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hands and knees, then up onto his feet. Jost turned back, wary, holding his quarterstaff in one hand. “Teach me,” Kal said. Jost blinked in surprise. He glanced at his brother. “Teach me,” Kal pled, stepping forward. “I’ll worm for you, Jost. My father gives me two hours off each afternoon. I’ll do your work then if you’ll teach me, in the evenings, what your father is teaching you with that staff.” He had to know. Had to feel the weapon in his hands again. Had to see if that moment he’d felt had been a fluke. Jost considered, then finally shook his head. “Can’t. Your fah would kill me. Get those surgeon’s hands of yours all covered with calluses? Wouldn’t be right.” He turned away. “You go be what you are, Kal. I’ll be what I am.” Kal stood for a long while, watching them go. He sat down on the rock. Laral’s figure was growing distant. There were some servants coming down the hillside to fetch her. Should he chase after her? His side still hurt, and he was annoyed at her for leading him down to the others in the first place. And, above all, he was still embarrassed. He lay back down, emotions welling inside of him. He had trouble sorting through them. “Kaladin?” He turned, ashamed to find tears in his eyes, and saw Tien sitting on the ground behind him. “How long have you been there?” Kal snapped. Tien smiled, then set a rock on the ground. He climbed to his feet and hurried away, not stopping when Kal called after him. Grumbling, Kal forced himself to his feet and walked over to pick up the rock. It was another dull, ordinary stone. Tien had a habit of finding those and thinking they were incredibly precious. He had an entire collection of them back in the house. He knew where he’d found each one, and could tell you what was special about it. With a sigh, Kal began walking back toward the town. You go be what you are. I’ll be what I am. His side smarted. Why hadn’t he hit Jost when he’d had the chance? Could he train himself out of freezing in battle like that? He could learn to hurt. Couldn’t he? Did he want to? You go be what you are. What did a man do if he didn’t know what he was? Or even what he wanted to be? Eventually, he reached Hearthstone proper. The hundred or so buildings were set in rows, each one shaped like a wedge with the low side pointing stormward. The roofs were of thick wood, tarred to seal out the rain. The northern and southern sides of the buildings rarely had windows, but the fronts—facing west away from the storms—were nearly all window. Like the plants of the stormlands, the lives of men here were dominated by the highstorms. Kal’s home was near the outskirts. It was larger than most, built wide to accommodate the surgery room, which had its own entrance. The door was
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ajar, so Kal peeked in. He’d expected to see his mother cleaning, but instead found that his father had returned from Brightlord Wistiow’s manor. Lirin sat on the edge of the operating table, hands in his lap, bald head bowed. He held his spectacles in his hand, and he looked exhausted. “Father?” Kal asked. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” Lirin looked up. His face was somber, distant. “Father?” Kal asked, growing more concerned. “Brightlord Wistiow has been carried by the winds.” “He’s dead?” Kal was so shocked he forgot his side. Wistiow had always been there. He couldn’t be gone. What of Laral? “He was healthy just last week!” “He has always been frail, Kal,” Lirin said. “The Almighty calls all men back to the Spiritual Realm eventually.” “You didn’t do anything?” Kal blurted out; he regretted the words immediately. “I did all I could,” his father said, rising. “Perhaps a man with more training than I…Well, there is no use in regrets.” He walked to the side of the room, removing the black covering from the goblet lamp filled with diamond spheres. It lit the room immediately, blazing like a tiny sun. “We have no citylord then,” Kal said, raising a hand to his head. “He had no son….” “Those in Kholinar will appoint us a new citylord,” Lirin said. “Almighty send them wisdom in the choice.” He looked at the goblet lamp. Those were the citylord’s spheres. A small fortune. Kal’s father put the covering right back on the goblet, as if he hadn’t just removed it. The motion plunged the room back into darkness, and Kal blinked as his eyes adjusted. “He left these to us,” Kal’s father said. Kal started. “What?” “You’re to be sent to Kharbranth when you turn sixteen. These spheres will pay your way—Brightlord Wistiow requested it be done, a last act to care for his people. You will go and become a true master surgeon, then return to Hearthstone.” In that moment, Kal knew his fate had been sealed. If Brightlord Wistiow had demanded it, Kal would go to Kharbranth. He turned and walked from the surgery room, passing out into the sunlight, not saying another word to his father. He sat down on the steps. What did he want? He didn’t know. That was the problem. Glory, honor, the things Laral had said…none of those really mattered to him. But there had been something there when he’d held the quarterstaff. And now, suddenly, the decision had been taken from him. The rocks Tien had given him were still in his pocket. He pulled them out, then took his canteen off his belt and washed them with water. The first one he’d been given showed the white swirls and strata. It appeared the other one had a hidden design too. It looked like a face, smiling at him, made of white bits in the rock. Kal smiled despite himself, though it quickly faded. A rock wasn’t going to solve his problems. Unfortunately, though he sat for a long while thinking, it didn’t
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look like anything would solve his problems. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be a surgeon, and he felt suddenly constricted by what life was forcing him to become. But that one moment holding the quarterstaff sang to him. A single moment of clarity in an otherwise confusing world. “He’s old,” Syl said with awe, flitting around the apothecary. “Really old. I didn’t know men got this old. You sure he’s not decayspren wearing a man’s skin?” Kaladin smiled as the apothecary shuffled forward with his cane, oblivious of the invisible windspren. His face was as full of chasms as the Shattered Plains themselves, weaving out in a pattern from his deeply recessed eyes. He wore a pair of thick spectacles on the tip of his nose, and was dressed in dark robes. Kaladin’s father had told him of apothecaries—men who walked the line between herbalists and surgeons. Common people regarded the healing arts with enough superstition that it was easy for an apothecary to cultivate an arcane air. The wooden walls were draped with cloth glyphwards styled in cryptic patterns, and behind the counter were shelves with rows of jars. A full human skeleton hung in the far corner, held together by wires. The windowless room was lit with bundles of garnet spheres hanging from the corners. Despite all that, the place was clean and tidy. It had the familiar scent of antiseptic Kaladin associated with his father’s surgery. “Ah, young bridgeman.” The short apothecary adjusted his spectacles. He stooped forward, running his fingers through his wispy white beard. “Come for a ward against danger, perhaps? Or maybe a young washwoman in the camp has caught your eye? I have a potion which, if slipped into her drink, will make her regard you with favor.” Kaladin raised an eyebrow. Syl, however, opened her mouth in an amazed expression. “You should give that to Gaz, Kaladin. It would be nice if he liked you more.” I doubt that’s what it’s intended for, Kaladin thought with a smile. “Young bridgeman?” the apothecary asked. “Is it a charm against evil you desire?” Kaladin’s father had spoken of these things. Many apothecaries purveyed supposed love charms or potions to cure all manner of ailments. They’d contain nothing more than some sugar and a few pinches of common herbs to give a spike of alertness or drowsiness, depending on the purported effect. It was all nonsense, though Kaladin’s mother had put great stock in glyphwards. Kaladin’s father had always expressed disappointment in her stubborn way of clinging to “superstitions.” “I need some bandages,” Kaladin said. “And a flask of lister’s oil or knobweed sap. Also, a needle and gut, if you have any.” The apothecary’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “I’m the son of a surgeon,” Kaladin admitted. “Trained by his hand. He was trained by a man who had studied in the Great Concourse of Kharbranth.” “Ah,” the apothecary said. “Well.” He stood up straighter, setting aside his cane and brushing his robes. “Bandages, you said? And some antiseptic? Let me see….” He moved back
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behind the counter. Kaladin blinked. The man’s age hadn’t changed, but he didn’t seem nearly as frail. His step was firmer, and his voice had lost its whispering raspiness. He searched through his bottles, mumbling to himself as he read off his labels. “You could just go to the surgeon’s hall. They would charge you far less.” “Not for a bridgeman,” Kaladin said, grimacing. He’d been turned away. The supplies there were for real soldiers. “I see,” the apothecary said, setting a jar on the counter, then bending down to poke in some drawers. Syl flitted over to Kaladin. “Every time he bends I think he’ll snap like a twig.” She was growing able to understand abstract thought, and at a surprisingly rapid pace. I know what death is…. He still wasn’t certain whether to feel sorry for her or not. Kaladin picked up the small bottle and undid the cork, smelling what was inside. “Larmic mucus?” He grimaced at the foul smell. “That’s not nearly as effective as the two I asked for.” “But it’s far cheaper,” the old man said, coming up with a large box. He opened the lid, revealing sterile white bandages. “And you, as has been noted, are a bridgeman.” “How much for the mucus, then?” He’d been worried about this; his father had never mentioned how much his supplies cost. “Two bloodmarks for the bottle.” “That’s what you consider cheap?” “Lister’s oil costs two sapphire marks.” “And knobweed sap?” Kaladin said. “I saw some of reeds of it growing just outside of camp! It can’t be that rare.” “And do you know how much sap comes from a single plant?” the apothecary asked, pointing. Kaladin hesitated. It wasn’t true sap, but a milky substance that you could squeeze from the stalks. Or so his father had said. “No,” Kaladin admitted. “A single drop,” the man said. “If you’re lucky. It’s cheaper than lister’s oil, sure, but more expensive than the mucus. Even if the mucus does stink like the Nightwatcher’s own backside.” “I don’t have that much,” Kaladin said. It was five diamond marks to a garnet. Ten days’ pay to buy one small jar of antiseptic. Stormfather! The apothecary sniffed. “The needle and gut will cost two clearmarks. Can you afford that, at least?” “Barely. How much for the bandages? Two full emeralds?” “They’re just old scraps that I bleached and boiled. Two clearchips an arm length.” “I’ll give a mark for the box.” “Very well.” Kaladin reached into his pocket to get the spheres as the old apothecary continued, “You surgeons, all the same. Never give a blink to consider where your supplies come from. You just use them like there will be no end.” “You can’t put a price on a person’s life,” Kaladin said. One of his father’s sayings. It was the main reason that Lirin had never charged for his services. Kaladin brought out his four marks. He hesitated when he saw them, however. Only one was still glowing with its soft crystal light. The other three were dull, the bits
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of diamond barely visible at the center of the drops of glass. “Here now,” the apothecary said, squinting. “You trying to pass dun spheres off on me?” He snatched one before Kaladin could complain, then fished around under his counter. He brought up a jeweler’s loupe, removing his spectacles and holding the sphere up toward the light. “Ah. No, that’s a real gemstone. You should get your spheres infused, bridgeman. Not everyone is as trusting as I am.” “They were glowing this morning,” Kaladin protested. “Gaz must have paid me with run-down spheres.” The apothecary removed his loupe and replaced the spectacles. He selected three marks, including the glowing one. “Could I have that one?” Kaladin asked. The apothecary frowned. “Always keep a glowing sphere in your pocket,” Kaladin said. “It’s good luck.” “You certain you don’t want a love potion?” “If you get caught in the dark, you’ll have light,” Kaladin said tersely. “Besides, as you said, most people aren’t as trusting as you.” Reluctantly, the apothecary traded the infused sphere for the dead one—though he did check it with the loupe to be certain. A dun sphere was worth just as much as an infused one; all you had to do was leave it out in a highstorm, and it would recharge and give off light for a week or so. Kaladin pocketed the infused sphere and picked up his purchase. He nodded farewell to the apothecary, and Syl joined him as he stepped out into the camp’s street. He’d spent some of the afternoon listening to soldiers at the mess hall, and he’d learned some things about the warcamps. Things he should have learned weeks ago, but had been too despondent to care about. He now knew about the chrysalises on the plateaus, the gemhearts they contained, and the competition between the highprinces. He understood why Sadeas pushed his men so hard, and he was beginning to see why Sadeas turned around if they got to the plateau later than another army. That wasn’t very common. More often, Sadeas arrived first, and the other Alethi armies that came up behind them had to turn back. The warcamps were enormous. All told, there were over a hundred thousand troops in the various Alethi camps, many times the population of Hearthstone. And that wasn’t counting the civilians. A mobile warcamp attracted a large array of camp followers; stationary warcamps like these on the Shattered Plains brought even more. Each of the ten warcamps filled its own crater, and was filled with an incongruous mix of Soulcast buildings, shanties, and tents. Some merchants, like the apothecary, had the money to build a wooden structure. Those who lived in tents took them down for storms, then paid for shelter elsewhere. Even within the crater, the stormwinds were strong, particularly where the outer wall was low or broken. Some places—like the lumberyard—were completely exposed. The street bustled with the usual crowd. Women in skirts and blouses—the wives, sisters, or daughters of the soldiers, merchants, or craftsmen. Workers in trousers or overalls. A large number
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of soldiers in leathers, carrying spear and shield. All were Sadeas’s men. Soldiers of one camp didn’t mix with those of another, and you stayed away from another brightlord’s crater unless you had business there. Kaladin shook his head in dismay. “What?” Syl asked, settling on his shoulder. “I hadn’t expected there to be so much discord among the camps here. I thought it would all be one king’s army, unified.” “People are discord,” Syl said. “What does that mean?” “You all act differently and think differently. Nothing else is like that—animals act alike, and all spren are, in a sense, virtually the same individual. There’s harmony in that. But not in you—it seems that no two of you can agree on anything. All the world does as it is supposed to, except for humans. Maybe that’s why you so often want to kill each other.” “But not all windspren act alike,” Kaladin said, opening the box and tucking some of the bandages into the pocket he’d sewn into the inside of his leather vest. “You’re proof of that.” “I know,” she said softly. “Maybe now you can see why it bothers me so.” Kaladin didn’t know how to respond to that. Eventually, he reached the lumberyard. A few members of Bridge Four lounged in the shade on the east side of their barrack. It would be interesting to see one of those barracks get made—they were Soulcast directly from air into stone. Unfortunately, Soulcastings happened at night, and under strict guard to keep the holy rite from being witnessed by anyone other than ardents or very high-ranking lighteyes. The first afternoon bell sounded right as Kaladin reached the barrack, and he caught a glare from Gaz for nearly being late for bridge duty. Most of that “duty” would be spent sitting around, waiting for the horns to blow. Well, Kaladin didn’t intend to waste time. He couldn’t risk tiring himself by carrying the plank, not when a bridge run could be imminent, but perhaps he could do some stretches or— A horn sounded in the air, crisp and clean. It was like the mythical horn that was said to guide the souls of the brave to heaven’s battlefield. Kaladin froze. As always, he waited for the second blast, an irrational part of him needing to hear confirmation. It came, sounding a pattern indicating the location of the pupating chasmfiend. Soldiers began to scramble toward the staging area beside the lumberyard; others ran into camp to fetch their gear. “Line up!” Kaladin shouted, dashing up to the bridgemen. “Storm you! Every man in a line!” They ignored him. Some of the men weren’t wearing their vests, and they clogged the barrack doorway, all trying to get in. Those who had their vests ran for the bridge. Kaladin followed, frustrated. Once there, the men gathered around the bridge in a carefully prearranged manner. Each man got a chance to be in the best position: running in front up to the chasm, then moving to the relative safety of the back for the final
