"Hush," she said. "I'm talking."
"Sorry."
"I'm willing to stop it, if you want," she said. "But I would go back to being as I was before. That scares me. Floating on the wind, never remembering anything for longer than a few minutes. It's because of this tie between us that I can think again, that I can remember what and who I am. If we end it, I lose that."
She looked up at Kaladin, sorrowful.
He looked into those eyes, then took a deep breath. "Come," he said, turning, walking back down the peninsula.
She flew over, becoming a ribbon of light, floating idly in the air beside his head. Soon they reached the place beneath the ridge leading to the warcamps. Kaladin turned north, toward Sadeas's camp. The cremlings had retreated to their cracks and burrows, but many of the plants still continued to let their fronds float in the cool wind. When he passed, the grass pulled back in, looking like the fur of some black beast in the night, lit by Salas.
What responsibility are you avoiding…
He wasn't avoiding responsibility. He took too much responsibility! Lirin had said it constantly, chastising Kaladin for feeling guilt over deaths he couldn't have prevented.
Though there was one thing he clung to. An excuse, perhaps, like the dead emperor. It was the soul of the wretch. Apathy. The belief that nothing was his fault, the belief that he couldn't change anything. If a man was cursed, or if he believed he didn't have to care, then he didn't need to hurt when he failed. Those failures couldn't have been prevented. Someone or something else had ordained them.
"If I'm not cursed," Kaladin said softly, "then why do I live when others die?"
"Because of us," Syl said. "This bond. It makes you stronger, Kaladin."
"Then why can't it make me strong enough to help the others?"
"I don't know," Syl said. "Maybe it can."
If I get rid of it, I'll go back to being normal. For what purpose… so I can die with the others?
He continued to walk in the darkness, passing lights above that made vague, faint shadows on the stones in front of him. The tendrils of fingermoss, clumped in bunches. Their shadows seemed arms.
He thought often about saving the bridgemen. And yet, as he considered, he realized that he often framed saving them in terms of saving himself. He told himself he wouldn't let them die, because he knew what it would do to him if they did. When he lost men, the wretch threatened to take over because of how much Kaladin hated failing.
Was that it? Was that why he searched for reasons why he might be cursed? To explain his failure away? Kaladin began to walk more quickly.
He was doing something good in helping the bridgemen-but he also was doing something selfish. The powers had unsettled him because of the responsibility they represented.
He broke into a jog. Before long, he was sprinting.
But if it wasn't about him-if he wasn't helping the bridgemen because he loathed failure, or because he feared the pain of watching them die- then it would be about them. About Rock's affable gibes, about Moash's intensity, about Teft's earnest gruff ness or Peet's quiet dependability. What would he do to protect them? Give up his illusions? His excuses?
Seize whatever opportunity he could, no matter how it changed him? No matter how it unnerved him, or what burdens it represented?
He dashed up the incline to the lumberyard.
Bridge Four was making their evening stew, chatting and laughing. The nearly twenty wounded men from other crews sat eating gratefully. It was gratifying, how quickly they had lost their hollow-eyed expressions and begun laughing with the other men.
The smell of spicy Horneater stew was thick in the air. Kaladin slowed his jog, coming to a stop beside the bridgemen. Several looked concerned as they saw him, panting and sweating. Syl landed on his shoulder.
Kaladin sought out Teft. The aging bridgeman sat alone below the barrack's eaves, staring down at the rock in front of him. He hadn't noticed Kaladin yet. Kaladin gestured for the others to continue, then walked over to Teft. He squatted down before the man.
Teft looked up in surprise. "Kaladin?"
"What do you know?" Kaladin said quietly, intense. "And how do you know it?"
"I-" Teft said. "When I was a youth, my family belonged to a secret sect that awaited the return of the Radiants. I quit when I was just a youth. I thought it was nonsense."
He was holding things back; Kaladin could tell from the hesitation in his voice.
Responsibility. "How much do you know about what I can do?"
"Not much," Teft said. "Just legends and stories. Nobody really knows what the Radiants could do, lad."
Kaladin met his eyes, then smiled. "Well, we're going to find out." "ReShephir, the Midnight Mother, giving birth to abominations with her essence so dark, so terrible, so consuming. She is here! She watches me die!" -Dated Shashabev, 1173, 8 seconds pre-death. Subject: a darkeyed dock-worker in his forties, father of three. "I have a serious loathing of being wrong." Adolin reclined in his chair, one hand resting leisurely on the crystal-topped table, the other swirling wine in his cup. Yellow wine. He wasn't on duty today, so he could indulge just a tad.
Wind ruffled his hair; he was sitting with a group of other young lighteyes at the outdoor tables of an Outer Market wineshop. The Outer Market was a collection of buildings that had grown up near the king's palace, outside the warcamps. An eclectic mix of people passed on the street below their terraced seating.
"I should think that everyone shares your dislike, Adolin," Jakamav said, leaning with both elbows on the table. He was a sturdy man, a lighteyes of the third dahn from Highprince Roion's camp. "Who likes being wrong?"
"I've known a number of people who prefer it," Adolin said thoughtfully. "Of course, they don't admit that fact. But what else could one presume from the frequency of their error?"
Inkima-Jakamav's accompaniment for the afternoon-gave a tinkling laugh. She was a plump thing with light yellow eyes who dyed her hair black. She wore a red dress. The color did not look good on her.
Danlan was also there, of course. She sat on a chair beside Adolin, keeping proper distance, though she'd occasionally touch his arm with her freehand. Her wine was violet. She did like her wine, though she seemed to match it to her outfits. A curious trait. Adolin smiled. She looked extremely fetching, with that long neck and graceful build wrapped in a sleek dress. She didn't dye her hair, though it was mostly auburn. There was nothing wrong with light hair. In fact, why was it that they all were so fond of dark hair, when light eyes were the ideal?
Stop it, Adolin told himself. You'll end up brooding as much as Father.
The other two-Toral and his companion Eshava-were both lighteyes from Highprince Aladar's camp. House Kholin was currently out of favor, but Adolin had acquaintances or friends in nearly all of the warcamps.
"Wrongness can be amusing," Toral said. "It keeps life interesting. If we were all right all the time, where would that leave us?"
"My dear," his companion said. "Didn't you once claim to me that you were nearly always right?"
"Yes," Toral said. "And so if everyone were like me, who would I make sport of? I'd dread being made so mundane by everyone else's competence."
Adolin smiled, taking a drink of his wine. He had a formal duel in the arena today, and he'd found that a cup of yellow beforehand helped him relax. "Well, you needn't worry about me being right too often, Toral. I was sure Sadeas would move against my father. It doesn't make sense. Why wouldn't he?"
"Positioning, perhaps?" Toral said. He was a keen fellow, known for his refined sense of taste. Adolin always wanted him along when trying wines. "He wants to look strong."
"He was strong," Adolin said. "He gains no more by not moving against us."
"Now," Danlan said, voice soft with a breathless quality to it, "I know that I'm quite new to the warcamps, and my assessment is bound to reflect my ignorance, but-"
"You always say that, you know," Adolin said idly. He liked her voice quite a bit.
"I always say what?"
"That you're ignorant," Adolin said. "However, you're anything but. You're among the most clever women I've met."
She hesitated, looking oddly annoyed for a moment. Then she smiled. "You shouldn't say such things-Adolin-when a woman is attempting humility."
"Oh, right. Humility. I've forgotten that existed."
"Too much time around Sadeas's lighteyes?" Jakamav said, eliciting another tinkling laugh from Inkima.
"Anyway," Adolin said. "I'm sorry. Please continue."
"I was saying," Danlan said, "that I doubt Sadeas would wish to start a war. Moving against your father in such an obvious way would have done that, wouldn't it?"
"Undoubtedly," Adolin said.
"So perhaps that is why he held himself back."
"I don't know," Toral said. "He could have cast shame on your family without attacking you-he could have implied, for instance, that you'd been negligent and foolish in not protecting the king, but that you hadn't been behind the assassination attempt."
Adolin nodded.
"That still could have started a war," Danlan said.
"Perhaps," Toral said. "But you have to admit, Adolin, that the Blackthorn's reputation is a little less than… impressive of late."
"And what does that mean?" Adolin snapped.
"Oh, Adolin," Toral said waving a hand and raising his cup for some more wine. "Don't be tiresome. You know what I'm saying, and you also know I mean no insult by it. Where is that serving woman?"
"One would think," Jakamav added, "that after six years out here, we could get a decent winehouse."
Inkima laughed at that too. She was really getting annoying.
"My father's reputation is sound," Adolin said. "Or have you not been paying attention to our victories lately?"
"Achieved with Sadeas's help," Jakamav said.
"Achieved nonetheless," Adolin said. "In the last few months, my father's saved not only Sadeas's life, but that of the king himself. He fights boldly. Surely you can see that previous rumors about him were absolutely unfounded."
"All right, all right," Toral said. "No need to get upset, Adolin. We can all agree that your father is a wonderful man. But you were the one who complained to us that you wanted to change him."
Adolin studied his wine. Both of the other men at the table wore the sort of outfits Adolin's father frowned upon. Short jackets over colorful silk shirts. Toral wore a thin yellow silk scarf at the neck and another around his right wrist. It was quite fashionable, and looked far more comfortable than Adolin's uniform. Dalinar would have said that the outfits looked silly, but sometimes fashion was silly. Bold, different. There was something invigorating about dressing in a way that interested others, moving with the waves of style. Once, before joining his father at the war, Adolin had loved being able to design a look to match a given day. Now he had only two options: summer uniform coat or winter uniform coat.
The serving maid finally arrived, bringing two carafes of wine, one yellow and one deep blue. Inkima giggled as Jakamav leaned over and whispered something in her ear.
Adolin held up a hand to forestall the maid from filling his cup. "I'm not sure I want to see my father change. Not anymore."
Toral frowned. "Last week-"
"I know," Adolin said. "That was before I saw him rescue Sadeas. Every time I start to forget how amazing my father is, he does something to prove me one of the ten fools. It happened when Elhokar was in danger too. It's like… my father only acts like that when he really cares about something."
"You imply that he doesn't really care about the war, Adolin dear," Danlan said.
"No," Adolin said. "Just that the lives of Elhokar and Sadeas might be more important than killing Parshendi."
The others took that for an explanation, moving on toward other topics. But Adolin found himself circling the thought. He felt unsettled lately. Being wrong about Sadeas was one cause; the chance that they might actually be able to prove the visions right or wrong was another.
Adolin felt trapped. He'd pushed his father to confront his own sanity, and now-by what their last conversation had established-he had all but agreed to accept his father's decision to step down if the visions proved false.
Everyone hates being wrong, Adolin thought. Except my father said he'd rather be wrong, if it would be better for Alethkar. Adolin doubted many lighteyes would rather be proven mad than right.
"Perhaps," Eshava was saying. "But that doesn't change all of his foolish restrictions. I wish he would step down."
Adolin started. "What? What was that?"
Eshava glanced at him. "Nothing. Just seeing if you were attending the conversation, Adolin."
"No," Adolin said. "Tell me what you were saying."
She shrugged, looking at Toral.
Toral leaned forward. "You don't think the warcamps are ignoring what happens to your father during highstorms, Adolin. Word is that he should abdicate because of it."
"That would be foolish," Adolin said firmly. "Considering how much success he's showing in battle."
"Stepping down would be far too much of an overreaction," Danlan agreed. "Though, Adolin, I do wish you could get your father to relax all of these foolish restrictions our camp is under. You and the other Kholin men would be able to truly join society again."
"I've tried," he said, checking the position of the sun. "Trust me. And, unfortunately, I have a duel to prepare for. If you'll excuse me."
"Some more of Sadeas's sycophants?" Jakamav asked.
"No," Danlan said, smiling. "It's Brightlord Resi. There've been some vocal provocations from Thanadal, and this might serve to shut his mouth." She looked at Adolin fondly. "I'll meet you there."
"Thanks," he said, rising, doing up the buttons on his coat. He kissed Danlan's freehand, waved to the others, and trotted out onto the street.
That was something of an abrupt departure for me, he thought. Will they see how uncomfortable the discussion made me? Probably not. They didn't know him as Renarin did. Adolin liked to be familiar with a large number of people, but not terribly close with any of them. He didn't even know Danlan that well yet. He would make his relationship with her last, though. He was tired of Renarin teasing him for jumping in and out of courtships. Danlan was very pretty; it seemed the courtship could work.
He passed through the Outer Market, Toral's words weighing on him. Adolin didn't want to become highprince. He wasn't ready. He liked dueling and chatting with his friends. Leading the army was one thing-but as highprince, he'd have to think of other things. Such as the future of the war on the Shattered Plains, or protecting and advising the king.
That shouldn't have to be our problem, he thought. But it was as his father always said. If they didn't do it, who would?
The Outer Market was far more disorganized than the markets inside Dalinar's warcamp. Here, the ramshackle buildings-mostly built of stone blocks quarried from nearby-had grown up without any specific plan. A large number of the merchants were Thaylen, with their typical caps, vests, and long, wagging eyebrows.
