Ati was once a kind and generous man, and you saw what became of him. Rayse, on the other hand, was among the most loathsome, crafty, and dangerous individuals I had ever met.
“Yeah, this was cut,” the portly leatherworker said, holding up the straps as Adolin watched. “Wouldn’t you agree, Yis?”
The other leatherworker nodded. Yis was a yellow-eyed Iriali, with stark golden hair. Not blond, golden. There was even a metallic sheen to it. He kept it short and wore a cap. Obviously, he didn’t want to draw attention to it. Many considered a lock of Iriali hair to be a ward of good luck.
His companion, Avaran, was an Alethi darkeyes who wore an apron over his vest. If the two men worked in the traditional way, one would labor on the larger, more robust pieces—like saddles—while the other specialized in fine detail. A group of apprentices toiled in the background, cutting or sewing hogshide.
“Sliced,” Yis agreed, taking the straps from Avaran. “I concur.”
“Well hie me to Damnation,” Adolin muttered. “You mean Elhokar was actually right?”
“Adolin,” a feminine voice said from behind. “You said we’d be going on a walk.”
“That’s what we’re doing,” he said, turning to smile. Janala stood with arms folded, wearing a sleek yellow dress of impeccable fashion, buttoning
up the sides, cupping around the neck with a stiff collar embroidered with crimson thread.
“I had imagined,” she said, “that a walk would involve more walking.” “Hm,” he said. “Yes. We’ll be getting right to that soon. It’ll be grand.
Lots of prancing, sauntering, and, er…”
“Promenading?” Yis the leatherworker offered. “Isn’t that a type of drink?” Adolin asked.
“Er, no, Brightlord. I’m fairly certain it’s another word for walking.”
“Well, then,” Adolin said. “We’ll do plenty of it too. Promenading. I always love a good promenading.” He rubbed his chin, taking the strap back. “How certain are you about this strap?”
“There’s really no room for question, Brightlord,” Avaran said. “That’s not a simple tear. You should be more careful.”
“Careful?”
“Yes,” Avaran said. “Make sure that no loose buckles are scraping the leather, cutting into it. This looks like it came from a saddle. Sometimes, people let the girth straps hang down when setting the saddle for the night, and they get pinched underneath something. I’d guess that caused the slice.”
“Oh,” Adolin said. “You mean it wasn’t cut intentionally?”
“Well, it could have been that,” Avaran said. “But why would someone cut a girth like this?”
Why indeed, Adolin thought. He bid farewell to the two leatherworkers, tucked the strap into his pocket, then held out his elbow to Janala. She took it with her freehand, obviously happy to finally be free of the leather-working shop. It had a faint odor about it, though not nearly as bad as a tannery. He’d seen her reaching for her handkerchief a few times, acting as if she wanted to hold it up to her nose.
They stepped out into the midday sunlight. Tibon and Marks—two lighteyed members of the Cobalt Guard—waited outside with Janala’s handmaiden, Falksi, who was a young Azish darkeyes. The three fell into step behind Adolin and Janala as they walked out onto the street of the warcamp, Falksi muttering under her breath in an accented voice about the lack of a proper palanquin for her mistress.
Janala didn’t seem to mind. She breathed deeply of the open air and clung to his arm. She was quite beautiful, even if she did like to talk about herself. Talkativeness was normally an attribute he was fond of in a woman,
but today he had trouble paying attention as Janala began telling him about the latest court gossip.
The strap had been cut, but the leatherworkers had both assumed that it was the result of an accident. That implied they’d seen cuts like this before. A loose buckle or other mishap slicing the leather.
Except this time, that cut had thrown the king in the middle of a fight.
Could there be something to it?
“…wouldn’t you say, Adolin?” Janala asked. “Undoubtedly,” he said, listening with half an ear. “So you’ll talk to him?”
“Hum?”
“Your father. You’ll ask him about letting the men abandon that dreadfully unfashionable uniform once in a while?”
“Well, he’s rather set on the idea,” Adolin said. “Besides, it’s really not
that unfashionable.”
Janala gave him a flat stare.
“All right,” he admitted. “It is a little drab.” Like every other high- ranked lighteyed officer in Dalinar’s army, Adolin wore a simple blue out- fit of militaristic cut. A long coat of solid blue—no embroidery—and stiff trousers in a time when vests, silk accents, and scarves were the fashion. His father’s Kholin glyphpair was emblazoned quite obtrusively on the back and breast, and the front fastened with silver buttons up both sides. It was simple, distinctly recognizable, but awfully plain.
“Your father’s men love him, Adolin,” Janala said. “But his requirements are growing tiresome.”
“I know. Trust me. But I don’t think I can change his mind.” How to explain? Despite six years at war, Dalinar wasn’t weakening in his resolve to hold to the Codes. If anything, his dedication to them was strengthening.
At least now Adolin understood somewhat. Dalinar’s beloved brother had made one last request: Follow the Codes. True, that request had been in reference to a single event, but Adolin’s father was known to take things to extremes.
Adolin just wished he wouldn’t make the same requirement of everyone else. Individually, the Codes were only minor inconveniences— always be in uniform when in public, never be drunken, avoid dueling. In aggregate, however, they were burdensome.
His response to Janala was cut off as a set of horns blared through the camp. Adolin perked up, spinning, looking eastward toward the Shattered Plains. He counted off the next series of horns. A chrysalis had been spotted on plateau one-forty-seven. That was within striking distance!
