Ishikk splashed toward the meeting with the strange foreigners, whistling softly to himself, his pole with buckets on each end resting on his shoulders. He wore lake sandals on his submerged feet and a pair of knee-length breeches. No shirt. Nu Ralik forbid! A good Purelaker never covered his shoulders when the sun was shining. A man could get sick that way, not getting enough sunlight.
He whistled, but not because he was having a pleasant day. In point of fact, the day Nu Ralik had provided was close to horrible. Only five fish swam in Ishikk's buckets, and four were of the dullest, most common variety. The tides had been irregular, as if the Purelake itself was in a foul mood. Bad days were coming; sure as the sun and the tide, they were.
The Purelake extended in all directions, hundreds of miles wide, its glassy surface perfectly transparent. At its deepest, it was never more than six feet from shimmering surface to the bottom-and in most places, the warm, slow-moving water came up only to about mid calf. It was filled with tiny fish, colorful cremlings, and eel-like riverspren.
The Purelake was life itself. Once, this land had been claimed by a king. Sela Tales, the nation had been called, one of the Epoch Kingdoms. Well, they could name it what they wanted, but Nu Ralik knew that the boundaries of nature were far more important than the boundaries of nations. Ishikk was a Purelaker. First and foremost. By tide and sun he was.
He walked confidently through the water, though the footing could sometimes be precarious. The pleasantly warm water lapped at his legs just below the knees, and he made very few splashes. He knew to move slowly, careful not to put his weight down before he was sure he wasn't stepping on a spikemane or a sharp lip of rock.
Ahead, the village of Fu Abra broke the glassy perfection, a cluster of buildings perched on blocks beneath the water. Their domed roofs made them look like the rockbuds that sprouted from the ground, and they were the only things for miles around that broke the surface of the Purelake.
Other people walked about here, moving with the same slow gait. It was possible to run through the water, but there was rarely a reason. What could be so important that you had to go and make a splash and ruckus getting to it?
Ishikk shook his head at that. Only foreigners were so hasty. He nodded to Thaspic, a dark-skinned man who passed him pulling a small raft. It was stacked with a few piles of cloth; he'd probably taken them out for washing.
"Ho, Ishikk," the scrawny man said. "How's fishing?"
"Terrible," he called. "Vun Makak has blighted me right good today. And you?"
"Lost a shirt while washing," Thaspic replied, his voice pleasant.
"Ah, that's the way of things. Are my foreigners here?"
"Sure are. Over at Maib's place."
"Vun Makak send they don't eat her out of home," Ishikk said, continuing on his way. "Or infect her with their constant worries."
"Sun and tides send it!" Thaspic said with a chuckle, continuing on.
Maib's house was near the center of the village. Ishikk wasn't sure what made her want to live inside the building. Most nights he did just fine sleeping on his raft. It never got cold in the Purelake, except during highstorms, and you could last through those right well, Nu Ralik send the way.
The Purelake drained into pits and holes when the storms came, and so you just shoved your raft into a crevice between two ridges of stone and huddled up next to it, using it to break the fury of the tempest. The storms weren't so bad out here as they were in the East, where they flung boulders and blew down buildings. Oh, he'd heard stories about that sort of life. Nu Ralik send he never had to go to such a terrible place.
Besides, it was probably cold there. Ishikk pitied those who had to live in the cold. Why didn't they just come to the Purelake?
Nu Ralik send that they don't, he thought, walking up to Maib's place. If everyone knew how nice the Purelake was, surely they'd all want to live here, and there wouldn't be a place to walk without stumbling over some foreigner!
He stepped up into the building, exposing his calves to the air. The floor was low enough that a few inches of water still covered it; Purelakers liked it that way. It was natural, though if the tide dropped, sometimes buildings would drain.
Minnows shot out around his toes. Common types, not worth anything. Maib stood inside, fixing a pot of fish soup, and she nodded to him. She was a stout woman and had been chasing Ishikk for years, trying to bait him to wed her on account of her fine cooking. He just might let her catch him someday.
His foreigners were in the corner, at a table only they would choose-the one that was raised up an extra bit, with footrests so that the outsiders wouldn't have to get their toes wet. Nu Ralik, what fools! he thought with amusement. Inside out of the sun, wearing shirts against its warmth, feet out of the tide. No wonder their thoughts are so odd.
He set his buckets down, nodding to Maib.
She eyed him. "Good fishing?"
"Terrible."
"Ah well, your soup is free today, Ishikk. To make up for Vun Makak's cursing."
"Thanks much kindly," he said, taking a steaming bowl from her. She smiled. Now he owed her. Enough bowls, and he'd be forced to wed her.
"There's a kolgril in the bucket for you," he noted. "Caught it early this morning."
Her stout face grew uncertain. A kolgril was a very lucky fish. Cured aching joints for a good month after you ate it, and sometimes let you see when friends were going to visit by letting you read the shapes of the clouds. Maib had quite a fondness for them, on account of the finger aches Nu Ralik had sent her. One kolgril would be two weeks of soup, and would put her in debt to him.
"Vun Makak eye you," she muttered in annoyance walking over to check. "That's one all right. How am I ever going to catch you, man?"
"I'm a fisher, Maib," he said, taking a slurp of his soup-the bowl was shaped for easy slurping. "Hard to catch a fisher. You know that." He chuckled to himself, walking up to his foreigners as she plucked out the kolgril.
There were three of them. Two were dark-skinned Makabaki, though they were the strangest Makabaki he'd ever seen. One was thick limbed where most of his kind were small and fine-boned, and he had a completely bald head. The other was taller, with short dark hair, lean muscles, and broad shoulders. In his head, Ishikk called them Grump and Blunt, on account of their personalities.
The third man had light tan skin, like an Alethi. He didn't seem quite right either, though. The eyes were the wrong shape, and his accent was certainly not Alethi. He spoke the Selay language worse than the other two, and usually stayed quiet. He seemed thoughtful, though. Ishikk called him Thinker.
Wonder how he earned that scar across his scalp, Ishikk thought. Life outside the Purelake was very dangerous. Lots of wars, particularly to the east.
"You are late, traveler," said tall, stiff Blunt. He had the build and air of a soldier, though none of the three carried weapons.
Ishikk frowned, sitting and reluctantly pulling his feet out of the water. "Isn't it warli-day?"
"The day is right, friend," Grump said. "But we were to meet at noon. Understand?" He generally did most of the talking.
"We're close to that," Ishikk said. Honestly. Who paid attention to what hour it was? Foreigners. Always so busy.
Grump just shook his head as Maib brought them some soup. Her place was the closest thing the village had to an inn. She left Ishikk a soft cloth napkin and nice cup of sweet wine, trying to balance that fish as quickly as possible.
"Very well," Grump said. "Let us have your report, friend."
"I've been by Fu Ralis, Fu Namir, Fu Albast, and Fu Moorin this month," Ishikk said, taking a slurp of soup. "Nobody has seen this man you search for."
"You asked right questions?" Blunt said. "You are certain?"
"Of course I'm certain," Ishikk said. "I have been doing this for ages now."
"Five months," Blunt corrected. "And no results."
Ishikk shrugged. "You wish me to make up stories? Vun Makak would like me to do that."
"No, no stories, friend," Grump said. "We want only the truth."
"Well, I've given it to you."
"You swear it by Nu Ralik, that god of yours?"
"Hush!" Ishikk said. "Don't say his name. Are you idiots?"
Grump frowned. "But he is your god. Understand? Is his name holy? Not to be spoken?"
Foreigners were so stupid. Of course Nu Ralik was their god, but you always pretended that he wasn't. Vun Makak-his younger, spiteful brother-had to be tricked into thinking you worshipped him, otherwise he'd get jealous. It was only safe to speak of these things in a holy grotto.
"I swear it by Vun Makak," Ishikk said pointedly. "May he watch over me and curse me as he pleases. I have looked diligently. No foreigner like this one you mention-with his white hair, clever tongue, and arrowlike face-has been seen."
"He dyes his hair sometimes," Grump said. "And wears disguises."
"I've asked, using the names you gave me," Ishikk said. "Nobody has seen him. Now, perhaps I could find you a fish that could locate him." Ishikk rubbed his stubbly chin. "I'll bet a stumpy cort could do it. Might take me a while to find one, though."
The three looked at him. "There may be something to these fish, you know," Blunt said.
"Superstition," Grump replied. "You always look for superstition, Vao."
Vao wasn't the man's real name; Ishikk was sure they used fake names. That was why he used his own names for them. If they were going to give him fake names, he'd give them fake names back.
"And you, Temoo?" Blunt snapped. "We can't pontificate our way to-"
"Gentlemen," Thinker said. He nodded to Ishikk, who was still slurping his soup. All three of them switched to another language and continued their argument.
Ishikk listened with half an ear, trying to determine what language it was. He never had been good with other kinds of languages. Why did he need them? Didn't help with fishing or selling fish.
He had searched for their man. He got around a lot, visited a lot of places around the Purelake. It was one of the reasons why he didn't want to be caught by Maib. He'd have to settle down, and that wasn't good for catching fish. Not the rare ones, at least.
He didn't bother wondering why they were looking for this Hoid, whoever he was. Foreigners were always looking for things they couldn't have. Ishikk sat back, dangling his toes in the water. That felt good. Eventually, they finished their argument. They gave him some more instructions, handed him a pouch of spheres, and stepped down into the water.
Like most foreigners, they wore thick boots that came all the way up to their knees. They splashed in the water as they walked to the entrance. Ishikk followed, waving to Maib and picking up his buckets. He'd be back later in the day for an evening meal.
Maybe I should let her catch me, he thought, stepping back out into the sunlight and sighing in relief. Nu Ralik knows I'm getting old. Might be nice to relax.
