Words of Radiance

“You see?” Shallan said, showing him the leaf. “That’s why the plant’s limbs are so fragile. When the storm comes, it will shatter these branches and break off the leaves. They will blow away and start new shoots, building their own shell. They grow so quickly. Faster than I’d have expected out here, in these infertile lands.”

Bluth grunted.

Shallan sighed, lowering her finger and putting the tiny plant back in the cup she’d been using to nurture it. She glanced over her shoulder.

No sign of pursuit. She really should just stop worrying.

She turned back to her new sketchbook—one of Jasnah’s notebooks that didn’t have many pages filled—then began a quick sketch of the small leaf. She didn’t have very good materials, only a single charcoal pencil, some pens, and a little ink, but Pattern had been right. She could not stop.

She had begun with a replacement sketch of the santhid as she remembered it from her dip in the sea. The picture wasn’t equal to the one she’d crafted right after the event, but having it again—in any form—had started healing the wounds inside.

She finished the leaf, then turned the page and began a sketch of Bluth. She didn’t particularly want to restart her collection of people with him, but her options were limited. Unfortunately, that hat really did look silly—it was far too small for his head. The image of him huddled forward like a crab, back to the sky and hat on his head… well, at least it would be an interesting composition.

“Where did you get the hat?” she asked as she sketched.

“Traded for it,” Bluth mumbled, not looking at her.

“Did it cost much?”

He shrugged. Shallan had lost her own hats in the sinking, but had persuaded Tvlakv to give her one of the ones woven by the parshmen. It wasn’t particularly attractive, but it kept the sun off her face.

Despite the bumping wagon, Shallan eventually managed to finish her sketch of Bluth. She inspected it, dissatisfied. It was a poor way to start her collection, particularly as she felt she’d caricatured him somewhat. She pursed her lips. What would Bluth look like if he weren’t always scowling at her? If his clothing were neater, if he carried a proper weapon instead of that old cudgel?

She flipped the page and started again. A different composition—idealized, perhaps, but somehow also right. He could actually look dashing, once you dressed him up properly. A uniform. A spear, planted to his side. Eyes toward the horizon. By the time she’d finished, she was feeling much better about the day. She smiled at the product, then held it up to Bluth as Tvlakv called the midday halt.

Bluth glanced at the picture, but said nothing. He gave the chull a few whacks to stop it alongside the one pulling Tvlakv’s wagon. Tag rolled up his wagon—he carried the slaves, this time.

“Knobweed!” Shallan said, lowering her sketch and pointing at a patch of thin reeds growing behind a nearby rock.

Bluth groaned. “More of that plant?”

“Yes. Would you kindly fetch them for me?”

“Can’t the parshmen do it? I’m supposed to feed the chulls…”

“Which would you rather make wait, guardsman Bluth? The chulls, or the lighteyed woman?”

Bluth scratched his head underneath the hat, then sullenly climbed down from the wagon and walked toward the reeds. Nearby, Tvlakv stood on his wagon, watching the horizon to the south.

A thin trail of smoke rose in that direction.

Shallan felt an immediate chill. She scrambled from the wagon and hurried to Tvlakv. “Storms!” Shallan said. “Is it the deserters? They are following us?”

“Yes. They have stopped to cook for midday, it seems,” Tvlakv said from his perch atop his wagon. “They do not care about us seeing their fire.” He forced out a laugh. “That is a good sign. They probably know we are only three wagons, and are barely worth chasing. So long as we keep moving and don’t stop often, they will give up the chase. Yes. I’m certain.”

He hopped down from his wagon, then hurriedly began to water the slaves. He didn’t bother to make the parshmen do it—he did the work himself. That, more than anything, testified to his nervousness. He wanted to be moving again quickly.

That left the parshmen to continue weaving in their cage behind Tvlakv’s wagon. Anxious, Shallan stood there watching. The deserters had spotted the wagons’ trail of broken rockbuds.

She found herself sweating, but what could she do? She couldn’t hurry the caravan. She had to simply hope, as Tvlakv said, that they could stay ahead of pursuit.

That didn’t seem likely. The chull wagons couldn’t be faster than marching men.

Distract yourself, Shallan thought as she started to panic. Find something to take your mind off the pursuit.

What about Tvlakv’s parshmen? Shallan eyed them. Perhaps a drawing of the two of them in their cage?