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approach. There was a strict rotation, and errors were neither made nor tolerated. Bridge crews had a brutal system of self-management: If a man tried to cheat, the others forced him to run the final approach in front. That sort of thing was supposed to be forbidden, but Gaz turned a blind eye toward cheaters. He also refused bribes to let men change positions. Perhaps he knew that the only stability—the only hope—the bridgemen had was in their rotation. Life wasn’t fair, being a bridgeman wasn’t fair, but at least if you ran the deathline and survived, the next time you got to run at the back. There was one exception. As bridgeleader, Kaladin got to run in the front most of the way, then move to the back for the assault. His was the safest position in the group, though no bridgeman was truly safe. Kaladin was like a moldy crust on a starving man’s plate; not the first bite, but still doomed. He got into position. Yake, Dunny, and Malop were the last stragglers. Once they’d taken their places, Kaladin commanded the men to lift. He was half surprised to be obeyed, but there was almost always a bridgeleader to give commands during a run. The voice changed, but the simple orders did not. Lift, run, lower. Twenty bridges charged down from the lumberyard and toward the Shattered Plains. Kaladin noticed a group of bridgemen from Bridge Seven watching with relief. They’d been on duty until the first afternoon bell; they’d avoided this run by mere moments. The bridgemen worked hard. It wasn’t just because of threats of beatings—they ran so hard because they wanted to arrive at the target plateau before the Parshendi did. If they did so, there would be no arrows, no death. And so running their bridges was the one thing the bridgemen did without reservation or laziness. Though many hated their lives, they still clung to them with white-knuckled fervor. They clomped across the first of the permanent bridges. Kaladin’s muscles groaned in protest at being worked again so soon, but he tried not to dwell on his fatigue. The highstorm’s rains from the night before meant that most plants were still open, rockbuds spewing out vines, flowering branzahs reaching clawlike branches out of crevices toward the sky. There were also occasional prickletacs: the needly, stone-limbed little shrubs Kaladin had noticed his first time through the area. Water pooled in the numerous crevices and depressions on the surface of the uneven plateau. Gaz called out directions, telling them which pathway to take. Many of the nearby plateaus had three or four bridges, creating branching paths across the Plains. The running became rote. It was exhausting, but it was also familiar, and it was nice to be at the front, where he could see where he was going. Kaladin fell into his usual step-counting mantra, as he’d been advised to do by that nameless bridgeman whose sandals he still wore. Eventually, they reached the last of the permanent bridges. They crossed a short plateau, passing the
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smoldering ruins of a bridge the Parshendi had destroyed during the night. How had the Parshendi managed that, during a highstorm? Earlier, while listening to the soldiers, he’d learned that the soldiers regarded the Parshendi with hatred, anger, and not a little awe. These Parshendi weren’t like the lazy, nearly mute parshmen who worked throughout Roshar. These Parshendi were warriors of no small skill. That still struck Kaladin as incongruous. Parshmen? Fighting? It was just so strange. Bridge Four and the other crews got their bridges down, spanning a chasm where it was narrowest. His men collapsed to the ground around their bridge, relaxing while the army crossed. Kaladin nearly joined them—in fact, his knees nearly buckled in anticipation. No, he thought, steadying himself. No. I stand. It was a foolish gesture. The other bridgemen barely paid him any heed. One man, Moash, even swore at him. But now that Kaladin had made the decision, he stubbornly stuck to it, clasping his hands behind his back and falling into parade rest while watching the army cross. “Ho, little bridgeman!” a soldier called from among those waiting their turn. “Curious at what real soldiers look like?” Kaladin turned toward the man, a solid, brown-eyed fellow with arms the size of many men’s thighs. He was a squadleader, by the knots on the shoulder of his leather jerkin. Kaladin had borne those knots once. “How do you treat your spear and shield, squadleader?” Kaladin called back. The man frowned, but Kaladin knew what he was thinking. A soldier’s gear was his life; you cared for your weapon as you’d care for your children, often seeing to its upkeep before you took food or rest. Kaladin nodded to the bridge. “This is my bridge,” he said in a loud voice. “It is my weapon, the only one allowed me. Treat her well.” “Or you’ll do what?” called one of the other soldiers, prompting laughter among the ranks. The squadleader said nothing. He looked troubled. Kaladin’s words were bravado. In truth, he hated the bridge. Still, he remained standing. A few moments later, Highprince Sadeas himself crossed on Kaladin’s bridge. Brightlord Amaram had always seemed so heroic, so distinguished. A gentleman general. This Sadeas was a different creature entirely, with that round face, curly hair, and lofty expression. He rode as if he were in a parade, one hand lightly holding the reins before him, the other carrying his helm under his arm. His armor was painted red, and the helm bore frivolous tassels. There was so much pointless pomp that it nearly overshadowed the wonder of the ancient artifact. Kaladin forgot his fatigue and formed his hands into fists. Here was a lighteyes he could hate even more than most, a man so callous that he threw away the lives of hundreds of bridgemen each month. A man who had expressly forbidden his bridgemen to have shields for reasons Kaladin still didn’t understand. Sadeas and his honor guard soon passed, and Kaladin realized that he probably should have bowed. Sadeas hadn’t noticed, but it could
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have made trouble if he had. Shaking his head, Kaladin roused his bridge crew, though it took special prodding to get Rock—the large Horneater—up and moving. Once across the chasm, his men picked up their bridge and jogged toward the next chasm. The process was repeated enough times that Kaladin lost count. At each crossing, he refused to lie down. He stood with hands behind his back, watching the army pass. More soldiers took note of him, jeering. Kaladin ignored them, and by the fifth or sixth crossing, the jeers faded. The one other time he saw Brightlord Sadeas, Kaladin gave a bow, though it made his stomach twist to do so. He did not serve this man. He did not give this man allegiance. But he did serve his men of Bridge Four. He would save them, and that meant he had to keep himself from being punished for insolence. “Reverse runners!” Gaz called. “Cross and reverse!” Kaladin turned sharply. The next crossing would be the assault. He squinted, looking into the distance, and could just barely make out a line of dark figures gathering on another plateau. The Parshendi had arrived and were forming up. Behind them, a group worked on breaking open the chrysalis. Kaladin felt a spike of frustration. Their speed hadn’t been enough. And—tired though they were—Sadeas would want to attack quickly, before the Parshendi could get the gemheart out of its shell. The bridgemen rose from their rest, silent, haunted. They knew what was coming. They crossed the chasm and pulled the bridge over, then rearranged themselves in reverse order. The soldiers formed ranks. It was all so silent, like men preparing to carry a casket to the pyre. The bridgemen left a space for Kaladin at the back, sheltered and protected. Syl alighted on the bridge, looking at the spot. Kaladin walked up to it, so tired, mentally and physically. He’d pushed himself too hard in the morning, then again by standing instead of resting. What had possessed him to do such a thing? He could barely walk. He looked over the bridgemen. His men were resigned, despondent, terrified. If they refused to run, they’d be executed. If they did run, they’d face the arrows. They didn’t look toward the distant line of Parshendi archers. Instead, they looked down. They are your men, Kaladin told himself. They need you to lead them, even if they don’t know it. How can you lead from the rear? He stepped out of line and rounded the bridge; two of the men—Drehy and Teft—looked up in shock as he passed. The deathpoint—the spot in the very center of the front—was being held by Rock, the beefy, tan-skinned Horneater. Kaladin tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re in my spot, Rock.” The man glanced at him, surprised. “But—” “To the back with you.” Rock frowned. Nobody ever tried to jump ahead in the order. “You’re airsick, lowlander,” he said with his thick accent. “You wish to die? Why do you not just go leap into the chasm? That would be easier.”
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“I’m bridgeleader. It’s my privilege to run at the front. Go.” Rock shrugged, but did as ordered, taking Kaladin’s position at the back. Nobody said a word. If Kaladin wanted to get himself killed, who were they to complain? Kaladin looked over the bridgemen. “The longer we take to get this bridge down, the more arrows they can loose at us. Stay firm, stay determined, and be quick. Raise bridge!” The men lifted, inner rows moving underneath and situating themselves in rows of five across. Kaladin stood at the very front with a tall, stout man named Leyten to his left, a spindly man named Murk to his right. Adis and Corl were at the edges. Five men in front. The deathline. Once all of the crews had their bridges up, Gaz gave the command. “Assault!” They ran, dashing alongside the standing ranks of the army, passing soldiers holding spears and shields. Some watched with curiosity, perhaps amused at the sight of the lowly bridgemen running so urgently to their deaths. Others looked away, perhaps ashamed of the lives it would cost to get them across that chasm. Kaladin kept his eyes forward, squelching that incredulous voice in the back of his mind, one that screamed he was doing something very stupid. He barreled toward the final chasm, focused on the Parshendi line. Figures with black and crimson skin holding bows. Syl flitted close to Kaladin’s head, no longer in the form of a person, streaking like a ribbon of light. She zipped in front of him. The bows came up. Kaladin hadn’t been at the deathpoint during a charge this bad since his first day on the crew. They always put new men into rotation at the deathpoint. That way, if they died, you didn’t have to worry about training them. The Parshendi archers drew, aiming at five or six of the bridge crews. Bridge Four was obviously in their sights. The bows loosed. “Tien!” Kaladin screamed, nearly mad with fatigue and frustration. He bellowed the name aloud—uncertain why—as a wall of arrows zipped toward him. Kaladin felt a jolt of energy, a surge of sudden strength, unanticipated and unexplained. The arrows landed. Murk fell without a sound, four or five arrows striking him, spraying his blood across the stones. Leyten dropped as well, and with him both Adis and Corl. Shafts struck the ground at Kaladin’s feet, shattering, and a good half dozen hit the wood around Kaladin’s head and hands. Kaladin didn’t know if he’d been hit. He was too flush with energy and alarm. He continued running, screaming, holding the bridge on his shoulders. For some reason, a group of Parshendi archers ahead lowered their bows. He saw their marbled skin, strange reddish or orange helms, and simple brown clothing. They appeared confused. Whatever the reason, it gained Bridge Four a few precious moments. By the time the Parshendi raised their bows again, Kaladin’s team had reached the chasm. His men fell into line with the other bridge crews—there were only fifteen bridges now. Five had fallen. They
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closed the gaps as they arrived. Kaladin screamed for the bridgemen to drop amid another spray of arrows. One sliced open the skin near his ribs, deflecting off the bone. He felt it hit, but didn’t feel any pain. He scrambled around the side of the bridge, helping push. Kaladin’s team slammed the bridge into place as a wave of Alethi arrows distracted the enemy archers. A troop of cavalry charged across the bridges. The bridgemen were soon forgotten. Kaladin fell to his knees beside the bridge as the others of his crew stumbled away, bloodied and hurt, their part in the battle over. Kaladin held his side, feeling the blood there. Straight laceration, only about an inch long, not wide enough to be of danger. It was his father’s voice. Kaladin panted. He needed to get to safety. Arrows zipped over his head, fired by the Alethi archers. Some people take lives. Other people save lives. He wasn’t done yet. Kaladin forced himself to his feet and staggered to where someone lay beside the bridge. It was a bridgeman named Hobber; he had an arrow through the leg. The man moaned, holding his thigh. Kaladin grabbed him under the arms and pulled him away from the bridge. The man cursed at the pain, dazed, as Kaladin towed him to a cleft behind a small bulge in the rock where Rock and some of the other bridgemen had sought shelter. After dropping off Hobber—the arrow hadn’t hit any major arteries, and he would be fine for a time yet—Kaladin turned and tried to rush back out onto the battlefield proper. He slipped, however, stumbling in his fatigue. He hit the ground hard, grunting. Some take lives. Some save lives. He pushed himself to his feet, sweat dripping from his brow, and scrambled back toward the bridge, his father’s voice in his ears. The next bridgeman he found, a man named Koorm, was dead. Kaladin left the body. Gadol had a deep wound in the side where an arrow had passed completely through him. His face was covered with blood from a gash on his temple, and he’d managed to crawl a short distance from the bridge. He looked up with frenzied black eyes, orange painspren waving around him. Kaladin grabbed him under the arms and towed him away just before a thundering charge of cavalry trampled the place where he’d been lying. Kaladin dragged Gadol over to the cleft, noting two more dead. He did a quick count. That made twenty-nine bridgemen, including the dead he’d seen. Five were missing. Kaladin stumbled back out onto the battlefield. Soldiers had bunched up around the back of the bridge, archers forming at the sides and firing into the Parshendi lines as the heavy cavalry charge—led by Highprince Sadeas himself, virtually indestructible in his Shardplate—tried to push the enemy back. Kaladin wavered, dizzy, dismayed at the sight of so many men running, shouting, firing arrows and throwing spears. Five bridgemen, probably dead, lost in all of that— He spotted a figure huddled just beside the
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chasm lip with arrows flying back and forth over his head. It was Dabbid, one of the bridgemen. He curled up, arm twisted at an awkward angle. Kaladin charged in. He threw himself to the ground and crawled beneath the zipping arrows, hoping that the Parshendi would ignore a couple of unarmed bridgemen. Dabbid didn’t even notice when Kaladin reached him. He was in shock, lips moving soundlessly, eyes dazed. Kaladin grabbed him awkwardly, afraid to stand up too high lest an arrow hit him. He dragged Dabbid away from the edge in a clumsy half crawl. He kept slipping on blood, falling, abrading his arms on the rock, hitting his face against the stone. He persisted, towing the younger man out from underneath the flying arrows. Finally, he got far enough away that he risked standing. He tried to pick up Dabbid. But his muscles were so weak. He strained and slipped, exhausted, falling to the stones. He lay there, gasping, the pain of his side finally washing over him. So tired…. He stood up shakily, then tried again to grab Dabbid. He blinked away tears of frustration, too weak to even pull the man. “Airsick lowlander,” a voice growled. Kaladin turned as Rock arrived. The massive Horneater grabbed Dabbid under the arms, pulling him. “Crazy,” he grumbled to Kaladin, but easily lifted the wounded bridgeman and carried him back to the hollow. Kaladin followed. He collapsed in the hollow, his back to the rock. The surviving bridgemen huddled around him, eyes haunted. Rock set Dabbid down. “Four more,” Kaladin said between gasps. “We have to find them….” “Murk and Leyten,” Teft said. The older bridgeman had been near the back this run, and hadn’t taken any wounds. “And Adis and Corl. They were in the front.” That’s right, Kaladin thought, exhausted. How could I forget…. “Murk is dead,” he said. “The others might live.” He tried to stumble to his feet. “Idiot,” Rock said. “Stay here. Is all right. I will do this thing.” He hesitated. “Guess I’m an idiot too.” He scowled, but went back out onto the battlefield. Teft hesitated, then chased after him. Kaladin breathed in and out, holding his side. He couldn’t decide if the pain of the arrow impact hurt more than the cut. Save lives…. He crawled over to the three wounded. Hobber—with an arrow through the leg—would wait, and Dabbid had only a broken arm. Gadol was the worst off, with that hole in his side. Kaladin stared at the wound. He didn’t have an operating table; he didn’t even have antiseptic. How was he supposed to do anything? He shoved despair aside. “One of you go fetch me a knife,” he told the bridgemen. “Take it off the body of a soldier who has fallen. Someone else build a fire!” The bridgemen looked at each other. “Dunny, you get the knife,” Kaladin said as he held his hand to Gadol’s wound, trying to stanch the blood. “Narm, can you make a fire?” “With what?” the man asked. Kaladin pulled off his vest