His foreigners splashed down into the Purelake. Grump was last. He seemed very dissatisfied. "Where are you, Roamer? What a fool's quest this is." Then, he added in his own tongue, "Alavanta kamaloo kayana."
He splashed after his companions.
"Well, you've got the 'fool' part right," Ishikk said with a chuckle, turning his own direction and heading off to check on his traps. Nan Balat liked killing things.
Not people. Never people. But animals, those he could kill.
Particularly the little ones. He wasn't sure why it made him feel better; it simply did.
He sat on the porch of his mansion, pulling the legs off a small crab one at a time. There was a satisfying rip to each one-he pulled on it lightly at first, and the animal grew stiff. Then he pulled harder, and it started to squirm. The ligament resisted, then started ripping, followed by a quick pop. The crab squirmed some more, and Nan Balat held up the leg, pinching the beast with two fingers on his other hand.
He sighed in satisfaction. Ripping a leg free soothed him, made the aches in his body retreat. He tossed the leg over his shoulder and moved on to the next one.
He didn't like to talk about his habit. He didn't even speak of it to Eylita. It was just something he did. You had to keep your sanity somehow.
He finished with the legs, then stood up, leaning on his cane, looking out over the Davar gardens, which were made up of stonework walls covered with different kinds of vines. They were beautiful, though Shallan had been the only one who truly appreciated them. This area of Jah Keved-to the west and south of Alethkar, of higher elevation and broken by mountains such as the Horneater Peaks-had a profusion of vines. They grew on everything, covering the mansion, growing over the steps. Out in the wilds, they hung from trees, grew over rocky expanses, as ubiquitous as grass was in other areas of Roshar.
Balat walked to the edge of the porch. Some wild songlings began to sing in the distance, scraping their ridged shells. They each played a different beat and notes, though they couldn't really be called melodies. Melodies were things of humans, not animals. But each one was a song, and at times they seemed to sing back and forth to one another.
Balat walked down the steps one at a time, the vines shaking and pulling away before his feet fell. It had been nearly six months since Shallan's departure. This morning, they'd had word from her via spanreed that she'd succeeded in the first part of her plan, becoming Jasnah Kholin's ward. And so, his baby sister-who before this had never left their estates-was preparing to rob the most important woman in the world.
Walking down the steps was depressingly hard work for him. Twenty-three years old, he thought, and already a cripple. He still felt a constant, latent ache. The break had been bad, and the surgeon had nearly decided to cut off the entire leg. Perhaps he could be thankful that hadn't proven necessary, though he would always walk with a cane.
Scrak was playing with something in the sitting green, a place where cultivated grass was grown and kept free of vines. The large axehound rolled about, gnawing at the object, antennae pulled back flat against her skull.
"Scrak," Balat said, hobbling forward, "what have you got there, girl?"
The axehound looked up at her master, antennae cocking upward. The hound trumped with two echoing voices overlapping one another, then went back to playing.
Blasted creature, Balat thought fondly, never would obey properly. He'd been breeding axehounds since his youth, and had discovered-as had many before him-that the smarter an animal was, the more likely it was to disobey. Oh, Scrak was loyal, but she'd ignore you on the little things. Like a young child trying to prove her independence.
As he got closer, he saw that Scrak had managed to catch a songling. The fist-sized creature was shaped like a peaked disc with four arms that reached out from the sides and scraped rhythms along the top. Four squat legs underneath normally held it to a rock wall, though Scrak had chewed those off. She had two of the arms off too, and had managed to crack the shell. Balat almost took it away to pull the other two arms off, but decided it was best to let Scrak have her fun.
Scrak set the songling down and looked up at Balat, her antennae rising inquisitively. She was sleek and lean, six legs extending before her as she sat on her haunches. Axehounds didn't have shells or skin; instead, their body was covered with some fusion of the two, smooth to the touch and more pliable than true carapace, but harder than skin and made of interlocking sections. The axehound's angular face seemed curious, her deep black eyes regarding Balat. She trumped softly.
Balat smiled, reaching down and scratching behind the axehound's ear holes. The animal leaned against him-she probably weighed as much as he did. The bigger axehounds came up to a man's waist, though Scrak was of a smaller, quicker breed.
The songling quivered and Scrak pounced on it eagerly, crunching at its shell with her strong outer mandibles.
"Am I a coward, Scrak?" Balat asked, sitting down on a bench. He set his cane aside and snatched a small crab that had been hiding on the side of the bench, its shell having turned white to match the stone.
He held up the squirming animal. The green's grass had been bred to be less timid, and it poked out of its holes only a few moments after he passed. Other exotic plants bloomed, poking out of shells or holes in the ground, and soon patches of red, orange, and blue waved in the wind around him. The area around the axehound remained bare, of course. Scrak was having far too much fun with her prey, and she kept even the cultivated plants hidden in their burrows.
"I couldn't have gone to chase Jasnah," Balat said, starting to pull the crab's legs off. "Only a woman could get close enough to her to steal the Soulcaster. We decided that. Besides, someone needs to stay back and care for the needs of the house."
The excuses were hollow. He did feel like a coward. He pulled off a few more legs, but it was unsatisfying. The crab was too small, and the legs came off too easily.
"This plan probably won't even work," he said, taking off the last of the legs. Odd, looking at a creature like this when it had no legs. The crab was still alive. Yet how could you know it? Without the legs to wiggle, the creature seemed as dead as a stone.
The arms, he thought, we wave them about to make us seem alive. That's what they're good for. He put his fingers between the halves of the crab's shell and began to pry them apart. This, at least, had a nice feeling of resistance to it.
They were a broken family. Years of suffering their father's brutal temper had driven Asha Jushu to vice and Tet Wikim to despair. Only Balat had escaped unscathed. Balat and Shallan. She'd been left alone, never touched. At times, Balat had hated her for that, but how could you truly hate someone like Shallan? Shy, quiet, delicate.
I should never have let her go, he thought. There should have been another way. She'd never manage on her own; she was probably terrified. It was a wonder she'd done as much as she had.
He tossed the pieces of crab over his shoulder. If only Helaran had survived. Their eldest brother-then known as Nan Helaran, as he'd been the first son-had stood up to their father repeatedly. Well, he was dead now, and so was their father. They'd left behind a family of cripples.
"Balat!" a voice cried. Wikim appeared on the porch. The younger man was past his recent bout of melancholy, it appeared.
"What?" Balat said, standing.
Wikim rushed down the steps, hurrying up to him, vines-then grass-pulling back before him. "We have a problem."
"How large a problem?"
"Pretty big, I'd say. Come on." Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, sat on the wooden tavern floor, lavis beer slowly soaking through his brown trousers.
Grimy, worn, and fraying, his clothing was far different from the simple-yet elegant-whites he had worn over five years before when he'd assassinated the king of Alethkar.
Head bowed, hands in his lap, he carried no weapons. He hadn't summoned his Shardblade in years, and it felt equally long since he'd had a bath. He did not complain. If he looked like a wretch, people treated him as a wretch. One did not ask a wretch to assassinate people.
"So he'll do whatever you say?" asked one of the mine workers sitting at the table. The man's clothing was little better than Szeth's, covered with so much dirt and dust that it was difficult to tell grimy skin from grimy cloth. There were four of them, holding ceramic cups. The room smelled of mud and sweat. The ceiling was low, the windows-on the leeward side only-mere slots. The table was precariously held together with several leather straps, as the wood was cracked down the middle.
Took-Szeth's current master-set his cup down on the table's tilted side. It sagged under the weight of his arm. "Yeah, he sure will. Hey, kurp, look at me."
Szeth looked up. "Kurp" meant child in the local Bav dialect. Szeth was accustomed to such pejorative labels. Though he was in his thirty-fifth year-and his seventh year since being named Truthless-his people's large, round eyes, shorter stature, and tendency toward baldness led Easterners to claim they looked like children.
"Stand up," Took said.
Szeth did so.
"Jump up and down."
Szeth complied.
"Pour Ton's beer on your head."
Szeth reached for it.
"Hey!" Ton said, pulling the cup away. "None of that, now! Oi ain't done with this yet!"
"If you were," said Took, "he couldn't right pour it on his head, could he?"
"Get 'im to do something else, Took," Ton griped.
"All right." Took pulled out his boot knife and tossed it to Szeth. "Kurp, cut your arm up."
"Took…" said one of the other men, a sniffly man named Amark. "That ain't right, you know it."
Took didn't rescind the order, so Szeth complied, taking the knife and cutting at the flesh of his arm. Blood seeped out around the dirty blade.
"Cut your throat," Took said.
"Now, Took!" Amark said, standing. "Oi won't-"
"Oh hush, you," Took said. Several groups of men from other tables were watching now. "You'll see. Kurp, cut your throat."
"I am forbidden to take my own life," Szeth said softly in the Bav language. "As Truthless, it is the nature of my suffering to be forbidden the taste of death by my own hand."
Amark settled back down, looking sheepish.
"Dustmother," Ton said, "he always talks like that?"
"Like what?" Took asked, taking a gulp from his mug.
"Smooth words, so soft and proper. Like a lighteyes."
"Yeah," Took said. "He's like a slave, only better 'cuz he's a Shin. He don't run or talk back or anything. Don't have to pay him, neither. He's like a parshman, but smarter. Worth a right many spheres, Oi'd say." He eyed the other men. "Could take him to the mines with you to work, and collect his pay. He'd do things you don't wanna. Muck out the privy, whitewash the home. All kinds of useful stuff."
"Well, how'd you come by him, then?" one of the other men asked, scratching his chin. Took was a transient worker, moving from town to town. Displaying Szeth was one of the ways he made quick friends.