He held his breath, waiting for a third series of horns to blare, calling Dalinar’s armies to battle. That would only happen if his father ordered it.
Part of him knew those horns wouldn’t come. One-forty-seven was close enough to Sadeas’s warcamp that the other highprince would certainly try for it.
Come on, Father, Adolin thought. We can race him for it!
No horns came.
Adolin glanced at Janala. She’d chosen music as her Calling and paid little attention to the war, though her father was one of Dalinar’s cavalry officers. From her expression, Adolin could tell that even she understood what the lack of a third horn meant.
Once again, Dalinar Kholin had chosen not to fight.
“Come on,” Adolin said, turning and moving in another direction, practically towing Janala along by her elbow. “There’s something else I want to check into.”
 |
Dalinar stood with hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the Shattered Plains. He was on one of the lower terraces outside Elhokar’s elevated palace—the king didn’t reside in one of the ten warcamps, but in a small compound elevated along a hillside nearby. Dalinar’s climb to the palace had been interrupted by the horns.
He stood long enough see Sadeas’s army gathering inside his camp. Dalinar could have sent a soldier to prepare his own men. He was close enough.
“Brightlord?” a voice asked from the side. “Do you wish to continue?”
You protect him your way, Sadeas, Dalinar thought. I’ll protect him my
way.
“Yes, Teshav,” he said, turning to continue walking up the switchbacks.
Teshav joined him. She had streaks of blond in her otherwise black Alethi hair, which she wore up in an intricate crossing weave. She had violet eyes, and her pinched face bore a concerned expression. That was normal; she always seemed to need something to worry about.
Teshav and her attendant scribe were both wives of his officers. Dalinar trusted them. Mostly. It was hard to trust anyone completely. Stop it, he thought. You’re starting to sound as paranoid as the king.
Regardless, he’d be very glad for Jasnah’s return. If she ever decided to return. Some of his higher officers hinted to him that he should marry again, if only to have a woman who could be his primary scribe. They thought he rejected their suggestions because of love for his first wife. They didn’t know that she was gone, vanished from his mind, a blank patch of fog in his memory. Though, in a way, his officers were right. He hesitated to remarry because he hated the idea of replacing her. He’d had everything of his wife taken from him. All that remained was the hole, and filling it to gain a scribe seemed callous.
Dalinar continued on his way. Other than the two women, he was attended by Renarin and three members of the Cobalt Guard. The latter wore deep blue felt caps and cloaks over silvery breastplates and deep blue trousers. They were lighteyes of low rank, able to carry swords for close fighting.
“Well, Brightlord,” Teshav said, “Brightlord Adolin asked me to report the progress of the saddle girth investigation. He’s speaking with leatherworkers at this very moment, but so far, there is very little to say. Nobody witnessed anyone interfering with the saddle or His Majesty’s horse. Our spies say there are no whispers of anyone in the other warcamps bragging, and nobody in our camp has suddenly received large sums of money, so far as we’ve discovered.”
“The grooms?”
“Say they checked over the saddle,” she said, “but when pressed, they admit that they can’t specifically remember checking the girth.” She shook her head. “Carrying a Shardbearer places great strain on both horse and saddle. If there were only some way to tame more Ryshadium….”
“I think you’ll sooner tame the highstorms, Brightness. Well, this is good news, I suppose. Better for us all that this strap business turns out to
be nothing. Now, there is another item I wish you to look into.” “It is my pleasure to serve, Brightlord.”
“Highprince Aladar has begun to talk of taking a short vacation back to Alethkar. I want to know if he’s serious.”
“Yes, Brightlord.” Teshav nodded. “Would that be a problem?”
“I’m honestly not sure.” He didn’t trust the highprinces, but at least with them all here, he could watch them. If one of them returned to Alethkar, the man could scheme unchecked. Of course, even brief visits might help stabilize their homeland.
Which was more important? Stability or the ability to watch over the others? Blood of my fathers, he thought. I wasn’t made for this politicking and scheming. I was made to wield a sword and ride down enemies.
He’d do what needed to be done anyway. “I believe you said you had information on the king’s accounts, Teshav?”
“Indeed,” she said as they continued the short hike. “You were correct to have me look into the ledgers, as it appears that three of the highprinces
—Thanadal, Hatham, and Vamah—are well behind in their payments. Other than yourself, only Highprince Sadeas has actually paid ahead on what is owed, as the tenets of war require.”
Dalinar nodded. “The longer this war stretches, the more comfortable the highprinces are getting. They’re starting to question. Why pay high war time rates for Soulcasting? Why not move farmers out here and start growing their own food?”
“Pardon, Brightlord,” Teshav said as they turned around a switchback. Her attendant scribe walked behind, several ledgers clipped to boards carried in a satchel. “But do we really wish to discourage that? A second stream of supplies could be valuable as a redundancy.”
“The merchants already provide redundancy,” Dalinar said. “Which is one of the reasons I haven’t chased them off. I wouldn’t mind another, but the Soulcasters are the only hold we have on the highprinces. They owed Gavilar loyalty, but they feel little of that for his son.” Dalinar narrowed his eyes. “This is a vital point, Teshav. Have you read the histories I suggested?”
“Yes, Brightlord.”
“Then you know. The most fragile period in a kingdom’s existence comes during the lifetime of its founder’s heir. During the reign of a man like Gavilar, men stay loyal because of their respect for him. During
subsequent generations, men begin to see themselves as part of a kingdom, a united force that holds together because of tradition.