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and shirt, then handed the shirt to Narm. “Use this as tinder and gather some fallen arrows for wood. Does anyone have flint and steel?” Moash did, fortunately. You carried anything valuable you had with you on a bridge run; other bridgemen might steal it if you left it behind. “Move quickly!” Kaladin said. “Someone else, go rip open a rockbud and get me the watergourd inside.” They stood for a few moments. Then, blessedly, they did as he demanded. Perhaps they were too stunned to object. Kaladin tore open Gadol’s shirt, exposing the wound. It was bad, terribly bad. If it had cut the intestines or some of the other organs… He ordered one of the bridgemen to hold a bandage to Gadol’s forehead to stanch the smaller blood flow there—anything would help—and inspected the wounded side with the speed his father had taught him. Dunny returned quickly with a knife. Narm was having trouble with the fire, though. The man cursed, trying his flint and steel again. Gadol was spasming. Kaladin pressed bandages to the wound, feeling helpless. There wasn’t a place he could make a tourniquet for a wound like this. There wasn’t anything he could do but— Gadol spit up blood, coughing. “They break the land itself!” he hissed, eyes wild. “They want it, but in their rage they will destroy it. Like the jealous man burns his rich things rather than let them be taken by his enemies! They come!” He gasped. And then he fell still, his dead eyes staring upward, bloody spittle running in a trail down his cheek. His final, haunting words hung over them. Not far away, soldiers fought and screamed, but the bridgemen were silent. Kaladin sat back, stunned—as always—by the pain of losing someone. His father had always said that time would dull his sensitivity. In this, Lirin had been wrong. He felt so tired. Rock and Teft were hurrying back toward the cleft in the rock, bearing a body between them. They wouldn’t have brought anyone unless he was still alive, Kaladin told himself. Think of the ones you can help. “Keep that fire going!” he said, pointing at Narm. “Don’t let it die! Someone heat the blade in it.” Narm jumped, noticing as if for the first time that he’d actually managed to get a small flame started. Kaladin turned away from the dead Gadol and made room for Rock and Teft. They deposited a very bloody Leyten on the ground. He was breathing shallowly and had two arrows sticking from him, one from the shoulder, the other from the opposite arm. Another had grazed his stomach, and the cut there had been widened by movement. It looked like his left leg had been trampled by a horse; it was broken, and he had a large gash where the skin had split. “The other three are dead,” Teft said. “He nearly is too. Nothing much we can do. But you said to bring him, so—” Kaladin knelt down immediately, working with careful, efficient speed. He pressed a bandage against
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the side, holding it in place with his knee, then tied a quick bandage on the leg, ordering one of the soldiers to hold it firm and elevate the limb. “Where’s that knife!” Kaladin yelled, hurriedly tying a loose tourniquet around the arm. He needed to stop the blood right now; he’d worry about saving the arm later. Youthful Dunny rushed over with the heated blade. Kaladin lifted the side bandage and quickly cauterized the wound there. Leyten was unconscious, his breathing growing more shallow. “You will not die,” Kaladin muttered. “You will not die!” His mind was numb, but his fingers knew the motions. For a moment, he was back in his father’s surgery room, listening to careful instruction. He cut the arrow from Leyten’s arm, but left the one in his shoulder, then sent the knife back to be reheated. Peet finally returned with the watergourd. Kaladin snatched it, using it to clean the leg wound, which was the nastiest, as it had been caused by trampling. When the knife came back, Kaladin pulled the arrow free of the shoulder and cauterized the wound as best he could, then used another of his quickly disappearing bandages to tie the wound. He splinted the leg with arrow shafts—the only thing they had. With a grimace, he cauterized the wound there too. He hated to cause so many scars, but he couldn’t afford to let any more blood be lost. He was going to need antiseptic. How soon could he get some of that mucus? “Don’t you dare die!” Kaladin said, barely conscious that he was speaking. He quickly tied off the leg wound, then used his needle and thread to sew the arm wound. He bandaged it, then untied the tourniquet most of the way. Finally, he settled back, looking at the wounded man, completely drained. Leyten was still breathing. How long would that last? The odds were against him. The bridgemen stood or sat around Kaladin, looking strangely reverent. Kaladin tiredly moved over to Hobber and saw to the man’s leg wound. It didn’t need to be cauterized. Kaladin washed it out, cut away some splinters, then sewed it. There were painspren all around the man, tiny orange hands stretching up from the ground. Kaladin sliced off the cleanest portion of bandage he’d used on Gadol and tied it around Hobber’s wound. He hated the uncleanliness of it, but there was no other choice. Then he set Dabbid’s arm with some arrows he had the other bridgemen fetch, using Dabbid’s shirt to tie them in place. Then, finally, Kaladin sat back against the lip of stone, letting out a long, fatigued breath. Bangs of metal on metal and shouts of soldiers rang from behind. He felt so tired. Too tired to even close his eyes. He just wanted to sit and stare at the ground forever. Teft settled down beside him. The grizzled man had the watergourd, which still had some liquid in the bottom. “Drink, lad. You need it.” “We should clean the wounds of the other men,” Kaladin
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said numbly. “They took scrapes—I saw some had cuts—and they should—” “Drink,” Teft said, his crackly voice insistent. Kaladin hesitated, then drank the water. It tasted strongly bitter, like the plant from which it had been taken. “Where’d you learn to heal men like that?” Teft asked. Several of the nearby bridgemen turned toward him at the question. “I wasn’t always a slave,” Kaladin whispered. “These things you did, they won’t make a difference,” Rock said, walking up. The massive Horneater squatted down. “Gaz makes us leave behind wounded who cannot walk. Is standing order from above.” “I’ll deal with Gaz,” Kaladin said, resting his head back against the stone. “Go return that knife to the body you took it off. I don’t want to be accused of thievery. Then, when the time comes to leave, I want two men in charge of Leyten and two men in charge of Hobber. We’ll tie them to the top of the bridge and carry them. At the chasms, you’ll have to move quickly and untie them before the army crosses, then retie them at the end. We’ll also need someone to lead Dabbid, if his shock hasn’t passed.” “Gaz won’t stand for this thing,” Rock said. Kaladin closed his eyes, declining further argument. The battle was a long one. As evening approached, the Parshendi finally retreated, jumping away across the chasms with their unnaturally powerful legs. There was a chorus of shouts from the Alethi soldiers, who had won the day. Kaladin forced himself to his feet and went looking for Gaz. It would be a while yet before they could get the chrysalis open—it was like pounding on stone—but he needed to deal with the bridge sergeant. He found Gaz watching from well behind the battle lines. He glanced at Kaladin with his one eye. “How much of that blood is yours?” Kaladin looked down, realizing for the first time that he was crusted with dark, flaking blood, most belonging to the men he’d worked on. He didn’t answer the question. “We’re taking our wounded with us.” Gaz shook his head. “If they can’t walk, they stay behind. Standing orders. Not my choice.” “We’re taking them,” Kaladin said, no more firm, no more loud. “Brightlord Lamaril won’t stand for it.” Lamaril was Gaz’s immediate superior. “You’ll send Bridge Four last, to lead the wounded soldiers back to camp. Lamaril won’t go with that troop; he’ll go on ahead with the main body, as he won’t want to miss Sadeas’s victory feast.” Gaz opened his mouth. “My men will move quickly and efficiently,” Kaladin said, interrupting him. “They won’t slow anyone.” He took the last sphere from his pocket and handed it over. “You won’t say anything.” Gaz took the sphere, snorting. “One clearmark? You think that will make me take a risk this big?” “If you don’t,” Kaladin said, voice calm, “I will kill you and let them execute me.” Gaz blinked in surprise. “You’d never—” Kaladin took a single step forward. He must have looked a dreadful sight, covered in blood. Gaz
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paled. Then he cursed, holding up the dark sphere. “And a dun sphere at that.” Kaladin frowned. He was sure it had still glowed before the bridge run. “That’s your fault. You gave it to me.” “Those spheres were newly infused last night,” Gaz said. “They came straight from Brightlord Sadeas’s treasurer. What did you do with them?” Kaladin shook his head, too exhausted to think. Syl landed on his shoulder as he turned to walk back to the bridgemen. “What are they to you?” Gaz called after him. “Why do you even care?” “They’re my men.” He left Gaz behind. “I don’t trust him,” Syl said, looking over her shoulder. “He could just say you threatened him and send men to arrest you.” “Maybe he will,” Kaladin said. “I guess I just have to count on him wanting more of my bribes.” Kaladin continued on, listening to the shouts of the victors and the groans of their wounded. The plateaus were littered with corpses, bunched up along the edges of the chasm, where the bridges had made a focus for the battle. The Parshendi—as always—had left their dead behind. Even when they won, they reportedly left their dead. The humans sent back bridge crews and soldiers to burn their dead and send their spirits to the afterlife, where the best among them would fight in the Heralds’ army. “Spheres,” Syl said, still looking at Gaz. “That doesn’t seem like much to count on.” “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve seen the way he looks at them. He wants the money I give him. Perhaps badly enough to keep him in line.” Kaladin shook his head. “What you said earlier is right; men are unreliable in many things. But if there’s one thing you can count on, it’s their greed.” It was a bitter thought. But it had been a bitter day. A hopeful, bright beginning, and a bloody, red sunset. Just like every day. “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,
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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
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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
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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,
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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“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
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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
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this time— The storm hit. It began. Dalinar blinked. The stuffy, dimly lit barrack was gone. Instead, he stood in darkness. The air was thick with the scent of dried grain, and when he reached out with his left hand, he felt a wooden wall. He was in a barn of some sort. The cool night was still and crisp; there was no sign of a storm. He felt carefully at his side. His side sword was gone, as was his uniform. Instead, he wore a homespun belted tunic and a pair of sandals. It was the type of clothing he’d seen depicted on ancient statues. Stormwinds, where have you sent me this time? Each of the visions was different. This would be the twelfth one he’d seen. Only twelve? he thought. It seemed like so many more, but this had only begun happening to him a few months ago. Something moved in the darkness. He flinched in surprise as something living pressed against him. He nearly struck it, but froze when he heard it whimper. He carefully lowered his arm, feeling the figure’s back. Slight and small—a child. She was quivering. “Father.” Her voice trembled. “Father, what is happening?” As usual, he was being seen as someone of this place and time. The girl clutched him, obviously terrified. It was too dark to see the fearspren he suspected were climbing up through the ground. Dalinar rested his hand on her back. “Hush. It will be all right.” It seemed the right thing to say. “Mother…” “She will be fine.” The girl huddled more closely against him in the black room. He remained still. Something felt wrong. The building creaked in the wind. It wasn’t well built; the plank beneath Dalinar’s hand was loose, and he was tempted to push it free so he could peek out. But the stillness, the terrified child…There was an oddly putrid scent in the air. Something scratched, ever so softly, at the barn’s far wall. Like a finger-nail being drawn across a wooden tabletop. The girl whimpered, and the scraping sound stopped. Dalinar held his breath, heart beating furiously. Instinctively, he held his hand out to summon his Shardblade, but nothing happened. It would never come during the visions. The far wall of the building exploded inward. Splintered wood flew through the darkness as a large shape burst in. Lit only by moonglow and starlight from outside, the black thing was bigger than an axehound. He couldn’t make out details, but it seemed to have an unnatural wrongness to its form. The girl screamed, and Dalinar cursed, grabbing her with one arm and rolling to the side as the black thing leaped for them. It nearly got the child, but Dalinar whipped her out of the creature’s path. Breathless with terror, her scream cut off. Dalinar spun, pushing the girl behind him. His side hit a stack of sacks filled with grain as he edged away. The barn fell silent. Salas’s violet light shone in the sky outside, but the small moon wasn’t bright enough to
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illuminate the barn’s interior, and the creature had moved into a shadowed recess. He couldn’t see much of it. It seemed part of the shadows. Dalinar tensed, fists forward. It made a soft wheezing noise, eerie and faintly reminiscent of rhythmic whispering. Breathing? Dalinar thought. No. It’s sniffing for us. The thing darted forward. Dalinar whipped a hand to the side and grabbed one of the grain sacks, pulling it in front of himself. The beast struck the sack, its teeth ripping into it, and Dalinar pulled, tearing the coarse fabric and flinging a fragrant cloud of dusty lavis grain into the air. Then he stepped to the side and kicked the beast as hard as he could. The creature felt too soft under his foot, as if he’d kicked a waterskin. The blow knocked it to the ground, and it made a hissing sound. Dalinar flung the bag and its remaining contents upward, filling the air with more dried lavis and dust. The beast scrambled to its feet and twisted around, smooth skin reflecting moonlight. It seemed disoriented. Whatever it was, it hunted by smell, and the dust in the air confused it. Dalinar grabbed the girl and threw her over his shoulder, then dashed past the confused creature, barreling through the hole in the broken wall. He burst out into violet moonlight. He was in a small lait—a wide rift in the stone with good enough drainage to avoid flooding and a high stone outcropping to break the highstorms. In this case, the eastern rock formation was shaped like an enormous wave, creating shelter for a small village. That explained the flimsiness of the barn. Lights flickered here and there across the hollow, indicating a settlement of several dozen homes. He was on the outskirts. There was a hogpen to Dalinar’s right, distant homes to his left, and just ahead—nestled against the rock hill—was a midsized farm house. It was built in an archaic style, with crem bricks for walls. His decision was easy. The thing had moved quickly, like a predator. Dalinar wouldn’t outrun it, so he charged toward the farm house. The sound of the beast breaking out through the barn wall came from behind. Dalinar reached the home, but the front door was barred. Dalinar cursed loudly, pounding on it. Claws scraped on stone from behind as the thing bounded toward them. Dalinar threw his shoulder against the door just as it opened. He stumbled inside, dropping the girl to the floor as he found his balance. A middle-aged woman stood inside; violet moonlight revealed that she had thick curly hair and a wide-eyed terrified expression. She slammed the door closed behind him, then barred it. “Praise the Heralds,” she exclaimed, scooping up the girl. “You found her, Heb. Bless you.” Dalinar sidled up to the glassless window, looking out. The shutter appeared to be broken loose, making the window impossible to latch closed. He couldn’t see the creature. He glanced back over his shoulder. The building’s floor was simple stone and there was no second story.