"Oh, now, that's a story," Took said. "Oi was traveling in the mountains down south, you know, and Oi heard this weird howling noise. It wasn't joust the wind, you know, and…"
The tale was a complete fabrication; Szeth's previous master-a farmer in a nearby village-had traded Szeth to Took for a sack of seeds. The farmer had gotten him from a traveling merchant, who had gotten him from a cobbler who'd won him in an illegal game of chance. There had been dozens before him.
At first, the darkeyed commoners enjoyed the novelty of owning him.
Slaves were far too expensive for most, and parshmen were even more valuable. So having someone like Szeth to order around was quite the novelty. He cleaned floors, sawed wood, helped in the fields, and carried burdens. Some treated him well, some did not.
But they always got rid of him.
Perhaps they could sense the truth, that he was capable of so much more than they dared use him for. It was one thing to have a slave of your own. But when that slave talked like a lighteyes and knew more than you did? It made them uncomfortable.
Szeth tried to play the part, tried to make himself act less refined. It was very difficult for him. Perhaps impossible. What would these men say if they knew that the man who emptied their chamber pot was a Shardbearer and a Surgebinder? A Windrunner, like the Radiants of old? The moment he summoned his Blade, his eyes would turn from dark green to pale-almost glowing-sapphire, a unique effect of his particular weapon.
Best that they never discovered. Szeth gloried in being wasted; each day he was made to clean or dig instead of kill was a victory. That evening five years ago still haunted him. Before then, he had been ordered to kill-but always in secret, silently. Never before had he been given such deliberately terrible instructions.
Kill, destroy, and cut your way to the king. Be seen doing it. Leave witnesses. Wounded but alive…
"…and that is when he swore to serve me my entire life," Took finished. "He's been with me ever since."
The listening men turned to Szeth. "It is true," he said, as he'd been ordered earlier. "Every word of it."
Took smiled. Szeth didn't make him uncomfortable; he apparently considered it natural that Szeth obeyed him. Perhaps as a result he would remain Szeth's master longer than the others.
"Well," Took said, "Oi should be going. Need to get an early start tomorrow. More places to see, more unseen roads to dare…"
He liked to think of himself as a seasoned traveler, though as far as Szeth could tell, he just moved around in a wide circle. There were many small mines-and therefore small villages-in this part of Bavland. Took had probably been to this same village years back, but the mines made for a lot of transient workers. It was unlikely he'd be remembered, unless someone had noted his terribly exaggerated stories.
Terrible or not, the other miners seemed to thirst for more. They urged him on, offering him another drink, and he modestly agreed.
Szeth sat quietly, legs folded, hands in his lap, blood trickling down his arm. Had the Parshendi known what they were consigning him to by tossing his Oathstone away as they fled Kholinar that night? Szeth had been required to recover it, then stand there beside the road, wondering if he would be discovered and executed-hoping he'd be discovered and executed-until a passing merchant had cared enough to inquire. By then, Szeth had stood only in a loincloth. His honor had forced him to discard the white clothing, as it would have made him easier to recognize. He had to preserve himself so that he could suffer.
After a short explanation that left out incriminating details, Szeth had found himself riding in the back of the merchant's cart. The merchant-a man named Avado-had been clever enough to realize that in the wake of the king's death, foreigners might be treated poorly. He'd made his way to Jah Keved, never knowing that he harbored Gavilar's murderer as his serving man.
The Alethi didn't search for him. They assumed that he, the infamous "Assassin in White," had retreated with the Parshendi. They probably expected to discover him in the middle of the Shattered Plains.
The miners eventually tired of Took's increasingly slurred stories. They bid him farewell, ignoring his broad hints that another cup of beer would prompt him to tell his greatest tale: that of the time when he'd seen the Nightwatcher herself and stolen a sphere that glowed black at night. That tale always discomforted Szeth, as it reminded him of the strange black sphere Gavilar had given him. He'd hidden that carefully in Jah Keved. He didn't know what it was, but he didn't want to risk a master taking it from him.
When nobody offered Took another drink, he reluctantly stumbled from his chair and waved Szeth to follow him from the tavern. The street was dark outside. This town, Ironsway, had a proper town square, several hundred homes, and three different taverns. That made it practically a metropolis for Bavland-the small, mostly-ignored stretch of land just south of the Horneater Peaks. The area was technically part of Jah Keved, but even its highprince tended to stay away from it.
Szeth followed his master through the streets toward the poorer district. Took was too cheap to pay for a room in the nice, or even modest, areas of a town. Szeth looked over his shoulder, wishing that the Second Sister-known as Nomon to these Easterners-had risen to give a little more light.
Took stumbled drunkenly, then fell over in the street. Szeth sighed. It would not be the first night he carried his master home to his bed. He knelt to lift Took.
He froze. A warm liquid was pooling beneath his master's body. Only then did he notice the knife in Took's neck.
Szeth instantly came alert as a group of footpads slipped out of the alleyway. One raised a hand, the knife in it reflecting starlight, preparing to throw at Szeth. He tensed. There were infused spheres he could draw upon in Took's pouch.
"Wait," hissed one of the footpads.
The man with the knife paused. Another man came closer, inspecting Szeth. "He's Shin. Won't hurt a cremling."
Others pulled the corpse into the alleyway. The one with the knife raised his weapon again. "He could still yell."
"Then why hasn't he? Oi'm telling you, they're harmless. Almost like parshmen. We can sell him."
"Maybe," the second said. "He's terrified. Look at 'im."
"Come 'ere," the first footpad said, waving Szeth forward.
He obeyed, walking into the alley, which was suddenly illuminated as the other footpads pulled open Took's pouch.
"Kelek," one of them said, "hardly worth the effort. A handful of chips and two marks, not a single broam in the lot."
"Oi'm telling you," the first man said. "We can sell this fellow as a slave. People like Shin servants."
"He's just a kid."
"Nah. They all look like that. Hey, whacha got there?" The man plucked a twinkling, sphere-sized chunk of rock from the hand of the man counting the spheres. It was fairly ordinary, a simple piece of rock with a few quartz crystals set into it and a rusty vein of iron on one side. "What is this?"
"Worthless," one of the men said.
"I am required to tell you," Szeth said quietly, "that you are holding my Oathstone. So long as you possess it, you are my master."
"What's that?" one of the footpads said, standing.
The first one closed his hand around the stone, shooting a wary glance at the others. He looked back at Szeth. "Your master? What does that mean exactly, in precise terms and all?"
"I must obey you," Szeth said. "In all things, though I will not follow an order to kill myself." He also couldn't be ordered to give up his Blade, but there was no need to mention that at the moment.
"You'll obey me?" the footpad said. "You mean, you'll do what Oi say?"
"Yes."
"Anything Oi say?"
Szeth closed his eyes. "Yes."
"Well, ain't that something interestin'," the man said, musing. "Something interestin' indeed…"
PRIME MAP OF THE SHATTERED PLAINS. In the east, one can clearly note the Tower, the largest plateau of the area. Warcamps are visible in the west. Glyphpairs and plateau numbers have been removed to preserve the clarity of this smaller reproduction of the original hanging in His Majesty Elhokar's Gallery of Maps.
Old friend, I hope this missive finds you well. Though, as you are now essentially immortal, I would guess that wellness on your part is something of a given. "Today," King Elhokar announced, riding beneath the bright open sky, "is an excellent day to slay a god. Wouldn't you say?"
"Undoubtedly, Your Majesty." Sadeas's reply was smooth, quick, and said with a knowing smile. "One might say that gods, as a rule, should fear the Alethi nobility. Most of us at least."
Adolin gripped his reins a little more tightly; it put him on edge every time Highprince Sadeas spoke.
"Do we have to ride up here at the front?" Renarin whispered.
"I want to listen," Adolin replied softly.
He and his brother rode near the front of the column, near the king and his highprinces. Behind them extended a grand procession: a thousand soldiers in Kholin blue, dozens of servants, and even women in palanquins to scribe accounts of the hunt. Adolin glanced at them all as he reached for his canteen.
He was wearing his Shardplate, and so he had to be careful when grabbing it, lest he crush it. One's muscles reacted with increased speed, strength, and dexterity when wearing the armor, and it took practice to use it correctly. Adolin was still occasionally caught by surprise, though he'd held this suit-inherited from his mother's side of the family-since his sixteenth birthday. That was now seven years past.
He turned and took a long drink of lukewarm water. Sadeas rode to the king's left, and Dalinar-Adolin's father-was a solid figure riding at the king's right. The final highprince on the hunt was Vamah, who wasn't a Shardbearer.
The king was resplendent in his golden Shardplate-of course, Plate could make any man look regal. Even Sadeas looked impressive when wearing his red Plate, though his bulbous face and ruddy complexion weakened the effect. Sadeas and the king flaunted their Plate. And…well, perhaps Adolin did too. He'd had his painted blue, a few ornamentations welded onto the helm and pauldrons to give an extra look of danger. How could you not show off when wearing something as grand as Shardplate?
Adolin took another drink, listening to the king talk about his excitement for the hunt. Only one Shardbearer in the procession-indeed, only one Shardbearer in the entirety of the ten armies-used no paint or ornamentations on his Plate. Dalinar Kholin. Adolin's father preferred to leave his armor its natural slate-grey color.
Dalinar rode beside the king, his face somber. He rode with his helm tied to his saddle, exposing a square face topped by short black hair that had gone white at the temples. Few women had ever called Dalinar Kholin handsome; his nose was the wrong shape, his features blocky rather than delicate. It was the face of a warrior.
He rode astride a massive black Ryshadium stallion, one of the largest horses that Adolin had ever seen-and while the king and Sadeas looked regal in their armor, somehow Dalinar managed to look like a soldier. To him, the Plate was not an ornament. It was a tool. He never seemed to be surprised by the strength or speed the armor lent him. It was as if, for Dalinar Kholin, wearing his Plate was his natural state-it was the times without that were abnormal. Perhaps that was one reason he'd earned the reputation of being one of the greatest warriors and generals who ever lived.