The busy market was one of the few places where soldiers from all ten warcamps mingled. In fact, that had become one of the main functions of the place; it was neutral ground where men and women from different warcamps could meet. It also provided a market that wasn't heavily regulated, though Dalinar had stepped in to provide some rules once the marketplace had begun to show signs of lawlessness.
Adolin nodded to a passing group of Kholin soldiers in blue, who saluted him. They were on patrol, halberds held at their shoulders, helms gleaming. Dalinar's troops patrolled this place, and his scribes watched over it. All at his own cost.
His father didn't like the layout of the Outer Market or its lack of walls. He said that a raid could be catastrophic to it, that it violated the spirit of the Codes. But it had been years since the Parshendi had raided the Alethi side of the Plains. And if they did decide to strike at the warcamps, the scouts and guards would give ample warning.
So what was the point of the Codes? Adolin's father acted as if they were vitally important. Always be in uniform, always be armed, always stay sober. Be ever vigilant while under threat of attack. But there was no threat of attack.
As he walked through the market, Adolin looked-really looked-for the first time and tried to see what it was his father was doing.
He could pick out Dalinar's officers easily. They wore their uniforms, as commanded. Blue coats and trousers with silver buttons, knots on the shoulders for rank. Officers who weren't from Dalinar's camp wore all kinds of clothing. It was difficult to pick them out from the merchants and other wealthy civilians.
But that doesn't matter, Adolin told himself again. Because we're not going to be attacked.
He frowned, passing a group of lighteyes lounging outside another winehouse. Much as he'd just been doing. Their clothing-indeed, their postures and mannerisms-made them look like they cared only about their revelry. Adolin found himself annoyed. There was a war going on. Almost every day, soldiers died. They did so while lighteyes drank and chatted.
Maybe the Codes weren't just about protecting against the Parshendi. Maybe they were about something more-about giving the men commanders they could respect and rely on. About treating war with the gravity it deserved. Maybe it was about not turning a war zone into a festival. The common men had to remain on watch, vigilant. Therefore, Adolin and Dalinar did the same.
Adolin hesitated in the street. Nobody cursed at him or called for him to move-they could see his rank. They just went around him.
I think I see now, he thought. Why had it taken him so long?
Disturbed, he hurried on his way toward the day's match. "'I walked from Abamabar to Urithiru,'" Dalinar said, quoting from memory. "'In this, the metaphor and experience are one, inseparable to me like my mind and memory. One contains the other, and though I can explain one to you, the other is only for me.'"
Sadeas-sitting beside him-raised an eyebrow. Elhokar sat on Dalinar's other side, wearing his Shardplate. He'd taken to that more and more, sure that assassins were thirsting for his life. Together, they watched the men dueling down below, at the bottom of a small crater that Elhokar had designated the warcamps' dueling arena. The rocky shelves running around the inside of the ten-foot-tall wall made excellent seating platforms.
Adolin's duel hadn't started yet, and the men who fought right now were lighteyes, but not Shardbearers. Their dull-edged dueling swords were crusted with a white, chalklike substance. When one achieved a hit on the other's padded armor, it would leave a visible mark.
"So, wait," Sadeas said to him. "This man who wrote the book…"
"Nohadon is his holy name. Others call him Bajerden, though we're not certain whether that was actually his real name or not."
"He decided to walk from where to where?"
"Abamabar to Urithiru," Dalinar said. "I think it must have been a great distance, from the way the story is told."
"Wasn't he a king?"
"Yes."
"But why-"
"It's confusing," Dalinar said. "But listen. You'll see." He cleared his throat and continued. "'I strode this insightful distance on my own, and forbade attendants. I had no steed beyond my well-worn sandals, no companion beside a stout staff to offer conversation with its beats against the stone. My mouth was to be my purse; I stuffed it not with gems, but with song. When singing for sustenance failed me, my arms worked well for cleaning a floor or hogpen, and often earned me a satisfactory reward.
"'Those dear to me took fright for my safety and, perhaps, my sanity. Kings, they explained, do not walk like beggars for hundreds of miles. My response was that if a beggar could manage the feat, then why not a king? Did they think me less capable than a beggar?
"'Sometimes I think that I am. The beggar knows much that the king can only guess. And yet who draws up the codes for begging ordinances? Often I wonder what my experience in life-my easy life following the Desolation, and my current level of comfort-has given me of any true experience to use in making laws. If we had to rely on what we knew, kings would only be of use in creating laws regarding the proper heating of tea and cushioning of thrones.'"
Sadeas frowned at this. In front of them, the two swordsmen continued their duel; Elhokar watched keenly. He loved duels. Bringing in sand to coat the floor of this arena had been one of his first acts at the Shattered Plains.
"'Regardless,'" Dalinar said, still quoting from The Way of Kings, "'I made the trip and-as the astute reader has already concluded-survived it. The stories of its excitements will stain a different page in this narrative, for first I must explain my purpose in walking this strange path. Though I was quite willing to let my family think me insane, I would not leave the same as my cognomen upon the winds of history.
"'My family traveled to Urithiru via the direct method, and had been awaiting me for weeks when I arrived. I was not recognized at the gate, for my mane had grown quite robust without a razor to tame it. Once I revealed myself, I was carried away, primped, fed, worried over, and scolded in precisely that order. Only after all of this was through was I finally asked the purpose of my excursion. Couldn't I have just taken the simple, easy, and common route to the holy city?'"
"Exactly," Sadeas interjected. "He could at the very least have ridden a horse!"
"'For my answer,'" Dalinar quoted, "'I removed my sandals and proffered my callused feet. They were comfortable upon the table beside my half-consumed tray of grapes. At this point, the expressions of my companions proclaimed that they thought me daft, and so I explained by relating the stories of my trip. One after another, like stacked sacks of tallew, stored for the winter season. I would make flatbread of them soon, then stuff it between these pages.
"'Yes, I could have traveled quickly. But all men have the same ultimate destination. Whether we find our end in a hallowed sepulcher or a pauper's ditch, all save the Heralds themselves must dine with the Nightwatcher.
"'And so, does the destination matter? Or is it the path we take? I declare that no accomplishment has substance nearly as great as the road used to achieve it. We are not creatures of destinations. It is the journey that shapes us. Our callused feet, our backs strong from carrying the weight of our travels, our eyes open with the fresh delight of experiences lived.
"'In the end, I must proclaim that no good can be achieved of false means. For the substance of our existence is not in the achievement, but in the method. The Monarch must understand this; he must not become so focused on what he wishes to accomplish that he diverts his gaze from the path he must take to arrive there.'"
Dalinar sat back. The rock beneath them had been cushioned and augmented with wooden armrests and back supports. The duel ended with one of the lighteyes-wearing green, as he was subject to Sadeas-scoring a hit on the breastplate of the other, leaving a long white mark. Elhokar clapped his approval, gauntleted hands clanking, and both duelists bowed. The winner's victory would be recorded by the women sitting in the judging seats. They also held the books of dueling code, and would adjudicate disputes or infractions.
"That is the end of your story, I presume," Sadeas said, as the next two duelists walked out onto the sand.
"It is," Dalinar said.
"And you have that entire passage memorized?"
"I likely got a few of the words wrong."
"Knowing you, that means you might have forgotten a single 'an' or 'the.'"
Dalinar frowned.
"Oh, don't be so stiff, old friend," Sadeas said. "That was a compliment. Of sorts."
"What did you think of the story?" Dalinar asked as the dueling resumed.
"It was ridiculous," Sadeas said frankly, waving for a servant to bring him some wine. Yellow, as it was yet morning. "He walked all that distance just to make the point that kings should consider the consequences of their commands?"
"It wasn't just to prove the point," Dalinar said. "I thought that myself, but I've begun to see. He walked because he wanted to experience the things his people did. He used it as a metaphor, but I think he really wanted to know what it was like to walk that far."
Sadeas took a sip of his wine, then squinted up at the sun. "Couldn't we get an awning or something set up out here?"
"I like the sun," Elhokar said. "I spend too much time locked away in those caves we call buildings."
Sadeas glanced at Dalinar, rolling his eyes.
"Much of The Way of Kings is organized like that passage I quoted you," Dalinar said. "A metaphor from Nohadon's life-a real event turned into an example. He calls them the forty parables."
"Are they all so ridiculous?"
"I think this one is beautiful," Dalinar said softly.
"I don't doubt that you do. You always have loved sentimental stories." He raised a hand. "That was also intended to be a compliment."
"Of sorts?"
"Exactly. Dalinar, my friend, you always have been emotional. It makes you genuine. It can also get in the way of levelheaded thinking-but so long as it continues to prompt you to save my life, I think I can live with it." He scratched his chin. "I suppose, by definition, I would have to, wouldn't I?"
"I guess."
"The other highprinces think you are self-righteous. Surely you can see why."
"I…" What could he say? "I don't mean to be."
"Well, you do provoke them. Take, for example, the way you refuse to rise to their arguments or insults."
"Protesting simply draws attention to the issue," Dalinar said. "The finest defense of character is correct action. Acquaint yourself with virtue, and you can expect proper treatment from those around you."
"You see, there," Sadeas said. "Who talks like that?"
"Dalinar does," Elhokar said, though he was still watching the dueling. "My father used to."
"Precisely," Sadeas said. "Dalinar, friend, the others simply cannot accept that the things you say are serious. They assume it must be an act."
"And you? What do you think of me?"
"I can see the truth."
"Which is?"
"That you are a self-righteous prude," Sadeas said lightly. "But you come by it honestly."
"I'm certain you mean that to be a compliment too."
"Actually, this time I'm just trying to annoy you." Sadeas raised his cup of wine to Dalinar.
To the side, Elhokar grinned. "Sadeas. That was quite nearly clever. Shall I have to name you the new Wit?"
"What happened to the old one?" Sadeas's voice was curious, even eager, as if hoping to hear that tragedy had befallen Wit.
Elhokar's grin became a scowl. "He vanished."
"Is that so? How disappointing."
"Bah." Elhokar waved a gauntleted hand. "He does this on occasion. He'll return eventually. Unreliable as Damnation itself, that one. If he didn't make me laugh so, I'd have replaced him seasons ago."
They fell silent, and the dueling continued. A few other lighteyes-both women and men-watched, seated on the benchlike ridges. Dalinar noted with discomfort that Navani had arrived, and was chatting with a group of women, including Adolin's latest infatuation, the auburn-haired scribe.
Dalinar's eyes lingered on Navani, drinking in her violet dress, her mature beauty. She'd recorded his most recent visions without complaint, and seemed to have forgiven him for throwing her out of his rooms so sharply. She never mocked him, never acted skeptical. He appreciated that. Should he thank her, or would she see that as an invitation?
He averted his gaze from her, but found that he couldn't watch the dueling swordsmen without catching sight of her in the corner of his eye. So, instead, he glanced up into the sky, squinting against the afternoon sun. The sounds of metal hitting metal came from below. Behind him, several large snails clung to the rock, waiting for highstorm water.
He had so many questions, so many uncertainties. He listened to The Way of Kings and worked to discover what Gavilar's last words had meant. As if, somehow, they held the key to both his madness and the nature of the visions. But the truth was that he didn't know anything, and he couldn't rely on his own decisions. That was unhinging him, bit by bit, point by point.
Clouds seemed less frequent here, in these windswept plains. Just the blazing sun broken by the furious highstorms. The rest of Roshar was influenced by the storms-but here in the East, the feral, untamed highstorms ruled supreme. Could any mortal king hope to claim these lands? There were legends of them being inhabited, of there being more than just unclaimed hills, desolate plains, and overgrown forests. Natanatan, the Granite Kingdom.
"Ah," Sadeas said, sounding as if he'd tasted something bitter. "Did he have to come?"
Dalinar lowered his head and followed Sadeas's gaze. Highprince Vamah had arrived to watch the dueling, retinue in tow. Though most of them wore his traditional brown and grey colorings, the highprince himself wore a long grey coat that had slashes cut across it to reveal the bright red and orange silk underneath, matched by the ruffles peeking out of the cuffs and collar.
"I thought you had a fondness for Vamah," Elhokar said.
"I tolerate him," Sadeas replied. "But his fashion sense is absolutely repulsive. Red and orange? Not even a burnt orange, but a blatant, eye-breaking orange. And the rent style hasn't been fashionable for ages. Ah, wonderful, he's sitting directly across from us. I shall be forced to stare at him for the rest of the session."
"You shouldn't judge people so harshly based on how they look," Dalinar said.
"Dalinar," Sadeas said flatly, "we are highprinces. We represent Alethkar. Many around the world view us as a center of culture and influence. Should I not, therefore, have the right to encourage a properpresentation to the world?"
"A proper presentation, yes," Dalinar said. "It is right for us to be fit and neat." It would be nice if your soldiers, for instance, kept their uniforms clean.