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A fireless brick hearth was set on one side, with a rough-cast iron pot hanging above it. It all looked so primitive. What year was this? It’s just a vision, he thought. A waking dream. Why did it feel so real, then? He looked back out the window. It was silent outside. A twin row of rockbuds grew on the right side of the yard, probably curnips or some other kind of vegetable. Moonlight reflected off the smooth ground. Where was the creature? Had it— Something slick-skinned and black leapt up from below and crashed against the window. It shattered the frame, and Dalinar cursed, falling as the thing landed on him. Something sharp slashed his face, cutting open his cheek, spilling blood across his skin. The girl screamed again. “Light!” Dalinar bellowed. “Get me light!” He slammed his fist into the side of the creature’s too-soft head, using his other arm to push back a clawed paw. His cheek burned with pain, and something raked his side, slashing his tunic and cutting his skin. With a heave he threw the creature off him. It crashed against the wall, and he rolled to his feet, gasping. As the beast righted itself in the dark room, Dalinar scrambled away, old instincts kicking in, pain evaporating as the battle Thrill surged through him. He needed a weapon! A stool or a table leg. The room was so— Light flickered on as the woman uncovered a lit pottery lamp. The primitive thing used oil, not Stormlight, but was more than enough to illuminate her terrified face and the girl clinging to her robelike dress. The room had a low table and a pair of stools, but his eyes were drawn to the small hearth. There, gleaming like one of the Honorblades of ancient lore, was a simple iron fire poker. It leaned against the stone hearth, tip white with ash. Dalinar lunged forward, snatching it in one hand, twirling it to feel out its balance. He had been trained in classical Windstance, but he fell into Smokestance instead, as it was better with an imperfect weapon. One foot forward, one foot behind, sword—or, in this case, poker—held forward with the tip toward his opponent’s heart. Only years of training allowed him to maintain his stance as he saw what he was facing. The creature’s smooth, dark-as-midnight skin reflected light like a pool of tar. It had no visible eyes and its black, knifelike teeth bristled in a head set on a sinuous, boneless neck. The six legs were slender and bent at the sides, appearing far too thin to bear the weight of the fluid, inklike body. This isn’t a vision, Dalinar thought. It’s a nightmare. The creature raised its head, clicking teeth together, and made a hissing sound. Tasting the air. “Sweet wisdom of Battar,” the woman breathed, holding her child close. Her hands shook as she held up the lamp, as if to use it as a weapon. A scraping came from outside, and was followed by another set of spindly legs slinking
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over the lip of the broken window. This new beast climbed into the room, joining its companion, which crouched anxiously, sniffing at Dalinar. It seemed wary, as if it could sense that it faced an armed—or at least determined—opponent. Dalinar cursed himself for a fool, raising one hand to his side to stanch the blood. He knew, logically, that he was really back in the barrack with Renarin. This was all happening in his mind; there was no need for him to fight. But every instinct, every shred of honor he had, drove him to step to the side, placing himself between the woman and the beasts. Vision, memory, or delusion, he could not stand aside. “Heb,” the woman said, her voice nervous. Who did she see him as? Her husband? A farmhand? “Don’t be a fool! You don’t know how—” The beasts attacked. Dalinar leapt forward—remaining in motion was the essence of Smokestance—and spun between the creatures, striking to the side with his poker. He hit the one on the left, ripping a gash in its too-smooth skin. The wound bled smoke. Moving behind the creatures, Dalinar swung again, sweeping low at the feet of the unwounded beast, knocking it off balance. With the follow-through, he slammed the side of the poker into the face of the wounded beast as it turned and snapped at him. The old Thrill, the sense of battle, consumed him. It did not enrage him, as it did some men, but everything seemed to become clearer, crisper. His muscles moved easily; he breathed more deeply. He came alive. He leaped backward as the creatures pressed at him. With a kick, he knocked over the table, tumbling it at one of the beasts. He drove the poker at the open maw of the other. As he had hoped, the inside of its mouth was sensitive. The creature let out a pained hiss and scrambled back. Dalinar moved to the overturned table and kicked off one of the legs. He scooped it up, falling into Smokestance’s sword-and-knife form. He used the wooden leg to fend off one creature while he thrust three times at the face of the other, ripping a gash in its cheek that bled smoke; it came out as a hiss. There were distant screams outside. Blood of my fathers, he thought. These aren’t the only two. He needed to be done, and quickly. If the fight dragged on, they’d wear him down faster than he wore them down. Who even knew if beasts like this got tired? Bellowing, he jumped forward. Sweat streamed from his forehead, and the room seemed to grow just faintly darker. Or, no, more focused. Just him and the beasts. The only wind was that of his weapons spinning, the only sound that of his feet hitting the floor, the only vibration that of his heart thumping. His sudden whirlwind of blows shocked the creatures. He smashed the table leg against one, forcing it back, then threw himself at the other one, earning a rake of the claws against his
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arm as he rammed the poker into the beast’s chest. The skin resisted at first, but then broke, his poker moving through easily after that. A powerful jet of smoke burst out around Dalinar’s hand. He pulled his arm free, and the creature stumbled back, legs growing thinner, body deflating like a leaking wineskin. He knew he’d exposed himself in attacking. There was nothing to do but throw his arm up as the other beast leapt on him, slashing his forehead and his arm, biting his shoulder. Dalinar screamed, slamming the table leg again and again at the beast’s head. He tried forcing the creature back, but it was terribly strong. So Dalinar let himself slip to the ground and kicked upward, tossing the beast over his head. The fangs ripped free of Dalinar’s shoulder with a spray of blood. The beast hit the floor in a mess of black legs. Dizzy, Dalinar forced himself to his feet and fell into his stance. Always keep the stance. The creature got to its feet at about the same time, and Dalinar ignored the pain, ignored the blood, letting the Thrill give him focus. He leveled the poker. The table leg had fallen from his blood-slick fingers. The beast crouched, then charged. Dalinar let the fluid nature of Smokestance direct him, stepping to the side and smashing the poker into the beast’s legs. It tripped as Dalinar turned around, wielding his poker with both hands and slamming it directly down into the creature’s back. The powerful blow broke the skin, passed through the creature’s body, and hit the stone floor. The creature struggled, legs working in effectively, as smoke hissed out the holes in its back and stomach. Dalinar stepped away, wiping blood from his forehead, leaving the weapon to fall to the side and clang to the ground, still impaling the beast. “Three Gods, Heb,” the woman whispered. He turned to find her looking completely shocked as she stared at the deflating carcasses. “I should have helped,” she mumbled, “should have grabbed something to hit them. But you were so fast. It—it was just a few heartbeats. Where—How—?” She focused on him. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Heb. You fought like a…like one of the Radiants themselves. Where did you learn that?” Dalinar didn’t answer. He pulled off his shirt, grimacing as the pain of his wounds returned. Only the shoulder was immediately dangerous, but it was bad; his left arm was growing numb. He ripped the shirt in half, tying one portion around his gashed right forearm, then wadded the rest and pressed it against his shoulder. He walked over and pulled the poker free of the deflated body, which now resembled a black silk sack. Then he moved to the window. The other homes showed signs of being attacked, fires burning, faint screams hanging on the wind. “We need to get someplace safe,” he said. “Is there a cellar nearby?” “A what?” “Cave in the rock, man-made or natural.” “No caves,” the woman said, joining him at the window. “How
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would men make a hole in the rock?” With a Shardblade or a Soulcaster. Or even with basic mining—though that could be difficult, as the crem would seal up caverns and highstorm rains made for an extremely potent risk of flooding. Dalinar looked out the window again. Dark shapes moved in the moonlight; some were coming in their direction. He wavered, dizzy. Blood loss. Gritting his teeth, he steadied himself against the frame of the window. How long was this vision going to last? “We need a river. Something to wash away the trail of our scent. Is there one nearby?” The woman nodded, growing pale faced as she noticed the dark forms in the night. “Get the girl, woman.” “‘The girl’? Seeli, our daughter. And since when have you called me woman? Is Taffa so hard to say? Stormwinds, Heb, what has gotten into you?” He shook his head, moving to the door and throwing it open, still carrying the poker. “Bring the lamp. The light won’t give us away; I don’t think they can see.” The woman obeyed, hurrying to collect Seeli—she looked to be about six or seven—then followed Dalinar out, the clay lamp’s fragile flame quivering in the night. It looked a little like a slipper. “The river?” Dalinar asked. “You know where—” “I hit my head, Taffa,” Dalinar said. “I’m dizzy. It’s hard to think.” The woman looked worried at that, but seemed to accept this answer. She pointed away from the village. “Let’s go,” he said, moving out into the darkness. “Are attacks by these beasts common?” “During Desolations, perhaps, but not in my life! Stormwinds, Heb. We need to get you to—” “No,” he said. “We keep moving.” They continued along a path, which ran up toward the back side of the wave formation. Dalinar kept glancing back at the village. How many people were dying below, murdered by those beasts from Damnation? Where were the landlord’s soldiers? Perhaps this village was too remote, too far from a citylord’s direct protection. Or perhaps things didn’t work that way in this era, this place. I’ll see the woman and child to the river, then I’ll return to organize a resistance. If anyone is left. The thought seemed laughable. He had to use the poker to keep himself upright. How was he going to organize a resistance? He slipped on a steep portion of the trail, and Taffa set down the lamp, grabbing his arm, concerned. The landscape was rough with boulders and rockbuds, their vines and leaves extended in the cool, wet night. Those rustled in the wind. Dalinar righted himself, then nodded to the woman, gesturing for her to continue. A faint scraping sounded in the night; Dalinar turned, tense. “Heb?” the woman asked, sounding afraid. “Hold up the light.” She raised the lamp, illuminating the hillside in flickering yellow. A good dozen midnight patches, skins too smooth, were creeping over rockbuds and boulders. Even their teeth and claws were black. Seeli whimpered, pulling close to her mother. “Run,” Dalinar said softly, raising his poker.