Adolin found himself wishing, passionately, that his father would do a little more these days to live up to that reputation.
He's thinking about the visions, Adolin thought, regarding his father's distant expression and troubled eyes. "It happened again last night," Adolin said softly to Renarin. "During the highstorm."
"I know," Renarin said. His voice was measured, controlled. He always paused before he replied to a question, as if testing the words in his mind. Some women Adolin knew said Renarin's ways made them feel as if he were dissecting them with his mind. They'd shiver when they spoke of him, though Adolin had never found his younger brother the least bit discomforting.
"What do you think they mean?" Adolin asked, speaking quietly so only Renarin could hear. "Father's…episodes."
"I don't know."
"Renarin, we can't keep ignoring them. The soldiers are talking. Rumors are spreading through all ten armies!"
Dalinar Kholin was going mad. Whenever a highstorm came, he fell to the floor and began to shake. Then he began raving in gibberish. Often, he'd stand, blue eyes delusional and wild, swinging and flailing. Adolin had to restrain him lest he hurt himself or others.
"He sees things," Adolin said. "Or he thinks he does."
Adolin's grandfather had suffered from delusions. When he'd grown old, he'd thought he was back at war. Was that what happened to Dalinar? Was he reliving youthful battles, days when he'd earned his renown? Or was it that terrible night he saw over and over, the night when his brother had been murdered by the Assassin in White? And why did he so often mention the Knights Radiant soon after his episodes?
It all made Adolin feel sick. Dalinar was the Blackthorn, a genius of the battlefield and a living legend. Together, he and his brother had reunited Alethkar's warring highprinces after centuries of strife. He had defeated countless challengers in duels, had won dozens of battles. The entire kingdom looked up to him. And now this.
What did you do, as a son, when the man you loved-the greatest man alive-started to lose his wits?
Sadeas was speaking about a recent victory. He'd won another gemheart two days back, and the king-it appeared-hadn't heard of it. Adolin tensed at the boasts.
"We should move back," Renarin said.
"We are of rank enough to be here," Adolin said.
"I don't like how you get when you're around Sadeas."
We have to keep an eye on the man, Renarin, Adolin thought. He knows Father is weakening. He'll try to strike. Adolin forced himself to smile, however. He tried to be relaxed and confident for Renarin. Generally, that wasn't difficult. He'd happily spend his entire life dueling, lounging, and courting the occasional pretty girl. Of late, however, life didn't seem content to let him enjoy its simple pleasures.
"…model of courage lately, Sadeas," the king was saying. "You've done very well in capturing gemhearts. You are to be commended."
"Thank you, Your Majesty. Though the competition grows unexciting, as some people don't seem interested in participating. I guess even the best weapons eventually grow dull."
Dalinar, who might once have responded to the veiled slur, said nothing. Adolin gritted his teeth. It was flat-out unconscionable for Sadeas to be taking shots at his father in his present state. Perhaps Adolin should offer the pompous bastard a challenge. You didn't duel highprinces-it just wasn't done, not unless you were ready to make a big storm of it. But maybe he was. Maybe "Adolin…" Renarin said warningly.
Adolin looked to the side. He'd held out his hand, as if to summon his Blade. He picked up his reins with the hand instead. Storming man, he thought. Leave my father alone.
"Why don't we talk about the hunt?" Renarin said. As usual, the younger Kholin rode with a straight back and perfect posture, eyes hidden behind his spectacles, a model of propriety and solemnity. "Aren't you excited?"
"Bah," Adolin said. "I never find hunts as interesting as everyone says they're going to be. I don't care how big the beast is-in the end, it's really just butchery."
Now, dueling, that was exciting. The feel of the Shardblade in your hand, of facing someone crafty, skilled, and careful. Man against man, strength against strength, mind against mind. Hunting some dumb beast just couldn't compare to that.
"Maybe you should have invited Janala along," Renarin said.
"She wouldn't have come," Adolin said. "Not after…well, you know. Rilla was very vocal yesterday. It was best to just leave."
"You really should have been wiser in your treatment of her," Renarin said, sounding disapproving.
Adolin mumbled a noncommittal reply. It wasn't his fault that his relationships often burned out quickly. Well, technically, this time it was his fault. But it wasn't usually. This was just an oddity
The king began complaining about something. Renarin and Adolin had lagged behind, and Adolin couldn't hear what was being said.
"Let's ride up closer," Adolin said, nudging his mount forward.
Renarin rolled his eyes, but followed. Unite them.
The words whispered in Dalinar's mind. He couldn't rid himself of them. They consumed him as he trotted Gallant across a rocky, boulder-strewn plateau on the Shattered Plains.
"Shouldn't we be there by now?" the king asked.
"We're still two or three plateaus away from the hunting site, Your Majesty," Dalinar said, distracted. "It will be another hour, perhaps, observing proper protocols. If we had vantage, we could probably see the pavilion to-"
"Vantage? Would that rock formation up ahead do?"
"I suppose," Dalinar said, inspecting the towerlike length of rock. "We could send scouts to check."
"Scouts? Bah. I need a run, Uncle. I'll bet you five full broams that I can beat you to the top." And with that, the king galloped away in a thunder of hooves, leaving behind a shocked group of lighteyes, attendants, and guards.
"Storm it!" Dalinar cursed, kicking his horse into motion. "Adolin, you have command! Secure the next plateau, just in case."
His son, who had been lagging behind, nodded sharply. Dalinar galloped after the king, a figure in golden armor and a long blue cape. Hoofbeats pounded the stone, rock formations whipping past. Ahead, the steep, spike-like spire of rock rose from the lip of the plateau. Such formations were common out here on the Shattered Plains.
Curse that boy. Dalinar still thought of Elhokar as a boy, though the king was in his twenty-seventh year. But sometimes he acted like a boy. Why couldn't he give more warning before leaping into one of these stunts?
Still, as Dalinar rode, he admitted to himself that it did feel good to charge freely, helm off, face to the wind. His pulse picked up as he got into the race, and he forgave its impetuous beginning. For the moment, Dalinar let himself forget his troubles and the words that had been echoing in his head.
The king wanted a race? Well, Dalinar would give him one.
He charged past the king. Elhokar's stallion was a good breed, but it could never match Gallant, who was a full Ryshadium, two hands taller and much stronger than an ordinary horse. The animals chose their own riders, and only a dozen men in all of the warcamps were so fortunate. Dalinar was one, Adolin another.
In seconds, Dalinar reached the formation's base. He threw himself from the saddle while Gallant was still moving. He hit hard, but the Shardplate absorbed the impact, stone crunching beneath his metal boots as he skidded to a stop. Men who hadn't ever worn Plate-particularly those who were accustomed to its inferior cousin, simple plate and mail-could never understand. Shardplate wasn't merely armor. It was so much more.
He ran to the bottom of the rock formation as Elhokar galloped up behind. Dalinar leaped-Plate-assisted legs propelling him up some eight feet-and grabbed a handhold in the stone. With a heave, he pulled himself up, the Plate lending him the strength of many men. The Thrill of contest began to rise within him. It wasn't nearly as keen as the Thrill of battle, but it was a worthy substitute.
Rock scraped below. Elhokar had begun to climb as well. Dalinar didn't look down. He kept his eyes fixed on the small natural platform at the top of the forty-foot-high formation. He groped with steel-covered fingers, finding another handhold. The gauntlets covered his hands, but the ancient armor somehow transferred sensation to his fingers. It was as if he were wearing thin leather gloves.
A scraping sound came from the right, accompanied by a voice cursing softly. Elhokar had taken a different path, hoping to pass Dalinar, but the king had found himself at a section without handholds above. His progress was stalled.
The king's golden Shardplate glittered as he glanced at Dalinar. Elhokar set his jaw and looked upward, then launched himself in a powerful leap toward an outcropping.
Fool boy, Dalinar thought, watching the king seem to hang in the air for a moment before he snatched the projecting rock and dangled. Then the king pulled himself up and continued to climb.
Dalinar moved furiously, stone grinding beneath his metal fingertips, chips falling free. The wind ruffled his cape. He heaved, strained, and pushed himself, managing to get just ahead of the king. The top was mere feet away. The Thrill sang at him. He reached for the goal, determined to win. He couldn't lose. He had to Unite them.
He hesitated, not quite certain why, and let his nephew get ahead.
Elhokar hauled himself to his feet atop the rock formation, then laughed in triumph. He turned toward Dalinar, holding out a hand. "Stormwinds, Uncle, but you made a fine race of it! At the end there, I thought for sure you had me."
The triumph and joy in Elhokar's face brought a smile to Dalinar's lips. The younger man needed victories these days. Even little ones would do him good. Gloryspren-like tiny golden translucent globes of light-began to pop into existence around him, attracted by his sense of accomplishment. Blessing himself for hesitating, Dalinar took the king's hand, letting Elhokar pull him up. There was just enough room on top of the natural tower for them both.
Breathing deeply, Dalinar slapped the king on the back with a clank of metal on metal. "That was a fine contest, Your Majesty. And you played it very well."
The king beamed. His golden Shardplate gleamed in the noonday sun; he had his faceplate up, revealing light yellow eyes, a strong nose, and a clean-shaven face that was almost too handsome, with its full lips, broad forehead, and firm chin. Gavilar had looked like that too, before he'd suffered a broken nose and that terrible scar on his chin.
Below them, the Cobalt Guard and some of Elhokar's attendants rode up, including Sadeas. His Plate gleamed red, though he wasn't a full Shardbearer-he had only the Plate, not the Blade.
