Words of Radiance

How dare he be this chipper in the morning? Or, rather, the “morning.” She threw another piece of chull meat at him when he wasn’t looking. The storming man caught it.

I hate him.

“We didn’t get eaten by that chasmfiend while we slept,” he said, refilling the pack save for a single waterskin. “I’d say that was about as much a blessing as we could expect, under the circumstances. Come on, up on your toes. Your map gives me an idea of which way to go, and we can watch for sunlight to make certain we’re on the right path. We want to beat that highstorm, right?”

“You’re the one I want to beat,” she grumbled. “With a stick.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” she said, standing up and trying to make something of her frazzled hair. Storms. She must look like the aftereffect of a lightning bolt hitting a jar of red ink. She sighed. She didn’t have a brush, and he didn’t look like he was going to give her time for a proper braid, so she put on her boots—wearing the same pair of socks two days in a row was the least of her indignities—and picked up her satchel. Kaladin carried the pack.

She trailed after him as he led the way through the chasm, her stomach complaining about how little she’d eaten the night before. Food didn’t sound good, so she let it growl. Serves it right, she thought. Whatever that meant.

Eventually, the sky did start to brighten, and from a direction that indicated that they were going the right way. Kaladin fell into his customary quiet, and his chipper mien from earlier in the morning evaporated. Instead, he looked like he was consumed by difficult thoughts.

She yawned, pulling up beside him. “What are you thinking about?”

“I was considering how nice it was to have a little silence,” he said. “With nobody bothering me.”

“Liar. Why do you try so hard to put people off?”

“Maybe I just don’t want to have another argument.”

“You won’t,” she said, yawning again. “It’s far too early for arguments. Try it. Give me an insult.”

“I don’t—”

“Insult! Now!”

“I’d rather walk these chasms with a compulsive murderer than you. At least then, when the conversation got tedious, I’d have an easy way out.”

“And your feet stink,” she said. “See? Too early. I can’t possibly be witty at this hour. So no arguments.” She hesitated, then continued more softly. “Besides, no murderer would agree to accompany you. Everyone needs to have some standards, after all.”

Kaladin snorted, lips tugging up to the sides.

“Be careful,” she said, hopping over a fallen log. “That was almost like a smile—and earlier this morning, I could swear that you were cheerful. Well, mildly content. Anyway, if you start to be in a better mood, it will destroy the whole variety of this trip.”

“Variety?” he asked.

“Yes. If we’re both pleasant, there’s no artistry to it. You see, great art is a matter of contrast. Some lights and some darks. The happy, smiling, radiant lady and the dark, brooding, malodorous bridgeman.”

“That—” He stopped. “Malodorous?”

“A great figure painting,” she said, “shows the hero with inherent contrast—strong, yet hinting at vulnerability, so that the viewer can relate to him. Your little problem would make for a dynamic contrast.”

“How would you even convey that in a painting?” Kaladin said, frowning. “Besides, I’m not malodorous.”

“Oh, so you’re getting better? Yay!”

He looked at her, dumbfounded.

“Confusion,” she said. “I will graciously take that as a sign that you’re amazed that I can be so humorous at such an early hour.” She leaned in conspiratorially, whispering. “I’m really not very witty. You just happen to be stupid, so it seems that way. Contrast, remember?”

She smiled at him, then continued on her way, humming to herself. Actually, the day was looking much better. Why had she been in a bad mood earlier?

Kaladin jogged to catch up with her. “Storms, woman,” he said. “I don’t know what to make of you.”

“Preferably not a corpse.”

“I’m surprised someone hasn’t already done that.” He shook his head. “Give me an honest answer. Why are you here?”

“Well, there was this bridge that collapsed, and I fell…”

He sighed.

“Sorry,” Shallan said. “Something about you encourages me to crack wise, bridgeboy. Even in the morning. Anyway, why did I come here? You mean to the Shattered Plains in the first place?”

He nodded. There was a sort of rugged handsomeness to the fellow. Like the beauty of a natural rock formation, as opposed to a fine sculpture like Adolin.

But Kaladin’s intensity, that frightened her. He seemed like a man who constantly had his teeth clenched, a man who couldn’t let himself—or anyone else—just sit down and take a nice rest.

“I came here,” Shallan said, “because of Jasnah Kholin’s work. The scholarship she left behind must not be abandoned.”

“And Adolin?”

“Adolin is a delightful surprise.”