Words of Radiance

“I’m not sure. Knowing what I do of Uncle Sebarial, I doubt that such a thing is particularly surprising from him. Expected is more like it.”

Adolin laughed, tossing his head back. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. That you are.”

He seemed so confident. Not in a particularly conceited way, not like her father had been. In fact, it occurred to her that her father’s attitude had been caused not by confidence, but the opposite.

Adolin seemed perfectly at ease both with his station and those around him. When he waved for the master-servant to bring him a list of wines, he smiled at the woman, though she was darkeyed. That smile was enough to produce a blush even in a master-servant.

Shallan was supposed to get this man to court her? Storms! She’d felt far more capable when trying to scam the leader of the Ghostbloods. Act refined, Shallan told herself. Adolin has moved with the elite, and has been in relationships with the most sophisticated ladies of the world. He will expect that from you.

“So,” he said, flipping through the list of wines, described by glyphs, “we are supposed to get married.”

“I would lighten that phrasing, Brightlord,” Shallan said, choosing her words carefully. “We aren’t supposed to get married. Your cousin Jasnah merely wanted us to consider a union, and your aunt seemed to agree.”

“The Almighty save a man when his female relatives collude about his future,” Adolin said with a sigh. “Sure, it’s all right for Jasnah to run about into her middle years without a spouse, but if I reach my twenty-third birthday without a bride, it’s like I’m some kind of menace. Sexist of her, don’t you think?”

“Well, she wanted me to get married too,” Shallan said. “So I wouldn’t call her sexist. Merely… Jasnah-ist?” She paused. “Jasnagynistic? No, drat. It would have to be Misjasnahistic, and that doesn’t work nearly as well, does it?”

“You’re asking me?” Adolin asked, turning around the menu so she could see it. “What do you think we should order?”

“Storms,” she breathed. “Those are all

different kinds of wine?”

“Yeah,” Adolin said. He leaned toward her, as if conspiratorial. “Honestly, I don’t pay a lot of attention. Renarin knows the difference between them—he’ll drone on if you let him. Me, I order something that sounds important, but I’m really just choosing based on color.” He grimaced. “We’re technically at war. I won’t be able to take anything too intoxicating, just in case. Kind of silly, as there won’t be any plateau runs today.”

“You’re sure? I thought they were random.”

“Yeah, but my warcamp isn’t up. They almost never come too close before a highstorm, anyway.” He leaned back, scanning the menu, before pointing at one of the wines and winking at the serving woman.

Shallan felt cold. “Wait. Highstorm?”

“Yeah,” Adolin said, checking the clock in the corner. Sebarial had mentioned that those were growing more and more common around here. “Should come any time now. You didn’t know?”

She sputtered, looking eastward, across the cracked landscape. Act poised!

she thought. Elegant! Instead, a primal part of her wanted to scramble for a hole and hide. Suddenly she imagined she could sense the pressure dropping, as if the air itself were trying to escape. Could she see it out there, starting? No, that was nothing. She squinted anyway.

“I didn’t look at the list of storms Sebarial keeps,” Shallan forced herself to say. In all honesty, it was probably outdated, knowing him. “I’ve been busy.”

“Huh,” Adolin said. “I wondered why you didn’t ask about this place. I just assumed you’d heard of it already.”

This place. The open balcony, facing east. The lighteyes drinking wine now seemed anticipatory to her, with an air of nervousness. The second room—the large one for bodyguards she’d seen with the substantial doors—made far more sense now.

“We’re here to watch?” Shallan whispered.

“It’s the new fad,” Adolin said. “Apparently we’re supposed to sit here until the storm is almost upon us, then run into that other room and take shelter. I’ve wanted to come for weeks now, and only just managed to convince my minders that I’d be safe here.” He said that last part somewhat bitterly. “We can go move into the safe room now, if you want.”

“No,” Shallan said, forcing herself to pry her fingers from the table edge. “I’m fine.”

“You look pale.”

“It’s natural.”

“Because you’re Veden?”

“Because I’m always at the edge of panic these days. Oh, is that our wine?”

Poised, she reminded herself yet again. She pointedly did not look eastward.

The servant had brought them two cups of brilliant blue wine. Adolin picked his up and studied it. He smelled it, sipped it, then nodded in satisfaction and dismissed the servant with a parting smile. He watched the woman’s backside as she retreated.