“But the son’s reign…that’s the dangerous point. Gavilar isn’t here to hold everyone together, but there isn’t yet a tradition of Alethkar being a kingdom. We’ve got to carry on long enough for the highprinces to begin seeing themselves as part of a greater whole.”
“Yes, Brightlord.”
She didn’t question. Teshav was deeply loyal to him, as were most of his officers. They didn’t question why it was so important to him that the ten princedoms regard themselves as one nation. Perhaps they assumed it was because of Gavilar. Indeed, his brother’s dream of a united Alethkar was part of it. There was something else, though.
The Everstorm comes. The True Desolation. The Night of Sorrows.
He suppressed a shiver. The visions certainly didn’t make it sound like he had a great deal of time to prepare.
“Draft a missive in the king’s name,” Dalinar said, “decreasing Soulcasting costs for those who have made their payments on time. That should wake up the others. Give it to Elhokar’s scribes and have them explain it to him. Hopefully he will agree with the need.”
“Yes, Brightlord,” Teshav said. “If I might note, I was quite surprised that you suggested I read those histories. In the past, such things haven’t been particular to your interests.”
“I do a lot of things lately that aren’t particular to my interests or my talents,” Dalinar said with a grimace. “My lack of capacity doesn’t change the kingdom’s needs. Have you gathered reports of banditry in the area?”
“Yes, Brightlord.” She hesitated. “The rates are quite alarming.”
“Tell your husband I give him command of the Fourth Battalion,” Dalinar said. “I want the two of you to work out a better pattern of patrol in the Unclaimed Hills. So long as the Alethi monarchy has a presence here, I do not want it to be a land of lawlessness.”
“Yes, Brightlord,” Teshav said, sounding hesitant. “You realize that means you’ve committed two entire battalions to patrolling?”
“Yes,” Dalinar said. He had asked for help from the other highprinces. Their reactions had ranged from shock to mirth. None had given him any soldiers.
“That is added to the battalion you assigned to peacekeeping in the areas between warcamps and the exterior merchant markets,” Teshav added.
“In total, that’s over a quarter of your forces here, Brightlord.”
“The orders stand, Teshav.” he said. “See to it. But first, I have more to discuss with you regarding the ledgers. Go on ahead to the ledger room and wait for us there.”
She nodded respect. “Of course, Brightlord.” She withdrew with her ward.
Renarin stepped up to Dalinar. “She wasn’t pleased about that, Father.” “She wishes her husband to be fighting,” Dalinar said. “They all hope
that I’ll win another Shardblade out there, then give it to them.” The Parshendi had Shards. Not many, but even a single one was surprising. Nobody had an explanation for where they’d gotten them. Dalinar had won a Parshendi Shardblade and Plate during his first year here. He’d given both to Elhokar to award to a warrior he felt would be the most useful to Alethkar and the war effort.
Dalinar turned and entered the palace proper. The guards at the doorway saluted him and Renarin. The young man kept his eyes forward, staring at nothing. Some people thought him emotionless, but Dalinar knew he was just preoccupied.
“I’ve been meaning to speak with you, son,” Dalinar said. “About the hunt last week.”
Renarin’s eyes flickered downward in shame, the edges of his mouth pulling back in a grimace. Yes, he did have emotions. He just didn’t show them as often as others.
“You realize that you shouldn’t have rushed into battle as you did,” Dalinar said sternly. “That chasmfiend could have killed you.”
“What would you have done, Father, if it had been me in danger?”
“I don’t fault your bravery; I fault your wisdom. What if you’d had one of your fits?”
“Then perhaps the monster would have swept me off the plateau,” Renarin said bitterly, “and I would no longer be such a useless drain on everyone’s time.”
“Don’t say such things! Not even in jest.” “Was it jest? Father, I can’t fight.”
“Fighting is not the only thing of value a man can do.” The ardents were very specific about that. Yes, the highest Calling of men was to join the battle in the afterlife to reclaim the Tranquiline Halls, but the Almighty accepted the excellence of any man or woman, regardless of what they did.
You just did your best, picking a profession and an attribute of the Almighty to emulate. A Calling and a Glory, it was said. You worked hard at your profession, and you spent your life trying to live according to a single ideal. The Almighty would accept that, particularly if you were lighteyed—the better your blood as a lighteyes, the more innate Glory you had already.
Dalinar’s Calling was to be a leader, and his chosen Glory was determination. He’d chosen both in his youth, though he now viewed them very differently than he once had.
“You are right, of course, Father,” Renarin said. “I am not the first hero’s son to be born without any talent for warfare. The others all got along. So shall I. Likely I will end up as citylord of a small town. Assuming I don’t tuck myself away in the devotaries.” The boy’s eyes turned forward.
I still think of him as “the boy,” Dalinar thought. Even though he’s now in his twentieth year. Wit had been right. Dalinar underestimated Renarin. How would I react, if I were forbidden to fight? Kept back with the women and the merchants?
Dalinar would have been bitter, particularly against Adolin. In fact, Dalinar had often been envious of Gavilar during their boyhood. Renarin, however, was Adolin’s greatest supporter. He all but worshipped his elder brother. And he was brave enough to dash heedless into the middle of a battlefield where a nightmare creature was smashing spearmen and tossing aside Shardbearers.
Dalinar cleared his throat. “Perhaps it is time to again try training you in the sword.”