"Fit, neat, and fashionable," Sadeas corrected.
"And me?" Dalinar asked, looking down at his simple uniform. "Would you have me dress in those ruffles and bright colors?"
"You?" Sadeas asked. "You're completely hopeless." He raised a hand to forestall objection. "No, I am unfair. That uniform has a certain… timeless quality to it. The military suit, by virtue of its utility, will never be completely out of fashion. It's a safe choice-steady. In a way, you avoid the issue of fashion by not playing the game." He nodded to Vamah. "Vamah tries to play, but does so very poorly. And that is unforgivable."
"I still say you place too much importance on those silks and scarves," Dalinar said. "We are soldiers at war, not courtiers at a ball."
"The Shattered Plains are quickly becoming a destination for foreign dignitaries. It is important to present ourselves properly." He raised a finger to Dalinar. "If I am to accept your moral superiority, my friend, then perhaps it is time for you to accept my sense of fashion. One might note that you judge people by their clothing even more than I do."
Dalinar fell silent. That comment stung in its truthfulness. Still, if dignitaries were going to meet with the highprinces on the Shattered Plains, was it too much to ask for them to find an efficient group of warcamps led by men who at least looked like generals?
Dalinar settled back to watch the match end. By his count, it was time for Adolin's bout. The two lighteyes who had been fighting bowed to the king, then withdrew into a tent on the side of the dueling grounds. A moment later, Adolin stepped out onto the sand, wearing his deep blue Shardplate. He carried his helm under his arm, his blond-and-black hair a stylish mess. He raised a gauntleted hand to Dalinar and bowed his head to the king, then put on his helm.
The man who walked out behind him wore Shardplate painted yellow. Brightlord Resi was the only full Shardbearer in Highprince Thanadal's army-though their warcamp had three men who carried only the Blade or the Plate. Thanadal himself had neither. It wasn't uncommon for a highprince to rely on his finest warriors as Shardbearers; it made sound sense, particularly if you were the sort of general who preferred to stay behind the lines and direct tactics. In Thanadal's own princedom, the tradition for centuries had been to appoint the holder of Resi's Shards as something known as the Royal Defender.
Thanadal had recently been vocal about Dalinar's faults, and so Adolin- in a moderately subtle move-had challenged the highprince's star Shardbearer to a friendly bout. Few duels were for Shards; in this case, losing wouldn't cost either man anything other than statistics in the rankings. The match drew an unusual amount of attention, and the small arena filled over the next quarter hour while the duelists stretched and prepared. More than one woman set up a board to sketch or write impressions of the bout. Thanadal himself didn't attend.
The bout began as the highjudge in attendance, Lady Istow, called for the combatants to summon their Blades. Elhokar leaned forward again, intent, as Resi and Adolin circled one another on the sand, Shardblades materializing. Dalinar found himself leaning forward as well, though he did feel a stab of shame. According to the Codes, most duels should be avoided when Alethkar was at war. There was a fine line between sparring for practice and dueling another man for an insult, potentially leaving important officers wounded.
Resi stood in Stonestance, his Shardblade held before him in two hands, point toward the sky, arms all the way extended. Adolin used Windstance, turned sideways slightly, hands before him and elbows bent, Shardblade pointing back over his head. They circled. The winner would be the first one who completely shattered a section of the other's Plate. That wasn't too dangerous; weakened Plate could usually still rebuff a blow, even if it shattered in the process.
Resi attacked first, taking a hopping leap forward and striking by whipping his Shardblade back over his head, then down to his right in a powerful blow. Stonestance focused on that type of attack, delivering the most possible momentum and strength behind each strike. Dalinar found it unwieldy-you didn't need that much power behind a Shardblade on the battlefield, though it was helpful against other Shardbearers.
Adolin jumped back out of the way, Shardplate-enhanced legs giving him a nimbleness that defied the fact that he was wearing over a hundred stoneweights of thick armor. Resi's attack-though well-executed-left him open, and Adolin made a careful strike at his opponent's left vambrace, cracking the forearm plate. Resi attacked again, and Adolin again danced out of the way, then scored a hit on his opponent's left thigh.
Some poets described combat as a dance. Dalinar rarely felt that way about regular combat. Two men fighting with sword and shield would go at one another in a furious rush, slamming their weapons down again and again, tying to get around their opponent's shield. Less a dance, and more like wrestling with weapons.
Fighting with Shardblades, though, that could be like a dance. The large weapons took a great deal of skill to swing properly, and Plate was resilient, so exchanges were generally drawn out. The fights were filled with grand motions, wide sweeps. There was a fluidity to fighting with a Shardblade. A grace.
"He's quite good, you know," Elhokar said. Adolin made a hit on Resi's helm, prompting a round of applause from those watching. "Better than my father was. Better than even you, Uncle."
"He works very hard," Dalinar said. "He truly loves it. Not the war, not the fighting. The dueling."
"He could be champion, if he wished it."
Adolin did wish it, Dalinar knew. But he had refused bouts that would put him within reach of the title. Dalinar suspected that Adolin did it to hold, somewhat, to the Codes. Dueling championships and tournaments were things for those rare times between wars. It could be argued that protecting one's family honor, however, was for all times.
Either way, Adolin didn't duel for ranking, and that made other Shardbearers underestimate him. They were quick to accept duels with him, and some non-Shardbearers challenged him. By tradition, the king's own Shardplate and Blade were available for a large fee to those who both had his favor and the wish to duel a Shardbearer.
Dalinar shivered at the thought of someone else wearing his Plate or holding Oathbringer. It was unnatural. And yet, the lending of the king's Blade and Plate-or before the kingship had been restored, the lending of a highprince's Blade and Plate-was a strong tradition. Even Gavilar had not broken it, though he had complained about it in private.
Adolin dodged another blow, but he had begun to move into Windstance's offensive forms. Resi wasn't ready for this-though he managed to hit Adolin once on the right pauldron, the blow was a glancing one. Adolin advanced, Blade sweeping in a fluid pattern. Resi backed away, falling into a parrying posture-Stonestance was one of the few to rely on those.
Adolin batted his opponent's Blade away, knocking it out of stance. Resi reset, but Adolin knocked it away again. Resi grew sloppier and sloppier getting back into stance and Adolin began to strike, hitting him on one side, then on the other. Small, quick blows, meant to unnerve.
They worked. Resi bellowed and threw himself into one of Stonestance's characteristic overhand blows. Adolin handled it perfectly, dropping his Blade to one hand, raising his left arm and taking the blow on his unharmed vambrace. It cracked badly, but the move allowed Adolin to bring his own Blade to the side and strike Resi's cracked left cuisse.
The thigh plate shattered with the sound of ripping metal, pieces blasting away, trailing smoke, glowing like molten steel. Resi stumbled back; his left leg could no longer bear the weight of the Shardplate. The match was over. More important duels might go for two or three broken plates, but that grew dangerous.
The highjudge stood, calling an end. Resi stumbled away, ripping off his helm. His curses were audible. Adolin saluted his enemy, tapping the blunt edge of his Blade to his forehead, then dismissing the Blade. He bowed to the king. Other men sometimes went into the crowd to brag or accept accolades, but Adolin retreated to the preparation tent.
"Talented indeed," Elhokar said.
"And such a… proper lad," Sadeas said, sipping his drink.
"Yes," Dalinar said. "At times, I wish there were peace, simply so that Adolin could dedicate himself to his dueling."
Sadeas sighed. "More talk of abandoning the war, Dalinar?"
"That's not what I meant."
"You keep complaining that you've given up that argument, Uncle," Elhokar said, turning to regard him. "Yet you continue to dance around it, speaking longingly of peace. People in the camps call you coward."
Sadeas snorted. "He's no coward, Your Majesty. I can attest to that."
"Why, then?" Elhokar asked.
"These rumors have grown far beyond what is reasonable," Dalinar said.
"And yet, you do not answer my questions," Elhokar said. "If you could make the decision, Uncle, would you have us leave the Shattered Plains? Are you a coward?"
Dalinar hesitated.
Unite them, that voice had told him. It is your task, and I give it to you.
Am I a coward? he wondered. Nohadon challenged him, in the book, to examine himself. To never become so certain or high that he wasn't willing to seek truth.
Elhokar's question hadn't been about his visions. And yet, Dalinar had the distinct impression that he was being a coward, at least in relation to his desire to abdicate. If he left because of what was happening to him, that would be taking the easy path.
I can't leave, he realized. No matter what happens. I have to see this through. Even if he was mad. Or, an increasingly worrisome thought, even if the visions were real, but their origins suspect. I have to stay. But I also have to plan, to make sure I don't tow my house down.
Such a careful line to walk. Nothing clear, everything clouded. He'd been ready to run because he liked to make clear decisions. Well, nothing was clear about what was happening to him. It seemed that in making the decision to remain highprince, he placed one important cornerstone into rebuilding the foundation of who he was.
He would not abdicate. And that was that.
"Dalinar?" Elhokar asked. "Are you… well?"
Dalinar blinked, realizing that he had stopped paying attention to the king and Sadeas. Staring off into space like that wouldn't help his reputation. He turned to the king. "You want to know the truth," he said. "Yes, if I could make the order, I would bring all ten warcamps and return to Alethkar."
Despite what others said, that was not cowardly. No, he'd just confronted cowardice inside of him, and he knew what it was. This was something different.
The king looked shocked.
"I would leave," Dalinar said firmly. "But not because I wish to flee or because I fear battle. It would be because I fear for Alethkar's stability; leaving this war would help secure our homeland and the loyalty of the highprinces. I would send more envoys and scholars to find out why the Parshendi killed Gavilar. We gave up on that too easily. I still wonder if the assassination was initiated by miscreants or rebels among their own people.
"I'd discover what their culture is-and yes, they do have one. If rebels weren't the cause of the assassination, I'd keep asking until I learned why they did it. I'd demand repayment-perhaps their own king, delivered to us for execution in turn-in exchange for granting them peace. As for the gemhearts, I'd speak with my scientists and discover a better method of holding this territory. Perhaps with mass homesteading of the area, securing all of the Unclaimed Hills, we could truly expand our borders and claim the Shattered Plains. I wouldn't abandon vengeance, Your Majesty, but I would approach it-and our war here-more thoughtfully. Right now, we know too little to be effective."
Elhokar looked surprised. He nodded. "I… Uncle, that actually makes sense. Why didn't you explain it before?"
Dalinar blinked. Just several weeks ago, Elhokar had been indignant when Dalinar had merely mentioned the idea of turning back. What had changed?
I don't give the boy enough credit, he realized. "I have had trouble explaining my own thoughts recently, Your Majesty."
"Your Majesty!" Sadeas said. "Surely you wouldn't actually consider-"
"This latest attempt on my life has me unsettled, Sadeas. Tell me. Have you made any progress in determining who put the weakened gems in my Plate?"
"Not yet, Your Majesty."
"They're trying to kill me," Elhokar said softly, huddling down in his armor. "They'll see me dead, like my father. Sometimes I do wonder if we're chasing after the ten fools here. The assassin in white-he was Shin."
"The Parshendi took responsibility for sending him," Sadeas said.
"Yes," Elhokar replied. "And yet they are savages, and easily manipulated. It would be a perfect distraction, pinning the blame on a group of parshmen. We go to war for years and years, never noticing the real villains, working quietly in my own camp. They watch me. Always. Waiting. I see their faces in mirrors. Symbols, twisted, inhuman…"
Dalinar glanced at Sadeas, and the two shared a disturbed look. Was Elhokar's paranoia growing worse, or had it always been hidden? He saw phantom cabals in every shadow, and now-with the attempt on his life- he had proof to feed those worries.
"Retreating from the Shattered Plains could be a good idea," Dalinar said carefully. "But not if it is to begin another war with someone else. We must stabilize and unify our people."
Elhokar sighed. "Chasing the assassin is only an idle thought right now. Perhaps we won't need it. I hear that your eff orts with Sadeas have been fruitful."
"They have indeed, Your Majesty," Sadeas said, sounding proud-perhaps a little smug. "Though Dalinar still insists on using his own, slow bridges. Sometimes, my forces are nearly wiped out before he arrives. This would work better if Dalinar would use modern bridge tactics."
"The waste of life…" Dalinar said.
"Is acceptable," Sadeas said. "They're mostly slaves, Dalinar. It's an honor for them to have a chance to participate in some small way."
I doubt they see it in that light.
"I wish you'd at least try my way," Sadeas continued. "What we've been doing so far has worked, but I worry that the Parshendi will continue to send two armies against us. I don't relish the idea of fighting both on my own before you arrive."
Dalinar hesitated. That would be a problem. But to give up the siege bridges?
"Well, why not a compromise?" Elhokar said. "Next plateau assault, Uncle, you let Sadeas's bridgemen help you for the initial march to the contested plateau. Sadeas has plenty of extra bridge crews he could lend you. He could still rush on ahead with a smaller army, but you'd follow more quickly than you have been, using his bridge crews."