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“Heb, they’re—” “Run!” he bellowed. “They’re in front of us too!” He spun, picking out the dark patches ahead. He cursed, looking around. “There,” he said, pointing to a nearby rock formation. It was tall and flat. He shoved Taffa forward, and she towed Seeli, their single-piece, blue dresses rippling in the wind. They ran more quickly than he could in his state, and Taffa reached the rock wall first. She looked up, as if to climb to the top. It was too steep for that; Dalinar just wanted something solid to put at his back. He stepped onto a flat, open section of rock before the formation and raised his weapon. Black beasts crawled carefully over the stones. Could he distract them, somehow, and let the other two flee? He felt so dizzy. What I’d give for my Shardplate… Seeli whimpered. Her mother tried to comfort her, but the woman’s voice was unnerved. She knew. Knew those bundles of blackness, like living night, would rip them and tear them. What was that word she’d used? Desolation. The book spoke of them. The Desolations had happened during the near-mythical shadowdays, before real history began. Before mankind had defeated the Voidbringers and taken the war to heaven. The Voidbringers. Was that what these things were? Myths. Myths come to life to kill him. Several of the creatures lunged forward, and he felt the Thrill surge within him again, strengthening him as he swung. They jumped back, cautious, testing for weakness. Others sniffed the air, pacing. They wanted to get at the woman and child. Dalinar jumped at them, forcing them away, uncertain where he found the strength. One got close, and he swung at it, falling into Windstance, as it was most familiar. The sweeping strikes, the grace. He struck at the beast, scoring it on its flank, but two others jumped at him from the side. Claws raked his back, and the weight threw him to the stones. He cursed, rolling, punching a creature and tossing it back. Another bit his wrist, causing him to drop the poker in a flash of pain. He bellowed and slammed his fist into the creature’s jaw and it opened reflexively, freeing his hand. The monsters pressed forward. Somehow he got to his feet and stumbled back against the rock wall. The woman threw the lamp at a creature that got too close, spraying oil across the stones and setting it alight. The fire didn’t seem to bother the creatures. The move exposed Seeli, as Taffa fell off balance in the throw. A monster knocked her down, and others scrambled for the child—but Dalinar leaped for her, wrapping his arms around her, huddling down and turning his back on the monsters. One leaped on his back. Claws sliced his skin. Seeli whimpered in terror. Taffa was screaming as the monsters overwhelmed her. “Why are you showing me this!” Dalinar bellowed into the night. “Why must I live this vision? Curse you!” Claws raked his back; he clutched Seeli, back arching in pain. He cast his eyes
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upward, toward the sky. And there, he saw a brilliant blue light falling through the air. It was like a star rock, dropping at an incredible speed. Dalinar cried out as the light hit the ground a short distance away, cracking the stone, spraying rock chips in the air. The ground shook. The beasts froze. Dalinar turned numbly to the side, then he watched in amazement as the light stood up, limbs unfolding. It wasn’t a star at all. It was a man—a man in glowing blue Shardplate, bearing a Shardblade, trails of Stormlight rising from his body. The creatures hissed furiously, suddenly throwing themselves at the figure, ignoring Dalinar and the other two. The Shardbearer raised his Blade and struck forward with skill, stepping into the attacks. Dalinar lay stunned. This was unlike any Shardbearer he had ever seen. The Plate glowed with an even blue light, and glyphs—some familiar, others not—were etched into the metal. They trailed blue vapor. Moving fluidly, Plate clinking, the man struck at the beasts. He effortlessly sheared a monster in half, flinging pieces into the night that trailed black smoke. Dalinar pulled himself to Taffa. She was alive, though her side was torn and flayed. Seeli tugged at her, weeping. Need to…do something… Dalinar thought dully. “Be at peace,” a voice said. Dalinar lurched, turning to see a woman in delicate Shardplate kneeling beside him, holding something bright. It was a topaz entwined with a heliodor, both set into a fine metal framework, each stone as big as a man’s hand. The woman had light tan eyes that almost seemed to glow in the night, and she wore no helm. Her hair was pulled back into a bun. She raised a hand and touched his forehead. Ice washed across him. Suddenly, his pain was gone. The woman reached out and touched Taffa. The flesh on her arm regrew in an eyeblink; the torn muscle remained where it was, but other flesh just grew where the chunks had been torn out. The skin knitted up over it without flaw, and the female Shardbearer wiped away the blood and torn flesh with a white cloth. Taffa looked up, awed. “You came,” she whispered. “Bless the Almighty.” The female Shardbearer stood; her armor glowed with an even amber light. She smiled and turned to the side, a Shardblade forming from mist into her hand as she rushed to aid her companion. A woman Shardbearer, Dalinar thought. He’d never seen such a thing. He stood up, hesitant. He felt strong and healthy, as if he’d just awakened from a good night’s sleep. He glanced down at his arm, pulling off his makeshift bandage. He had to wipe free blood and some torn skin, but underneath, the skin was perfectly healed. He took a few deep breaths. Then shrugged, picked up his poker, and joined the fight. “Heb?” Taffa called from behind. “Are you insane?” He didn’t respond. He couldn’t very well just sit there while two strangers fought to protect him. There were dozens of the black creatures. As
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he watched, one landed a scraping hit on the Shardbearer in blue, and the claw scored the Shardplate, digging into and cracking it. The danger to these Shardbearers was real. The female Shardbearer turned to Dalinar. She had her helm on now. When had she put it on? She seemed shocked as Dalinar threw himself at one of the black beasts, slashing it with his poker. He fell into Smokestance and fended against its counterattack. The female Shardbearer turned to her companion, then the two of them fell into stances forming a triangle with Dalinar, his position closest to the rock formation. With two Shardbearers alongside him, the fighting went remarkably better than it had back at the house. He only managed to dispatch a single beast—they were quick and strong, and he fought defensively, trying to distract and keep pressure off the Shardbearers. The creatures did not retreat. They continued to attack until the last one was sliced in two by the female Shardbearer. Dalinar stopped, puffing, lowering his poker. Other lights had fallen—and still were falling—from the sky in the direction of the village; presumably, some of these strange Shardbearers had landed there as well. “Well,” a strong voice said, “I must say that I’ve never before had the pleasure of fighting alongside a comrade with such…unconventional means.” Dalinar turned to find the male Shardbearer regarding him. Where had the man’s helm gone? The Shardbearer stood with his Blade resting on his armored shoulder, and he inspected Dalinar with eyes of such bright blue, they were almost white. Were those eyes actually glowing, leaking Stormlight? His skin was dark brown, like a Makabaki, and he had short black curly hair. His armor no longer glowed, though one large symbol—emblazoned across the front of the breastplate—still gave off a faint blue light. Dalinar recognized the symbol, the particular pattern of the stylized double eye, eight spheres connected with two at the center. It had been the symbol of the Lost Radiants, back when they’d been called the Knights Radiant. The female Shardbearer watched the village. “Who trained you in the sword?” the male knight asked Dalinar. Dalinar met the eyes of the knight. He had no idea how to respond. “This is my husband Heb, good knight,” Taffa said, rushing forward, leading her daughter by the hand. “He’s never seen a sword, far as I know.” “Your stances are unfamiliar to me,” the knight said. “But they were practiced and precise. This level of skill comes only with years of training. I have rarely seen a man—knight or soldier—fight as well as you did.” Dalinar remained silent. “No words for me, I see,” the knight said. “Very well. But should you wish to put that mysterious training of yours to use, come to Urithiru.” “Urithiru?” Dalinar said. He’d heard that name somewhere. “Yes,” the knight said. “I cannot promise you a position in one of the orders—that decision is not mine—but if your skill with the sword is similar to your skill with hearth-tending implements, then I am confident you will
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find a place with us.” He turned eastward, toward the village. “Spread the word. Signs like this one are not without import. A Desolation is coming.” He turned to his companion. “I will go. Guard these three and lead them to the village. We cannot leave them alone in the dangers of this night.” His companion nodded. The blue knight’s armor began to glow faintly, then he launched into the air, as if falling straight up. Dalinar stumbled back, shocked, watching the glowing blue figure rise, then arc downward toward the village. “Come,” the woman said, voice ringing inside her helm. She began to hurry down the incline. “Wait,” Dalinar said, hastening after her, Taffa scooping up her daughter and following. Behind them, the oil was burning out. The female knight slowed to allow Dalinar and Taffa to keep pace with her. “I must know,” Dalinar said, feeling foolish. “What year is it?” The knight turned to him. Her helm was gone. He blinked; when had that happened? Unlike her companion, she had light skin—not pale like someone from Shinovar, but a natural light tan, like an Alethi. “It is Eighth Epoch, three thirty-seven.” Eighth Epoch? Dalinar thought. What does that mean? This vision had been different from the others. They had been more brief, for one thing. And the voice that spoke to him. Where was it? “Where am I?” Dalinar asked the knight. “What kingdom?” The knight frowned. “Are you not healed?” “I am well. I just…I need to know. Which kingdom am I in?” “This is Natanatan.” Dalinar released an inhaled breath. Natanatan. The Shattered Plains lay in the land that had once been Natanatan. The kingdom had fallen centuries ago. “And you fight for Natanatan’s king?” he asked. She laughed. “The Knights Radiant fight for no king and for all of them.” “Then where do you live?” “Urithiru is where our orders are centered, but we live in cities all across Alethela.” Dalinar froze in place. Alethela. It was the historical name for the place that had become Alethkar. “You cross kingdom borders to fight?” “Heb,” Taffa said. She seemed very concerned. “You were the one who promised me that the Radiants would come protect us, just before you went out searching for Seeli. Is your mind still muddled? Lady knight, could you heal him again?” “I should save Regrowth for others who might be wounded,” the woman said, glancing at the village. The fighting seemed to be dying down. “I’m fine,” Dalinar said. “Alethk…Alethela. You live there?” “It is our duty and our privilege,” the woman said, “to stay vigilant for the Desolation. One kingdom to study the arts of war so that the others might have peace. We die so that you may live. It has ever been our place.” Dalinar stood still, sorting through that. “All who can fight are needed,” the woman said. “And all who have a desire to fight should be compelled to come to Alethela. Fighting, even this fighting against the Ten Deaths, changes a person. We can teach you so
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that it will not destroy you. Come to us.” Dalinar found himself nodding. “Every pasture needs three things,” the woman said, voice changing, as if she were quoting from memory. “Flocks to grow, herdsmen to tend, and watchers at the rim. We of Alethela are those watchers—the warriors who protect and fight. We maintain the terrible arts of killing, then pass them on to others when the Desolation comes.” “The Desolation,” he said. “That means the Voidbringers, right? Those are what we fought this night?” The knight sniffed dismissively. “Voidbringers? These? No, this was Midnight Essence, though who released it is still a mystery.” She looked to the side, expression growing distant. “Harkaylain says the Desolation is close, and he is not often wrong. He—” A sudden screaming sounded in the night. The knight cursed, looking toward it. “Wait here. Call out if the Essence returns. I will hear.” She dashed off into the darkness. Dalinar raised a hand, torn between following and staying to watch over Taffa and her daughter. Stormfather! he thought, realizing they’d been left in darkness, now that the knight’s glowing armor was gone. He turned back to Taffa. She stood on the trail beside him, eyes looking oddly distracted. “Taffa?” he asked. “I miss these times,” Taffa said. Dalinar jumped. That voice wasn’t hers. It was a man’s voice, deep and powerful. It was the voice that spoke to him during every vision. “Who are you?” Dalinar asked. “They were one, once,” Taffa—or whatever it was—said. “The orders. Men. Not without problems or strife, of course. But focused.” Dalinar felt a chill. Something about that voice always seemed faintly familiar to him. It had even in the first vision. “Please. You have to tell me what this is, why you are showing me these things. Who are you? Some servant of the Almighty?” “I wish I could help you,” Taffa said, looking at Dalinar but ignoring his questions. “You have to unite them.” “As you’ve said before! But I need help. The things the knight said about Alethkar. Are they true? Can we really be that way again?” “To speak of what might be is forbidden,” the voice said. “To speak of what was depends on perspective. But I will try to help.” “Then give me more than vague answers!” Taffa regarded him, somber. Somehow, by starlight alone, he could make out her brown eyes. There was something deep, something daunting, hiding behind them. “At least tell me this,” Dalinar said, grasping for a specific question to ask. “I have trusted Highprince Sadeas, but my son—Adolin—thinks I am a fool to do so. Should I continue to trust Sadeas?” “Yes,” the being said. “This is important. Do not let strife consume you. Be strong. Act with honor, and honor will aid you.” Finally, Dalinar thought. Something concrete. He heard voices. The dark landscape around Dalinar grew vague. “No!” He reached for the woman. “Don’t send me back yet. What should I do about Elhokar, and the war?” “I will give you what I can.” The voice was
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growing indistinct. “I am sorry for not giving more.” “What kind of answer is that?” Dalinar bellowed. He shook himself, struggling. Hands held him. Where had they come from? He cursed, batting them away, twisting, trying to break free. Then he froze. He was in the barrack at the Shattered Plains, soft rain rattling on the roof. The bulk of the storm had passed. A group of soldiers held Dalinar down while Renarin watched with concern. Dalinar grew still, mouth open. He had been yelling. The soldiers looked uncomfortable, glancing at each other, not meeting his gaze. If it was like before, he’d have acted out his role in the vision, speaking in gibberish, flailing around. “My mind is clear now,” Dalinar said. “It’s all right. You can all let me go.” Renarin nodded to the others, and they hesitantly released him. Renarin tried to make some stuttering excuses, telling them that his father was simply eager for combat. It didn’t sound very convincing. Dalinar retreated to the back of the barrack, sitting down on the floor between two rolled up bedrolls, just breathing in and out and thinking. He trusted the visions, yet his life in the warcamps had been difficult enough lately without people presuming him mad. Act with honor, and honor will aid you. The vision had told him to trust Sadeas. But he’d never be able to explain that to Adolin—who not only hated Sadeas, but thought the visions were delusions from Dalinar’s mind. The only thing to do was keep going as he had. And find a way, somehow, to get the highprinces to work together. SEVEN YEARS AGO “I can save her,” Kal said, pulling off his shirt. The child was only five. She’d fallen far. “I can save her.” He was mumbling. A crowd had gathered. It had been two months since Brightlord Wistiow’s death; they still didn’t have a replacement citylord. He had barely seen Laral at all in that time. Kal was only thirteen, but he’d been trained well. The first danger was blood loss; the child’s leg had broken, a compound fracture, and it was spurting red where bone had split the skin. Kal found his hands trembling as he pressed his fingers against the wound. The broken bone was slick, even the jagged end, wetted by blood. Which arteries had been torn? “What are you doing to my daughter?” Thick-shouldered Harl pushed through the onlookers. “You cremling, you storm’s leavings! Don’t touch Miasal! Don’t—” Harl broke off as several of the other men pulled him back. They knew that Kal—who had been passing by chance—was the girl’s best hope. Alim had already been sent to fetch Kal’s father. “I can save her,” Kal said. Her face was pale, and she didn’t move. That head wound, maybe it… Can’t think about that. One of the lower leg arteries was severed. He used his shirt to tie a tourniquet to stop the blood, but it kept slipping. Fingers still pressed against the cut, he called, “Fire! I need fire! Hurry! And someone give
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me your shirt!” Several men rushed off as Kal elevated the leg. One of the men hurriedly handed over his shirt. Kal knew where to pinch to cut off the artery; the tourniquet slipped, but his fingers did not. He held that artery closed, pressing the shirt on the rest of the wound until Valama came back with a candle’s flame. They’d already begun heating a knife. Good. Kal took the knife, burning it into the wound, releasing the sharply pungent smell of scorched flesh. A cool wind blew across them, carrying it away. Kal’s hands stopped shaking. He knew what to do. He moved with skill that surprised even him, perfectly cauterizing, as his training took control. He still needed to tie off the artery—a cauterization might not hold on an artery this large—but the two together should work. When he was done, the bleeding had stopped. He sat back, smiling. And then he noticed that Miasal’s head wound wasn’t bleeding either. Her chest wasn’t moving. “No!” Harl fell to his knees. “No! Do something!” “I…” Kal said. He’d stopped the bleeding. He’d… He’d lost her. He didn’t know what to say, how to respond. A deep, terrible, sickness washed over him. Harl shoved him aside, wailing, Kal fell backward. He found himself shaking again as Harl clutched the corpse. Around them, the crowd was silent. An hour later, Kal sat on the steps in front of the surgery room, crying. It was a soft thing, his grief. A shake here. A few persistent tears, slipping down his cheeks. He sat with knees up, arms wrapped around his legs, trying to figure out how to stop hurting. Was there a salve to take away this pain? A bandage to stop the flow from his eyes? He should have been able to save her. Footsteps approached, and a shadow fell on him. Lirin knelt down beside him. “I inspected your work, son. You did well. I’m proud.” “I failed,” Kal whispered. His clothing was stained red. Before he’d washed the blood free of his hands, it had been scarlet. But soaked into his clothing, it was a duller reddish brown. “I’ve known men who practiced for hours and hours, yet still froze when confronted by a wounded person. It’s harder when it takes you by surprise. You didn’t freeze, you went to her, administered help. And you did it well.” “I don’t want to be a surgeon,” Kal said. “I’m terrible at it.” Lirin sighed, rounding the steps, sitting down beside his son. “Kal, this happens. It’s unfortunate, but you couldn’t have done more. That little body lost blood too quickly.” Kal didn’t reply. “You have to learn when to care, son,” Lirin said softly. “And when to let go. You’ll see. I had similar problems when I was younger. You’ll grow calluses.” And this is a good thing? Kal thought, another tear trickling down his cheek. You have to learn when to care…and when to let go…. In the distance, Harl continued to wail. Kaladin didn’t want to open his eyes.