“My blood weakness—”
“Won’t matter a bit if we get you into a set of Plate and give you a Blade,” Dalinar said. “The armor makes any man strong, and a Shardblade is nearly as light as air itself.”
“Father,” Renarin said flatly, “I’ll never be a Shardbearer. You yourself have said that the Blades and Plate we win from the Parshendi must go to the most skilled warriors.”
“None of the other highprinces give up their spoils to the king,” Dalinar said. “And who would fault me if, for once, I made a gift to my son?”
Renarin stopped in the hallway, displaying an unusual level of emotion, eyes opening wider, face eager. “You are serious?”
“I give you my oath, son. If I can capture another Blade and Plate, they will go to you.” He smiled. “To be honest, I’d do it simply for the joy of seeing Sadeas’s face when you become a full Shardbearer. Beyond that, if your strength is made equal to others, I expect that your natural skill will make you shine.”
Renarin smiled. Shardplate wouldn’t solve everything, but Renarin would have his chance. Dalinar would see to it. I know what it’s like to be a second son, he thought as they continued walking toward the king’s chambers, overshadowed by an older brother you love yet envy at the same time. Stormfather, but I do.
I still feel that way.
|
“Ah, good Brightlord Adolin,” the ardent said, walking forward with open arms. Kadash was a tall man in his later years, and wore the shaved head and square beard of his Calling. He also had a twisting scar that ran around the top of his head, a memento from his earlier days as an army officer.
It was uncommon to find a man such as him—a lighteyes who had once been a soldier—in the ardentia. In fact, it was odd for any man to change his Calling. But it wasn’t forbidden, and Kadash had risen far in the ardentia considering his late start. Dalinar said it was a sign of either faith or perseverance. Perhaps both.
The warcamp’s temple had started as a large Soulcast dome, then Dalinar had granted money and stonemasons to transform it into a more suitable house of worship. Carvings of the Heralds now lined the inside walls, and broad windows carved on the leeward side had been set with glass to let in the light. Diamond spheres blazed in bunches hung from the high ceiling, and stands had been set up for the instruction, practice, and testing of the various arts.
Many women were in at the moment, receiving instruction from the ardents. There were fewer men. Being at war, it was easy to practice the masculine arts in the field.
Janala folded her arms, scanning the temple with obvious dissatisfaction as she stood beside Adolin. “First a stinky leatherworker’s shop, now the temple? I had assumed we would walk someplace at least faintly romantic.”
“Religion’s romantic,” Adolin said, scratching his head. “Eternal love and all that, right?”
She eyed him. “I’m going to go wait outside.” She turned and walked out with her handmaiden. “And someone get me a storming palanquin.”
Adolin frowned, watching her go. “I’ll have to buy her something quite expensive to make up for this, I suspect.”
“I don’t see what the problem is,” Kadash said. “I think religion is romantic.”
“You’re an ardent,” Adolin said flatly. “Besides, that scar makes you a little too unsightly for my tastes.” He sighed. “It’s not so much the temple that has set her off, but my lack of attention. I haven’t been a very good companion today.”
“You have matters pressing upon your mind, bright one?” Kadash asked. “Is this about your Calling? You haven’t made much progress lately.”
Adolin grimaced. His chosen Calling was dueling. By working with the ardents to make personal goals and fulfill them, he could prove himself to the Almighty. Unfortunately, during war, the Codes said Adolin was supposed to limit his duels, as frivolous dueling could wound officers who might be needed in battle.
But Adolin’s father avoided battle more and more. So what was the point of not dueling? “Holy one,” Adolin said, “we need to speak somewhere we can’t be overheard.”
Kadash raised an eyebrow and led Adolin around the central apex. Vorin temples were always circular with a gently sloping mound at the center, by custom rising ten feet high. The building was dedicated to the Almighty, maintained by Dalinar and the ardents he owned. All devotaries were welcome to use it, though most would have their own chapter houses in one of the warcamps.
“What is it you wish to ask of me, bright one?” the ardent asked once they reached a more secluded section of the vast chamber. Kadash was deferential, though he had tutored and trained Adolin during his childhood.
“Is my father going mad?” Adolin asked. “Or could he really be seeing visions sent by the Almighty, as I think he believes?”
“That’s a rather blunt question.”
“You’ve known him longer than most, Kadash, and I know you to be loyal. I also know you to be one who keeps his ears open and notices things, so I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors.” Adolin shrugged. “Seems like a time for bluntness if there ever was one.”
“I take it, then, the rumors are not unfounded.”
“Unfortunately, no. It happens during every highstorm. He raves and thrashes about, and afterward claims to have seen things.”
“What sorts of things?”
“I’m not certain, precisely.” Adolin grimaced. “Things about the Radiants. And perhaps…about what is to come.”
Kadash looked disturbed. “This is dangerous territory, bright one. What you are asking me about risks tempting me to violate my oaths. I am an ardent, owned by and loyal to your father.”
“But he is not your religious superior.”
“No. But he is the Almighty’s guardian of this people, set to watch me and make certain I don’t rise above my station.” Kadash pursed his lips. “It is a delicate balance we walk, bright one. Do you know much of the Hierocracy, the War of Loss?”
“The church tried to seize control,” Adolin said, shrugging. “The priests tried to conquer the world—for its own good, they claimed.”
“That was part of it,” Kadash said. “The part we speak of most often. But the problem goes much deeper. The church back then, it clung to knowledge. Men were not in command of their own religious paths; the priests controlled the doctrine, and few members of the Church were allowed to know theology. They were taught to follow the priests. Not the Almighty or the Heralds, but the priests.”