Dalinar looked up. From this height, he could scan a large swath of the Shattered Plains, and he had an odd moment of familiarity. He felt as if he'd been atop this vantage point before, looking down at a broken landscape.
The moment was gone in a heartbeat.
"There," Elhokar said, pointing with a golden, gauntleted hand. "I can see our destination."
Dalinar shaded his eyes, picking out a large cloth pavilion three plateaus away, flying the king's flag. Wide, permanent bridges led there; they were relatively close to the Alethi side of the Shattered Plains, on plateaus Dalinar himself maintained. A fully grown chasmfiend living here was his to hunt, the wealth at its heart his privilege to claim.
"You were correct again, Uncle," Elhokar said.
"I try to make a habit of it."
"I can't blame you for that, I suppose. Though I can beat you at a race now and then."
Dalinar smiled. "I felt like a youth again, chasing after your father on some ridiculous challenge."
Elhokar's lips tightened to a thin line, and the gloryspren faded away. Mentioning Gavilar soured him; he felt others compared him unfavorably to the old king. Unfortunately, he was often right.
Dalinar moved on quickly. "We must have seemed of the ten fools, charging away like that. I do wish you'd given me more notice to prepare your honor guard. This is a war zone."
"Bah. You worry too much, Uncle. The Parshendi haven't attacked this close to our side of the Plains in years."
"Well, you seemed worried about your safety two nights ago."
Elhokar sighed audibly. "How many times must I explain this to you, Uncle? I can face enemy soldiers with Blade in hand. It's what they might send when we're not looking, when all is dark and quiet, that you should be trying to protect me from."
Dalinar didn't reply. Elhokar's nervousness-paranoia, even-regarding assassination was strong. But who could blame him, considering what had happened to his father?
I'm sorry, brother, he thought, as he did every time he thought of the night when Gavilar had died. Alone, without his brother to protect him.
"I looked into the matter you asked me about," Dalinar said, forcing away bad memories.
"You did? What did you discover?"
"Not much, I'm afraid. There were no traces of trespassers on your balcony, and none of the servants reported any strangers in the area."
"There was someone watching me in the darkness that night."
"If so, they haven't returned, Your Majesty. And they left no clues behind."
Elhokar seemed dissatisfied, and the silence between them grew stark. Below, Adolin met with scouts and prepared for the troop crossing. Elhokar had protested at how many men Dalinar had brought. Most of them wouldn't be needed on the hunt-the Shardbearers, not the soldiers, would slay the beast. But Dalinar would see his nephew protected. Parshendi raids had grown less bold during the years of fighting-Alethi scribes guessed their numbers were a quarter their prior strength, though it was difficult to judge-but the king's presence might be enough to entice them into a reckless attack.
The winds blew across Dalinar, returning with them that faint familiarity he'd felt a few minutes before. Standing atop a peak, looking out at desolation. A sense of an awful and amazing perspective.
That's it, he thought. I did stand atop a formation like this. It happened during During one of his visions. The very first one.
You must unite them, the strange, booming words had told him. You must prepare. Build of your people a fortress of strength and peace, a wall to resist the winds. Cease squabbling and unite. The Everstorm comes.
"Your Majesty," Dalinar found himself saying. "I…" He trailed off as quickly as he began. What could he say? That he'd been seeing visions? That-in defiance of all doctrine and common sense-he thought those visions might be from the Almighty? That he thought they should withdraw from the battlefield and go back to Alethkar?
Pure foolishness.
"Uncle?" the king asked. "What do you want?"
"Nothing. Come, let's get back to the others." Adolin twisted one of his hogshide reins around his finger while he sat astride his horse, awaiting the next batch of scout reports. He'd managed to get his mind off his father and Sadeas, and was instead contemplating just how he was going to explain his falling out with Rilla in a way that would earn him some sympathy with Janala.
Janala loved ancient epic poems; could he phrase the falling out in dramatic terms? He smiled, thinking of her luxurious black hair and sly smile. She'd been daring, teasing at him while he was known to be courting someone else. He could use that too. Maybe Renarin was right, perhaps he should have invited her on the hunt. The prospect of fighting a greatshell would have been far more interesting to him if someone beautiful and long-haired were watching…
"New scout reports are in, Brightlord Adolin," Tarilar said, jogging up.
Adolin turned his mind back to business. He'd taken up position with some members of the Cobalt Guard beside the base of the high rock formation where his father and the king were still conversing. Tarilar, scoutlord, was a gaunt-faced man with a thick chest and arms. From some angles, his head looked so relatively small on his body that it appeared to have been smashed.
"Proceed," Adolin said.
"Advance runners have met with the lead huntmaster and have returned. There are no sightings of Parshendi on any nearby plateaus. Companies Eighteen and Twenty-one are in position, though there are still eight companies to go."
Adolin nodded. "Have Company Twenty-one send some outriders to watch from plateaus fourteen and sixteen. And two each on plateaus six and eight."
"Six and eight? Behind us?"
"If I were going to ambush the party," Adolin said, "I'd round back this way and cut us off from fleeing. Do it."
Tarilar saluted. "Yes, Brightlord." He hurried away to pass the orders.
"You really think that's necessary?" Renarin asked, riding up beside Adolin.
"No. But Father will want it done anyway. You know he will."
There was motion up above. Adolin looked up just in time to see the king leap off the rock formation, cape streaming behind him as he fell some forty feet to the rock floor. Adolin's father stood at the lip above, and Adolin could imagine him cursing to himself at what he saw as a foolhardy move. Shardplate could withstand a fall that far, but it was high enough to be dangerous.
Elhokar landed with an audible crack, throwing up chips of stone and a large puff of Stormlight. He managed to stay upright. Adolin's father took a safer way down, descending to a lower ledge before jumping.
He seems to take the safer pathway more and more often lately, Adolin thought idly. And he often seems to find reasons to give me command as well. Thoughtful, Adolin trotted his horse out of the shadow of the rock formation. He needed to get a report from the rear guard-his father would want to hear it.
His path took him past a group of lighteyes from Sadeas's party. The king, Sadeas, and Vamah each had a collection of attendants, aides, and sycophants accompanying them. Looking at them riding in their comfortable silks, open-fronted jackets, and shade-covered palanquins made Adolin aware of his sweaty, bulky armor. Shardplate was wonderful and empowering, but beneath a hot sun, it could still leave a man wishing for something less confining.
But, of course, he couldn't have worn casual clothing like the others. Adolin was to be in uniform, even on a hunt. The Alethi War Codes commanded it. Never mind that nobody had followed those Codes in centuries. Or at least nobody but Dalinar Kholin-and, by extension, his sons.
Adolin passed a pair of lounging lighteyes, Vartian and Lomard, two of Sadeas's recent hangers-on. They were talking loudly enough that Adolin could hear. Probably on purpose. "Chasing after the king again," Vartian said, shaking his head. "Like pet axehounds nipping at their master's heels."
"Shameful," Lomard said. "How long has it been since Dalinar won a gemheart? The only time he can get one is when the king lets them hunt it without competition."
Adolin set his jaw and rode on. His father's interpretation of the Codes wouldn't let Adolin challenge a man to a duel while he was on duty or in command. He chafed at the needless restrictions, but Dalinar had spoken as Adolin's commanding officer. That meant there was no room for argument. He'd have to find a way to duel the two idiot sycophants in another setting, put them in their places. Unfortunately, he couldn't duel everyone who spoke out against his father.
The biggest problem was, the things they said had some real truth to them. The Alethi princedoms were like kingdoms unto themselves, still mostly autonomous despite having accepted Gavilar as king. Elhokar had inherited the throne, and Dalinar, by right, had taken the Kholin Princedom as his own.
However, most of the highprinces gave only token nods to the paramount rule of the king. That left Elhokar without land that was specifically his own. He tended to act like a highprince of the Kholin Princedom, taking great interest in its day-to-day management. So, while Dalinar should have been a ruler unto himself, he instead bent to Elhokar's whims and dedicated his resources to protecting his nephew. That made him weak in the eyes of the others-nothing more than a glorified bodyguard.
Once, when Dalinar had been feared, men had not dared whisper about these things. But now? Dalinar went on fewer and fewer plateau assaults, and his forces lagged behind in capturing precious gemhearts. While the others fought and won, Dalinar and his sons spent their time in bureaucratic administration.
Adolin wanted to be out there fighting, killing Parshendi. What was the good of following the Codes of War when he rarely got to go to war? It's the fault of those delusions. Dalinar wasn't weak, and he certainly wasn't a coward, no matter what people said. He was just troubled.
The rearguard captains weren't formed up yet, so Adolin decided to give the king a report instead. He trotted up toward the king-joining Sadeas, who was doing the same. Not unexpectedly, Sadeas frowned at him. The highprince hated that Adolin had a Blade while Sadeas had none; he had coveted one for years now.
Adolin met the highprince's eyes, smiling. Anytime you want to duel me for my Blade, Sadeas, go ahead and try. What Adolin wouldn't do to get that eel of a man in the dueling ring.
When Dalinar and the king rode up, and Adolin spoke quickly, before Sadeas could speak. "Your Majesty, I have scout reports."
The king sighed. "More of nothing, I expect. Honestly, Uncle, must we have a report on every little detail of the army?"
"We are at war, Your Majesty," Dalinar said.
Elhokar sighed sufferingly.
You're a strange man, cousin, Adolin thought. Elhokar saw murderers in every shadow, yet often dismissed the Parshendi threat. He'd go charging off like he had today, with no honor guard, and would leap off a forty-foot-tall rock formation. Yet he'd stay up nights, terrified of assassination.
"Give your report, son," Dalinar said.
Adolin hesitated, now feeling foolish at the lack of substance to what he had to say. "The scouts have seen no sign of the Parshendi. They've met with the huntmaster. Two companies have secured the next plateau, and the other eight will need some time to cross. We're close, though."
