Words of Radiance

He stood up, dismissing his Blade. He left the small preparation room, walking down the tunnel with carved, painted duelists. In the room beyond, Renarin sat in his Kholin uniform—he wore that to official functions like this, instead of the blasted Bridge Four uniform—waiting anxiously. Aunt Navani was screwing the lid off a jar of paint to do a glyphward.

“No need,” Adolin said, taking one from his pocket. Painted in Kholin blue, it read “excellence.”

Navani cocked an eyebrow. “The girl?”

“Yeah,” Adolin said.

“The calligraphy isn’t bad,” Navani said, grudgingly.

“She’s quite wonderful, Aunt,” Adolin said. “I wish you’d give her more of a chance. And she does want to share her scholarship with you.”

“We’ll see,” Navani said. She sounded more thoughtful than she had before, regarding Shallan. A good sign.

Adolin placed the glyphward in the brazier, then bowed his head as it burned. A prayer to the Almighty for aid. His combatants for the day would probably be burning their own prayers. How did the Almighty decide whom to help?

I can’t believe, Adolin thought, raising his head from the prayer, that he’d want those who serve Sadeas, even indirectly, to succeed.

“I’m worried,” Navani said.

“Father thinks the plan could work, and Elhokar really likes it.”

“Elhokar can be impulsive,” Navani said, folding her arms and watching the remnants of the glyphward burn. “The terms change things.”

The terms—agreed upon with Relis and spoken in front of the highjudge just earlier—indicated that this duel would go until surrender, not until a certain number of Plate sections were broken. That meant if Adolin did manage to beat one of his foes, making the man give in, the other could keep fighting.

It also meant that Adolin didn’t have to stop fighting until he was convinced he was bested.

Or until he was incapacitated.

Renarin walked over, resting a hand on Adolin’s shoulder. “I think the plan is a good one,” he said. “You can do this.”

“They’re going to try to break you,” Navani said. “That’s why they insisted this be a match until the surrender. They’ll leave you crippled if they can, Adolin.”

“No different from the battlefield,” he said. “Actually, in this case, they will want to leave me alive. I’ll work better as an object lesson with Blade-dead legs than I would as ashes.”

Navani closed her eyes, drawing in a breath. She looked pale. It was a little like having his mother back. A little.

“Make sure you don’t give Sadeas any outs,” Renarin said to him as the armorers entered with Adolin’s Shardplate. “When you corner him with a challenge, he will look for a way to escape. Don’t let him. Bring him down on those sands and beat him bloody, Brother.”

“With pleasure.”

“Now, you ate chicken?” Renarin asked.

“Two plates of the stuff, with curry.”

“Mother’s chain?”

Adolin felt in his pocket.

Then he felt in his other one.

“What?” Renarin asked, fingers tightening on Adolin’s shoulder.

“I could have sworn I slipped it in.”

Renarin cursed.

“Might be back in my rooms,” Adolin said. “In the warcamps. On my end table.” Assuming he hadn’t grabbed it, then lost it on the way. Storms.

It was just a good luck charm. It didn’t mean anything. He started sweating anyway as Renarin scrambled to send a runner off to search. They wouldn’t get back in time. Already he could hear the crowd outside, the growing roar that came before a duel. Adolin reluctantly allowed his armorers to begin putting on his Plate.

By the time they gave him his helm, he had recovered most of his rhythm—the anticipation that was an odd blend of anxiety in his stomach and relaxation in his muscles. You couldn’t fight while tense. You could fight while nervous, but not while tense.

He nodded to the servants, and they pushed open the doors, letting him stride out onto the sand. He could tell from their cheering where the darkeyes sat. In contrast, the lighteyes grew softer, instead of louder, when he emerged. It was good that Elhokar reserved space for the darkeyes. Adolin liked the noise. It reminded him of a battlefield.

There was a time, he thought, when I didn’t like the battlefield because it wasn’t quiet, like a duel. Despite his original reluctance, he had become a soldier.

He strode out into the center of the arena. The others hadn’t left their preparation room yet. Take Relis first, Adolin told himself. You know his dueling style. The man preferred Vinestance, slow and steady, but with sudden, quick lunges. Adolin wasn’t sure whom he’d bring along to fight with him, though he’d borrowed a full set of the King’s Blade and Plate. Perhaps his cousin wanted to try again, for vengeance?