He began walking, leading Adolin around the back rim of the temple chamber. They passed statues of the Heralds, five male, five female. In truth, Adolin knew very little of what Kadash was saying. He’d never had much of a mind for history that didn’t relate directly to the command of armies.
“The problem, bright one,” Kadash said, “was mysticism. The priests claimed that common men could not understand religion or the Almighty. Where there should have been openness, there was smoke and whispers.
The priests began to claim visions and prophecies, though such things had been denounced by the Heralds themselves. Voidbinding is a dark and evil thing, and the soul of it was to try to divine the future.”
Adolin froze. “Wait, you’re saying—”
“Don’t get ahead of me please, bright one,” Kadash assured, turning back toward him. “When the priests of the Hierocracy were cast down, the Sunmaker made a point of interrogating them and going through their correspondences with one another. It was discovered that there had been no prophecies. No mystical promises from the Almighty. That had all been an excuse, fabricated by the priests to placate and control the people.”
Adolin frowned. “Where are you going with this, Kadash?”
“As close as I dare to the truth, bright one,” the ardent said. “As I cannot be as blunt as you.”
“You think my father’s visions are fabrications, then.”
“I would never accuse my highprince of lying,” Kadash said. “Or even of feebleness. But neither can I condone mysticism or prophecy in any form. To do so would be to deny Vorinism. The days of the priests are gone. The days of lying to the people, of keeping them in darkness, are gone. Now, each man chooses his own path, and the ardents help him achieve closeness to the Almighty through it. Instead of shadowed prophecies and pretend powers held by a few, we have a population who understand their beliefs and their relationship with their God.”
He stepped closer, speaking very softly. “Your father is not to be mocked or diminished. If his visions are true, then it is between him and the Almighty. All I can say is this: I know something of what it is to be haunted by the death and destruction of war. I see in your father’s eyes much of what I have felt, but worse. My personal opinion is that the things he sees are likely more a reflection of his past than any mystical experience.”
“So he is going mad,” Adolin whispered. “I did not say that.”
“You implied that the Almighty probably wouldn’t send visions like these.”
“I did.”
“And that his visions are a product of his own mind.”
“Likely so,” the ardent said, raising his finger. “A delicate balance, you see. One that is particularly difficult to keep when speaking to my highprince’s own son.” He reached out, taking Adolin’s arm. “If any are to
help him, it must be you. It would not be the place of any other, even myself.”
Adolin nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
“You should likely go see to that young woman now.”
“Yes,” Adolin said with a sigh. “I fear that even with the right gift, she and I are not long for courting. Renarin will mock me again.”
Kadash smiled. “Best not to give up so easily, bright one. Go now. But do return sometime so we can speak of your goals in regard to your Calling. It has been too long since you’ve Elevated.”
Adolin nodded and hurried from the chamber.
|
After hours going over the ledgers with Teshav, Dalinar and Renarin reached the hallway before the king’s chambers. They walked in silence, the soles of their boots clapping the marble flooring, the sound echoing against stone walls.
The corridors of the king’s war palace were growing richer by the week. Once, this hallway had been just another Soulcast stone tunnel. As Elhokar settled in, he had ordered improvements. Windows were cut into the leeward side. Marble tiling was set into the floor. The walls were carved with reliefs, with mosaic trim at the corners. Dalinar and Renarin passed a group of stonemasons carefully cutting a scene of Nalan’Elin, emitting sunlight, the sword of retribution held over his head.
They reached the king’s antechamber, a large, open room guarded by ten members of the King’s Guard, dressed in blue and gold. Dalinar recognized each face; he had personally organized the unit, handpicking its members.
Highprince Ruthar waited to see the king. He had brawny arms folded in front of him, and wore a short black beard that surrounded his mouth. The red silk coat was cut short and did not button; almost more of a sleeved vest, it was a mere token nod to traditional Alethi uniform. The shirt underneath was ruffled and white, and his blue trousers were loose, with wide cuffs.
Ruthar glanced Dalinar’s way and nodded to him—a minor token of respect—then turned to chat with one of his attendants. He cut off, however, as the guards at the doorway stepped aside to let Dalinar enter. Ruthar sniffed in annoyance. Dalinar’s easy access to the king galled the other highprinces.
The king wasn’t in his wardroom, but the wide doors to his balcony were open. Dalinar’s guardsmen waited behind as he stepped out onto the balcony, Renarin hesitantly following. The light outside was dimming as sunset neared. Setting the war palace up high like this was tactically sound, but it meant the place was mercilessly buffeted by storms. That was an old campaign conundrum. Did one choose the best position to weather storms, or did one seize the high ground?
Most would have chosen the former; their warcamps on the edge of the Shattered Plains were unlikely to be attacked, making the advantage of the high ground less important. But kings tended to prefer height. In this instance, Dalinar had encouraged Elhokar, just in case.
The balcony itself was a thick platform of rock cut onto the top of the small peak, edged with an iron railing. The king’s rooms were a Soulcast dome sitting atop the natural formation, with covered ramps and stairways leading to tiers lower on the hillside. Those housed the king’s various attendants: guards, stormwardens, ardents, and distant family members. Dalinar had his own bunker at his warcamp. He refused to call it a palace.
The king leaned against the railing, two guards watching from a distance. Dalinar motioned for Renarin to join them, so that he could speak with the king in private.