"Yes, we saw from above," Elhokar said. "Perhaps a few of us could ride ahead…"
"Your Majesty," Dalinar said. "The point of bringing my troops along would be somewhat undermined if you left them behind."
Elhokar rolled his eyes. Dalinar did not yield, his expression as immobile as the rocks around them. Seeing him like that-firm, unyielding before a challenge-made Adolin smile with pride. Why couldn't he be like this all of the time? Why did he back down so often before insults or challenges?
"Very well," the king said. "We'll take a break and wait while the army crosses."
The king's attendants responded immediately, men climbing off horses, women having their palanquin bearers set them down. Adolin moved off to get that rearguard report. By the time he returned, Elhokar was practically holding court. His servants had set up a small awning to give him shade, and others served wine. Chilled, using one of the new fabrials that could make things cold.
Adolin removed his helm and wiped his brow with his saddle rag, again wishing he could join the others and enjoy a little wine. Instead, he climbed down from his horse and went looking for his father. Dalinar stood outside the awning, gauntleted hands clasped behind his back, looking eastward, toward the Origin-the distant, the unseen place where highstorms began. Renarin stood at his side, looking out as well, as if trying to see what it was that his father found so interesting.
Adolin rested a hand on his brother's shoulder, and Renarin smiled at him. Adolin knew that his brother-now nineteen years old-felt out of place. Though he wore a side sword, he barely knew how to use it. His blood weakness made it difficult for him to spend any reasonable amount of time practicing.
"Father," Adolin said. "Maybe the king was right. Perhaps we should have moved on quickly. I'd rather have this entire hunt over with."
Dalinar looked at him. "When I was your age, I looked forward to a hunt like this. Taking down a greatshell was the highlight of a young man's year."
Not this again, Adolin thought. Why was everyone so offended that he didn't find hunts exciting? "It's just an oversized chull, Father."
"These 'oversized chulls' grow to fifty feet tall and are capable of crushing even a man in Shardplate."
"Yes," Adolin said, "and so we'll bait it for hours while baking in the hot sun. If it decides to show up, we'll pelt it with arrows, only closing in once it's so weak it can barely resist as we hack it to death with Shardblades. Very honorable."
"It's not a duel," Dalinar said, "it's a hunt. A grand tradition."
Adolin raised an eyebrow at him.
"And yes," Dalinar added. "It can be tedious. But the king was insistent."
"You're just still smarting over the problems with Rilla, Adolin," Renarin said. "You were eager a week ago. You really should have invited Janala."
"Janala hates hunts. Thinks they're barbarous."
Dalinar frowned. "Janala? Who's Janala?"
"Daughter of Brightlord Lustow," Adolin said.
"And you're courting her?"
"Not yet, but I've sure been trying."
"What happened to that other girl? The short one, with the fondness for silver hair ribbons?"
"Deeli?" Adolin said. "Father, I stopped courting her over two months back!"
"You did?"
"Yes."
Dalinar rubbed his chin.
"There have been two between her and Janala, Father," Adolin noted. "You really need to pay more attention."
"Almighty help any man who tries to keep track of your tangled courtships, son."
"The most recent was Rilla," Renarin said.
Dalinar frowned. "And you two…"
"Had some problems yesterday," Adolin said. He coughed, determined to change the subject. "Anyway, don't you find it odd that the king would insist on coming to hunt the chasmfiend himself?"
"Not particularly. It isn't often that a full-sized one makes its way out here, and the king rarely gets to go on plateau runs. This is a way for him to fight."
"But he's so paranoid! Why does he now want to go and hunt, exposing himself on the Plains?"
Dalinar looked toward the king's awning. "I know he seems odd, son. But the king is more complex a man than many give him credit for being. He worries that his subjects see him as a coward because of how much he fears assassins, and so he finds ways to prove his courage. Foolish ways, sometimes-but he's not the first man I've known who will face battle without fear, yet cower in terror about knives in the shadows. The hallmark of insecurity is bravado.
"The king is learning to lead. He needs this hunt. He needs to prove to himself, and to others, that he's still strong and worthy to command a kingdom at war. That's why I encouraged him. A successful hunt, under controlled circumstances, could bolster his reputation and his confidence."
Adolin slowly closed his mouth, his father's words cutting down his complaints. Strange, how much the king's actions made sense when explained that way. Adolin looked up at his father. How can the others whisper that he's a coward? Can't they see his wisdom?
"Yes," Dalinar said, eyes growing distant. "Your nephew is a better man than many think him, and a stronger king. At least he could be. I just have to figure out how to persuade him to leave the Shattered Plains."
Adolin started. "What?"
"I didn't understand at first," Dalinar continued. "Unite them. I'm supposed to unite them. But aren't they already united? We fight together here on the Shattered Plains. We have a common enemy in the Parshendi. I'm beginning to see that we're united only in name. The highprinces give lip service to Elhokar, but this war-this siege-is a game to them. A competition against one another.
"We can't unite them here. We need to return to Alethkar and stabilize our homeland, learn how to work together as one nation. The Shattered Plains divide us. The others worry too much about winning wealth and prestige."
"Wealth and prestige are what being Alethi is about, Father!" Adolin said. Was he really hearing this? "What of the Vengeance Pact? The highprinces vowed to seek retribution upon the Parshendi!"
"And we have sought it." Dalinar looked to Adolin. "I realize that it sounds terrible, son, but some things are more important than vengeance. I loved Gavilar. I miss him fiercely, and I hate the Parshendi for what they did. But Gavilar's life work was to unite Alethkar, and I'll go to Damnation before I let it break apart."
"Father," Adolin said, feeling pained, "if there's something wrong here, it's that we're not trying hard enough. You think the highprinces are playing games? Well, show them the way it should be done! Instead of talking of retreat, we should be talking of advancing, striking at the Parshendi instead of besieging them."
"Perhaps."
"Either way, we cannot speak of withdrawing," Adolin said. The men already talked of Dalinar losing his spine. What would they say if they got hold of this? "You haven't brought this up with the king, have you?"
"Not yet. I haven't found the right way."
"Please. Don't talk to him about it."
"We shall see." Dalinar turned back toward the Shattered Plains, his eyes growing distant again.
"Father…"
"You've made your point, son, and I've replied to it. Do not press the issue. Have you gotten the report from the rear guard?"
"Yes."
"What of the vanguard?"
"I just checked with them and…" He trailed off. Blast. It had been long enough that it was probably time to move the king's party onward. The last of the army couldn't leave this plateau until the king was safely on the other side.
Adolin sighed and went off to collect the report. Before long, they were all across the chasm and riding over the next plateau. Renarin trotted up to Adolin and tried to engage him in conversation, but Adolin gave only halfhearted replies.
He was beginning to feel an odd longing. Most of the older men in the army-even those only a few years older than Adolin-had fought alongside his father during the glory days. Adolin found himself jealous of all of those men who had known his father and had seen him fight when he hadn't been so wrapped up in the Codes.
The changes in Dalinar had begun with the death of his brother. That terrible day was when everything had started to go wrong. The loss of Gavilar had nearly crushed Dalinar, and Adolin would never forgive the Parshendi for bringing his father such pain. Never. Men fought on the Plains for different reasons, but this was why Adolin had come. Perhaps if they beat the Parshendi, his father would go back to the man he had been. Perhaps those ghostly delusions that haunted him would vanish.
Ahead, Dalinar was speaking quietly with Sadeas. Both men wore frowns. They barely tolerated one another, though they had once been friends. That had also changed the night of Gavilar's death. What had happened between them?
The day wore on, and they eventually arrived at the hunt site-a pair of plateaus, one where the creature would be lured up to attack, and another one a safe distance away for those who would watch. Like most others, these plateaus had an uneven surface inhabited by hardy plants adapted to regular storm exposure. Rocky shelves, depressions, and uneven footing made fighting on them treacherous.
Adolin joined his father, who waited beside the final bridge as the king moved over onto the viewing plateau, followed by a company of soldiers. The attendants would be next.
"You're doing well with your command, son," Dalinar said, nodding to a group of soldiers at they passed and saluted.
"They're good men, Father. They hardly need someone to command them during a march from plateau to plateau."
"Yes," Dalinar said. "But you need experience leading, and they need to learn to see you as a commander." Renarin trotted up to them on his horse; it was probably time to cross to the viewing plateau. Dalinar nodded for his sons to go first.
Adolin turned to go, but hesitated as he noticed something on the plateau behind them. A rider, moving quickly to catch up with the hunting party, coming from the direction of the warcamps.
"Father," Adolin said, pointing.
Dalinar turned immediately, following the gesture. However, Adolin soon recognized the newcomer. Not a messenger, as he'd expected.
"Wit!" Adolin called, waving.
The newcomer trotted up to them. Tall and thin, the King's Wit rode easily on a black gelding. He wore a stiff black coat and black trousers, a color matched by his deep onyx hair. Though he wore a long, thin sword tied to his waist, as far as Adolin knew, the man had never drawn it. A dueling foil rather than a military blade, it was mostly symbolic.
Wit nodded to them as he approached, wearing one of those keen smiles of his. He had blue eyes, but he wasn't really a lighteyes. Nor was he a darkeyes. He was…well, he was the King's Wit. That was a category all its own.
"Ah, young Prince Adolin!" Wit exclaimed. "You actually managed to pry yourself away from the camp's young women long enough to join this hunt? I'm impressed."
Adolin chuckled uncomfortably. "Well, that's been a topic of some discussion lately…"
Wit raised an eyebrow.
Adolin sighed. Wit would find out eventually anyway-it was virtually impossible to keep anything from the man. "I made a lunch appointment with one woman yesterday, but I was…well, I was courting another. And she's the jealous type. So now neither will speak with me."