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If he opened his eyes, he’d be awake. And if he were awake, that pain—the burning in his side, the aching of his legs, the dull throb in his arms and shoulders—wouldn’t be just a nightmare. It would be real. And it would be his. He stifled a groan, rolling onto his side. It all ached. Every length of muscle, every inch of skin. His head pounded. It seemed that his very bones were sore. He wanted to lie motionless and throbbing until Gaz was forced to come and tow him out by his ankles. That would be easy. Didn’t he deserve to do what was easy, for once? But he couldn’t. To stop moving, to give up, would be the same as dying, and he could not let that happen. He’d made his decision already. He would help the bridgemen. Curse you, Hav, he thought. You can boot me out of my bunk even now. Kaladin threw off his blanket, forcing himself to stand. The door to the barrack was cracked open to let in fresh air. He felt worse standing up, but the life of a bridgeman wouldn’t wait for him to recover. You either kept up or you got crushed. Kaladin steadied himself, hand against the unnaturally smooth, Soulcast rock of the barrack wall. Then he took a deep breath and crossed the room. Oddly, more than a few of the men were awake and sitting up. They watched Kaladin in silence. They were waiting, Kaladin realized. They wanted to see if I’d get up. He found the three wounded where he’d left them at the front of the barrack. He held his breath as he checked on Leyten. Amazingly, he was still alive. His breathing was still shallow, his pulse weak and his wounds dire, but he was alive. He wouldn’t stay that way long without antiseptic. None of the wounds looked infected with rotspren yet, but it would only be a matter of time in these dirty confines. He needed some of the apothecary’s salves. But how? He checked the other two. Hobber was smiling openly. He was round-faced and lean, with a gap between his teeth and short, black hair. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for saving me.” Kaladin grunted, inspecting the man’s leg. “You’ll be fine, but you won’t be able to walk for a few weeks. I’ll bring food from the mess hall for you.” “Thank you,” Hobber whispered, taking Kaladin’s hand, clutching it. He actually seemed to be tearing up. That smile forced back the gloom, made the aches and soreness fade. Kaladin’s father had described that kind of smile. Those smiles weren’t why Lirin had become a surgeon, but they were why he’d remained one. “Rest,” Kaladin said, “and keep that wound clean. We don’t want to attract any rotspren. Let me know if you see any. They are small and red, like tiny insects.” Hobber nodded eagerly and Kaladin moved to Dabbid. The youthful bridgeman looked just as he had the day before, staring forward, eyes unfocused. “He was sitting
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like that when I fell asleep too, sir,” Hobber said. “It’s like he hasn’t moved all night. Gives me the chills, it does.” Kaladin snapped his fingers in front of Dabbid’s eyes. The man jumped at the sound, focusing on the fingers, following them as Kaladin moved his hand. “He’s been hit in the head, I think,” Hobber said. “No,” Kaladin said. “It’s battle shock. It will wear off.” I hope. “If you say so, sir,” Hobber said, scratching at the side of his head. Kaladin stood and pushed the door open all the way, lighting the room. It was a clear day, the sun just barely over the horizon. Already, sounds drifted from the warcamp, a blacksmith working early, hammer on metal. Chulls trumpeting in the stables. The air was cool, chilly, clinging to the vestiges of night. It smelled clean and fresh. Spring weather. You got up, Kaladin told himself. Might as well get on with it. He forced himself to go out and do his stretches, body complaining at each motion. Then he checked his own wound. It wasn’t too bad, though infection could make it worse. Stormwinds take that apothecary! he thought, fetching a ladle full of water from the bridgeman barrel, using it to wash his wound. He immediately regretted the bitter thought against the elderly apothecary. What was the man to do? Give Kaladin the antiseptic for free? It was Highprince Sadeas he should be cursing. Sadeas was responsible for the wound, and was also the one who had forbidden the surgeon’s hall to give supplies to bridgemen, slaves, and servants of the lesser nahns. By the time he finished stretching, a handful of bridgemen had risen to get something to drink. They stood around the barrel, regarding Kaladin. There was only one thing to do. Setting his jaw, Kaladin crossed the lumber grounds and located the plank he’d carried the day before. The carpenters hadn’t yet added it to their bridge, so Kaladin picked it up and walked back to the barracks. Then he began practicing the same way he had yesterday. He couldn’t go as fast. In fact, much of the time, he could only walk. But as he worked, his aches soothed. His headache faded. His feet and shoulders still hurt, and he had a deep, latent exhaustion. But he didn’t embarrass himself by falling over. In his practice, he passed the other bridgeman barracks. The men in front of them were barely distinguishable from those in Bridge Four. The same dark, sweat-stained leather vests over bare chests or loosely tied shirts. There was the occasional foreigner, Thaylens or Vedens most often. But they were unified in their scraggly appearances, unshaven faces, and haunted eyes. Several groups watched Kaladin with outright hostility. Were they worried that his practice would encourage their own bridgeleaders to work them? He had hoped that some members of Bridge Four might join his work-out. They’d obeyed him during the battle, after all, even going so far as to help him with the wounded. His hope was in vain.
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While some bridgemen watched, others ignored him. None took part. Eventually, Syl flitted down and landed on the end of his plank, riding like a queen on her palanquin. “They’re talking about you,” she said as he passed the Bridge Four barrack again. “Not surprising,” Kaladin said between puffs. “Some think you’ve gone mad,” she said. “Like that man who just sits and stares at the floor. They say the battle stress broke your mind.” “Maybe they’re right. I didn’t consider that.” “What is madness?” she asked, sitting with one leg up against her chest, vaporous skirt flickering around her calves and vanishing into mist. “It’s when men don’t think right,” Kaladin said, glad for the conversation to distract him. “Men never seem to think right.” “Madness is worse than normal,” Kaladin said with a smile. “It really just depends on the people around you. How different are you from them? The person that stands out is mad, I guess.” “So you all just…vote on it?” she asked, screwing up her face. “Well, not so actively. But it’s the right idea.” She sat thoughtfully for a time longer. “Kaladin,” she finally said. “Why do men lie? I can see what lies are, but I don’t know why people do it.” “Lots of reasons,” Kaladin said, wiping the sweat from his brow with his free hand, then using it to steady the plank. “Is it madness?” “I don’t know if I’d say that. Everyone does it.” “So maybe you’re all a little mad.” He chuckled. “Yes, perhaps.” “But if everyone does it,” she said, leaning her head on her knee, “then the one who doesn’t would be the one who is mad, right? Isn’t that what you said earlier?” “Well, I guess. But I don’t think there’s a person out there who hasn’t ever lied.” “Dalinar.” “Who?” “The king’s uncle,” Syl said. “Everyone says he never lies. Your bridgemen even talk about it sometimes.” That’s right. The Blackthorn. Kaladin had heard of him, even in his youth. “He’s a lighteyes. That means he lies.” “But—” “They’re all the same, Syl. The more noble they look, the more corrupt they are inside. It’s all an act.” He fell quiet, surprised at the vehemence of his bitterness. Storm you, Amaram. You did this to me. He’d been burned too often to trust the flame. “I don’t think men were always this way,” she said absently, getting a far-off look in her face. “I…” Kaladin waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. He passed Bridge Four again; many of the men relaxed, backs to the barrack wall, waiting for the afternoon shade to cover them. They rarely waited inside. Perhaps staying inside all day was too gloomy, even for bridgemen. “Syl?” he finally prompted. “Were you going to say something?” “It seems I’ve heard men talk about times when there were no lies.” “There are stories,” Kaladin said, “about the times of the Heraldic Epochs, when men were bound by honor. But you’ll always find people telling stories about supposedly better days. You watch. A
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man joins a new team of soldiers, and the first thing he’ll do is talk about how wonderful his old team was. We remember the good times and the bad ones, forgetting that most times are neither good nor bad. They just are.” He broke into a jog. The sun was growing warm overhead, but he wanted to move. “The stories,” he continued between puffs, “they prove it. What happened to the Heralds? They abandoned us. What happened to the Knights Radiant? They fell and became tarnished. What happened to the Epoch Kingdoms? They crashed when the church tried to seize power. You can’t trust anyone with power, Syl.” “What do you do, then? Have no leaders?” “No. You give the power to the lighteyes and leave it to corrupt them. Then try to stay as far from them as possible.” His words felt hollow. How good a job had he done staying away from lighteyes? He always seemed to be in the thick of them, caught in the muddy mire they created with their plots, schemes, and greed. Syl fell silent, and after that last jog, he decided to stop his practicing. He couldn’t afford to strain himself again. He returned the plank. The carpenters scratched their heads, but didn’t complain. He made his way back to the bridgemen, noticing that a small group of them—including Rock and Teft—were chatting and glancing at Kaladin. “You know,” Kaladin said to Syl, “talking to you probably doesn’t do anything for my reputation of being insane.” “I’ll do my best to stop being so interesting,” Syl said, alighting on his shoulder. She put her hands on her hips, then plopped down to a sitting position, smiling, obviously pleased with her comment. Before Kaladin could get back to the barrack, he noticed Gaz hustling across the lumberyard toward him. “You!” Gaz said, pointing at Kaladin. “Hold a season.” Kaladin stopped, waiting with folded arms. “I’ve news for you,” Gaz said, squinting with his good eye. “Brightlord Lamaril heard what you did with the wounded.” “How?” “Storms, boy!” Gaz said. “You think people wouldn’t talk? What were you going to do? Hide three men in the middle of us all?” Kaladin took a deep breath, but backed down. Gaz was right. “All right. What does it matter? We didn’t slow the army.” “Yeah,” Gaz said, “but Lamaril isn’t too polished on the idea of paying and feeding bridgemen who can’t work. He took the matter to Highprince Sadeas, intending to have you strung up.” Kaladin felt a chill. Strung up would mean hung out during a highstorm for the Stormfather to judge. It was essentially a death sentence. “And?” “Brightlord Sadeas refused to let him do it,” Gaz said. What? Had he misjudged Sadeas? But no. This was part of the act. “Brightlord Sadeas,” Gaz said grimly, “told Lamaril to let you keep the soldiers—but to forbid them food or pay while they’re unable to work. Said it would show why he’s forced to leave bridgemen behind.” “That cremling,” Kaladin muttered. Gaz paled. “Hush. That’s the
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highprince himself you’re talking about, boy!” He glanced about to see if anyone had heard. “He’s trying to make an example of my men. He wants the other bridgemen to see the wounded suffer and starve. He wants it to seem like he’s doing a mercy by leaving the wounded behind.” “Well, maybe he’s right.” “It’s heartless,” Kaladin said. “He brings back wounded soldiers. He leaves the bridgemen because it’s cheaper to find new slaves than it is to care for wounded ones.” Gaz fell silent. “Thank you for bringing me this news.” “News?” Gaz snapped. “I was sent to give you orders, lordling. Don’t try to get extra food from the mess hall for your wounded; you’ll be refused.” With that, he rushed away, muttering to himself. Kaladin made his way back to the barrack. Stormfather! Where was he going to get food enough to feed three men? He could split his own meals with them, but while bridgemen were kept fed, they weren’t given an excess. Even feeding one man beyond himself would be a stretch. Trying to split the meals four ways would leave the wounded too weak to recover and Kaladin too weak to run bridges. And he still needed antiseptic! Rotspren and disease killed far more men in war than the enemy did. Kaladin stepped up to the men lounging by the barrack. Most were going about the usual bridgeman activities—sprawled on the ground and despondently staring into the air, sitting and despondently staring at the ground, standing and despondently staring into the distance. Bridge Four wasn’t on bridge duty at all this day, and they didn’t have work detail until third afternoon bell. “Gaz says our wounded are to be refused food or pay until they are well,” Kaladin said to the collected men. Some of them—Sigzil, Peet, Koolf—nodded, as if this was what they’d expected. “Highprince Sadeas wants to make an example of us,” Kaladin said. “He wants to prove that bridgemen aren’t worth healing, and he’s going to do it by making Hobber, Leyten, and Dabbid die slow, painful deaths.” He took a deep breath. “I want to pool our resources to buy medicine and get food for the wounded. We can keep those three alive if a few of you will split your meals with them. We’ll need about two dozen or so clearmarks to buy the right medicine and supplies. Who has something they can spare?” The men stared at him, then Moash started laughing. Others joined him. They waved dismissive hands and broke up, walking away, leaving Kaladin with his hand out. “Next time it could be you!” he called. “What will you do if you’re the one that needs healing?” “I’ll die,” Moash said, not even bothering to look back. “Out on the field, quickly, rather than back here over a week’s time.” Kaladin lowered his hand. He sighed, turning, and almost ran into Rock. The beefy, towerlike Horneater stood with arms folded, like a tan-skinned statue. Kaladin looked up at him, hopeful. “Don’t have any spheres,” Rock said with
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a grunt. “Is all spent already.” Kaladin sighed. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Two of us couldn’t afford to buy the medicine. Not alone.” “I will give some food,” Rock grumbled. Kaladin glanced back at him, surprised. “But only for this man with arrow in his leg,” Rock said, arms still folded. “Hobber?” “Whatever,” Rock said. “He looks like he could get better. Other one, he will die. Is certain. And I have no pity for man who sits there, not doing anything. But for the other one, you may have my food. Some of it.” Kaladin smiled, raising a hand and gripping the larger man’s arm. “Thank you.” Rock shrugged. “You took my place. Without this thing, I would be dead.” Kaladin smirked at that logic. “I’m not dead, Rock. You’d be fine.” Rock shook his head. “I’d be dead. Is something strange about you. All men can see it, even if they don’t want to speak of this thing. I looked at bridge where you were. Arrows hit all around you—beside your head, next to your hands. But they weren’t hitting you.” “Luck.” “Is no such thing.” Rock glanced at Kaladin’s shoulder. “Besides, there is mafah’liki who always follows you.” The large Horneater bowed his head reverently to Syl, then made a strange gesture with his hand touching his shoulders and then his forehead. Kaladin started. “You can see her?” He glanced at Syl. As a windspren, she could appear to those she wanted to—and that generally only meant Kaladin. Syl seemed shocked. No, she hadn’t appeared to Rock specifically. “I am alaii’iku,” Rock said, shrugging. “Which means…” Rock scowled. “Airsick lowlanders. Is there nothing proper you know? Anyway, you are special man. Bridge Four, it lost eight runners yesterday counting the three wounded.” “I know,” Kaladin said. “I broke my first promise. I said I wasn’t going to lose a single one.” Rock snorted. “We are bridgemen. We die. Is how this thing works. You might as well promise to make the moons catch each other!” The large man turned, pointing toward one of the other barracks. “Of the bridges that were fired upon, most lost many men. Five bridges fell. They lost over twenty men each and needed soldiers to help get bridges back. Bridge Two lost eleven men, and it wasn’t even a focus of firing.” He turned back to Kaladin. “Bridge Four lost eight. Eight men, during one of the worst runs of the season. And, perhaps, you will save two of those. Bridge Four lost fewest men of any bridge that the Parshendi tried to drop. Bridge Four never loses fewest men. Everyone knows how it is.” “Luck—” Rock pointed a fat finger at him, cutting him off. “Airsick lowlander.” It was just luck. But, well, Kaladin would take it for the small blessing it was. No use arguing when someone had finally decided to start listening to him. But one man wasn’t enough. Even if both he and Rock went on half rations, one of the sick men would starve. He needed spheres. He