"That would be the same as using my own bridge crews," Dalinar said.
"Not necessarily," Elhokar said. "You've said that the Parshendi can rarely set up and fire on you once Sadeas engages them. Sadeas's men can start the assault as usual, and you can join once he's secured a foothold for you."
"Yes…" Sadeas said, thoughtful. "The bridgemen you use will be safe, and you won't be costing any additional lives. But you'll arrive at the plateau to help me twice as quickly."
"What if you can't distract the Parshendi well enough?" Dalinar asked. "What if they still set up archers to fire on my bridgemen when I cross?"
"Then we'll retreat," Sadeas said with a sigh. "And we'll call it a failed experiment. But at least we'll have tried. This is how you get ahead, old friend. You try new things."
Dalinar scratched his chin in thought.
"Oh, go on, Dalinar," Elhokar said. "He took your suggestion to attack together. Try it once his way."
"Very well," Dalinar said. "We will see how it works."
"Excellent," Elhokar said, standing. "And now, I believe I'll go congratulate your son. That bout was exciting!"
Dalinar hadn't found it particularly exciting-Adolin's opponent hadn't ever held the upper hand. But that was the best kind of battle. Dalinar didn't buy the arguments about a 'good' fight being a close one. When you won, it was always better to win quickly and with extreme advantage.
Dalinar and Sadeas stood in respect as the king descended the stairlike stone outcroppings toward the sandy floor below. Dalinar then turned to Sadeas. "I should be leaving. Send me a clerk to detail the plateaus you feel we could try this maneuver on. Next time one of them is up for assault, I'll march my army to your staging area and we'll leave together. You and the smaller, quicker group can go on ahead, and we'll catch up once you're in position."
Sadeas nodded.
Dalinar turned to climb up the steps toward the ramp out.
"Dalinar," Sadeas called after him.
Dalinar looked back at the other highprince. Sadeas's scarf fluttered in a gust of wind, his arms folded, the metallic golden embroidery glistening. "Send me one of your clerks as well. With a copy of that book of Gavilar's. It may amuse me to hear its other stories."
Dalinar smiled. "I will do so, Sadeas." "Above the final void I hang, friends behind, friends before. The feast I must drink clings to their faces, and the words I must speak spark in my mind. The old oaths will be spoken anew." -Dated Betabanan, 1173, 45 seconds pre-death. Subject: a lighteyed child of five years. Diction improved remarkably when giving sample. Kaladin glared at the three glowing topaz spheres on the ground in front of him. The barrack was dark, empty save for Teft and himself. Lopen leaned in the sunlit doorway, watching with a casual air. Outside, Rock called out commands to the other bridgemen. Kaladin had them working on battle formations. Nothing overt. It would be construed as practice for bridge carrying, but he was actually training them to obey orders and rearrange themselves efficiently.
The three little spheres-only chips-lit the stone ground around themselves in little tan rings. Kaladin focused on them, holding his breath, willing the light into him.
Nothing happened.
He tried harder, staring into their depths.
Nothing happened.
He picked one up, cupping it in his palm, raising it so that he could see the light and nothing else. He could pick out the details of the storm, the shifting, spinning vortex of light. He commanded it, willed it, begged it.
Nothing happened.
He groaned, lying back on the rock, staring at the ceiling.
"Maybe you don't want it badly enough," Teft said.
"I want it as badly as I know how. It won't budge, Teft."
Teft grunted and picked up one of the spheres.
"Maybe we're wrong about me," Kaladin said. It seemed poetically appropriate that the moment he accepted this strange, frightening part of himself, he couldn't make it work. "It could have been a trick of the sunlight."
"A trick of the sunlight," Teft said flatly. "Sticking a bag to the barrel was a trick of the light."
"All right. Then maybe it was some odd fluke, something that happened just that once."
"And when you were wounded," Teft said, "and whenever on a bridge run you needed an extra burst of strength or endurance."
Kaladin let out a frustrated sigh and tapped his head back lightly against the rock floor a few times. "Well, if I'm one of these Radiants you keep talking about, why can't I do anything?"
"I figure," the grizzled bridgeman said, rolling the sphere in his fingers, "that you're like a baby, making his legs work. At first it just kind of happens. Slowly, he figures how to make them move on purpose. You just need practice."
"I've spent a week staring at spheres, Teft. How much practice can it take?"
"Well, more than you've had, obviously."
Kaladin rolled his eyes and sat back up. "Why am I listening to you? You've admitted that you don't know any more than I do."
"I don't know anything about using the Stormlight," Teft said, scowling. "But I know what should happen."
"According to stories that contradict one another. You've told me that the Radiants could fly and walk on walls."
Teft nodded. "They sure could. And make stone melt by looking at it. And move great distances in a single heartbeat. And command the sunlight. And-"
"And why," Kaladin said, "would they need to both walk on walls and fly? If they can fly, why would they bother running up walls?"
Teft said nothing.
"And why bother with either one," Kaladin added, "if they can just 'move great distances in a heartbeat'?"
"I'm not sure," Teft admitted.
"We can't trust the stories or legends," Kaladin said. He glanced at Syl, who had landed beside one of the spheres, staring at it with childlike interest. "Who knows what is true and what has been fabricated? The only thing we know for certain is this." He plucked up one of the spheres and held it up in two fingers. "The Radiant sitting in this room is very, very tired of the color brown."
Teft grunted. "You're not a Radiant, lad."
"Weren't we just talking about-"
"Oh, you can infuse," Teft said. "You can drink in the Stormlight and command it. But being a Radiant was more than that. It was their way of life, the things they did. The Immortal Words."
"The what?"
Teft rolled his sphere between his fingers again, holding it up and staring into its depths. "Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination. That was their motto, and was the First Ideal of the Immortal Words. There were four others."
Kaladin raised an eyebrow. "Which were?"
"I don't actually know," Teft said. "But the Immortal Words-these Ideals-guided everything they did. The four later Ideals were said to be different for every order of Radiants. But the First Ideal was the same for each of the ten: Life before death, strength before weakness, journey before destination." He hesitated. "Or so I was told."
"Yes, well, that seems a little obvious to me," Kaladin said. "Life comes before death. Just like day comes before night, or one comes before two. Obvious."
"You're not taking this seriously. Maybe that's why the Stormlight refuses you."
Kaladin stood and stretched. "I'm sorry, Teft. I'm just tired."
"Life before death," Teft said, wagging a finger at Kaladin. "The Radiant seeks to defend life, always. He never kills unnecessarily, and never risks his own life for frivolous reasons. Living is harder than dying. The Radiant's duty is to live.
"Strength before weakness. All men are weak at some time in their lives. The Radiant protects those who are weak, and uses his strength for others. Strength does not make one capable of rule; it makes one capable of service."
Teft picked up spheres, putting them in his pouch. He held the last one for a second, then tucked it away too. "Journey before destination. There are always several ways to achieve a goal. Failure is preferable to winning through unjust means. Protecting ten innocents is not worth killing one. In the end, all men die. How you lived will be far more important to the Almighty than what you accomplished."
"The Almighty? So the knights were tied to religion?"
"Isn't everything? There was some old king who came up with all this. Had his wife write it in a book or something. My mother read it. The Radiants based the Ideals on what was written there."
Kaladin shrugged, moving over to begin sorting through the pile of bridgemen's leather vests. Ostensibly, he and Teft were here checking those over for tears or broken straps. After a few moments, Teft joined him.
"Do you actually believe that?" Kaladin asked, lifting up a vest, tugging on its straps. "That anyone would follow those vows, particularly a bunch of lighteyes?"
"They weren't just lighteyes. They were Radiants."
"They were people," Kaladin said. "Men in power always pretend things like virtue, or divine guidance, some kind of mandate to 'protect' the rest of us. If we believe that the Almighty put them where they are, it's easier for us to swallow what they do to us."
Teft turned a vest over. It was beginning to tear beneath the left shoulder pad. "I never used to believe. And then… then I saw you infusing Light, and I began to wonder."
"Stories and legends, Teft," Kaladin said. "We want to believe that there were better men once. That makes us think it could be that way again. But people don't change. They are corrupt now. They were corrupt then."
"Maybe," Teft said. "My parents believed in all of it. The Immortal Words, the Ideals, the Knights Radiant, the Almighty. Even old Vorinism. In fact, especially old Vorinism."
"That led to the Hierocracy. The devotaries and the ardents shouldn't hold land or property. It's too dangerous."
Teft snorted. "Why? You think they'd be worse at being in charge than the lighteyes?"
"Well, you've probably got a point there." Kaladin frowned. He'd spent so long assuming the Almighty had abandoned him, or even cursed him, that it was difficult to accept that maybe-as Syl had said-he'd instead been blessed. Yes, he'd been preserved, and he supposed he should be grateful for that. But what could be worse than being granted great power, yet still being too weak to save those he loved?
Further speculation was interrupted as Lopen stood up straight in the doorway, gesturing covertly to Kaladin and Teft. Fortunately, there wasn't anything to hide anymore. In fact, there hadn't ever been anything to hide, other than Kaladin sitting on the floor and staring at the spheres like an idiot. He set aside the vest and walked to the entrance.
Hashal's palanquin was being carried directly toward Kaladin's barrack, her tall, oft-silent husband walking alongside. The sash at his neck was violet, as was the embroidery on the cuffs of his short, vestlike jacket. Gaz still hadn't reappeared. It had been a week now, and no sign of him. Hashal and her husband-along with their lighteyed attendants-did what he'd once done, and they rebuffed any questions about the bridge sergeant.
"Storm it," Teft said, stepping up beside Kaladin. "Those two make my skin itch, same way it does when I know someone's got a knife and is standing behind me."
Rock had the bridgemen lined up and waiting quietly, as if for inspection. Kaladin walked out to join them, Teft and Lopen following behind. The bearers set the palanquin down in front of Kaladin. Open-sided with only a small canopy on the top, it was little more than an armchair on a platform. Many of the lighteyed women used them in the warcamps.
Kaladin reluctantly gave Hashal a proper bow, prompting the other bridgemen to do so as well. Now was not the time to be beaten for insubordination.
"You have such a well-trained band, bridgeleader," she said, idly scratching her cheek with a ruby-red nail, her elbow on her armrest. "So… efficient at bridge runs."
"Thank you, Brightness Hashal," Kaladin said, trying-but failing-to keep the stiff ness and hostility from his voice. "May I ask? Gaz hasn't been seen for some days now. Is he well?"
"No." Kaladin waited for further reply, but she didn't give one. "My husband has made a decision. Your men are so good at bridge runs that you are a model to the other crews. As such, you will be on bridge duty every day from now on."
Kaladin felt a chill. "And scavenging duty?"
"Oh, there will still be time for that. You need to take torches down anyway, and plateau runs never happen at night. So your men will sleep during the day-always on call-and will work the chasms at night. A much better use of your time."
"Every bridge run," Kaladin said. "You're going to make us go on every one."
"Yes," she said idly, tapping for her bearers to raise her. "Your team is just too good. It must be used. You'll start full-time bridge duty tomorrow. Consider it an… honor."
Kaladin inhaled sharply to keep himself from saying what he thought of her "honor." He couldn't bring himself to bow as she retreated, but she didn't seem to care. Rock and the men started muttering.
Every bridge run. She'd just doubled the rate at which they'd be killed. Kaladin's team wouldn't last another few weeks. They were already so low on members that losing one or two men on an assault would cause them to flounder. The Parshendi would focus on them then, cutting them down.
"Kelek's breath!" Teft said. "She'll see us dead!"
"It's not fair," Lopen added.
"We're bridgemen," Kaladin said, looking at them. "What made you think that any kind of 'fairness' applied to us?"
"She hasn't killed us fast enough for Sadeas," Moash said. "You know that soldiers have been beaten for coming to look for you, to see the man who survived the highstorm? He hasn't forgotten about you, Kaladin."
Teft was still swearing. He pulled Kaladin aside, Lopen following, but the others remained talking among themselves. "Damnation!" Teft said softly. "They like to pretend to be evenhanded with the bridge crews. Makes 'em seem fair. Looks like they gave up on that. Bastards."
"What do we do, gancho?" Lopen asked.
"We go to the chasms," Kaladin said. "Just like we're scheduled to. Then make sure we get some extra sleep tonight, as we're apparently going to be staying up all night tomorrow."
"The men will hate going into the chasms at night, lad," Teft said.
"I know."
"But we're not ready for… what we need to do," Teft said, looking to make sure nobody could hear. It was only him, Kaladin, and Lopen. "It will be another few weeks at least."
"I know."
"We won't last another few weeks!" Teft said. "With Sadeas and Kholin working together, runs happen nearly every day. Just one bad run-one time with the Parshendi drawing bead on us-and it will all be over. We'll be wiped out."
"I know!" Kaladin said, frustrated, taking a deep breath and forming fists to keep himself from exploding.
"Gancho!" Lopen said.
