projecting a young woman’s voice from an old, fat ardent’s body. Would that startle the man? He wasn’t looking, so she withdrew the illusion.

  “He doesn’t seem angry,” Pattern said. “But you call him mad.”

  “‘Mad’ has two definitions,” Shallan said. “One means to be angry. The other means broken in the head.”

  “Ah,” Pattern said, “like a spren who has lost his bond.”

  “Not exactly, I’d guess,” Shallan said, stepping up to the madman. “But similar.” She knelt down by the man, trying to figure out what he was saying.

  “The time of the Return, the Desolation, is a
t hand,” he whispered. She would have expected an Azish accent from him, considering the skin color, but he spoke perfect Alethi. “We must prepare. You will have forgotten much, following the destruction of times past.”

  She looked over at Pattern, lost in the shadows at the side of the room, then back at the man. Light glinted off his dark brown eyes, two bright pinpricks on an otherwise shadowed visage. That slumped posture seemed so morose. He whispered on, about bronze and steel, about preparations and training.

  “Who are you?” Shallan whispered.

  “Talenel’Elin. The one you call Stonesinew.”

  She felt a chill. Then the madman continued, whispering the same things he had before, repeated exactly. She couldn’t even be certain if his comment had been a reply to her question, or just a part of his recitation. He did not answer further questions.

  Shallan stepped back, folding her arms, satchel over her shoulder.

  “Talenel,” Pattern said. “I know that name.”

  “Talenelat’Elin is the name of one of the Heralds,” Shallan said. “This is almost the same.”

  “Ah.” Pattern paused. “Lie?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Shallan said. “It defies reason that Dalinar Kholin would have one of the Heralds of the Almighty locked away in a temple’s back rooms. Many madmen think themselves someone else.”

  Of course, many said that Dalinar himself was mad. And he was trying to refound the Knights Radiant. Scooping up a madman who thought he was one of the Heralds could be in line with that.

  “Madman,” Shallan said, “where do you come from?”

  He continued ranting.

  “Do you know what Dalinar Kholin wishes of you?”

  More ranting.

  Shallan sighed, but knelt and wrote his exact words to deliver to Mraize. She got the entire sequence down, and listened to it twice through to make sure he wasn’t going to say anything new. He didn’t say his supposed name this time, though. So that was one deviation.

  He couldn’t actually be one of the Heralds, could he?

  Don’t be silly, she thought, tucking away her writing implements. The Heralds glow like the sun, wield the Honorblades, and speak with the voices of a thousand trumpets. They could cast down buildings with a command, force the storms to obey, and heal with a touch.