The air was cool—spring having come for a time—and it was sweet with the scents of evening: blooming rockbuds and wet stone. Below, the warcamps were starting to come alight, ten sparkling circles filled with watch-fires, cook fires, lamps, and the steady glow of infused gems. Elhokar stared over the camps and toward the Shattered Plains. They were utterly dark, save for the occasional twinkle of a watchpost.
“Do they watch us, from out there?” Elhokar asked as Dalinar joined
him.
“We know their raiding bands move at night, Your Majesty,” Dalinar
said, resting one hand on the iron railing. “I can’t help but think they watch us.”
The king’s uniform had the traditional long coat with buttons up the sides, but it was loose and relaxed, and ruffled lace poked out of the collar and cuffs. His trousers were solid blue, and were cut in the same baggy fashion as Ruthar’s. It all looked so informal to Dalinar. Increasingly, their soldiers were being led by a slack group who dressed in lace and spent their evenings at feasts.
This is what Gavilar foresaw, Dalinar thought. This is why he grew so insistent that we follow the Codes.
“You look thoughtful, Uncle,” Elhokar said. “Just considering the past, Your Majesty.”
“The past is irrelevant. I only look forward.”
Dalinar was not certain he agreed with either statement.
“I sometimes think I should be able to see the Parshendi,” Elhokar said. “I feel that if I stare long enough, I will find them, pin them down so I can challenge them. I wish they’d just fight me, like men of honor.”
“If they were men of honor,” Dalinar said, clasping his hands behind his back, “then they would not have killed your father as they did.”
“Why did they do it, do you suppose?”
Dalinar shook his head. “That question has churned in my head, over and over, like a boulder tumbling down a hill. Did we off end their honor? Was it some cultural misunderstanding?”
“A cultural misunderstanding would imply that they have a culture. Primitive brutes. Who knows why a horse kicks or an axehound bites? I shouldn’t have asked.”
Dalinar didn’t reply. He’d felt that same disdain, that same anger, in the months following Gavilar’s assassination. He could understand Elhokar’s desire to dismiss these strange, wildland parshmen as little more than animals.
But he’d seen them during those early days. Interacted with them. They were primitive, yes, but not brutes. Not stupid. We never really understood them, he thought. I guess that’s the crux of the problem.
“Elhokar,” he said softly. “It may be time to ask ourselves some difficult questions.”
“Such as?”
“Such as how long we will continue this war.”
Elhokar started. He turned, looking at Dalinar. “We’ll keep fighting until the Vengeance Pact is satisfied and my father is avenged!”
“Noble words,” Dalinar said. “But we’ve been away from Alethkar for six years now. Maintaining two far-flung centers of government is not healthy for the kingdom.”
“Kings often go to war for extended periods, Uncle.”
“Rarely do they do it for so long,” Dalinar said, “and rarely do they bring every Shardbearer and Highprince in the kingdom with them. Our resources are strained, and word from home is that the Reshi border encroachments grow increasingly bold. We are still fragmented as a people, slow to trust one another, and the nature of this extended war—without a clear path to victory and with a focus on riches rather than capturing ground
—is not helping at all.”
Elhokar sniffed, wind blowing at them atop the peaked rock. “You say there’s no clear path to victory? We’ve been winning! The Parshendi raids are coming less frequently, and aren’t striking as far westward as they once did. We’ve killed thousands of them in battle.”
“Not enough,” Dalinar said. “They still come in strength. The siege is straining us as much as, or more than, it is them.”
“Weren’t you the one to suggest this tactic in the first place?” “I was a different man, then, flush with grief and anger.”
“And you no longer feel those things?” Elhokar was incredulous. “Uncle, I can’t believe I’m hearing this! You aren’t seriously suggesting that I abandon the war, are you? You’d have me slink home, like a scolded axehound?”
“I said they were difficult questions, Your Majesty,” Dalinar said, keeping his anger in check. It was taxing. “But they must be considered.”
Elhokar breathed out, annoyed. “It’s true, what Sadeas and the others whisper. You’re changing, Uncle. It has something to do with those episodes of yours, doesn’t it?”
“They are unimportant, Elhokar. Listen to me! What are we willing to give, in order to get vengeance?”
“Anything.”
“And if that means everything your father worked for? Do we honor his memory by undermining his vision for Alethkar, all to get revenge in his name?”
The king hesitated.
“You pursue the Parshendi,” Dalinar said. “That is laudable. But you can’t let your passion for just retribution blind you to the needs of our
kingdom. The Vengeance Pact has kept the highprinces channeled, but what will happen once we win? Will we shatter? I think we need to forge them together, to unite them. We fight this war as if we were ten different nations, fighting beside one another but not with one another.”
The king didn’t respond immediately. The words, finally, seemed to be sinking in. He was a good man, and shared more with his father than others chose to admit.
He turned away from Dalinar, leaning against the railing. “You think I’m a poor king, don’t you, Uncle?”
“What? Of course not!”
“You always talk about what I should be doing, and where I am lacking. Tell me truthfully, Uncle. When you look at me, do you wish you saw my father’s face instead?”
“Of course I do,” Dalinar said. Elhokar’s expression darkened.
Dalinar laid a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “I’d be a poor brother if I didn’t wish that Gavilar had lived. I failed him—it was the greatest, most terrible failure of my life.” Elhokar turned to him, and Dalinar held his gaze, raising a finger. “But just because I loved your father does not mean that I think you are a failure. Nor does it mean I do not love you in your own right. Alethkar itself could have collapsed upon Gavilar’s death, but you organized and executed our counterattack. You are a fine king.”
