Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,151

make up for the ability to slice through your opponent’s weapons, armor, even body as if they were water. I love wielding mine in duels; there’s just a part of me that regrets that it makes other weapons obsolete.”

“I disagree,” Zu said, summoning her Blade. “Why would you ever regret the existence of one of these?” It appeared in her hand upon her command, forming from mist. She preferred a slender Blade, even longer than his father’s, with a wicked curve to it.

Adolin stood up, breathing heat into his hands as Merit began leading the pack animals up the ramp onto the Oathgate platform. Adolin glanced at Gallant; the horse clopped off to follow, needing no bridle or rope to guide him.

Zu waved her sword overhead slowly in a kind of kata that caught the sun. It transformed in her hands, becoming smaller and shorter—like his side sword—then became straight, with a tip for thrusting. The fact that living Shardblades could change shapes explained a lot to Adolin.

The ancient Shardblades—the dead ones that most Shardbearers used—were locked, apparently into the last shape they’d held. Most were massive things, not clunky—a Shardblade could never be clunky—but also not particularly well suited to most battlefield actions. They were light, yes, but the size could be unwieldy nonetheless.

Modern Radiants preferred functional weapons when actually fighting. However, when they wanted to show off, they created something majestic and otherworldly—something that was less about practicality and more about awe. That indicated most Shardblades, his own included, had practical forms—but had been abandoned in their more showy styles.

“I didn’t mean to imply there’s not art to a Shardblade,” Adolin told Zu. “I truly love Shardblade duels. I just love finding the best weapon for the job. And when that answer isn’t always the same sword, it’s more satisfying.”

“You should become a Radiant,” she said. “Then your sword would always be the right weapon for the job.”

“As if it were that easy,” Adolin said. “Just become a Radiant.”

His equipment seen to, Adolin did a quick head count. Six of his soldiers were coming as guards and workers—darkeyed men specifically chosen because they had good heads on their shoulders. Adolin didn’t pick the best duelists; he chose men who could cook and do laundry in the field. Most importantly, he needed men who wouldn’t balk at oddities.

Felt was the best of them, an older foreign man, one of Dalinar’s friends from the early days. He was steady and reliable, and had training as a scout. Merit was a groom, and Urad was an excellent hunter, should they need to forage. Adolin wasn’t certain how useful that would be in Shadesmar, but best to be prepared.

Felt’s wife, Malli, worked in the quartermaster’s office, and was along to act as a scribe. No actual servants, though Shallan’s three Lightweavers did odd jobs for her.

That left the three full Radiants. Godeke and Zu he’d already checked on. Asking around, Adolin found that their final Radiant—a Tashikki woman—had returned to the tower to check on something. So he idled near the ramp, waiting until he saw her crossing the plateau.

The woman had to be in her seventies, with dark brown furrowed skin and silver hair. She was slender, but not frail. Adolin suspected from her firm step that she relied on Stormlight to strengthen her. Though he’d seen her wearing a Tashikki wrap in the tower before, today she wore rugged traveling clothing and a shawl over her hair, with a pack slung over one shoulder. As she approached, Adolin reached to help her carry it, but she tightened her fingers.

She didn’t speak much Alethi, but most of the spren were able to speak several human languages. He wasn’t certain if it was an aspect of their nature, or if they simply lived so long that they ended up picking up multiple languages.

Either way, the spren could translate if necessary, and Adolin really did want to bring a Truthwatcher. They had once been well-regarded by the honorspren. Though the woman’s name was Arshqqam, everyone called her the Stump—a nickname that Lift had spread, he believed. Arshqqam had mentioned she was fond of the name, and the way she strode—unbowed by age, insisting on carrying her own things—gave him an inkling of where the moniker had come from.

With her arrival, the entire expedition was accounted for. A half dozen pack animals weren’t many for fifteen people. Normally he’d have expected that many animals for just the food, plus some wagons carrying stormbarrels that