"What?" Kaladin snapped.
"It's happening again."
Kaladin froze, then looked down at his arms. Sure enough, he caught a hint of luminescent smoke rising from his skin. It was extremely faint-he didn't have many gemstones near him-but it was there. The wisps faded quickly. Hopefully the other bridgemen hadn't seen.
"Damnation. What did I do?"
"I don't know," Teft said. "Is it because you were angry at Hashal?"
"I was angry before."
"You breathed it in," Syl said eagerly, whipping around him in the air, a ribbon of light.
"What?"
"I saw it." She twisted herself around. "You were mad, you drew in a breath, and the Light… it came too."
Kaladin glanced at Teft, but of course the older bridgeman hadn't heard. "Gather the men," Kaladin said. "We're going down to our chasm duty."
"And what about what has happened?" Teft said. "Kaladin, we can't go on that many bridge runs. We'll be cut to pieces."
"I'm doing something about it today. Gather the men. Syl, I need something from you."
"What?" She landed in front of him and formed into a young woman.
"Go find us a place where some Parshendi corpses have fallen."
"I thought you were going to do spear practice today."
"That's what the men will be doing," Kaladin said. "I'll get them organized first. After that, I have a different task." Kaladin clapped a quick signal, and the bridgemen made a decent arrowhead formation. They carried the spears they'd stashed in the chasm, secured in a large sack filled with stones and stuck in a crevice. He clapped his hands again, and they rearranged into a double-line wall formation. He clapped again, and they formed into a ring with one man standing behind every two as a quick step-in reserve.
The walls of the chasm dripped with water, and the bridgemen splashed through puddles. They were good. Better than they had any right to be, better-for their level of training-than any team he'd worked with.
But Teft was right. They still wouldn't last long in a fight. A few more weeks and he'd have them practiced enough with thrusts and shielding one another that they'd begin to be dangerous. Until then, they were just bridgemen who could move in fancy patterns. They needed more time.
Kaladin had to buy them some.
"Teft," Kaladin said. "Take over."
The older bridgeman gave one of those cross-armed salutes.
"Syl," Kaladin said to the spren, "let's go see these bodies."
"They're close. Come on." She zipped off down the chasm, a glowing ribbon. Kaladin started after her.
"Sir," Teft called.
Kaladin hesitated. When had Teft started calling him "sir"? Odd, how right that felt. "Yes?"
"You want an escort?" Teft stood at the head of the gathered bridgemen, who were looking more and more like soldiers, with their leather vests and spears held in practiced grips.
Kaladin shook his head. "I'll be fine."
"Chasmfiends…"
"The lighteyes have killed any who prowl this close to our side. Besides, if I did run into one, what difference would two or three extra men make?"
Teft grimaced behind his short, greying beard, but offered no further objection. Kaladin continued to follow Syl. In his pouch, he carried the rest of the spheres they'd discovered on bodies while scavenging. They made a habit of keeping some of each discovery and sticking them to bridges, and with Syl helping at scavenging, they now found more than they used to. He had a small fortune in his pouch. That Stormlight-he hoped- would serve him well today.
He got out a sapphire mark for light, avoiding pools of water strewn with bones. A skull protruded from one, wavy green moss growing across the scalp like hair, lifespren bobbing above. Perhaps it should have felt eerie to walk through these darkened slots alone, but they didn't bother Kaladin. This was a sacred place, the sarcophagus of the lowly, the burial cavern of bridgemen and spearmen who died upon lighteyed edicts, spilling blood down the sides of these ragged walls. This place wasn't eerie; it was holy.
He was actually glad to be alone with his silence and the remains of those who had died. These men hadn't cared about the squabbles of those born with lighter eyes than they. These men had cared about their families or-at the very least-their sphere pouches. How many of them were trapped in this foreign land, these endless plateaus, too poor to escape back to Alethkar? Hundreds died each week, winning gems for men who were already rich, winning vengeance for a king long dead.
Kaladin passed another skull, missing its lower jaw, the crown split by an axe's blow. The bones seemed to watch him, curious, the blue Stormlight in his hand giving a haunted cast to the uneven ground and walls.
The devotaries taught that when men died, the most valiant among them-the ones who fulfilled their Callings best-would rise to help reclaim heaven. Each man would do as he had done in life. Spearmen to fight, farmers to work spiritual farms, lighteyes to lead. The ardents were careful to point out that excellence in any Calling would bring power. A farmer would be able to wave his hand and create great fields of spiritual crops. A spearman would be a great warrior, able to cause thunder with his shield and lightning with his spear.
But what of the bridgemen? Would the Almighty demand that all of these fallen rise and continue their drudgery? Would Dunny and the others run bridges in the afterlife? No ardents came to them to test their abilities or grant them Elevations. Perhaps the bridgemen wouldn't be needed in the War for Heaven. Only the very most skilled went there anyway. Others would simply slumber until the Tranquiline Halls were reclaimed.
So do I believe again now? He climbed over a boulder wedged in the chasm. Just like that? He wasn't sure. But it didn't matter. He would do the best he could for his bridgemen. If there was a Calling in that, so be it.
Of course, if he did escape with his team, Sadeas would replace them with others who would die in their stead.
I have to worry about what I can do, he told himself. Those other bridgemen aren't my responsibility.
Teft talked about the Radiants, about ideals and stories. Why couldn't men actually be like that? Why did they have to rely on dreams and fabrications for inspiration?
If you flee… you leave all the other bridgemen to be slaughtered, a voice whispered within him. There has to be something you can do for them.
No! he fought back. If I worry about that, I won't be able to save Bridge Four. If I find a way out, we're going.
If you leave, the voice seemed to say, then who will fight for them? Nobody cares. Nobody…
What was it his father had said all those years ago? He did what he felt was right because someone had to start. Someone had to take the first step.
Kaladin's hand felt warm. He stopped in the chasm, closing his eyes. You couldn't feel any heat from a sphere, usually, but the one in his hand seemed warm. And then-feeling completely natural about it-Kaladin breathed in deeply. The sphere grew cold and a wave of heat shot up his arm.
He opened his eyes. The sphere in his hand was dun and his fingers were crispy with frost. Light rose from him like smoke from a fire, white, pure.
He raised a hand and felt alive with energy. He had no need to breathe- in fact, he held the breath in, trapping the Stormlight. Syl zipped back down the corridor toward him. She twisted around him, then came to rest in the air, taking the form of a woman. "You did it. What happened?"
Kaladin shook his head, holding his breath. Something was surging within him, like…
Like a storm. Raging inside his veins, a tempest sweeping about inside his chest cavity. It made him want to run, jump, yell. It almost made him want to burst. He felt as if he could walk on air. Or walls.
Yes! he thought. He broke into a run, leaping at the side of the chasm. He hit feetfirst.
Then bounced off and slammed back into the ground. He was so stunned that he cried out, and he felt the storm within dampen as breath escaped.
He lay on his back as Stormlight rose from him more quickly now that he was breathing. He lay there as the last of it burned away.
Syl landed on his chest. "Kaladin? What was that?"
"Me being an idiot," he replied, sitting up and feeling an ache in his back and a sharp pain in his elbow where he'd hit the ground. "Teft said that the Radiants were able to walk on walls, and I felt so alive…"
Syl walked on air, stepping as if down a set of stairs. "I don't think you're ready for that yet. Don't be so risky. If you die, I go stupid again, you know."
"I'll try to keep that in mind," Kaladin said, climbing to his feet. "Maybe I'll remove dying from my list of tasks to do this week."
She snorted, zipping into the air, becoming a ribbon again. "Come on, hurry up." She shot off down the chasm. Kaladin collected the dun sphere, then dug into the pouch for another one to provide light. Had he drained them all? No. The others still glowed strongly. He selected a ruby mark, then hurried after Syl.
She led him to a narrow chasm that contained a small group of fresh Parshendi corpses. "This is morbid, Kaladin," Syl noted, standing above the bodies.
"I know. Do you know where Lopen went?"
"I sent him scavenging nearby, fetching the things you asked him for."
"Bring him, please."
Syl sighed, but zipped away. She always got testy when he made her appear to someone other than him. Kaladin knelt down. Parshendi all looked so similar. That same square face, those blocky-almost rocklike-features. Some had the beards with bits of gemstone tied in them. Those glowed, but not brightly. Cut gemstones held Stormlight better. Why was that?
Rumors in camp claimed that the Parshendi took the wounded humans away and ate them. Rumors also said they left their dead, not caring for the fallen, never building them proper pyres. But that last part was false. They did care about their dead. They all seemed to have the same sensibility that Shen did; he threw a fit every time one of the bridgemen so much as touched a Parshendi corpse.
I'd better be right about this, Kaladin thought grimly, slipping a knife off one of the Parshendi bodies. It was beautifully ornamented and forged, the steel lined with glyphs Kaladin didn't recognize. He began to cut at the strange breastplate armor that grew from the corpse's chest.
Kaladin quickly determined that Parshendi physiology was very different from human physiology. Small blue ligaments held the breastplate to the skin underneath. It was attached all the way across. He continued working. There wasn't much blood; it had pooled at the corpse's back or leaked away. His knife wasn't a surgeon's tool, but it did the job just fine. By the time Syl returned with Lopen, Kaladin had gotten the breastplate free and had moved on to the carapace helm. It was harder to remove; it had grown into the skull in places, and he had to saw with the serrated section of the blade.
"Ho, gancho," Lopen said, a sack slung over his shoulder. "You don't like them at all, do you?"
Kaladin stood, wiping his hands on the Parshendi man's skirt. "Did you find what I asked for?"
"Sure did," Lopen said, letting down the sack and digging into it. He pulled out an armored leather vest and cap, the type that spearmen used. Then he took out some thin leather straps and a medium-sized wooden spearman's shield. Finally came a series of deep red bones. Parshendi bones. At the very bottom of the sack was the rope, the one Lopen had bought and tossed into the chasm, then stashed down below.
"You haven't lost your wits, have you?" Lopen asked, eyeing the bones. "Because if you have, I've got a cousin who makes this drink for people who've lost their wits, and it might make you better, sure."
"If I'd lost my wits," Kaladin said, walking over to a pool of still water to wash off the carapace helm, "would I say that I had?"
"I don't know," Lopen said, leaning back. "Maybe. Guess it doesn't matter if you're crazy or not."
"You'd follow a crazy man into battle?"
"Sure," Lopen said. "If you're crazy, you're a good type, and I like you. Not a killing-people-in-their-sleep type of crazy." He smiled. "Besides. We all follow crazies all the time. Do it every day with lighteyes."
Kaladin chuckled.
"So what's this all for?"
Kaladin didn't answer. He brought the breastplate over to the leather vest, then tied it onto the front with some of the leather straps. He did the same with the cap and the helm, though he eventually had to saw some grooves into the helm with his knife to make it stay.
Once done, Kaladin used the last straps to tie the bones together and attach them to the front of the round wooden shield. The bones rattled as he lifted the shield, but he decided it was good enough.
He took shield, cap, and breastplate and put them all into Lopen's sack. They barely fit. "All right," he said, standing up. "Syl, lead us to the short chasm." They'd spent some time investigating, finding the best place to launch arrows into the bottom of permanent bridges. One bridge in particular was close to Sadeas's warcamp-so they often traversed it on the way out on a bridge run-and spanned a particularly shallow chasm. Only about forty feet deep, rather than the usual hundred or more.
She nodded, then zipped away, leading them there. Kaladin and Lopen followed. Teft had orders to lead the others back and meet Kaladin at the base of the ladder, but Kaladin and Lopen should be far ahead of them. He spent the hike listening with half an ear as Lopen talked about his extended family.
The more Kaladin thought about what he was planning, the more brazen it seemed. Perhaps Lopen was right to question his sanity. But Kaladin had tried being rational. He'd tried being careful. That had failed; now there wasn't any more time for logic or care. Hashal obviously intended Bridge Four to be exterminated.
When clever, careful plans failed, it was time to try something desperate.
Lopen cut off suddenly. Kaladin hesitated. The Herdazian man had grown pale-faced and frozen in place. What was…
Scraping. Kaladin froze as well, a panic rising in him. One of the side corridors echoed with a deep grinding sound. Kaladin turned slowly, just in time to catch sight of something large-no, something enormous- moving down the distant chasm. Shadows in the dim light, the sound of chitinous legs scratching on rock. Kaladin held his breath, sweating, but the beast didn't come in their direction.
The scraping grew softer, then eventually faded. He and Lopen stood immobile for a long time after the last sound had vanished.
Finally, Lopen spoke. "Guess the nearby ones aren't all dead, eh, gancho?"
"Yeah," Kaladin said. He jumped suddenly as Syl zipped back to find them. He unconsciously sucked in Stormlight as he did so, and when she alighted in the air, she found him sheepishly glowing.
"What is going on?" she demanded, hands on hips.
"Chasmfiend," Kaladin said.
"Really?" She sounded excited. "We should chase after it!"