The king nodded slowly. “You’ve been listening to readings from that book again, haven’t you?”
“I have.”
“You sound like him, you know,” Elhokar said, turning back to look eastward again. “Near the end. When he began to act…erratically.”
“Surely I’m not so bad as that.”
“Perhaps. But this is much like how he was. Talking about an end to war, fascinated by the Lost Radiants, insisting everyone follow the Codes…”
Dalinar remembered those days—and his own arguments with Gavilar. What honor can we find on a battlefield while our people starve? the king had once asked him. Is it honor when our lighteyes plot and scheme like eels in a bucket, slithering over one another and trying to bite each other’s tails?
Dalinar had reacted poorly to his words. Just as Elhokar was reacting to his words now. Stormfather! I am starting to sound like him, aren’t I?
That was troubling, yet somehow encouraging at the same time. Either way, Dalinar realized something. Adolin was right. Elhokar—and the highprinces with him—would never respond to a suggestion that they retreat. Dalinar was approaching the conversation in the wrong way. Almighty be blessed for sending me a son willing to speak his mind.
“Perhaps you are right, Your Majesty,” Dalinar said. “End the war?
Leave a battlefield with an enemy still in control? That would shame us.” Elhokar nodded in agreement. “I’m glad you see sense.”
“But something does have to change. We need a better way to fight.”
“Sadeas has a better way already. I spoke of his bridges to you. They work so well, and he’s captured so many gemhearts.”
“Gemhearts are meaningless,” Dalinar said. “All of this is meaningless if we don’t find a way to get the vengeance we all want. You can’t tell me you enjoy watching the highprinces squabble, practically ignoring our real purpose in being here.”
Elhokar fell silent, looking displeased.
Unite them. He remembered those words, booming in his head. “Elhokar,” he said, an idea occurring to him. “Do you remember what Sadeas and I spoke of to you when we first came here to war? The specialization of the highprinces?”
“Yes,” Elhokar said. In the distant past, each of the ten highprinces in Alethkar had been given a specific charge for the governing of the kingdom. One had been the ultimate law in regard to merchants, and his troops had patrolled the roadways of all ten princedoms. Another had administrated judges and magistrates.
Gavilar had been very taken by the idea. He claimed it was a clever device, meant to force the highprinces to work together. Once, this system had forced them to submit to one another’s authority. Things hadn’t been done that way in centuries, ever since the fragmenting of Alethkar into ten autonomous princedoms.
“Elhokar, what if you named me Highprince of War?” Dalinar asked.
Elhokar didn’t laugh; that was a good sign. “I thought you and Sadeas decided that the others would revolt if we tried something like that.”
“Perhaps I was wrong about that too.”
Elhokar appeared to consider it. Finally, the king shook his head. “No. They barely accept my leadership. If I did something like this, they’d assassinate me.”
“I’d protect you.”
“Bah. You don’t even take the present threats on my life seriously.” Dalinar sighed. “Your Majesty, I do take threats to your life seriously.
My scribes and attendants are looking into the strap.” “And what have they discovered?”
“Well, so far we have nothing conclusive. Nobody has taken credit for trying to kill you, even in rumor. Nobody saw anything suspicious. But Adolin is speaking with leatherworkers. Perhaps he’ll bring something more substantial.”
“It was cut, Uncle.” “We will see.”
“You don’t believe me,” Elhokar said, face growing red. “You should be trying to find out what the assassins’ plan was, rather than pestering me with some arrogant quest to become overlord of the entire army!”
Dalinar gritted his teeth. “I do this for you, Elhokar.”
Elhokar met his eyes for a moment, and his blue eyes flashed with suspicion again, as they had the week before.
Blood of my fathers! Dalinar thought. He’s getting worse.
Elhokar’s expression softened a moment later, and he seemed to relax. Whatever he’d seen in Dalinar’s eyes had comforted him. “I know you try for the best, Uncle,” Elhokar said. “But you have to admit that you’ve been erratic lately. The way you react to storms, your infatuation with my father’s last words—”
“I’m trying to understand him.”
“He grew weak at the end,” Elhokar said. “Everyone knows it. I won’t repeat his mistakes, and you should avoid them as well—rather than listening to a book that claims that lighteyes should be the slaves of the darkeyes.”
“That’s not what it says,” Dalinar said. “It has been misinterpreted. It’s mostly just a collection of stories which teach that a leader should serve those he leads.”
“Bah. It was written by the Lost Radiants!”
“They didn’t write it. It was their inspiration. Nohadon, an ordinary man, was its author.”
Elhokar glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. See, it seemed to say. You defend it. “You are growing weak, Uncle. I will not exploit that weakness. But others will.”
“I am not getting weak.” Yet again, Dalinar forced himself to be calm. “This conversation has gone off the path. The highprinces need a single leader to force them to work together. I vow that if you name me Highprince of War, I will see you protected.”
“As you saw my father protected?” Dalinar’s mouth snapped shut.
Elhokar turned away. “I should not have said that. It was uncalled for.” “No,” Dalinar said. “No, it was one of the truest things you have said
to me, Elhokar. Perhaps you are right to distrust my protection.” Elhokar glanced at him, curious. “Why do you react that way?” “What way?”
“Once, if someone had said that to you, you’d have summoned your Blade and demanded a duel! Now you agree with them instead.”
