Words of Radiance (The Stormlight Archive 2)

“Ah,” Tyn said with a smile. “No use denying. That was fun.”

“I’m still going to strangle you,” Shallan said. “He knew we were playing with him. That has to be the worst Horneater impression a woman has ever done.”

“It was actually pretty good,” Tyn said. “You overdid the words, but the accent itself was spot on. That wasn’t the point, though.” She handed back the boots.

“What was the point?” Shallan asked as they hiked back toward the caravan. “Making a fool out of me?”

“Partially,” Tyn said.

“That was sarcasm.”

“If you’re going to learn to do this,” Tyn said, “you have to be comfortable in situations like that. You can’t be embarrassed when you pose as someone else. The more outrageous the attempt, the straighter you have to play it. The only way to get better is to practice—and in front of people who very well might catch you.”

“I suppose,” Shallan said.

“Those boots are too big for you,” Tyn noted. “Though I did love the look on his face when you asked for them. ‘No apologize. Boots!’”

“I really need some boots,” Shallan said. “I’m tired of walking around on rock barefoot or in slippers. A little padding, and these will fit.” She held them up. They were rather large. “Er, maybe.” She looked backward. “I hope he’ll be all right without them. What if he has to fight bandits on his way back?”

Tyn rolled her eyes. “We’re going to have to talk about that kindheartedness of yours sometime, kid.”

“It’s not a bad thing to be nice.”

“You’re training to be a con artist,” Tyn said. “For now, let’s get back to the caravan. I want to talk you through the finer points of a Horneater accent. With that red hair of yours, you’ll probably find more chances to use it than you would others.”

29. Rule of Blood

Artform for colors beyond our ken;

For its grand songs we yearn.

We must attract creationspren;

These songs suffice ’til we learn.

From the Listener Song of Revision, 279th stanza

Torol Sadeas closed his eyes and rested Oathbringer on his shoulder, breathing in the sweet, moldy scent of Parshendi blood. The Thrill of battle surged within him, a blessed and beautiful strength.

His own blood pumped so loudly in his ears he almost couldn’t hear the battlefield shouts and groans of pain. For a moment, he reveled only in the delicious glow of the Thrill, the heady euphoria at having spent an hour engaged in the only thing that brought true joy anymore: contending for his life, and taking those of enemies lesser than himself.

It faded. As always, the Thrill was fleeting once battle itself ended. It had grown less and less sweet during these raids on the Parshendi, likely because he knew deep inside that this contest was pointless. It did not stretch him, did not carry him further toward his ultimate goals of conquest. Slaughtering crem-covered savages in a Heralds-forsaken land had truly lost its savor.

He sighed, lowering his Blade, opening his eyes. Amaram approached across the battlefield, stepping over corpses of men and Parshendi. His Shardplate was bloodied purple up to the elbows, and he carried a glimmering gemheart in one gauntleted hand. He kicked aside a Parshendi corpse and joined Sadeas, his own honor guard fanning out to join those of his highprince. Sadeas spared a moment of annoyance for how efficiently they moved, particularly when compared to his own men.

Amaram pulled off his helm and hefted the gemheart, tossing it up and catching it. “Your maneuver here today failed, you realize?”

“Failed?” Sadeas said, lifting his faceplate. Nearby, his soldiers slaughtered a pocket of fifty Parshendi who hadn’t managed to get off the plateau when the rest retreated. “I think this went quite nicely.”

Amaram pointed. A stain had appeared on the plateaus to the west, toward the warcamps. The banners indicated that Hatham and Roion, the two highprinces who were supposed to have gone on this plateau run, had arrived together—they used bridges like Dalinar’s, slow plodding things it had been easy to outrun. One of the advantages of the bridge crews Sadeas preferred was that they needed very little training to function. If Dalinar had thought to slow him down with his stunt of trading Oathbringer for Sadeas’s bridgemen, he had been proven a fool.

“We needed to get out here,” Amaram said, “seize the gemheart, and return before the others arrived. Then you could have claimed that you didn’t realize you weren’t in the rotation today. The arrival of both other armies removes that shred of deniability.”

“You mistake me,” Sadeas said. “You assume I still care about deniability.” The last Parshendi died with enraged screams; Sadeas felt proud of that. Others said Parshendi warriors on the field never surrendered, but he’d seen them try it once, long ago, in the first year of the war. They’d laid down their weapons. He’d slaughtered them all personally, with Shardhammer and Plate, beneath the eyes of their retreating companions watching from a nearby plateau.

Never again had any Parshendi denied him or his men their right to finish a battle the proper way. Sadeas waved for the vanguard to gather and escort him back to the warcamps while the rest of the army licked its wounds. Amaram joined him, crossing a bridge and passing idling bridgemen who lay on the ground and slept while better men died.

“I am duty-bound to join you on the battlefield, Your Highness,” Amaram said as they walked, “but I want you to know that I do not approve of our actions here. We should be seeking to bridge our differences with the king and Dalinar, not trying to agitate them further.”

Sadeas snorted. “Don’t give me that noble talk. It works fine for others, but I know you for the ruthless bastard you really are.”

Amaram set his jaw, eyes forward. When they reached their horses, he reached out, hand on Sadeas’s arm. “Torol,” he said softly, “there is so much more to the world than your squabbles. You’re right about me, of course. Take that admission with the understanding that to you, above all others, I can speak the truth. Alethkar needs to be strong for what is coming.”

Sadeas climbed the mounting block the groom had set out. Getting onto a horse in Shardplate could be dangerous to the animal if not done correctly. Besides, he’d once had a stirrup snap on him when he stepped into it to haul himself into the saddle. He’d ended up on his backside.

“Alethkar does need to be strong,” Sadeas said, holding out a gauntleted hand. “So I’ll make it so by force of fist and the rule of blood.”

Amaram reluctantly placed the gemheart there, and Sadeas gripped it, holding his reins in the other hand.

“Do you ever worry?” Amaram asked. “About what you do? About what we must do?” He nodded toward a group of surgeons, carrying wounded men across the bridges.

“Worry?” Sadeas said. “Why should I? It gives the wretches a chance to die in battle for something worthwhile.”

“You say things like that a lot these days, I’ve noticed,” Amaram said. “You weren’t like that before.”