"It's a constant source of amazement that you get yourself into such messes, Adolin. Each one is more exciting than the previous!"
"Er, yes. Exciting. That's exactly how it feels."
Wit laughed again, though he maintained a sense of dignity in his posture. The King's Wit was not a silly court fool such as one might find in other kingdoms. He was a sword, a tool maintained by the king. Insulting others was beneath the dignity of the king, so just as one used gloves when forced to handle something vile, the king retained a Wit so he didn't have to debase himself to the level of rudeness or offensiveness.
This new Wit had been with them for some months, and there was something…different about him. He seemed to know things that he shouldn't, important things. Useful things.
Wit nodded to Dalinar. "Your Lordship."
"Wit," Dalinar said stiffly.
"And young Prince Renarin!"
Renarin kept his eyes down.
"No greeting for me, Renarin?" Wit said, amused.
Renarin said nothing.
"He thinks you'll mock him if he speaks to you, Wit," Adolin said. "Earlier this morning, he told me he'd determined not to say anything around you."
"Wonderful!" Wit exclaimed. "Then I can say whatever I wish, and he'll not object?"
Renarin hesitated.
Wit leaned in to Adolin. "Have I told you about the night Prince Renarin and I had two days back, walking the streets of the warcamp? We came across these two sisters, you see, blue eyed and-"
"That's a lie!" Renarin said, blushing.
"Very well," Wit said without missing a beat, "I'll confess there were actually three sisters, but Prince Renarin quite unfairly ended up with two of them, and I didn't wish to diminish my reputation by-"
"Wit." Dalinar was stern as he cut in.
The black-clad man looked to him.
"Perhaps you should restrict your mockery to those who deserve it."
"Brightlord Dalinar. I believe that was what I was doing."
Dalinar's frown deepened. He never had liked Wit, and picking on Renarin was a sure way to raise his ire. Adolin could understand that, but Wit was almost always good-natured with Renarin.
Wit moved to leave, passing Dalinar as he did. Adolin could barely overhear what was said as Wit leaned over to whisper something. "Those who 'deserve' my mockery are those who can benefit from it, Brightlord Dalinar. That one is less fragile than you think him." He winked, then turned his horse to move on over the bridge.
"Stormwinds, but I like that man," Adolin said. "Best Wit we've had in ages!"
"I find him unnerving," Renarin said softly.
"That's half the fun!"
Dalinar said nothing. The three of them crossed the bridge, passing Wit, who had stopped to torment a group of officers-lighteyes of low enough rank that they needed to serve in the army and earn a wage. Several of them laughed while Wit poked fun at another.
The three of them joined the king, and were immediately approached by the day's huntmaster. Bashin was a short man with a sizable paunch; he wore rugged clothing with a leather overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat. He was a darkeyes of the first nahn, the highest and most prestigious rank a darkeyes could have, worthy even of marrying into a lighteyed family.
Bashin bowed to the king. "Your Majesty! Wonderful timing! We've just tossed down the bait."
"Excellent," Elhokar said, climbing from the saddle. Adolin and Dalinar did likewise, Shardplate clinking softly, Dalinar untying his helm from the saddle. "How long will it take?"
"Two or three hours is likely," Bashin said, taking the reins of the king's horse. Grooms took the two Ryshadium. "We've set up over there."
Bashin pointed toward the hunting plateau, the smaller plateau where the actual fighting would take place away from the attendants and the bulk of the soldiers. A group of hunters led a lumbering chull around its perimeter, towing a rope draped over the side of the cliff. That rope would be dragging the bait.
"We're using hog carcasses," Bashin explained. "And we poured hog's blood over the sides. The chasmfiend has been spotted by patrols here a good dozen times. He's got his nest nearby, for certain-he's not here to pupate. He's too big for that, and he's remained in the area too long. So it should be a fine hunt! Once he arrives, we'll loose a group of wild hogs as distractions, and you can begin weakening him with arrows."
They had brought grandbows: large steel bows with thick strings and such a high draw weight that only a Shardbearer could use them, to fire shafts as thick as three fingers. They were recent creations, devised by Alethi engineers through the use of fabrial science, and each required a small infused gemstone to maintain the strength of its pull without warping the metal. Adolin's aunt Navani-the widow of King Gavilar, mother of Elhokar and his sister Jasnah-had led the research to develop the bows.
It would be nice if she hadn't left, Adolin thought idly. Navani was an interesting woman. Things were never boring around her.
Some had started calling the bows Shardbows, but Adolin didn't like the term. Shardblades and Shardplate were something special. Relics from another time, a time when the Radiants had walked Roshar. No amount of fabrial science had even approached re-creating them.
Bashin led the king and his highprinces toward a pavilion at the center of the viewing plateau. Adolin joined his father, intending to give a report on the crossing. About half of the soldiers were in place, but many of the attendants were still making their way across the large, permanent bridge onto the viewing plateau. The king's banner flapped above the pavilion, and a small refreshment station had been erected. A soldier at the back was setting up the rack of four grandbows. They were sleek and dangerous-looking, with thick black shafts in four quivers beside them.
"I think you'll have a fine day for the hunt," Bashin said to Dalinar. "Judging by reports, the beast is a big one. Larger than you've ever slain before, Brightlord."
"Gavilar always wanted to slay one of these," Dalinar said wistfully. "He loved greatshell hunts, though he never got a chasmfiend. Odd that I've now killed so many."
The chull pulling the bait bleated in the distance.
"You need to go for the legs on this one, Brightlords," Bashin said. Pre-hunt advice was one of Bashin's responsibilities, and he took those seriously. "Chasmfiends, well, you're used to attacking them in their chrysalises. Don't forget how mean they are when they're not pupating. With one this big, use a distraction and come in from…" He trailed off, then groaned, cursing softly. "Storms take that animal. I swear, the man who trained it must have been daft."
He was looking across at the next plateau. Adolin followed his glance. The crablike chull that had been towing the bait was lumbering away from the chasm with a slow, yet determined gait. Its handlers were yelling, running after it.
"I'm sorry, Brightlord," Bashin said. "It's been doing this all day."
The chull bleated in a gravelly voice. Something seemed wrong to Adolin.
"We can send for another one," Elhokar said. "It shouldn't take too long to-"
"Bashin?" Dalinar said, his voice suddenly alarmed. "Shouldn't there be bait on the end of that beast's rope?"
The huntmaster froze. The rope the chull was towing was frayed at the end.
Something dark-something mind-numbingly enormous-rose out of the chasm on thick, chitinous legs. It climbed onto the plateau-not the small plateau where the hunt was supposed to take place, but the viewing plateau where Dalinar and Adolin stood. The plateau filled with attendants, unarmed guests, female scribes, and unprepared soldiers.
"Aw, Damnation," Bashin said. I realize that you are probably still angry. That is pleasant to know. Much as your perpetual health, I have come to rely upon your dissatisfaction with me. It is one of the cosmere's great constants, I should think. Ten heartbeats.
One.
That was how long it took to summon a Shardblade. If Dalinar's heart was racing, the time was shorter. If he was relaxed, it took longer.
Two.
On the battlefield, the passing of those beats could stretch like an eternity. He pulled his helm on as he ran.
Three.
The chasmfiend slammed an arm down, smashing the bridge filled with attendants and soldiers. People screamed, plunging into the chasm. Dalinar dashed forward on Plate-enhanced legs, following the king.
Four.
The chasmfiend towered like a mountain of interlocking carapace the color of dark violet ink. Dalinar could see why the Parshendi called these things gods. It had a twisted, arrowhead-like face, with a mouth full of barbed mandibles. While it was vaguely crustacean, this was no bulky, placid chull. It had four wicked foreclaws set into broad shoulders, each claw the size of a horse, and a dozen smaller legs that clutched the side of the plateau.
Five.
Chitin made a grinding noise against stone as the creature finished pulling itself onto the plateau, snatching a cart-pulling chull with a swift claw.
Six.
"To arms, to arms!" Elhokar bellowed ahead of Dalinar. "Archers, fire!"
Seven.
"Distract it from the unarmed!" Dalinar bellowed at his soldiers.
The creature cracked the chull's shell-platter-size fragments clattering to the plateau-then stuffed the beast into its maw and began looking down at the fleeing scribes and attendants. The chull stopped bleating as the monster crunched down.
Eight.
Dalinar leaped a rocky shelf and sailed five yards before slamming into the ground, throwing up chips of rock.
Nine.
The chasmfiend bellowed with an awful screeching sound. It trumpeted with four voices, overlapping one another.
Archers drew. Elhokar yelled orders just in front of Dalinar, his blue cape flapping.
Dalinar's hand tingled with anticipation.
Ten!
His Shardblade-Oathbringer-formed in his hand, coalescing from mist, appearing as the tenth beat of his heart thudded in his chest. Six feet long from tip to hilt, the Blade would have been unwieldy in the hands of any man not wearing Shardplate. To Dalinar, it felt perfect. He'd carried Oathbringer since his youth, Bonding to it when he was twenty Weepings old. It was long and slightly curved, a handspan wide, with wavelike serrations near the hilt. It curved at the tip like a fisherman's hook, and was wet with cold dew.
This sword was a part of him. He could sense energy racing along its blade, as if it were eager. A man never really knew life itself until he charged into battle with Plate and Blade.
"Make it angry!" Elhokar bellowed, his Shardblade-Sunraiser-springing from mist into his hand. It was long and thin with a large crossguard, and was etched up the sides with the ten fundamental glyphs. He didn't want the monster to escape; Dalinar could hear it in his voice. Dalinar was more worried about the soldiers and attendants; this hunt had already turned terribly wrong. Perhaps they should distract the monster long enough for everyone to escape, then pull back and let it dine on chulls and hogs.
