Words of Radiance

Pattern’s buzz became a whine, going so high pitched she almost couldn’t hear it. “Odium.” He spoke the word as if needing to force it out.

Shallan wrote furiously. Odium. Hatred. A type of spren? Perhaps a large unique one, like Cusicesh from Iri or the Nightwatcher. Hatredspren. She’d never heard of such a thing.

As she wrote, one of her slaves approached in the darkening night. The timid man wore a simple tunic and trousers, one of the sets given to Shallan by the merchants. The gift was welcome, as the last of Shallan’s spheres were in the goblet before her, and wouldn’t be enough to buy a meal at some of the finer restaurants in Kharbranth.

“Brightness?” the man asked.

“Yes, Suna?”

“I… um…” He pointed. “The other lady, she asked me to tell you…”

He was pointing toward the tent used by Tyn, the tall woman who was leader of the few remaining caravan guards.

“She wants me to visit her?” Shallan asked.

“Yes,” Suna said, looking down. “For food, I guess?”

“Thank you, Suna,” Shallan said, freeing him to go back toward the fire where he and the other slaves were helping with the cooking while parshmen gathered wood.

Shallan’s slaves were a quiet group. They had tattoos on their foreheads, rather than brands. It was the kinder way to do it, and usually marked a person who had entered servitude willingly, as opposed to being forced into it as a punishment for a violent or terrible crime. They were men with debts or the children of slaves who still bore the debt of their parents.

These were accustomed to labor, and seemed frightened by the idea of what she was paying them. Pittance though it was, it would see most of them freed in under two years. They were obviously uncomfortable with that idea.

Shallan shook her head, packing away her things. As she walked toward Tyn’s tent, Shallan paused at the fire and asked Red to lift her table back into the wagon and secure it there.

She did worry about her things, but she no longer kept any spheres in there, and had left it open so Red and Gaz could glimpse inside and see only books. Hopefully there would be no incentive for people to go rooting through them.

You dance around the truth too, she thought to herself as she walked away from the fire. Just like those historians you were ranting about. She pretended these men were heroes, but had no illusions about how quickly they could change coats in the wrong circumstances.

Tyn’s tent was large and well lit. The woman didn’t travel like a simple guard. In many ways, she was the most intriguing person here. One of the few lighteyes aside from the merchants themselves. A woman who wore a sword.

Shallan peeked in through the open flaps and found several parshmen setting up a meal on a low travel table, meant for people to eat at while sitting on the floor. The parshmen hurried out, and Shallan watched them suspiciously.

Tyn herself stood by a window cut into the cloth. She wore her long, tan coat, buckled at the waist and almost closed. It had a dresslike feel to it, though it was far stiffer than any dress Shallan had worn, matched by the stiff trousers the woman wore underneath.

“I asked your men,” Tyn said without turning, “and they said you hadn’t dined yet. I had the parshmen bring enough for two.”

“Thank you,” Shallan said, entering and trying to keep the hesitation from her voice. Among these people, she wasn’t a timid girl but a powerful woman. Theoretically.

“I’ve ordered my people to keep the perimeter clear,” Tyn said. “We can speak freely.”

“That is well,” Shallan said.

“It means,” Tyn said, turning around, “that you can tell me who you really are.”

Stormfather! What did that mean? “I’m Shallan Davar, as I have said.”

“Yes,” Tyn said, walking over and sitting down at the table. “Please,” she said, gesturing.

Shallan seated herself carefully, using a ladylike posture, with legs bent to the side.

Tyn sat cross-legged after flipping her coat out behind her. She dug into her meal, dipping flatbread in a curry that seemed too dark—and smelled too peppery—to be feminine.

“Men’s food?” Shallan asked.

“I’ve always hated those definitions,” Tyn said. “I was raised in Tu Bayla by parents who worked as interpreters. I didn’t realize certain foods were supposed to be for women or men until I visited my parents’ homeland for the first time. Still seems stupid to me. I’ll eat what I want, thank you very much.”

Shallan’s own meal was more proper, smelling sweet rather than savory. She ate, only now realizing how hungry she was.

“I have a spanreed,” Tyn said.

Shallan looked up, tip of her bread in her dipping bowl.

“It’s connected to one over in Tashikk,” Tyn continued, “at one of their new information houses. You hire an intermediary there, and they can perform services for you. Research, make inquiries—even relay messages for you via spanreed to any major city in the world. Quite spectacular.”

“That sounds useful,” Shallan said carefully.