"What?"
"Sure," she said. "You could fight it, I'll bet."
"Syl…"
Her eyes were twinkling with amusement. Just a joke. "Come on." She zipped away.
He and Lopen stepped more softly now. Eventually Syl landed on the side of the chasm, standing there as if in mockery of when Kaladin had tried to walk up the wall.
Kaladin looked up at the shadow of a wooden bridge forty feet above. This was the shallowest chasm they'd been able to find; they tended to get deeper and deeper the farther eastward you went. More and more, he was certain that trying to escape to the east was impossible. It was too far, and surviving the highstorm floods was too difficult a challenge. The original plan-fighting or bribing the guards, then running-was the best one.
But they needed to live long enough to try that. The bridge above offered an opportunity, if Kaladin could reach it. He hefted his small bag of spheres and his slung sack full of armor and bones over his shoulder. He'd originally intended to have Rock shoot an arrow with a rope tied to it over the bridge, then back down into the chasm. With some men holding one end, another could have climbed up and tied the sack to the bridge's underside.
But that would risk letting an arrow shoot out of the chasm where scouts could see. They were said to be very keen-eyed, as the armies depended on them to spot chasmfiends making chrysalises.
Kaladin thought he had a better way than the arrow. Maybe. "We need rocks," he said. "Fist-size ones. A lot of them."
Lopen shrugged and began searching about. Kaladin joined him, fishing them out of puddles and pulling them from crevasses. There was no shortage of stones in the chasms. In a short time, he had a large pile of rocks in a sack.
He took the pouch of spheres in his hand and tried to think the same way he had earlier, when he'd drawn in the Stormlight. This is our last chance.
"Life before death," he whispered. "Strength before weakness. Journey before destination."
The First Ideal of the Knights Radiant. He breathed in deeply, and a thick jolt of power shot up his arm. His muscles burned with energy, with the desire to move. The tempest spread within, pushing at his skin, causing his blood to pump in a powerful rhythm. He opened his eyes. Glowing smoke rose around him. He was able to contain much of the Light, holding it in by holding his breath.
It's like a storm inside me. It felt as if it would rip him apart.
He set the sack with the armor on the ground, but wound the rope around his arm and tied the sack of rocks to his belt. He took out a single fist-size stone and hefted it, feeling its storm-smoothed sides. This had better work…
He infused the stone with Stormlight, frost crystallizing on his arm. He wasn't sure how he did it, but it felt natural, like pouring liquid into a cup. Light seemed to pool underneath the skin of his hand, then transfer to the rock-as if he were painting it with a vibrant, glowing liquid.
He pressed the stone to the rock wall. It fixed in place, leaking Stormlight, clinging so strongly that he couldn't pry it free. He tested his weight on it, and it held. He placed another one a little lower, then another a little higher. Then, wishing he had someone to burn him a prayer for success, he started climbing.
He tried not to think about what he was doing. Climbing on rocks stuck to the wall by… what? Light? Spren? He kept on going. It was a lot like climbing the stone formations back near Hearthstone with Tien, except that he could make handholds exactly where he wanted.
Should have found some rock dust to cover my hands, he thought, pulling himself up, then taking another stone from his sack and sticking it into place.
Syl walked along beside him, her casual stroll seeming to mock the difficulty of his climb. As he shifted his weight to another rock, he heard an ominous click from below. He risked a glance downward. The first of his rocks had fallen free. The ones near it were leaking Stormlight only faintly now.
The rocks led up toward him like a set of burning footprints. The storm inside him had quieted, though it still blew and raged inside his veins, thrilling and distracting at the same time. What would happen if he ran out of Light before he reached the top?
The next rock fell free. The one beside it followed a few seconds later. Lopen stood on the other side of the chasm bottom, leaning against the wall, interested but relaxed.
Keep moving! Kaladin thought, annoyed at himself for getting distracted. He turned back to his work.
Just as his arms were beginning to burn from the climb, he reached the underside of the bridge. He reached out as two more of his stones fell free. The clatter of each one was louder now, as they fell a much larger distance.
Steadying himself on the bottom of the bridge with one hand, feet still pushing against the highest rocks, he looped the end of the rope around a wooden bridge support. He pulled it around and threaded it through again to make a makeshift knot. He left plenty of extra rope on the short end.
He let the rest of the rope slide free of his shoulder and drop to the floor below. "Lopen," he called. Light steamed from his mouth as he spoke. "Pull it tight."
The Herdazian did so, and Kaladin held to his end, making the knot firm. Then he took hold of the long section of rope and let himself swing free, dangling from the bottom of the bridge. The knot held.
Kaladin relaxed. He was still steaming light, and-save for the call to Lopen-he'd been holding his breath for a good quarter hour. That could be handy, he thought, though his lungs were starting to burn, so he started to breathe normally. The Light didn't leave him altogether, though it escaped faster.
"All right," Kaladin said to Lopen. "Tie the other sack to the bottom of the rope."
The rope wiggled, and a few moments later Lopen called up that it was done. Kaladin gripped the rope with his legs to hold himself in place, then used his hands to pull up the length underneath, hoisting up the sack full of armor. Using the rope on the short end of the knot, he slipped his pouch of dun spheres into the sack with the armor, then tied it into place underneath the bridge where-he hoped-Lopen and Dabbid would be able to get to it from above.
He looked down. The ground looked so much more distant than it would have from the bridge above. From this slightly different perspective, everything changed.
He didn't get vertigo from the height. Instead, he felt a little surge of excitement. Something about him had always liked being up high. It felt natural. It was being below-trapped in holes and unable to see the world- that was depressing.
He considered his next move.
"What?" Syl asked, stepping up to him, standing on air.
"If I leave the rope here, someone might spot it while crossing the bridge."
"So cut it free."
He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "While dangling from it?"
"You'll be fine."
"That's a forty-foot drop! I'd break bones at the very least."
"No," Syl said. "I feel right about this, Kaladin. You'll be fine. Trust me."
"Trust you? Syl, you've said yourself that your memory is fractured!"
"You insulted me the other week," she said, folding her arms. "I think you owe me an apology."
"I'm supposed to apologize by cutting a rope and dropping forty feet?"
"No, you apologize by trusting me. I told you. I feel right about this."
He sighed, looking down again. His Stormlight was running out. What else could he do? Leaving the rope would be foolish. Could he tie it in another knot, one he could shake free once at the bottom?
If that type of knot existed, he didn't know how to tie it. He clenched his teeth. Then, as the last of his rocks fell off and clattered to the ground, he took a deep breath and pulled out the Parshendi knife he'd taken earlier. He moved swiftly, before he had a chance to reconsider, and sliced the rope free.
He dropped in a rush, one hand still holding the sliced rope, stomach lurching with the jarring distress of falling. The bridge shot away as if rising, and Kaladin's panicked mind immediately sent his eyes downward. This wasn't beautiful. This was terrifying. It was horrible. He was going to die! He It's all right.
His emotions calmed in a heartbeat. Somehow, he knew what to do. He twisted in the air, dropping the rope and hitting the ground with both feet down. He came to a crouch, resting one hand on the stone, a jolt of coldness shooting through him. His remaining Stormlight came out in a single burst, flung from his body in a luminescent smoke ring that crashed against the ground before spreading out, vanishing.
He stood up straight. Lopen gaped. Kaladin felt an ache in his legs from hitting, but it was like that of having leaped four or five feet.
"Like ten crashes of thunder on the mounts, gancho!" Lopen exclaimed. "That was incredible!"
"Thank you," Kaladin said. He raised a hand to his head, glancing at the rocks scattered about the base of the wall, then looking up at the armor tied securely up above.
"I told you," Syl said, landing on his shoulder. She sounded triumphant.
"Lopen," Kaladin said. "You think you can get that bundle of armor during the next bridge run?"
"Sure," Lopen said. "Nobody will see. They ignore us Herdies, they ignore bridgemen, and they especially ignore cripples. To them, I'm so invisible I should be walking through walls."
Kaladin nodded. "Get it. Hide it. Give it to me right before the final plateau assault."
"They aren't going to like you going into a bridge run armored, gancho," Lopen said. "I don't think this will be any different from what you tried before."
"We'll see," Kaladin said. "Just do it." "The death is my life, the strength becomes my weakness, the journey has ended." -Dated Betabanes, 1173, 95 seconds pre-death. Subject: a scholar of some minor renown. Sample collected secondhand. Considered questionable. "That is why, Father," Adolin said, "you absolutely cannot abdicate to me, no matter what we discover with the visions."
"Is that so?" Dalinar asked, smiling to himself.
"Yes."
"Very well, you've convinced me."
Adolin stopped dead in the hallway. The two of them were on their way to Dalinar's chambers. Dalinar turned and looked back at the younger man. "Really?" Adolin asked. "I mean, I actually won an argument with you?"
"Yes," Dalinar said. "Your points are valid." He didn't add that he'd come to the decision on his own. "No matter what, I will stay. I can't leave this fight now."
Adolin smiled broadly.
"But," Dalinar said, raising a finger. "I have a requirement. I will draft an order-notarized by the highest of my scribes and witnessed by Elhokar- that gives you the right to depose me, should I grow too mentally unstable. We won't let the other camps know of it, but I will not risk letting myself grow so crazy that it's impossible to remove me."
"All right," Adolin said, walking up to Dalinar. They were alone in the hallway. "I can accept that. Assuming you don't tell Sadeas about it. I still don't trust him."
"I'm not asking you to trust him," Dalinar said pushing the door open to his chambers. "You just need to believe that he is capable of changing. Sadeas was once a friend, and I think he can be again."
The cool stones of the Soulcast chamber seemed to hold the chill of the spring weather. It continued to refuse to slip into summer, but at least it hadn't slid into winter either. Elthebar promised that it would not do so-but, then, the stormwarden's promises were always filled with caveats. The Almighty's will was mysterious, and the signs couldn't always be trusted.
He accepted stormwardens now, though when they'd first grown popular, he'd rejected their aid. No man should try to know the future, nor lay claim to it, for it belonged only to the Almighty himself. And Dalinar wondered how stormwardens could do their research without reading. They claimed they didn't, but he'd seen their books filled with glyphs. Glyphs. They weren't meant to be used in books; they were pictures. A man who had never seen one before could still understand what one meant, based on its shape. That made interpreting glyphs different from reading.
Stormwardens did a lot of things that made people uncomfortable. Unfortunately, they were just so useful. Knowing when a highstorm might strike, well, that was just too tempting an advantage. Even though stormwardens were frequently wrong, they were more often right.
Renarin knelt beside the hearth, inspecting the fabrial that had been installed there to warm the room. Navani had already arrived. She sat at Dalinar's elevated writing desk, scribbling a letter; she waved a distracted greeting with her reed as Dalinar entered. She wore the fabrial he had seen her displaying at the feast a few weeks back; the multilegged contraption was attached to her shoulder, gripping the cloth of her violet dress.
"I don't know, Father," Adolin said, closing the door. Apparently he was still thinking about Sadeas. "I don't care if he's listening to The Way of Kings. He's just doing it to make you look less closely at the plateau assaults so that his clerks can arrange his cut of the gemhearts more favorably. He's manipulating you."
Dalinar shrugged. "Gemhearts are secondary, son. If I can reforge an alliance with him, then it's worth nearly any cost. In a way, I'm the one manipulating him."
Adolin sighed. "Very well. But I'm still going to keep a hand on my money pouch when he's near."
"Just try not to insult him," Dalinar said. "Oh, and something else. I would like you to take extra care with the King's Guard. If there are soldiers we know for certain are loyal to me, put those in charge of guarding Elhokar's rooms. His words about a conspiracy have me worried."
"Surely you don't give them credence," Adolin said.
"Something odd did happen with his armor. This whole mess stinks like cremslime. Perhaps it will turn out to be nothing. For now, humor me."
"I have to note," Navani said, "that I didn't much care for Sadeas back when you, he, and Gavilar were friends." She finished her letter with a flourish.
"He's not behind the attacks on the king," Dalinar said.
"How can you be certain?" Navani asked.
"Because it's not his way," Dalinar said. "Sadeas never wanted the title of king. Being highprince gives him plenty of power, but leaves him with someone to take the blame for large-scale mistakes." Dalinar shook his head. "He never tried to seize the throne from Gavilar, and he's even better positioned with Elhokar."
"Because my son's a weakling," Navani said. It wasn't an accusation.
"He's not weak," Dalinar said, "He's inexperienced. But yes, that does make the situation ideal for Sadeas. He's telling the truth-he asked to be Highprince of Information because he wants very badly to find out who is trying to kill Elhokar."
"Mashala," Renarin said, using the formal term for aunt. "That fabrial on your shoulder, what does it do?"
Navani looked down at the device with a sly smile. Dalinar could see she'd been hoping one of them would ask. Dalinar sat down; the highstorm would be coming soon.