The creature screamed its multivoiced wail again, slamming a claw down among the soldiers. Men screamed; bones splintered and bodies crumpled.
Archers loosed, aiming for the head. A hundred shafts zipped into the air, but only a few hit the soft muscle between plates of chitin. Behind them, Sadeas was calling for his grandbow. Dalinar couldn't wait for that-the creature was here, dangerous, killing his men. The bow would be too slow. This was a job for the Blade.
Adolin charged past, riding Sureblood. The lad had gone racing for his horse, rather than charging like Elhokar had. Dalinar himself had been forced to stay with the king. The other horses-even the warhorses-panicked, but Adolin's white Ryshadium stallion held steady. In a moment, Gallant was there, trotting beside Dalinar. Dalinar grabbed the reins and heaved himself into the air with Plate-enhanced legs, jumping up into the saddle. The force of his landing might have strained the back of a regular horse, but Gallant was made of stronger stone than that.
Elhokar closed his helm, the sides misting.
"Hold back, Your Majesty," Dalinar called, riding past. "Wait until Adolin and I weaken it." Dalinar reached up, slamming down his own visor. The sides misted, locking it into place, and the sides of the helm became translucent to him. You still needed the eye slit-looking through the sides was like looking through dirty glass-but the translucence was one of the most wonderful parts of Shardplate.
Dalinar rode into the monster's shadow. Soldiers scrambled about, clutching spears. They hadn't been trained to fight thirty-foot-tall beasts, and it was a testament to their valor that they formed up anyway, trying to draw attention away from the archers and the fleeing attendants.
Arrows rained down, bouncing off the carapace and becoming more deadly to the troops below than they were to the chasmfiend. Dalinar raised his free arm to shade his eye slit as an arrow clanged off his helm.
Adolin fell back as the beast swung at a batch of archers, crushing them with one of its claws. "I'll take left," Adolin yelled, voice muffled by his helm.
Dalinar nodded, cutting to the right, galloping past a group of dazed soldiers and into sunlight again as the chasmfiend raised a foreclaw for another sweep. Dalinar raced under the limb, transferring Oathbringer to his left hand and holding the sword out to the side, slashing it through one of the chasmfiend's trunklike legs.
The Blade sheared the thick chitin with barely a tug of resistance. As always, it didn't cut living flesh, though it killed the leg as surely as if it had been cut free. The large limb slipped, falling numb and useless.
The monster roared with its deep, overlapping, trumpeting voices. On the other side, Dalinar could make out Adolin slicing at a leg.
The creature shook, turning toward Dalinar. The two legs that had been cut dragged lifelessly. The monster was long and narrow like a cray-fish, and had a flattened tail. It walked on fourteen legs. How many could it lose before collapsing?
Dalinar rounded Gallant, meeting up with Adolin, whose blue Shardplate was gleaming, cape streaming behind him. They switched sides as they turned in wide arcs, each heading for another leg.
"Meet your enemy, monster!" Elhokar bellowed.
Dalinar turned. The king had found his mount and had managed to get it under control. Vengeance wasn't a Ryshadium, but the animal was of the best Shin stock. Astride the animal, Elhokar charged, Blade held above his head.
Well, there was no forbidding him the fight. He should be all right in his Plate so long as he kept moving. "The legs, Elhokar!" Dalinar shouted.
Elhokar ignored him, charging directly for the beast's chest. Dalinar cursed, heeling Gallant as the monster swung. Elhokar turned at the last moment, leaning low, ducking under the blow. The chasmfiend's claw hit stone with a cracking sound. It roared in anger at missing Elhokar, the sound echoing through the chasms.
The king veered toward Dalinar, riding past him in a rush. "I'm distracting it, you fool. Keep attacking!"
"I have the Ryshadium!" Dalinar yelled back at him. "I'll distract-I'm faster!"
Elhokar ignored him again. Dalinar sighed. Elhokar, characteristically, could not be contained. Arguing would only cost more time and more lives, so Dalinar did as he'd been told. He rounded to the side for another approach, Gallant's hooves beating against the stone ground. The king drew the monster's direct attention, and Dalinar was able to ride in and slam his Blade through another leg.
The beast emitted four overlapping screams and turned toward Dalinar. But as it did, Adolin rode past on the other side, cutting at another leg with a deft strike. The leg slumped, and arrows rained down as archers continued to fire.
The creature shook, confused by the attacks coming from every side. It was getting weak, and Dalinar raised his arm, gesturing. The command ordered the rest of the foot soldiers to retreat toward the pavilion. Orders given, he slipped in and killed another leg. That meant five down. Perhaps it was time to let the beast limp away; killing it now wasn't worth risking lives.
He called to the king, who rode-Blade held out to the side-a short distance away. The king glanced at him, but obviously didn't hear. As the chasmfiend loomed in the background, Elhokar wheeled Vengeance in a sharp right turn toward Dalinar.
There was a soft snap, and suddenly the king-and his saddle-went tumbling through the air. The horse's quick turn had caused the saddle girth to break. A man in Shardplate was heavy and put a great strain on both his mount and saddle.
Dalinar felt a spike of fear, and he reined in Gallant. Elhokar slammed to the ground, dropping his Shardblade. The weapon reverted to mist, vanishing. It was a protection from keeping a Blade from being taken by your enemies; they vanished unless you willed them to stay when releasing them.
"Elhokar!" Dalinar bellowed. The king rolled, cape wrapping around his body, then came to rest. He lay dazed for a moment; the armor was cracked on one shoulder, leaking Stormlight. The Plate would have cushioned the fall. He'd be all right.
Unless A claw loomed above the king.
Dalinar felt a moment of panic, turning Gallant to charge toward the king. He was going to be too slow! The beast would An enormous arrow slammed into the chasmfiend's head, cracking chitin. Purple gore spurted free, causing the beast to trump in agony. Dalinar twisted in the saddle.
Sadeas stood in his red Plate, taking another massive arrow from an attendant. He drew, launching the thick bolt into the chasmfiend's shoulder with a sharp crack.
Dalinar raised Oathbringer in salute. Sadeas acknowledged, raising his bow. They were not friends, and they did not like one another.
But they would protect the king. That was the bond that united them.
"Get to safety!" Dalinar yelled to the king as he charged past. Elhokar stumbled to his feet and nodded.
Dalinar moved in. He had to distract the beast long enough for Elhokar to get away. More of Sadeas's arrows flew true, but the monster started to ignore them. Its sluggishness vanished, and its bleats became angry, wild, crazed. It was growing truly enraged.
This was the most dangerous part; there would be no retreating now. It would follow them until it either killed them or was slain.
A claw smashed to the ground just beside Gallant, throwing chips of stone into the air. Dalinar hunkered low, careful to keep his Shardblade out, and he cut free another leg. Adolin had done the same on the other side. Seven legs down, half of them. How long before the beast dropped? Normally, at this stage, they had launched several dozen arrows into the animal. It was difficult to guess what one would do without that prior softening-beside that, he'd never fought one this large before.
He turned Gallant, trying to draw the creature's attention. Hopefully, Elhokar had "Are you a god!" Elhokar bellowed.
Dalinar groaned, looking over his shoulder. The king had not fled. He strode toward the beast, hand to the side.
"I defy you, creature!" Elhokar screamed. "I claim your life! They will see their gods crushed, just as they will see their king dead at my feet! I defy you!"
Damnation's own fool! Dalinar thought, rounding Gallant.
Elhokar's Shardblade reformed in his hands, and he charged toward the monster's chest, his cracked shoulder leaking Stormlight. He got close and swung at the beast's torso, cutting free a piece of chitin-like a person's hair or nails, it could be cut by a Blade. Then Elhokar slammed his weapon into the monster's breast, seeking its heart.
The beast roared and shook, knocking Elhokar free. The king barely kept hold of his Blade. The beast spun. That movement, unfortunately, brought its tail at Dalinar. He cursed, yanking Gallant in a tight turn, but the tail came too quickly. It slammed into Gallant, and in a heartbeat Dalinar found himself rolling, Oathbringer tumbling from his fingers and slicing a gash in the stone ground before puffing to mist.
"Father!" a distant voice yelled.
Dalinar came to rest on the stones, dizzy. He raised his head to see Gallant stumbling to his feet. Blessedly, the horse hadn't broken a leg, though the animal bled from scrapes and was favoring one leg.
"Away!" Dalinar said. The command word would send the horse to safety. Unlike Elhokar, it would obey.
Dalinar climbed to his feet, unsteady. A scraping sound came from his left, and Dalinar spun just in time for the chasmfiend's tail to take him in the chest, tossing him backward.
Again the world lurched, and metal hit stone in a cacophony as he slid.
No! he thought, getting a gauntleted hand beneath himself and heaving, using the momentum of his slide to throw himself upright. As the sky spun, something seemed to right, as if the Plate itself knew which way was up. He landed-still moving, feet grinding on stone.
He got his balance, then charged toward the king, beginning the process of summoning his Shardblade again. Ten heartbeats. An eternity.
The archers continued to fire, and more than a few of their shafts bristled form the chasmfiend's face. It ignored them, though Sadeas's larger arrows still seemed to distract it. Adolin had sheared through another leg, and the creature lumbered uncertainly, eight of its fourteen legs dragging uselessly.
"Father!"
Dalinar turned to see Renarin-dressed in a stiff blue Kholin uniform, with a long coat buttoning to the neck-riding across the rocky ground. "Father, are you well? Can I help?"
"Fool boy!" Dalinar said, pointing. "Go!"
"But-"
"You're unarmored and unarmed!" Dalinar bellowed. "Get back before you get yourself killed!"
Renarin pulled his roan horse to a halt.