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needed them desperately. But he was a slave; it was illegal for him to earn money in most ways. If only he had something he could sell. But he owned nothing. He… A thought occurred to him. “Come on,” he said, striding away from the barrack. Rock followed curiously. Kaladin searched through the lumberyard until he found Gaz speaking with a bridgeleader in front of Bridge Three’s barrack. As was growing more common, Gaz grew pale when Kaladin approached, and made as if to scurry away. “Gaz, wait!” Kaladin said, holding out his hand. “I have an offer for you.” The bridge sergeant froze. Beside Gaz, Bridge Three’s leader shot Kaladin a scowl. The way the other bridgemen had been treating him suddenly made sense. They were perturbed to see Bridge Four come out of a battle in such good shape. Bridge Four was supposed to be unlucky. Everyone needed someone else to look down on—and the other bridge crews could be consoled by the small mercy that they weren’t in Bridge Four. Kaladin had upset that. The dark-bearded bridgeleader retreated, leaving Kaladin and Rock alone with Gaz. “What are you offering this time?” Gaz said. “More dun spheres?” “No,” Kaladin said, thinking quickly. This would have to be handled very carefully. “I’m out of spheres. But we can’t continue like this, you avoiding me, the other bridge crews hating me.” “Don’t see what we can do about it.” “I tell you what,” Kaladin said, as if suddenly having a thought. “Is anyone on stone-gathering detail today?” “Yeah,” Gaz said, gesturing over his shoulder. “Bridge Three. Bussik there was just trying to convince me that his team is too weak to go. Storms blast me, but I believe him. Lost two-thirds of his men yesterday, and I’ll be the one who gets chewed out when they don’t gather enough stones to meet quota.” Kaladin nodded sympathetically. Stone gathering was one of the least desirable work details; it involved traveling outside of the camp and filling wagons with large rocks. Soulcasters fed the army by turning rocks into grain, and it was easier for them—for reasons only they knew—if they had distinct, separate stones. So men gathered rocks. It was menial, sweaty, tiring, mindless work. Perfect for bridgemen. “Why don’t you send a different bridge team?” Kaladin asked. “Bah,” Gaz said. “You know the kind of trouble that makes. If I’m seen playing favorites, I never hear an end of the complaining.” “Nobody will complain if you make Bridge Four do it.” Gaz glanced at him, single eye narrowed. “I didn’t think you’d react well to being treated differently.” “I’ll do it,” Kaladin said, grimacing. “Just this once. Look, Gaz, I don’t want to spend the rest of my time here fighting against you.” Gaz hesitated. “Your men are going to be angry. I won’t let them think it was me who did this to them.” “I’ll tell them that it was my idea.” “All right, then. Third bell, meet at the western checkpoint. Bridge Three can clean pots.” He walked away quickly,
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as if to escape before Kaladin changed his mind. Rock stepped up beside Kaladin, watching Gaz. “The little man is right, you know. The men will hate you for this thing. They were looking forward to easy day.” “They’ll get over it.” “But why change for harder work? Is true—you are crazy, aren’t you?” “Maybe. But that craziness will get us outside of the warcamp.” “What good is that?” “It means everything,” Kaladin said, glancing back at the barrack. “It means life and death. But we’re going to need more help.” “Another bridge crew?” “No, I mean that we—you and I—will need help. One more man, at least.” He scanned the lumberyard, and noted someone sitting in the shadow of Bridge Four’s barrack. Teft. The grizzled bridgeman hadn’t been among the group that had laughed at Kaladin earlier, but he had been quick to help yesterday, going with Rock to carry Leyten. Kaladin took a deep breath and strode out across the grounds, Rock trailing behind. Syl left his shoulder and zipped into the air, dancing on a sudden gust of wind. Teft looked up as Kaladin and Rock approached. The older man had fetched breakfast, and he was eating alone, a piece of flatbread peeking out beneath his bowl. His beard was stained by the curry, and he regarded Kaladin with wary eyes before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I like my food, son,” he said. “Hardly think they feed me enough for one man. Let alone two.” Kaladin squatted in front of him. Rock leaned up against the wall and folded his arms, watching quietly. “I need you, Teft,” Kaladin said. “I said—” “Not your food. You. Your loyalty. Your allegiance.” The older man continued to eat. He didn’t have a slave brand, and neither did Rock. Kaladin didn’t know their stories. All he knew was that these two had helped when others hadn’t. They weren’t completely beaten down. “Teft—” Kaladin began. “I’ve given my loyalty before,” the man said. “Too many times now. Always works out the same.” “Your trust gets betrayed?” Kaladin asked softly. Teft snorted. “Storms, no. I betray it. You can’t depend on me, son. I belong here, as a bridgeman.” “I depended on you yesterday, and you impressed me.” “Fluke.” “I’ll judge that,” Kaladin said. “Teft, we’re all broken, in one way or another. Otherwise we wouldn’t be bridgemen. I’ve failed. My own brother died because of me.” “So why keep caring?” “It’s either that or give up and die.” “And if death is better?” It came back to this problem. This was why the bridgemen didn’t care if he helped the wounded or not. “Death isn’t better,” Kaladin said, looking Teft in the eyes. “Oh, it’s easy to say that now. But when you stand on the ledge and look down into that dark, endless pit, you change your mind. Just like Hobber did. Just like I’ve done.” He hesitated, seeing something in the older man’s eyes. “I think you’ve seen it too.” “Aye,” Teft said softly. “Aye, I have.” “So, are you
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with us in this thing?” Rock said, squatting down. Us? Kaladin thought, smiling faintly. Teft looked back and forth between the two of them. “I get to keep my food?” “Yes,” Kaladin said. Teft shrugged. “All right then, I guess. Can’t be any harder than sitting here and having a staring contest with mortality.” Kaladin held out a hand. Teft hesitated, then took it. Rock held out a hand. “Rock.” Teft looked at him, finished shaking Kaladin’s hand, then took Rock’s. “I’m Teft.” Stormfather, Kaladin thought. I’d forgotten that most of them don’t even bother to learn each other’s names. “What kind of name is Rock?” Teft asked, releasing the hand. “Is a stupid one,” Rock said with an even face. “But at least it has meaning. Does your name mean anything?” “I guess not,” Teft said, rubbing his bearded chin. “Rock, this is not my real name,” the Horneater admitted. “Is just what lowlanders can pronounce.” “What’s your real name, then?” Teft asked. “You won’t be able to say it.” Teft raised an eyebrow. “Numuhukumakiaki’aialunamor,” Rock said. Teft hesitated, then smiled. “Well, I guess in that case, Rock will do just fine.” Rock laughed, settling down. “Our bridgeleader has a plan. Something glorious and daring. Has something to do with spending our afternoon moving stones in the heat.” Kaladin smiled, leaning forward. “We need to gather a certain kind of plant. A reed that grows in small patches outside the camp….” Two days after the incident with the highstorm, Dalinar walked with his sons, crossing the rocky ground toward the king’s feasting basin. Dalinar’s stormwardens projected another few weeks of spring, followed by a return to summer. Hopefully it wouldn’t turn to winter instead. “I’ve been to three more leatherworkers,” Adolin said softly. “They have different opinions. It seems that even before the strap was cut—if it was cut—it was worn, so that’s interfering with things. The best consensus has been that the strap was sliced, but not necessarily by a knife. It could have just been natural wear-and-tear.” Dalinar nodded. “That’s the only evidence that even hints there might be something odd about the girth breaking.” “So we admit that this was just a result of the king’s paranoia.” “I’ll talk to Elhokar,” Dalinar decided. “Let him know we’ve run into a wall and see if there are any other avenues he’d like us to pursue.” “That’ll do.” Adolin seemed to grow hesitant about something. “Father. Do you want to talk about what happened during the storm?” “It was nothing that hasn’t happened before.” “But—” “Enjoy the evening, Adolin,” Dalinar said firmly. “I’m all right. Perhaps it’s good for the men to see what is happening. Hiding it has only inspired rumors, some of them even worse than the truth.” Adolin sighed, but nodded. The king’s feasts were always outdoors, at the foot of Elhokar’s palace hill. If the stormwardens warned of a highstorm—or if more mundane weather turned bad—then the feast was canceled. Dalinar was glad for the outdoor location. Even with ornamentation, Soulcast buildings felt like caverns. The
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feast basin had been flooded, turning it into a shallow artificial lake. Circular dining platforms rose like small stone islands in the water. The elaborate miniature landscape had been fabricated by the king’s Soulcasters, who had diverted the water from a nearby stream. It reminds me of Sela Tales, Dalinar thought as he crossed the first bridge. He’d visited that western region of Roshar during his youth. And the Purelake. There were five islands, and the railings of the bridges connecting them were done in scrollwork so fine that after each feast, the railings had to be stowed away lest a highstorm ruin them. Tonight, flowers floated in the slow current. Periodically, a miniature boat—only a handspan wide—sailed past, bearing an infused gemstone. Dalinar, Renarin, and Adolin stepped onto the first dining platform. “One cup of blue,” Dalinar said to his sons. “After that, keep to the orange.” Adolin sighed audibly. “Couldn’t we, just this once—” “So long as you are of my house, you follow the Codes. My will is firm, Adolin.” “Fine,” Adolin said. “Come on, Renarin.” The two broke off from Dalinar to remain on the first platform, where the younger lighteyes congregated. Dalinar crossed to the next island. This middle one was for the lesser lighteyes. To its left and right lay the segregated dining islands—men’s island on the right, women’s island on the left. On the three central ones, however, the genders mingled. Around him, the favored invitees took advantage of their king’s hospitality. Soulcast food was inherently bland, but the king’s lavish feasts always served imported spices and exotic meats. Dalinar could smell roasting pork on the air, and even chickens. It had been a long time since he’d been served meat from one of the strange Shin flying creatures. A darkeyed servant passed, wearing a gauzy red robe and carrying a tray of orange crab legs. Dalinar continued across the island, weaving around groups of revelers. Most drank violet wine, the most intoxicating and flavorful of the colors. Almost no one was in battle attire. A few men wore tight, waist-length jackets, but many had dropped all pretense, choosing instead loose silk shirts with ruffled cuffs worn with matching slippers. The rich material glistened in the lamplight. These creatures of fashion shot glances at Dalinar, appraising him, weighing him. He could remember a time when he would have been swarmed by friends, acquaintances—and yes, even sycophants—at a feast like this. Now, none approached him, though they gave way before him. Elhokar might think his uncle was growing weak, but his reputation quelled most lesser lighteyes. He soon approached the bridge to the final island—the king’s island. Pole-mounted gem lamps ringed it, glowing with blue Stormlight, and a firepit dominated the center of the platform. Deep red coals simmered in its bowels, radiating warmth. Elhokar sat at his table just behind the firepit, and several highprinces ate with him. Tables along the sides of the platform were occupied by male or female diners—never both at the same. Wit sat on a raised stool at the end
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of the bridge leading onto the island. Wit actually dressed as a lighteyes should—he wore a stiff black uniform, silver sword at his waist. Dalinar shook his head at the irony. Wit was insulting each person as they stepped onto the island. “Brightness Marakal! What a disaster that hairstyle is; how brave of you to show it to the world. Brightlord Marakal, I wish you’d warned us you were going to attend; I’d have forgone supper. I do so hate being sick after a full meal. Brightlord Cadilar! How good it is to see you. Your face reminds me of someone dear to me.” “Really?” wizened Cadilar said, hesitating. “Yes,” Wit said, waving him on, “my horse. Ah, Brightlord Neteb, you smell unique today—did you attack a wet whitespine, or did one just sneeze on you? Lady Alami! No, please, don’t speak—it’s much easier to maintain my illusions regarding your intelligence that way. And Brightlord Dalinar.” Wit nodded to Dalinar as he passed. “Ah, my dear Brightlord Taselin. Still engaged in your experiment to prove a maximum threshold of human idiocy? Good for you! Very empirical of you.” Dalinar hesitated beside Wit’s chair as Taselin waddled by with a huff. “Wit,” Dalinar said, “do you have to?” “Two what, Dalinar?” Wit said, eyes twinkling. “Eyes, hands, or spheres? I’d lend you one of the first, but—by definition—a man can only have one I, and if it is given away, who would be Wit then? I’d lend you one of the second, but I fear my simple hands have been digging in the muck far too often to suit one such as you. And if I gave you one of my spheres, what would I spend the remaining one on? I’m quite attached to both of my spheres, you see.” He hesitated. “Or, well, you can’t see. Would you like to?” He stood up off his chair and reached for his belt. “Wit,” Dalinar said dryly. Wit laughed, clapping Dalinar on the arm. “I’m sorry. This lot brings out the basest humor in me. Perhaps it’s that muck I spoke of earlier. I do try so hard to be elevated in my loathing of them, but they make it difficult.” “Care for yourself, Wit,” Dalinar said. “This lot won’t suffer you forever. I wouldn’t see you dead by their knives; I see a fine man within you.” “Yes,” Wit said, scanning the platform. “He tasted quite delicious. Dalinar, I fear I’m not the one who needs that warning. Speak your fears at a mirror a few times when you get home tonight. There are rumors about.” “Rumors?” “Yes. Terrible things. Grow on men like warts.” “Tumors?” “Both. Look, there is talk about you.” “There is always talk about me.” “This is worse than most,” Wit said, meeting his eyes. “Did you really speak of abandoning the Vengeance Pact?” Dalinar took a deep breath. “That was between me and the king.” “Well, he must have spoken of it to others. This lot are cowards—and no doubt that makes them feel like experts on the
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subject, for they’ve certainly been calling you that a great deal lately.” “Stormfather!” “No, I’m Wit. But I understand how easy a mistake that is to make.” “Because you blow so much air,” Dalinar growled, “or because you make so much noise?” A wide smile split Wit’s face. “Why, Dalinar! I’m impressed! Maybe I should make you Wit! Then I could be a highprince instead.” He stopped. “No, that would be bad. I’d go mad after a mere second of listening to them, then would likely slaughter the lot. Perhaps appoint cremlings in their places. The kingdom would undoubtedly fare better.” Dalinar turned to go. “Thank you for the warning.” Wit sat back down on his stool as Dalinar walked away. “You’re welcome. Ah, Brightlord Habatab! How thoughtful of you to wear a red shirt with a sunburn like that! If you continue to make my job this easy, I fear my mind shall become as dull as Brightlord Tumul’s! Oh, Brightlord Tumul! How unexpected it is to see you standing there! I didn’t mean to insult your stupidity. Really, it’s quite spectacular and worthy of much praise. Lord Yonatan and Lady Meirav, I’ll forgo an insult for you this once on account of your recent wedding, though I do find your hat quite impressive, Yonatan. I trust it is convenient to wear on your head something that doubles as a tent at night. Ah, and is that Lady Navani behind you? How long have you been back at the Plains and how did I not notice the smell?” Dalinar froze. What? “Obviously your own stench overpowered mine, Wit,” a warm feminine voice said. “Has no one done my son a service and assassinated you yet?” “No, no assassins yet,” Wit said, amused. “I guess I’ve already got too much ass sass of my own.” Dalinar turned with shock. Navani, the king’s mother, was a stately woman with intricately woven black hair. And she was not supposed to be here. “Oh really, Wit,” she said. “I thought that kind of humor was beneath you.” “So are you, technically,” Wit said, smiling, from atop his high-legged stool. She rolled her eyes. “Unfortunately, Brightness,” Wit replied with a sigh, “I’ve taken to framing my insults in terms this lot will understand. If it will please you, I shall attempt to improve my diction to more elevated terms.” He paused. “I say, do you know any words that rhyme with bescumber?” Navani just turned her head and looked at Dalinar with a pair of light violet eyes. She wore an elegant dress, its shimmering red surface unbroken by embroidery. The gems in her hair—which was streaked with a few lines of grey—were red as well. The king’s mother was known as one of the most beautiful women in Alethkar, though Dalinar had always found that description inadequate, for surely there wasn’t a woman on all of Roshar to match her beauty. Fool, he thought, tearing his eyes away from her. Your brother’s widow. With Gavilar dead, Navani was now to be treated as Dalinar’s sister.