"Oh, this? It's a type of painrial. Here, let me show you." She reached up with her safehand, pushing a clip that released the clawlike legs. She held it up. "Do you have any aches, dear? A stubbed toe, perhaps, or a scrape?"
Renarin shook his head.
"I pulled a muscle in my hand during dueling practice earlier," Adolin said. "It's not bad, but it does ache."
"Come over here," Navani said. Dalinar smiled fondly-Navani was always at her most genuine when playing with new fabrials. It was one of the few times when one got to see her without any pretense. This wasn't Navani the king's mother or Navani the political schemer. This was Navani the excited engineer.
"The artifabrian community is doing some amazing things," Navani said as Adolin proffered his hand. "I'm particularly proud of this little device, as I had a hand in its construction." She clipped it onto Adolin's hand, wrapping the clawlike legs around the palm and locking them into place.
Adolin raised his hand, turning it around. "The pain is gone."
"But you can still feel, correct?" Navani said in a self-satisfied way.
Adolin prodded his palm with the fingers of his other hand. "The hand isn't numb at all."
Renarin watched with keen interest, bespectacled eyes curious, intense. If only the lad could be persuaded to become an ardent. He could be an engineer then, if he wanted. And yet he refused. His reasons always seemed like poor excuses to Dalinar.
"It's kind of bulky," Dalinar noted.
"Well, it's just an early model," Navani said defensively. "I was working backward from one of those dreadful creations of Longshadow's, and I didn't have the luxury of refining the shape. I think it has a lot of potential. Imagine a few of these on a battlefield to dull the pain of wounded soldiers. Imagine it in the hands of a surgeon, who wouldn't have to worry about his patients' pain while working on them."
Adolin nodded. Dalinar had to admit, it did sound like a useful device.
Navani smiled. "This is a special time to be alive; we're learning all kinds of things about fabrials. This, for instance, is a diminishing fabrial- it decreases something, in this case pain. It doesn't actually make the wound any better, but it might be a step in that direction. Either way, it's a completely different type from paired fabrials like the spanreeds. If you could see the plans we have for the future…"
"Like what?" Adolin asked.
"You'll find out eventually," Navani said, smiling mysteriously. She removed the fabrial from Adolin's hand.
"Shardblades?" Adolin sounded excited.
"Well, no," Navani said. "The design and workings of Shardblades and Plate are completely different from everything we've discovered. The closest anyone has are those shields in Jah Keved. But as far as I can tell, they use a completely different design principle from regular Shardplate. The ancients must have had a wondrous grasp of engineering."
"No," Dalinar said. "I've seen them, Navani. They're… well, they're ancient. Their technology is primitive."
"And the Dawncities?" Navani asked skeptically. "The fabrials?"
Dalinar shook his head. "I've seen neither. There are Shardblades in the visions, but they seem so out of place. Perhaps they were given directly by the Heralds, as the legends say."
"Perhaps," Navani said. "Why don't-"
She vanished.
Dalinar blinked. He hadn't heard the highstorm approaching.
He was now in a large, open room with pillars running along the sides. The enormous pillars looked sculpted of soft sandstone, with unornamented, granular sides. The ceiling was far above, carved from the rock in geometric patterns that looked faintly familiar. Circles connected by lines, spreading outward from one another…
"I don't know what to do, old friend," a voice said from the side. Dalinar turned to see a youthful man in regal white and gold robes, walking with his hands clasped before him, hidden by voluminous sleeves. He had dark hair pulled back in a braid and a short beard that came to a point. Gold threads were woven into his hair and came together on his forehead to form a golden symbol. The symbol of the Knights Radiant.
"They say that each time it is the same," the man said. "We are never ready for the Desolations. We should be getting better at resisting, but each time we step closer to destruction instead." He turned to Dalinar, as if expecting a response.
Dalinar glanced down. He too wore ornamental robes, though not as lavish. Where was he? What time? He needed to find clues for Navani to record and for Jasnah to use in proving-or disproving-these dreams.
"I don't know what to say either," Dalinar responded. If he wanted information, he needed to act more natural than he had in previous visions.
The regal man sighed. "I had hoped you would have wisdom to share with me, Karm." They continued walking toward the side of the room, approaching a place where the wall split into a massive balcony with a stone railing. It looked out upon an evening sky; the setting sun stained the air a dirty, sultry red.
"Our own natures destroy us," the regal man said, voice soft, though his face was angry. "Alakavish was a Surgebinder. He should have known better. And yet, the Nahel bond gave him no more wisdom than a regular man. Alas, not all spren are as discerning as honorspren."
"I agree," Dalinar said.
The other man looked relieved. "I worried that you would find my claims too forward. Your own Surgebinders were… But, no, we should not look backward."
What's a Surgebinder? Dalinar wanted to scream the question out, but there was no way. Not without sounding completely out of place.
Perhaps…
"What do you think should be done with these Surgebinders?" Dalinar asked carefully.
"I don't know if we can force them to do anything." Their footsteps echoed in the empty room. Were there no guards, no attendants? "Their power… well, Alakavish proves the allure that Surgebinders have for the common people. If only there were a way to encourage them…" The man stopped, turning to Dalinar. "They need to be better, old friend. We all do. The responsibility of what we've been given-whether it be the crown or the Nahel bond-needs to make us better."
He seemed to expect something from Dalinar. But what?
"I can read your disagreement in your face," the regal man said. "It's all right, Karm. I realize that my thoughts on this subject are unconventional. Perhaps the rest of you are right, perhaps our abilities are proof of a divine election. But if this is true, should we not be more wary of how we act?"
Dalinar frowned. That sounded familiar to him. The regal man sighed, walking to the balcony lip. Dalinar joined him, stepping outside. The perspective finally allowed him to look down on the landscape below.
Thousands of corpses confronted him.
Dalinar gasped. Dead filled the streets of the city outside, a city that Dalinar vaguely recognized. Kholinar, he thought. My homeland. He stood with the regal man at the top of a low tower, three stories high-a keep of some sort, constructed of stone. It seemed to sit where the palace would someday be.
The city was unmistakable, with its peaked stone formations rising like enormous fins into the air. The windblades, they were called. But they were less weathered than he was accustomed to, and the city around them was very different. Built of blocky stone structures, many of which had been knocked down. The destruction spread far, lining the sides of primitive streets. Had the city been hit by an earthquake?
No, those corpses had fallen in battle. Dalinar could smell the stench of blood, viscera, smoke. The bodies lay strewn about, many near the low wall that surrounded the keep. The wall was broken in places, smashed. And there were rocks of strange shape mixed about the corpses. Stones cut like…
Blood of my fathers, Dalinar thought, gripping the stone railing, leading forward. Those aren't stones. They're creatures. Massive creatures, easily five or six times the size of a person, their skin dull and grey like granite. They had long limbs and skeletal bodies, the forelegs-or were they arms?-set into wide shoulders. The faces were lean, narrow. Arrowlike.
"What happened here?" Dalinar asked despite himself. "It's terrible!"
"I ask myself this same thing. How could we let this occur? The Desolations are well named. I've heard initial counts. Eleven years of war, and nine out of ten people I once ruled are dead. Do we even have kingdoms to lead any longer? Sur is gone, I'm sure of it. Tarma, Eiliz, they won't likely survive. Too many of their people have fallen."
Dalinar had never heard of those places.
The man made a fist, pounding it softly against the railing. Burning stations had been set up in the distance; they had begun cremating the corpses. "The others want to blame Alakavish. And true, if he hadn't brought us to war before the Desolation, we might not have been broken this badly. But Alakavish was a symptom of a greater disease. When the Heralds next return, what will they find? A people who have forgotten them yet again? A world torn by war and squabbling? If we continue as we have, then perhaps we deserve to lose."
Dalinar felt a chill. He had thought that this vision must come after his previous one, but prior visions hadn't been chronological. He hadn't seen any Knights Radiant yet, but that might not be because they had disbanded. Perhaps they didn't exist yet. And perhaps there was a reason this man's words sounded so familiar.
Could it be? Could he really be standing beside the very man whose words Dalinar had listened to time and time again? "There is honor in loss," Dalinar said carefully, using words repeated several times in The Way of Kings.
"If that loss brings learning." The man smiled. "Using my own sayings against me again, Karm?"
Dalinar felt himself grow short of breath. The man himself. Nohadon. The great king. He was real. Or he had been real. This man was younger than Dalinar had imagined him, but that humble, yet regal bearing… yes, it was right.
"I'm thinking of giving up my throne," Nohadon said softly.
"No!" Dalinar stepped toward him. "You mustn't."
"I cannot lead them," the man said. "Not if this is what my leadership brings them to."
"Nohadon."
The man turned to him, frowning. "What?"
Dalinar paused. Could he be wrong about this man's identity? But no. The name Nohadon was more of a title. Many famous people in history had been given holy names by the Church, before it was disbanded. Even Bajerden wasn't likely to be his real name; that was lost in time.
"It is nothing," Dalinar said. "You cannot give up your throne. The people need a leader."
"They have leaders," Nohadon said. "There are princes, kings, Soulcasters, Surgebinders. We never lack men and women who wish to lead."
"True," Dalinar said, "but we do lack ones who are good at it."
Nohadon leaned over the railing. He stared at the fallen, an expression of deep grief-and trouble-on his face. It was so strange to see the man like this. He was so young. Dalinar had never imagined such insecurity, such torment, in him.
"I know that feeling," Dalinar said softly. "The uncertainty, the shame, the confusion."
"You can read me too well, old friend."
"I know those emotions because I've felt them. I… I never assumed that you would feel them too."
"Then I correct myself. Perhaps you don't know me well enough."
Dalinar fell silent.
"So what do I do?" Nohadon asked.
"You're asking me?"
"You're my advisor, aren't you? Well, I should like some advice."
"I… You can't give up your throne."
"And what should I do with it?" Nohadon turned and walked along the long balcony. It seemed to run around this entire level. Dalinar joined him, passing places where the stone was ripped, the railing broken away.
"I haven't faith in people any longer, old friend," Nohadon said. "Put two men together, and they will find something to argue about. Gather them into groups, and one group will find reason to oppress or attack another. Now this. How do I protect them? How do I stop this from happening again?"
"You dictate a book," Dalinar said eagerly. "A grand book to give people hope, to explain your philosophy on leadership and how lives should be lived!"
"A book? Me. Write a book?"
"Why not?"
"Because it's a fantastically stupid idea."
Dalinar's jaw dropped.
"The world as we know it has quite nearly been destroyed," Nohadon said. "Barely a family exists that hasn't lost half its members! Our best men are corpses on that field, and we haven't food to last more than two or three months at best. And I'm to spend my time writing a book? Who would scribe it for me? All of my wordsmen were slaughtered when Yelignar broke into the chancery. You're the only man of letters I know of who's still alive."
A man of letters? This was an odd time. "I could write it, then."
"With one arm? Have you learned to write left-handed, then?"
Dalinar looked down. He had both of his arms, though apparently the man Nohadon saw was missing his right.
"No, we need to rebuild," Nohadon said. "I just wish there were a way to convince the kings-the ones still alive-not to seek advantage over one another." Nohadon tapped the balcony. "So this is my decision. Step down, or do what is needed. This isn't a time for writing. It's a time for action. And then, unfortunately, a time for the sword."
The sword? Dalinar thought. From you, Nohadon?
It wouldn't happen. This man would become a great philosopher; he would teach peace and reverence for others, and would not force men to do as he wished. He would guide them to acting with honor.
Nohadon turned to Dalinar. "I apologize, Karm. I should not dismiss your suggestions right after asking for them. I'm on edge, as I imagine that we all are. At times, it seems to me that to be human is to want that which we cannot have. For some, this is power. For me, it is peace."
Nohadon turned, walking back down the balcony. Though his pace was slow, his posture indicated that he wished to be alone. Dalinar let him go.
"He goes on to become one of the most influential writers Roshar has ever known," Dalinar said.
There was silence, save for the calls of the people working below, gathering the corpses.
"I know you're there," Dalinar said.
Silence.
"What does he decide?" Dalinar asked. "Did he unite them, as he wanted?"
The voice that often spoke in his visions did not come. Dalinar received no answer to his questions. He sighed, turning to look out over the fields of dead.
"You are right about one thing, at least, Nohadon. To be human is to want that which we cannot have."
The landscape darkened, the sun setting. That darkness enveloped him, and he closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was back in his rooms, standing with his hands on the back of a chair. He turned to Adolin and Renarin, who stood nearby, anxious, prepared to grab him if he got violent.
"Well," Dalinar said, "that was meaningless. I learned nothing. Blast! I'm doing a poor job of-"
"Dalinar," Navani said curtly, still scribbling with a reed at her paper. "The last thing you said before the vision ended. What was it?"
Dalinar frowned. "The last…"
"Yes," Navani said, urgent. "The very last words you spoke."
"I was quoting the man I'd been speaking with. 'To be human is to want that which we cannot have.' Why?"
