Words of Radiance

Adolin ground his teeth. He’d hoped the duel with Eranniv would make others underestimate him, make them more likely to duel him. It wasn’t working. Relis barked out a laugh. He held out his arm to Melali, and tugged her away, his attendants following.

Elit hesitated.

Well, it’s better than nothing, Adolin thought, a plan forming. “What about you?” Adolin asked the cousin.

Elit looked him up and down. Adolin didn’t know the man well. He was said to be a passable duelist, though he was often in his cousin’s shadow.

But that hunger—Elit wanted to be a full Shardbearer.

“Elit?” Relis said.

“Same offer?” Elit said, meeting Adolin’s gaze. “Your five to my one?”

What a terrible deal.

“Same offer,” Adolin said.

“I’m in,” Elit said.

Behind him, Ruthar’s son groaned. He grabbed Elit by the shoulder, towing him to the side with a growl.

“You told me to fight up through the brackets,” Adolin said to Relis. “I’m doing that.”

“Not

my cousin.”

“Too late,” Adolin said. “You heard it. The ladies heard it. When do we fight, Elit?”

“Seven days,” Elit said. “On Chachel.”

Seven days—a long wait, considering a challenge like this. So, he wanted time to train, did he? “How about tomorrow instead?”

Relis snarled at Adolin, a very un-Alethi display, and shoved his cousin farther away. “I can’t see why you’re so eager, Adolin. Shouldn’t you focus on protecting that father of yours? It’s always sad when a soldier lives long enough to see his wits go. Has he started wetting himself in public yet?”

Steady, Adolin told himself. Relis was trying to goad him, maybe get Adolin to take a hasty swing. That would let him petition to the king for redress and a voiding of all contracts with his house—including the dueling agreement with Elit. But the insult went too far. His companions gasped slightly, pulling away at the very un-Alethi bluntness.

Adolin didn’t give in to the desperate goading. He had what he wanted. He wasn’t certain what he could do about the assassin—but this, this was a way to help. Elit wasn’t ranked highly, but he served Ruthar, who was—more and more—acting as Sadeas’s right-hand man. Beating him would take Adolin one step closer to the real goal. A duel with Sadeas himself.

He turned to leave, and stopped short. Someone stood behind him—a stout man with a bulbous face and black curly hair. His complexion was ruddy, the nose too red, fine veins visible in his cheeks. The man had the arms of a soldier, despite his frivolous outfit—which was, Adolin admitted grudgingly, quite fashionable. Dark slacks that were trimmed with forest green silk, a short open coat over a stiff matching shirt. Scarf at the neck.

Torol Sadeas, highprince, Shardbearer, and the very man Adolin had been thinking of—the single person he hated most in the world.

“Another duel, young Adolin,” Sadeas said, taking a sip of wine. “You really are determined to embarrass yourself out there. I still find it strange your father abandoned his prohibition of you dueling—indeed, I thought it a matter of honor to him.”

Adolin pushed past Sadeas, not trusting himself to speak so much as a single word to this eel of a man. Sight of the man brought memories of stark panic as he watched Sadeas retreat from the field of battle to leave Adolin and his father alone and surrounded.

Havar, Perethom, and Ilamar—good soldiers, good friends—had died that day. They and six thousand more.

Sadeas grabbed Adolin’s shoulder as he passed. “Think what you will, son,” the man whispered, “but what I did was intended as a kindness to your father. A tip of the sword to an old ally.”

“Let. Go.

”

“If you lose your mind as you age, pray to the Almighty there are people like myself willing to give you a good death. People who care enough not to snicker, but instead hold the sword for you as you fall on it.”

“I’ll have your throat in my hands, Sadeas,” Adolin hissed. “I’ll squeeze and squeeze, then I’ll sink my dagger into your gut and twist. A quick death is too good for you.”

“Tsk,” Sadeas said, smiling. “Careful. It’s a full room. What if someone heard you threatening a highprince?”

The Alethi way. You could abandon an ally on the battlefield, and everyone could know it—but an offense in person, well, that just wouldn’t do. Society would frown on that. Nalan’s hand! His father was right about them all.

Adolin turned in a quick motion, reversing out of Sadeas’s grip. His next moves were by instinct, his fingers balling, stepping in preparation to plant a fist in that smiling, self-satisfied face.

A hand fell on Adolin’s shoulder, causing him to hesitate.

“I don’t think that would be wise, Brightlord Adolin,” said a soft but stern voice. It reminded Adolin of his father, though the timbre was off. He glanced at Amaram, who had stepped up beside him.