Words of Radiance

She waited, water soaking though her coat and trousers. She shivered, satchel in her lap, and clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. Weather lately had been warmer, but sitting in the rain belied that. She waited until her spine complained and her muscles screamed at her. She waited until finally, the boulder broke into luminescent smoke and faded away.

Shallan started. What had happened?

Stormlight, she realized, stretching her legs. She checked the pouch in her pocket. She’d drained every sphere, unconsciously, while holding up the illusion of the boulder.

Hours had passed, the sky darkening as evening approached. Maintaining something simple like the boulder didn’t take much Light, and she didn’t have to consciously think about it to keep it going. That was good to know.

She’d also proven herself a fool again for not even worrying about how much Light she had been using. Sighing, she climbed to her feet. She wobbled, her legs protesting the sudden motion. She took a deep breath, then walked over and peeked around the corner. The pavilion was gone and all signs of the Ghostbloods with it.

“I guess this means I’m walking,” Shallan said, turning back toward the warcamps.

“Did you expect otherwise?” Pattern asked from his place on her coat, sounding genuinely curious.

“No,” Shallan said. “I’m just talking to myself.”

“Mmm. No, you talk to me.”

She walked on into the evening, cold. However, it wasn’t the deadly coldness she’d suffered in the south. This was uncomfortable, but nothing more. If she hadn’t been wet, the air probably would have been pleasant, despite the shade. She passed the time practicing her accents with Pattern—she’d speak, then have him repeat back to her exactly what she’d said, in her voice and tone. Being able to hear it that way helped a great deal.

She had the Alethi accent down, she was certain. That was good, since Veil pretended to be Alethi. That one was easy, however, as Veden and Alethi were so similar you could almost understand one by knowing the other.

Her Horneater accent was quite good too, in both Alethi and Veden. She was getting better and not overdoing it, as Tyn had suggested. Her Bav accent in both Veden and Alethi was passable, and through most of the time walking back, she practiced speaking both tongues with a Herdazian accent. Palona gave her a good example of this in Alethi, and Pattern could repeat to her things the woman had said, which was helpful for practice.

“What I need to do,” Shallan said, “is train you to speak along with my images.”

“You should have them speak themselves,” Pattern said.

“Can I do

that?”

“Why not?”

“Because… well, I use Light for the illusion, and so they create an imitation of light. Makes sense. I don’t use sound to make them, though.”

“This is a Surge,” Pattern said. “Sound is a part of it. Mmm… Cousins of one another. Very similar. It can be done.”

“How?”

“Mmmm. Somehow.”

“You’re very helpful.”

“I am glad…” He trailed off. “Lie?”

“Yup.” Shallan stuffed her safehand into her pocket, which was also wet, and continued walking through patches of grass that pulled away in front of her. Distant hills showed lavis grain growing in orderly fields of polyps, though she didn’t see any farmers at this hour.

At least it had stopped raining. She did still like rain, though she hadn’t considered how unpleasant it might be to have to walk a long distance in it. And—

What was that?

She pulled up short. A clump of something dark shadowed the ground ahead of her. She approached hesitantly, and found that she could smell smoke. The sodden, wet kind of smoke you smelled after a campfire was doused.

Her carriage. She could make it out now, partially burned in the night. The rains had put out the fire; it hadn’t burned long. They’d probably started the blaze on the inside, where it would have been dry.

It was certainly the one she’d hired. She recognized the trim on the wheels. She approached hesitantly. Well, she’d been right in her worry. It was a good thing she’d stayed behind. Something nagged at her…

The coachman!

She ran ahead, fearing the worst. His corpse was there, lying beside the broken carriage, staring up at the sky. His throat had been slit. Beside him, his parshman porters lay dead in a pile.

Shallan sat back on the wet stones, feeling sick, hand to her mouth. “Oh… Almighty above…”

“Mmm…” Pattern hummed, somehow conveying a morose tone.

“They’re dead because of me,” Shallan whispered.

“You did not kill them.”

“I did,” Shallan said. “As sure as if I’d held the knife. I knew the danger I was going into. The coachman didn’t.”

And the parshmen. How did she feel about that? Voidbringers, yes, but it was difficult not to feel sick at what had been done.

You’ll cause something far worse than this if you prove what Jasnah claims, part of her said.