Words of Radiance

A soldier handed him a scented handkerchief to hold over his face as they passed the dead and dying. Blood and smoke. Scents he would come to know all too well before this was through.

Men and women in the burnt-orange livery of Kharbranth picked through the dead and wounded. Throughout the East, the color had become synonymous with healing. Indeed, tents flying his banner—the banner of the surgeon—dotted the battlefield. Taravangian’s healers had arrived just before the battle, and had started ministering to the wounded immediately.

As he left the fields of the dead, Veden soldiers began to stand up from where they sat in a dull-eyed stupor at the edges of the battlefield. Then they started to cheer him.

“Pali’s mind,” Adrotagia said, watching them rise. “I don’t believe it.”

The soldiers sat separated in groups by banner, being tended to by Taravangian’s surgeons, water-bearers, and comforters. Wounded and unwounded alike, any who could stand rose for the king of Kharbranth and cheered him.

“The Diagram said it would happen,” Taravangian said.

“I thought for certain that was an error,” she replied, shaking her head.

“They know,” Mrall said. “We are the only victors this day. Our healers, who earned the respect of all sides. Our comforters who helped the dying pass. Their highlords brought them only misery. You brought them life and hope.”

“I brought them death,” Taravangian whispered.

He had ordered the execution of their king, along with specific highprinces the Diagram indicated. In doing so, he had pushed the various factions into war with one another. He had brought this kingdom to its knees.

Now they cheered him for it. He forced himself to stop with one of the groups, asking after their health, seeing if there was anything he could do for them. It was important to be seen by the people as a compassionate man. The Diagram explained this in casual sterility, as if compassion were something one could measure in a cup next to a pint of blood.

He visited another group of soldiers, then a third. Many stepped up to him, touching his arms or his robe, weeping tears of thanks and joy. Many more of the Veden soldiers remained sitting in the tents, however, staring out over the fields of dead. Numb of mind.

“The Thrill?” he whispered to Adrotagia as they left the latest group of men. “They fought through the night as their capital burned. It must have been in force.”

“I agree,” she said. “It gives us a further reference point. The Thrill is at least as strong here as it is in Alethkar. Maybe stronger. I will speak to our scholars. Perhaps this will help pinpoint Nergaoul.”

“Do not spend too much effort on that,” Taravangian said, approaching another group of Veden soldiers. “I’m not sure what we would even do if we found the thing.” An ancient, evil spren was not something he had the resources to tackle. Not yet at least. “I would rather know where Moelach is moving.”

Hopefully, Moelach hadn’t decided to slumber again. The Death Rattles had, so far, offered them the best way that they’d found to augment the Diagram.

There was one answer, however, he’d never been able to determine. One he’d give almost anything to know.

Would all of this be enough?

He met with the soldiers, and adopted the air of a kindly—if not bright—old man. Caring and helpful. He was almost that man in truth, today. He tried to do an imitation of himself when he was a little dumber. People accepted that man, and when he was of that intellect, he did not need to feign compassion nearly as much as he did when smarter.

Blessed with intelligence, cursed with compassion to feel pain for what he had done. They came inversely. Why couldn’t he have both at once? He did not think that in other people, intelligence and compassion were tied in such a way. The Nightwatcher’s motives behind her boons and curses were unfathomable.

Taravangian moved through the crowd of men, listening to them beg for more relief and for drugs to ease their pain. Listening to their thanks. These soldiers had suffered a fight that—even yet—seemed to have no victor. They wanted something to hold to, and Taravangian was neutral, supposedly. It was shocking how easily they bared their souls to him.

He came to the next soldier in line, a cloaked man clutching an apparently broken arm. Taravangian looked into the man’s hooded eyes.

It was Szeth-son-son-Vallano.

Taravangian felt a moment of sheer panic.

“We need to speak,” the Shin man said.

Taravangian grabbed the assassin by the arm, hauling him away from the crowd of Veden soldiers. With his other hand, Taravangian felt in his pocket for the Oathstone he carried on his person at all times. He pulled it out just to see. Yes, it was no fake. Damnation, seeing Szeth there had made him think that he’d been bested somehow, the stone stolen and Szeth sent to kill him.