Words of Radiance

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. Come with me. I will see to it you have new lives. Those lives start by saving instead of killing.”

Vathah snorted in derision. His face looked unfinished in the night, rough, like a sketch. “Brightlords have failed us in the past.”

“Listen,” Shallan said. “Listen to the screams.”

The piteous sounds reached them from behind her. Shouts for help. Workers, both men and women, from the caravan. Dying. Haunting sounds. Shallan was surprised, despite having pointed them out, how well the sounds carried. How much they sounded like pleas for help.

“Give yourself another chance,” Shallan said softly. “If you return with me, I will see that your crimes are erased. I promise it to you, by all that I have, by the Almighty himself. You can start over. Start over as heroes.”

Vathah held her eyes. This man was stone. She could see, with a sinking feeling, that he wasn’t swayed. The tempest inside of her began to fade away, and her fears boiled higher. What was she doing? This was crazy!

Vathah looked away from her again, and she knew she’d lost him. He barked the order to take her captive.

Nobody moved. Shallan had focused only on him, not the other two dozen or so men, who had drawn in close, torches raised high. They looked at her with open faces, and she saw very little of the lust she’d noticed before. Instead, they bore wide eyes, longing, reacting to the distant yells. Men fingered their uniforms, where the insignias had been. Others looked down at spears and axes, weapons of their service perhaps not so long ago.

“You fools are considering this?” Vathah said.

One man, a short fellow with a scarred face and an eye patch, nodded his head. “I wouldn’t mind starting over,” he muttered. “Storms, but it would be nice.”

“I saved a woman’s life once,” another said, a tall, balding man who was easily into his forties. “I felt a hero for weeks. Toasts in the tavern. Warmth. Damnation! We’re dying out here.”

“We left to get away from their oppression!” Vathah bellowed.

“And what have we done with our freedom, Vathah?” a man asked from the back of the group.

In the silence that followed, Shallan could hear only the screams for help.

“Storm it, I’m going,” said the short man with the eye patch, jogging up the hill. Others broke off and followed him. Shallan turned—hands clasped in front of her—as nearly the entire group took off in a charge. Bluth stood up on his wagon, his shocked face showing in the torchlight that passed. Then he actually whooped, jumping down from the wagon and raising his cudgel high as he joined the deserters charging toward the battle.

Shallan was left with Vathah and two other men. Those seemed dumbfounded by what had just happened. Vathah folded his arms, letting out an audible sigh. “Idiots, every one.”

“They are not idiots for wanting to be better than they are,” Shallan said.

He snorted, looking her over. She had an immediate flash of fear. Moments ago, this man was ready to rob her and probably worse. He didn’t make any moves toward her, though his face looked even more threatening now that most of the torches had gone.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Shallan Davar.”

“Well, Brightness Shallan,” he said, “I hope for your sake you can keep your word. Come on, boys. Let’s see if we can keep those fools alive.” He left with the others who had remained behind, marching up over the hill toward the fighting.

Shallan stood alone in the night, exhaling softly. No Light came out; she’d used it all. Her feet were no longer so much as sore, but she felt exhausted

, drained like a punctured wineskin. She walked to the wagon and slumped against it, then finally settled down on the ground. Head back, she looked up at the sky. A few exhaustionspren rose around her, little swirls of dust spinning into the air.

Salas, the first moon, made a violet disc in the center of a cluster of bright white stars. The screams and yells of fighting continued. Would the deserters be enough? She didn’t know how many bandits there were.

She’d be useless there, only getting in the way. She squeezed her eyes shut, then climbed up into the seat and took out her sketchbook. To the sounds of the fighting and dying, she sketched the glyphs for a prayer of hope.

“They listened,” Pattern said, buzzing from beside her. “You changed them.”

“I can’t believe it worked,” Shallan said.

“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 does that mean?” It was hard to sketch with only the light of Salas to see by, but she did her best.