She ignored him, writing furiously. Once done, she slid off the high-legged chair, hurrying to his bookshelf. "Do you have a copy of… Yes, I thought you might. These are Jasnah's books, aren't they?"
"Yes," Dalinar said. "She wanted them cared for until she returned."
Navani pulled a volume off the shelf. "Corvana's Analectics." She set the volume on the writing desk and leafed through the pages.
Dalinar joined her, though-of course-he couldn't make sense of the page. "What does it matter?"
"Here," Navani said. She looked up at Dalinar. "When you go into these visions of yours, you know that you speak."
"Gibberish. Yes, my sons have told me."
"Anak malah kaf, del makian habin yah," Navani said. "Sound familiar?"
Dalinar shook his head, baffled.
"It sounds a lot like what father was saying," Renarin said. "When he was in the vision."
"Not 'a lot like' Renarin," Navani said, looking smug. "It's exactly the same phrase. That is the last thing you said before coming out of your trance. I wrote down everything-as best I could-that you babbled today."
"For what purpose?" Dalinar asked.
"Because," Navani said "I thought it might be helpful. And it was. The same phrase is in the Analectics, almost exactly."
"What?" Dalinar asked, incredulous. "How?"
"It's a line from a song," Navani said. "A chant by the Vanrial, an order of artists who live on the slopes of the Silent Mount in Jah Keved. Year after year, century after century, they've sung these same words-songs they claim were written in the Dawnchant by the Heralds themselves. They have the words of those songs, written in an ancient script. But the meanings have been lost. They're just sounds, now. Some scholars believe that the script-and the songs themselves-may indeed be in the Dawnchant."
"And I…" Dalinar said.
"You just spoke a line from one of them," Navani said. "Beyond that, if the phrase you just gave me is correct, you translated it. This could prove the Vanrial Hypothesis! One sentence isn't much, but it could give us the key to translating the entire script. It has been itching at me for a while, listening to these visions. I thought the things you were saying had too much order to be gibberish." She looked at Dalinar, smiling deeply. "Dalinar, you might just have cracked one of the most perplexing-and ancient- mysteries of all time."
"Wait," Adolin said. "What are you saying?"
"What I'm saying, nephew," Navani said, looking directly at him, "is that we have your proof."
"But," Adolin said. "I mean, he could have heard that one phrase…"
"And extrapolated an entire language from it?" Navani said, holding up a sheet full of writings. "This is not gibberish, but it's no language that people now speak. I suspect it is what it seems, the Dawnchant. So unless you can think of another way your father learned to speak a dead language, Adolin, the visions are most certainly real."
The room fell silent. Navani herself looked stunned by what she had said. She shook it off quickly. "Now, Dalinar," she said, "I want you to describe this vision as accurately as possible. I need the exact words you spoke, if you can recall them. Every bit we gather will help my scholars sort through this…"
"In the storm I awaken, falling, spinning, grieving." -Dated Kakanev, 1173, 13 seconds pre-death. Subject was a city guardsman. "How can you be so sure it was him, Dalinar?" Navani asked softly.
Dalinar shook his head. "I just am. That was Nohadon."
It had been several hours since the end of the vision. Navani had left her writing table to sit in a more comfortable chair near Dalinar. Renarin sat across from him, accompanying them for propriety's sake. Adolin had left to get the highstorm damage report. The lad had seemed very disturbed by the discovery that the visions were real.
"But the man you saw never spoke his name," Navani said.
"It was him, Navani." Dalinar stared toward the wall over Renarin's head, looking at the smooth brown Soulcast rock. "There was an aura of command about him, the weight of great responsibilities. A regality."
"It could have been some other king," she said. "After all, he discarded your suggestion that he write a book."
"It just wasn't the time for him to write it yet. So much death… He was cast down by some great loss. Stormfather! Nine out of ten people dead in war. Can you imagine such a thing?"
"The Desolations," Navani said.
Unite the people… The True Desolation comes…
"Do you know of any references to the Desolations?" Dalinar asked. "Not the tales ardents tell. Historical references?"
Navani held a cup of warmed violet wine in her hand, beads of condensation on the rim of the glass. "Yes, but I am the wrong one to ask. Jasnah is the historian."
"I think I saw the aftermath of one. I… I may have seen corpses of Voidbringers. Could that give us more proof?"
"Nothing nearly as good as the linguistics." Navani took a sip of her wine. "The Desolations are matters of ancient lore. It could be argued that you imagined what you expected to see. But those words-if we can translate them, nobody will be able to dispute that you are seeing something real." Her writing board lay on the low table between them, reed and ink set carefully across the paper.
"You intend to tell others?" Dalinar asked. "Of my visions?"
"How else will we explain what is happening to you?"
Dalinar hesitated. How could he explain? On one hand, it was relieving to know that he was not mad. But what if some force were trying to mislead him with these visions, using images of Nohadon and the Radiants because he would find them trustworthy?
The Knights Radiant fell, Dalinar reminded himself. They abandoned us. Some of the other orders may have turned against us, as the legends say. There was an unsettling edge to all of that. He had another stone in rebuilding the foundation of who he was, but the most important point still remained undecided. Did he trust his visions or not? He couldn't go back to believing them unquestioningly, not now that Adolin's challenges had raised real worries in his head.
Until he knew their source, he felt he shouldn't spread knowledge of them.
"Dalinar," Navani said, leaning forward. "The warcamps speak of your episodes. Even the wives of your officers are uncomfortable. They think you fear the storms, or that you have some disease of the mind. This will vindicate you."
"How? By making me into some kind of mystic? Many will think that the breeze of these visions blows too close to prophecy."
"You see the past, Father," Renarin said. "That is not forbidden. And if the Almighty sends them, then how could men question?"
"Adolin and I both spoke with ardents," Dalinar replied. "They said it was very unlikely that this would come from the Almighty. If we do decide the visions are to be trusted, many will disagree with me."
Navani settled back, sipping her wine, safehand lying across her lap. "Dalinar, your sons told me that you once sought the Old Magic. Why? What did you ask of the Nightwatcher, and what curse did she give you in return?"
"I told them that shame is my own," Dalinar said. "And I will not share it."
The room fell silent. The flurries of rain following the highstorm had ceased falling on the roof. "It might be important," Navani finally said.
"It was long ago. Long before the visions began. I don't think it's related."
"But it could be."
"Yes," he admitted. Would that day never stop haunting him? Was not losing all memory of his wife enough?
What did Renarin think? Would he condemn his father for such an egregious sin? Dalinar forced himself to look up and meet his son's bespectacled eyes.
Curiously, Renarin didn't seem bothered. Just thoughtful.
"I'm sorry you had to discover my shame," Dalinar said, looking to Navani.
She waved indifferently. "Soliciting the Old Magic is offensive to the devotaries, but their punishments for the act are never severe. I assume that you didn't have to do much to be cleansed."
"The ardents asked for spheres to give the poor," Dalinar said. "And I had to commission a series of prayers. None of that removed the effects or my sense of guilt."
"I think you'd be surprised at how many devout lighteyes turn to the Old Magic at one point in their lives or another. The ones who can make their way to the Valley, at least. But I do wonder if this is related."
"Aunt," Renarin said, turning to her. "I have recently asked for a number of readings about the Old Magic. I agree with his assessment. This does not feel like the work of the Nightwatcher. She gives curses in exchange for granting small desires. Always one curse and one desire. Father, I assume you know what both of those things are?"
"Yes," he said. "I know exactly what my curse was, and it does not relate to this."
"Then it is unlikely that the Old Magic is to blame."
"Yes," Dalinar said. "But your aunt is right to question. The truth is, we don't have any proof that this came from the Almighty either. Something wants me to know of the Desolations and the Knights Radiant. Perhaps we should start asking ourselves why that is."
"What were the Desolations, Aunt?" Renarin asked. "The ardents talk of the Voidbringers. Of mankind, and the Radiants, and of fighting. But what were they really? Do we know anything specific?"
"There are folklorists among your father's clerks who would serve you better in this matter."
"Perhaps," Dalinar added, "but I'm not sure which of them I can trust."
Navani paused. "Fair enough. Well, from what I understand, there are no primary accounts remaining. This was long, long ago. I do recall that the myth of Parasaphi and Nadris mentions the Desolations."
"Parasaphi," Renarin said. "She's the one who searched out the seedstones."
"Yes," Navani replied. "In order to repopulate her fallen people, she climbed the peaks of Dara-the myth changes, listing different modern mountain ranges as the true peaks of Dara-to find stones touched by the Heralds themselves. She brought them to Nadris on his deathbed and harvested his seed to bring life to the stones. They hatched forth ten children, which she used to found a new nation. Marnah, I believe it was called."
"Origin of the Makabaki," Renarin said. "Mother told me that story when I was a child."
Dalinar shook his head. "Born from rocks?" The old stories rarely made much sense to him, although the devotaries had canonized many of them.
"The story mentions the Desolations at the beginning," Navani said. "Giving them credit for having wiped out Parasaphi's people."
"But what were they?"
"Wars." Navani took a sip of wine. "The Voidbringers came again and again, trying to force mankind off Roshar and into Damnation. Just as they once forced mankind-and the Heralds-out of the Tranquiline Halls."
"When were the Knights Radiant founded?" Dalinar asked.
Navani shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps they were some military group from a specific kingdom, or perhaps they were originally a mercenary band. That would make it easy to see how they could eventually become tyrants."
"My visions don't imply that they were tyrants," he said. "Perhaps that is the true purpose of the visions. To make me believe lies about the Radiants. Making me trust them, perhaps trying to lead me to mimic their downfall and betrayal."
"I don't know," Navani said, sounding skeptical. "I don't think you've seen anything untrue about the Radiants. The legends tend to agree that the Radiants weren't always so bad. As much as the legends agree on anything, at least."
Dalinar stood and took her nearly empty cup, then walked over to the serving table and refilled it. Discovering that he was not mad should have helped clear things up, but instead left him more disturbed. What if the Voidbringers were behind the visions? Some stories he heard said that they could possess the bodies of men and make them do evil. Or, if they were from the Almighty, what was their purpose?
"I need to think on all of this," he said. "It has been a long day. Please, if I could be left to my own thoughts now."
Renarin rose and bowed his head in respect before heading to the door. Navani rose more slowly, sleek dress rustling as she set her cup on the table, then walked over to fetch her pain-drinking fabrial. Renarin left, and Dalinar walked to the doorway, waiting as Navani approached. He didn't intend to let her trap him alone again. He looked out the doorway. His soldiers were there, and he could see them. Good.
"Aren't you pleased at all?" Navani asked, lingering beside the doorway near him, one hand on the frame.
"Pleased?"
"You aren't going mad."
"And we don't know if I'm being manipulated or not," he said. "In a way, we have more questions now than we had before."
"The visions are a blessing," Navani said, laying her freehand on his arm. "I feel it, Dalinar. Don't you see how wonderful this is?"
Dalinar met her eyes, light violet, beautiful. She was so thoughtful, so clever. How he wished he could trust her completely.
She has shown me nothing but honor, he thought. Never speaking a word to anyone else of my intention to abdicate. She hasn't so much as tried to use my visions against me. He felt ashamed that he'd once worried that she might.
She was a wonderful woman, Navani Kholin. A wonderful, amazing, dangerous woman.
"I see more worries," he said. "And more danger."
"But Dalinar, you're having experiences scholars, historians, and folklorists could only dream about! I envy you, although you claim to have seen no fabrials of note."
"The ancients didn't have fabrials, Navani. I'm certain of it."
"And that changes everything we thought we understood about them."
"I suppose."
"Stonefalls, Dalinar," she said, sighing. "Does nothing bring you to passion any longer?"
Dalinar took a deep breath. "Too many things, Navani. My insides feel like a mass of eels, emotions squirming over one another. The truth of these visions is unsettling."
"It's exciting," she corrected. "Did you mean what you said earlier? About trusting me?"
"I said that?"
"You said you didn't trust your clerks, and you asked me to record the visions. There's an implication in that."
Her hand was still on his arm. She reached out with her safehand and closed the door to the hallway. He almost stopped her, but he hesitated. Why?
The door clicked closed. They were alone. And she was so beautiful. Those clever, excitable eyes, alight with passion.
"Navani," Dalinar said, forcing down his desire. "You're doing it again." Why did he let her?
"Yes, I am," she said. "I'm a stubborn woman, Dalinar." There didn't seem to be any playfulness in her tone.
"This is not proper. My brother…" He reached for the door to open it again.
"Your brother," Navani spat, expression flashing with anger. "Why must everyone always focus on him? Everyone always worries so much about the man who died! He's not here, Dalinar. He's gone. I miss him. But not half as much as you do, it appears."
"I honor his memory," Dalinar said stiffly, hesitating, hand on the door's latch.
"That's fine! I'm happy you do. But it's been six years, and all anyone can see me as is the wife of a dead man. The other women, they humor me with idle gossip, but they won't let me into their political circles. They think I'm a relic. You wanted to know why I came back so quickly?"