Brandon SANDERSON - Words of Radiance

In camp, men sat on the stone, divided by ranks, shivering in their wet coats. Shallan’s breath puffed before her, though she had taken in Stormlight – just a dash – to keep herself from noticing the cold. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to use for fires. The large stone field in front of the tower city bore very few rockbuds, and the ones that did grow were tiny, smaller than a fist. They would provide little wood for fires.

The field was ringed by ten columnar plateaus, with steps winding around their bases. The Oathgates. Beyond that extended the mountain range.

Crem did cover some of the steps here, and dripped over the sides of the open field. There wasn’t nearly as much as there had been on the Shattered Plains. Less rain must fall up here.

Shallan stepped up to one edge of the stone field. A sheer drop. If Nohadon really had walked to this city, as The Way of Kings claimed, then his path would have included scaling cliff faces. So far, they had found no way down other than through the Oathgates – and even if there were such a way, one would still be stranded in the middle of the mountains, weeks from civilization. Judging from the sun height, the scholars placed them near the center of Roshar, somewhere in the mountains near Tu Bayla or maybe Emul.

The remote location made the city incredibly defensible, or so Dalinar said. It also left them isolated, potentially cut off. And that, in turn, explained why everyone looked at Shallan as they did. They’d tried other Shardblades; none were effective at making the ancient fabrial work. Shallan was literally their only way out of these mountains.

One of the soldiers nearby cleared his throat. “You certain you should be that close to the edge, Brightness Radiant?”

She gave the man a droll look. “I could survive that drop and stroll away, soldier.”

“Um, yes, Brightness,” he said, blushing.

She left the edge and continued on to find Dalinar. Eyes followed her as she walked: soldiers, scribes, lighteyes, and highlords alike. Well, let them see Shallan the Radiant. She could always find freedom later, wearing another face.

Dalinar and Navani supervised a group of women near the center of the army. “Any luck?” Shallan asked, approaching.

Dalinar glanced at her. The scribes wrote letters using every spanreed they had, delivering messages of warning to the warcamps and to the relay room in Tashikk. A new storm might come, blowing in from the west, not the east. Prepare.

New Natanan, on the very eastern coast of Roshar, would be struck today after the everstorm left the Shattered Plains. Then it would enter the eastern ocean and move toward the Origin.

None of them knew what would happen next. Would it round the world and come crashing into the western coast? Were the highstorms all one storm that rounded the planet, or did a new one start at the Origin each time, as mythology claimed?

Scholars and stormwardens thought the former, these days. Their calculations said that, assuming the everstorm moved at the same speed as a highstorm this time of year, they’d have a few days before it returned and hit Shinovar and Iri, then blew across the continent, laying waste to cities thought protected.

“No news,” Dalinar said, voice tense. “The king seems to have vanished. What’s more, Kholinar appears to be in a state of riot. I haven’t been able to get straight answers on either question.”

“I’m sure the king is somewhere safe,” Shallan said, glancing at Navani. The woman maintained a composed face, but as she gave instructions to a scribe, her voice was terse and clipped.

One of the pillarlike plateaus nearby flashed. It happened with a wall of light revolving around its perimeter, leaving streaks of blurred afterimage to fade. Someone had activated the Oathgate.

Dalinar stepped up beside her and they waited tensely, until a group of figures in blue appeared at the plateau edge and started down the steps. Bridge Four.

“Oh, thank the Almighty, ” Shallan whispered. It was him, not the assassin.

One of the figures pointed down toward where Dalinar and the rest of them stood. Kaladin separated from his men, dropping off the steps and floating over the army. He landed on the stones in stride, carrying a Shardblade on his shoulder, his long officer’s coat unbuttoned and coming down to his knees.

He still has the slave brands, she thought, though his long hair obscured them. His eyes had become a pale blue. They glowed softly.

“Stormblessed,” Dalinar called.

“Highprince,” Kaladin said.

“The assassin?”

“Dead,” Kaladin said, hefting the Blade and sticking it down into the rock before Dalinar. “We need to talk. This–”

“My son, bridgeman,” Navani asked from behind. She stepped up and took Kaladin by the arm, as if completely unconcerned by the Stormlight that drifted from his skin like smoke. “What happened to my son?”

“There was an assassination attempt,” Kaladin said. “I stopped it, but the king was wounded. I put him someplace safe before coming to help Dalinar.”

“Where?” Navani demanded. “We’ve had our people in the warcamps search monasteries, mansions, the barracks…”

“Those places were too obvious,” Kaladin said. “If you could think to look there, so might the assassins. I needed someplace nobody would think of.”

“Where, then?” Dalinar asked.

Kaladin smiled.

The Lopen made a fist with his hand, clutching the sphere inside. In the next room over, his mother scolded a king.

“No, no, Your Majesty,” she said, words thickly accented, using the same stern tone she used with the axehounds. “You roll the whole thing up and eat it. You can’t pick it apart like that.”

“I don’t feel so hungry, nanha,” Elhokar said. His voice was weak, but he’d awoken from his drunken stupor, which was a good sign.

“You’ll eat anyway!” Mother said. “I know what to do when I see a man that pale in the face, and pardon, Your Majesty, but you are pale as a sheet hung out for the sun to bleach! And that’s the truth of it. You’re going to eat. No complaints.”

“I’m the king. I don’t take orders from–”

“You’re in my home now!” she said, and Lopen mouthed along with the words. “In a Herdazian woman’s home, nobody’s station means nothing beside her own. I’m not going to have them come and get you and find you not properly fed! I’ll not have people saying that, Your Brightship, no I won’t! Eat up. I’ve got soup cooking.”

The Lopen smiled, and though he heard the king grumble, he also heard the sound of spoon against plate. Two of Lopen’s strongest cousins sat out front of the hovel in Little Herdaz – which was technically in Highprince Sebarial’s warcamp, though the Herdazians didn’t pay much attention to that. Four more cousins sat at the end of the street, idly sewing some boots, watching for anything suspicious.

“All right,” Lopen whispered, “you really need to work this time.” He focused on that sphere in his hand. Just like he did every day, and had done every day since Captain Kaladin had started glowing. He’d figure it out sooner or later. He was as sure of it as he was sure of his name.

“Lopen.” A wide face ducked in one of the windows, distracting him. Chilinko, his uncle. “Get the king man dressed up like a Herdazian again. We might need to move.”

“Move?” Lopen said, standing.

“Word has come in to all the warcamps from Highprince Sebarial,” Chilinko said in Herdazian. “They found something out there, on the Plains. Be ready. Just in case. Everyone’s talking. I can’t make sense of it.” He shook his head. “First that highstorm nobody knew about, then the rains stop early, then the storming king man of Alethkar on my doorstep. Now this. I think we might be abandoning camp, even though nightfall’s around the corner. Makes no sense to me, but get the king man taken care of.”