Words of Radiance

Blast! It was the middle of the night. If this was another lighteyed brat he’d turned away, come to beg… He grumbled to himself, climbing off his cot. I am far, far too old for this.

He pulled open his door, revealing the courtyard of the practice grounds at night. The air was wet. Oh, right. One of those storms had come, Invested to the hilt and looking for a place to stick it all. Cursed things.

A young man, hand poised to knock, jumped back in surprise from the opening door. Kaladin. The bridgeman-turned-bodyguard. The one with that spren Zahel could sense always spinning about.

“You look like death itself,” Zahel snapped at the boy. Kaladin’s clothing was bloodied, his uniform ripped up on one side. The right sleeve was missing. “What happened?”

“Attempt on the king’s life,” the boy said softly. “Not two hours ago.”

“Huh.”

“Is your offer to learn how to fight a Shardblade still good?”

“No.” Zahel slammed the door. He turned to walk back toward his cot.

The boy pushed the door open, of course. Blasted monks. Saw themselves as property and couldn’t own anything, so they figured they didn’t need locks on the doors.

“Please,” the boy said. “I—”

“Kid,” Zahel said, turning back toward him. “Two people live in this room.”

The boy frowned, looking at the single cot.

“The first,” Zahel said, “is a grouchy swordsman who has a soft spot for kids who are in over their heads. He comes out by day. The other is a very, very grouchy swordsman who finds everything and everyone utterly contemptible. He comes out when some fool wakes him at a horrid hour of the night. I suggest you ask the first man and not the second. All right?”

“All right,” the boy said. “I’ll be back.”

“Good,” Zahel said, settling down on the bed. “And don’t be green from the ground.”

The boy paused by the door. “Don’t be… Huh?”

Stupid language, Zahel thought, climbing into his cot. No proper metaphors at all. “Just leave your attitude and come to learn. I hate beating up people younger than me. It makes me feel like a bully.”

The kid grunted, sliding the door shut. Zahel pulled up his blanket—damn monks only got one—and turned over on his cot. He expected a voice to speak in his mind as he drifted off. Of course, there wasn’t one.

Hadn’t been one in years.

I-7. Taln

Of fires that burned and yet they were gone. Of heat he could feel when others felt not. Of screams his own that nobody heard. Of torture sublime, for life it meant.

“He just stares like that, Your Majesty.”

Words.

“He doesn’t seem to see anything. Sometimes he mumbles. Sometimes he shouts. But always, he just stares.”

The Gift and words. Not his. Never his. Now his.

“Storms, it’s haunting, isn’t it? I had to ride all this way with that, Your Majesty. Listening to him ranting in the back of the wagon half the time. Then feeling him stare at the back of my head the rest.”

“And Wit? You mentioned him.”

“Started on the trip with me, Your Majesty. But on the second day, he declared that he needed a rock.”

“A… rock.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. He hopped out of the wagon and found one, then, er, he hit himself on the head with it, Your Majesty. Did it three or four times. Came right back to the wagon with an odd grin, and said… um…”

“Yes?”

“Well, he said that he’d needed, uh, I had this remembered for you. He said, ‘I needed an objective frame of reference by which to judge the experience of your company. Somewhere between four and five blows, I place it.’ I don’t rightly understand what he meant, sir. I think he was mocking me.”

“Safe bet.”

Why didn’t they scream? That heat! Of death. Of death and the dead and the dead and their talking and not screaming of death except of the death that did not come.

“After that, Your Majesty, Wit just kind of, well, ran off. Into the hills. Like some storming Horneater.”

“Don’t try to understand Wit, Bordin. You’ll only cause yourself pain.”

“Yes, Brightlord.”

“I like this Wit.”

“We’re quite aware, Elhokar.”

“Honestly, Your Majesty, I preferred the madman for company.”

“Well of course you did. If people liked to be around Wit, he wouldn’t be much of a Wit, would he?”

They were on fire. The walls were on fire. The floor was on fire. Burning and the inside of a cannot where to be and then at all. Where?

A trip. Water? Wheels?

Fire. Yes, fire.

“Can you hear me, madman?”

“Elhokar, look at him. I doubt he understands.”

“I am Talenel’Elin, Herald of War.” Voice. He spoke it. He didn’t think it. The words came, like they always came.

“What was that? Speak louder, man.”

“The time of the Return, the Desolation, is near at hand. We must prepare. You will have forgotten much, following the destruction of the times past.”

“I can make out some of it, Elhokar. It’s Alethi. Northern accent. Not what I’d have expected from one with such dark skin.”