Words of Radiance (The Stormlight Archive 2)

36. A New Woman

And when they were spoken of by the common folk, the Releasers claimed to be misjudged because of the dreadful nature of their power; and when they dealt with others, always were they firm in their claim that other epithets, notably “Dustbringers,” often heard in the common speech, were unacceptable substitutions, in particular for their similarity to the word “Voidbringers.” They did also exercise anger in great prejudice regarding it, though to many who speak, there was little difference between these two assemblies.

From Words of Radiance, chapter 17, page 11

Shallan awoke as a new woman.

She wasn’t yet completely certain who that woman was, but she knew who that woman was not. She was not the same frightened girl who had suffered the storms of a broken home. She was not the same naive woman who had tried to steal from Jasnah Kholin. She was not the same woman who had been deceived by Kabsal and then Tyn.

That did not mean she was not still frightened or naive. She was both. But she was also tired. Tired of being shoved around, tired of being misled, tired of being dismissed. During the trip with Tvlakv, she’d pretended she could lead and take charge. She no longer felt the need to pretend.

She knelt beside one of Tyn’s trunks. She’d resisted letting the men break it open—she wanted a few trunks for keeping clothing—but her search of the tent hadn’t found the proper key.

“Pattern,” she said. “Can you look inside of this? Squeeze in through the keyhole?”

“Mmm…” Pattern moved onto the side of the trunk, then shrank down to be the size of her thumbnail. He moved in easily. She heard his voice from inside. “Dark.”

“Drat,” she said, fishing out a sphere and holding it up to the keyhole. “Does that help?”

“I see a pattern,” he said.

“A pattern? What kind of—”

Click.

Shallan started, then reached to lift the lid of the trunk. Pattern buzzed happily inside.

“You unlocked it.”

“A pattern,” he said happily.

“You can move things?”

“Push a little here and there,” he said. “Very little strength on this side. Mmm…”

The trunk was filled with clothing and had a pouch of spheres in a black cloth bag. Both would be very useful. Shallan searched through and found a dress with fine embroidery and a modern cut. Tyn needed it, of course, for times when she pretended to be of a higher status. Shallan put it on, found it loose through the bust but otherwise acceptable, then did her face and hair at the mirror using the dead woman’s makeup and brushes.

When she left the tent that morning, she felt—for the first time in what seemed ages—like a true lighteyed woman. That was well, for today she would finally reach the Shattered Plains. And, hopefully, destiny.

She strode out into the morning light. Her men worked alongside the caravan’s parshmen to break down camp. With Tyn’s guards dead, the only armed force in the camp belonged to Shallan.

Vathah fell into step beside her. “We burned the bodies last night as you instructed, Brightness. And another guard patrol stopped by this morning while you were getting ready. They obviously wanted us to know that they intend to keep the peace. If someone camps in this spot and finds the bones of Tyn and her soldiers in the ashes, it could lead to questions. I don’t know that the caravan workers will keep your secret if asked.”

“Thank you,” Shallan said. “Have one of the men gather the bones into a sack. I’ll deal with them.”

Had she really just said that?

Vathah nodded curtly, as if this were the expected answer. “Some of the men are uncomfortable, now that we’re so close to the warcamps.”

“Do you still think I’m incapable of keeping my promises to them?”

He actually smiled. “No. I think I’ve been right convinced, Brightness.”

“Well then?”

“I’ll reassure them,” he said.

“Excellent.” They parted ways as Shallan sought out Macob. When she found him, the bearded, aging caravan trademaster bowed to her with far more respect than he’d ever shown her before. He’d already heard about the Shardblade.

“I will need one of your men to run down to the warcamps and find me a palanquin,” Shallan said. “Sending one of my soldiers is currently impossible.” She wouldn’t risk them being recognized and imprisoned.

“Certainly,” Macob said, voice stiff. “The price will be…”

She gave him a pointed stare.

“… paid out of my own purse, as thanks to you for a safe arrival.” He put an odd emphasis on the word safe, as if it were of questionable merit in the sentence.

“And the price for your discretion?” Shallan asked.

“My discretion can always be assured, Brightness,” the man said. “And my lips are not the ones that should trouble you.”

True enough.

He climbed up into his wagon. “One of my men will run on ahead, and we will send a palanquin back for you. With that, I bid you farewell. I hope it is not insulting for me to say, Brightness, that I hope we never meet again.”

“Then our views in that regard are in agreement.”

He nodded to her and tapped his chull. The wagon rolled away.

“I listened to them last night,” Pattern said with a buzzing, excited voice from the back of her dress. “Is nonexistence really such a fascinating concept to humans?”

“They spoke of death, did they?” Shallan asked.

“They kept wondering if you would ‘come for them.’ I realize that nonexistence is not something to look forward to, but they talked on, and on, and on about it. Fascinating indeed.”

“Well, keep your ears open, Pattern. I suspect this day is going to only get more interesting.” She walked back toward the tent.

“But, I don’t have ears,” he said. “Ah yes. A metaphor? Such delicious lies. I will remember that idiom.”

* * *

The Alethi warcamps were so much more than Shallan had expected them to be. Ten compact cities in a row, each casting up smoke from thousands of fires. Lines of caravans streamed in and out, passing the crater rims that made up their walls. Each camp flew hundreds of banners proclaiming the presence of high-ranked lighteyes.

As the palanquin carried her down a slope, she was truly stunned at the magnitude of the population. Stormfather! She’d once considered the regional fair on her father’s lands to be a huge gathering. How many mouths were there to feed down below? How much water did they require from each highstorm?

Her palanquin lurched. She’d left the wagon behind; the chulls belonged to Macob. She’d try to sell the wagon, if it remained when she sent her men for it later. For now, she rode the palanquin, which was carried by parshmen under the watchful eyes of a lighteyed man who owned them and rented out the vehicle. He strolled along ahead. The irony of being carried on the backs of Voidbringers as she entered the warcamps was not lost on her.

Behind the vehicle marched Vathah and her eighteen guards, then her five slaves, who carried her trunks. She’d dressed them in shoes and clothing from the merchants, but you couldn’t cover up months of slavery with a new outfit—and the soldiers weren’t much better. Their uniforms had only been washed when a highstorm hit, and that was more of a douse than a wash. The occasional whiff she got of them was why she had them marching behind her palanquin.