“I—”
“My father started refusing duels, near the end.” Elhokar tapped on the railing. “I see why you feel the need for a Highprince of War, and you may have a point. But the others very much like the present arrangement.”
“Because it is comfortable to them. If we are going to win, we will need to upset them.” Dalinar stepped forward. “Elhokar, maybe it’s been long enough. Six years ago, naming a Highprince of War might well have been a mistake. But now? We know one another better, and we’ve been working united against the Parshendi. Perhaps it is time to take the next step.”
“Perhaps,” the king said. “You think they are ready? I’ll let you prove it to me. If you can show me that they are willing to work with you, Uncle, then I’ll consider naming you Highprince of War. Is that satisfactory?”
It was a solid compromise. “Very well.”
“Good,” the king said, standing up. “Then let us part for now. It is growing late, and I have yet to hear what Ruthar wishes of me.”
Dalinar nodded his farewell, walking back through the king’s chambers, Renarin trailing him.
The more he considered, the more he felt that this was the right thing to do. Retreating would not work with the Alethi, particularly not with their
current mind-set. But if he could shock them out of their complacency, force them to adopt a more aggressive strategy…
He was still lost in thought considering that as they left the king’s palace and made their way down the ramps to where their horses waited. He climbed astride Gallant, nodding his thanks to the groom who had cared for the Ryshadium. The horse had recovered from his fall during the hunt, his leg solid and hale.
It was a short distance back to Dalinar’s warcamp, and they rode in silence. Which of the highprinces should I approach first? Dalinar thought. Sadeas?
No. No, he and Sadeas were already seen working together too often. If the other highprinces began to smell a stronger alliance, it would drive them to turn against him. Best that he approach less powerful highprinces first and see if he could get them to work with him in some way. A joint plateau assault, perhaps?
He’d have to approach Sadeas eventually. He didn’t relish the thought. Things were always so much easier when the two of them could work at a safe distance from one another. He—
“Father,” Renarin said. He sounded dismayed.
Dalinar sat upright, looking around, hand going for his side sword even while he prepared to summon his Shardblade. Renarin pointed. Eastward. Stormward.
The horizon was growing dark.
“Was there supposed to be a highstorm today?” Dalinar asked, alarmed.
“Elthebar said it was unlikely,” Renarin said. “But he’s been wrong before.”
Everyone could be wrong about highstorms. They could be predicted, but it was never an exact science. Dalinar narrowed his eyes, heart thumping. Yes, he could sense the signs now. The dust picking up, the scents changing. It was evening, but there should still be more light left. Instead, it was rapidly growing darker and darker. The very air felt more frantic.
“Should we go to Aladar’s camp?” Renarin said, pointing. They were nearest Highprince Aladar’s warcamp, and perhaps only a quarter-hour ride from the rim of Dalinar’s own.
Aladar’s men would take him in. Nobody would forbid shelter to a highprince during a storm. But Dalinar shuddered, thinking of spending a highstorm trapped in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by another highprince’s attendants. They would see him during an episode. Once that happened, the rumors would spread like arrows above a battlefield.
“We ride!” he called, kicking Gallant into motion. Renarin and the guardsmen fell in behind him, hooves a thunder to precurse the coming highstorm. Dalinar leaned low, tense. The grey sky grew clotted with dust and leaves blown ahead of the stormwall and the air grew dense with humid anticipation. The horizon burgeoned with thickening clouds. Dalinar and the others galloped past Aladar’s perimeter guards, who bustled with activity, holding their coats or cloaks against the wind.
“Father?” Renarin called from behind. “Are you—” “We have time!” Dalinar shouted.
They eventually reached the jagged wall of the Kholin warcamp. Here, the remaining soldiers wore blue and white and saluted. Most had already retreated to their enclosures. He had to slow Gallant to get through the checkpoint. However, it would just be another short gallop to his quarters. He turned Gallant, preparing to go.
“Father!” Renarin said, pointing eastward.
The stormwall hung like a curtain in the air, speeding toward the camp. The massive sheet of rain was a silvery grey, the clouds above onyx black, lit from within by occasional flashes of lightning. The guards who had saluted him were hurrying to a nearby bunker.
“We can make it,” Dalinar said. “We—”
“Father!” Renarin said, riding up beside him and catching his arm. “I’m sorry.”
The wind whipped at them, and Dalinar gritted his teeth, looking at his son. Renarin’s spectacled eyes were wide with concern.
Dalinar glanced at the stormwall again. It was only moments away.
He’s right.
He handed Gallant’s reins to an anxious soldier, who took the reins of Renarin’s mount as well, and the two of them dismounted. The groom rushed away, towing the horses into a stone stable. Dalinar almost followed
—there would be fewer people to watch him in a stable—but a nearby barrack had the door open, and those inside waved anxiously. That would be safer.
Resigned, Dalinar joined Renarin, dashing to the stone-walled barrack. The soldiers made room for them; there was a group of servants packed inside as well. In Dalinar’s camp, no one was forced to weather the tempests in stormtents or flimsy wooden shacks, and nobody had to pay for protection inside stone structures.
The occupants seemed shocked to see their highprince and his son step in; several paled as the door thumped shut. Their only light was from a few garnets mounted on the walls. Someone coughed, and outside a scattering of windblown rock chips sprayed against the building. Dalinar tried to ignore the uncomfortable eyes around him. Wind howled outside. Perhaps nothing would happen. Perhaps this time—
The storm hit. It began.