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Besides, what of his own wife? Dead these ten years, wiped by his foolishness from his mind. Even if he couldn’t remember her, he should honor her. Why had Navani returned? As women called out greetings to her, Dalinar hurriedly made his way over to the king’s table. He sat down; a servant arrived in moments with a plate for him—they knew his preferences. It was steaming peppered chicken, cut in medallions and laid atop fried round slices of tenem, a soft, light orange vegetable. Dalinar grabbed a piece of flatbread and slipped his dining knife from the sheath on his right calf. So long as he was eating, it would be a breach of etiquette for Navani to approach him. The food was good. It always was at these feasts of Elhokar’s—in that, the son was like the father. Elhokar nodded to Dalinar from the end of the table, then continued his conversation with Sadeas. Highprince Roion sat a few seats down from him. Dalinar had an appointment with him in a few days, the first of the highprinces he’d approach and try to convince to work with him on a joint plateau assault. No other highprinces came to sit near Dalinar. Only they—and people with specific invitations—could sit at the king’s table. One man lucky enough to receive such an invitation sat on Elhokar’s left, obviously uncertain if he should join in the conversation or not. Water gurgled in the stream behind Dalinar. Before him, the festivities continued. It was a time for relaxation, but the Alethi were a reserved people, at least when compared with more passionate folk like the Horneaters or the Reshi. Still, his people seemed to have grown more opulent and self-indulgent since his childhood. Wine flowed freely and foods sizzled fragrantly. On the first island, several young men had stepped into a sparring ring for a friendly duel. Young men at a feast often found reason to remove their coats and show off their swordsmanship. The women were more modest with their displays, but they engaged in them as well. On Dalinar’s own island, several women had set up easels where they were sketching, painting, or doing calligraphy. As always, they kept their left hands shrouded in their sleeves, delicately creating art with the right. They sat on high stools, the kind that Wit had been using—in fact, Wit had probably stolen one for his little performance. A few of them attracted creationspren, the tiny shapes rolling across the tops of their easels or tables. Navani had gathered a group of important lighteyed women to a table. A servant passed by in front of Dalinar, bringing the women some food. It appeared to also have been made with the exotic chicken, but had been mixed with steamed methi fruit and covered in a reddish-brown sauce. As a boy, Dalinar had secretly tried women’s food out of curiosity. He’d found it distastefully sweet. Navani placed something on her table, a device of polished brass about the size of a fist, with a large, infused ruby at
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its center. The red Stormlight lit the entire table, throwing shadows down the white tablecloth. Navani picked up the device, rotating it to show her dinner companions its leglike protrusions. Turned that way, it looked vaguely crustacean. I’ve never seen a fabrial like that before. Dalinar looked up at her face, admiring the contours of her cheek. Navani was a renowned artifabrian. Perhaps this device was— Navani glanced at him, and Dalinar froze. She flashed the briefest of smiles at him, covert and knowing, then turned away before he could react. Storming woman! he thought, pointedly turning his attention to his meal. He was hungry, and got so involved in his food that he almost didn’t notice Adolin approaching. The blond youth saluted Elhokar, then hurried to take one of the vacant seats beside Dalinar. “Father,” Adolin said in a hushed tone, “have you heard what they’re saying?” “About what?” “About you! I’ve fought three duels so far against men who described you—and our house—as cowards. They’re saying you asked the king to abandon the Vengeance Pact!” Dalinar gripped the table and nearly rose to his feet. But he stopped himself. “Let them speak if they wish,” he said, turning back to his meal, stabbing a chunk of peppered chicken with his knife and raising it to his lips. “Did you really do it?” Adolin asked. “Is that what you talked about at the meeting with the king two days back?” “It is,” Dalinar admitted. That elicited a groan from Adolin. “I was worried already. When I—” “Adolin,” Dalinar interjected. “Do you trust me?” Adolin looked at him, the youth’s eyes wide, honest, but pained. “I want to. Storms, Father. I really want to.” “What I am doing is important. It must be done.” Adolin leaned in, speaking softly. “And what if they are delusions? What if you’re just…getting old.” It was the first time someone had confronted him with it so directly. “I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I’d considered it, but there was no sense in second-guessing myself. I believe they’re real. I feel they’re real.” “But—” “This is not the place for this discussion, son,” Dalinar said. “We can talk of it later, and I will listen to—and consider—your objections. I promise.” Adolin drew his lips to a line. “Very well.” “You are right to be worried for our reputation,” Dalinar said, resting an elbow on the table. “I had assumed that Elhokar would have the tact to keep our conversation quiet, but I should have asked him to do so directly. You were right about his reaction, by the way. I realized during the conversation he would never retreat, so I changed to another tactic.” “Which is?” “Winning the war,” Dalinar said firmly. “No more scuffling over gemhearts. No more patient, indefinite siege. We find a way to lure a large number of Parshendi onto the Plains, then execute an ambush. If we can kill a large enough number of them, we destroy their capacity to wage war. Failing that, we find a way to
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strike at their center and kill or capture their leaders. Even a chasmfiend stops fighting when it’s been decapitated. The Vengeance Pact would be fulfilled, and we could go home.” Adolin took a long moment considering, then he nodded sharply. “All right.” “No objections?” Dalinar asked. Normally, his elder son had plenty. “You just asked me to trust you,” Adolin said. “Besides, striking harder at the Parshendi? That’s a tactic I can get behind. We’ll need a good plan, though—a way to counter the very objections you yourself raised six years ago.” Dalinar nodded, tapping the table with his finger. “Back then, even I thought of us as separate princedoms. If we had attacked the center individually, each army alone, we’d have been surrounded and destroyed. But if all ten armies went together? With our Soulcasters to provide food, with the soldiers carrying portable shelters to set up for highstorms? Over a hundred and fifty thousand troops? Let the Parshendi try to surround us then. With the Soulcasters, we could even create wood for bridges if we had to.” “That would take a lot of trust,” Adolin said hesitantly. He glanced down the high table, toward Sadeas. His expression darkened. “We’d be stuck out there, together and isolated, for days. If the highprinces started squabbling midmarch, it could be disastrous.” “We’ll get them to work together first,” Dalinar said. “We’re close, closer than we’ve ever been. Six years, and not a single highprince has allowed his soldiers to skirmish against those of another.” Except back in Alethkar. There, they still fought meaningless battles over land rights or old offenses. It was ridiculous, but stopping the Alethi from warring was like trying to stop the winds from blowing. Adolin was nodding. “It’s a good plan, Father. Far better than talk of retreating. They won’t like giving up the plateau skirmishes, though. They like the game of it.” “I know. But if I can get one or two of them to start pooling soldiers and resources for plateau assaults, it might be a step toward what we’ll need for the future. I’d still rather find a way to lure a large force of Parshendi out onto the Plains and meet them on one of the larger plateaus, but I haven’t yet been able to figure out how to do that. Either way, our separate armies will need to learn to work together.” “And what do we do about what people are saying about you?” “I’ll release an official refutation,” Dalinar said. “I’ll have to be careful not to make it sound like the king was in error, while also explaining the truth.” Adolin sighed. “An official refutation, Father?” “Yes.” “Why not fight a duel?” Adolin asked, leaning in, sounding eager. “Some stuffy pronouncement may explain your ideas, but it won’t make people feel them. Pick someone who is naming you coward, challenge them, and remind everyone what a mistake it is to insult the Blackthorn!” “I cannot,” Dalinar said. “The Codes forbid it for one of my stature.” Adolin probably shouldn’t be dueling either,
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but Dalinar had not forced a complete prohibition on him. Dueling was his life. Well, that and the women he courted. “Then charge me with the honor of our house,” Adolin said. “I’ll duel them! I’ll face them with Plate and Blade and show them what your honor means.” “That would be the same thing as me doing it, son.” Adolin shook his head, staring at Dalinar. He seemed to be searching for something. “What?” Dalinar asked. “I’m trying to decide,” Adolin said. “Which one has changed you most. The visions, the Codes, or that book. If there’s any difference between them.” “The Codes are separate from the other two,” Dalinar said. “They are a tradition of old Alethkar.” “No. They’re related, Father. All three. They’re tied together in you, somehow.” Dalinar thought on that for a moment. Could the lad have a point? “Have I told you the story of the king carrying the boulder?” “Yes,” Adolin said. “I have?” “Twice. And you made me listen to the passage being read another time.” “Oh. Well, in that same section, there’s a passage about the nature of forcing people to follow you as opposed to letting them follow you. We do too much forcing in Alethkar. Dueling someone because they claim I’m a coward doesn’t change their beliefs. It might stop them from making the claims, but it doesn’t change hearts. I know I’m right about this. You’ll just have to trust me on this as well.” Adolin sighed, standing. “Well, an official refutation is better than nothing, I guess. At least you haven’t given up on defending our honor entirely.” “I never will,” Dalinar said. “I just need to be careful. I cannot afford to divide us any further.” He turned back to his meal, stabbing his last piece of chicken with his knife and shoving it in his mouth. “I’ll get back to the other island, then,” Adolin said. “I…Wait, is that Aunt Navani?” Dalinar looked up, surprised to see Navani walking toward them. Dalinar glanced at his plate. His food was gone; he’d eaten the last bit without realizing it. He sighed, steeling himself, and rose to greet her. “Mathana,” Dalinar said, bowing and using the formal term for an older sister. Navani was only three months his senior, but it was still applicable. “Dalinar,” she said, a faint smile on her lips. “And dear Adolin.” Adolin smiled broadly; he rounded the table and hugged his aunt. She rested her clothed safehand on his shoulder, a gesture reserved only for family. “When did you return?” Adolin asked, releasing her. “Just this afternoon.” “And why did you return?” Dalinar asked stiffly. “I was under the impression that you were going to aid the queen in protecting the king’s interests in Alethkar.” “Oh, Dalinar,” Navani said, voice fond. “So stiff, as always. Adolin, dear, how goes courtship?” Dalinar snorted. “He continues to change partners like he’s in a dance that involves particularly quick music.” “Father!” Adolin objected. “Well, good for you, Adolin,” Navani said. “You’re too young to get tied down.
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The purpose of youth is to experience variety while it is still interesting.” She glanced at Dalinar. “It isn’t until we get older that we should be forced to be boring.” “Thank you, Aunt,” Adolin said with a grin. “Excuse me. I need to go tell Renarin that you’ve returned.” He hurried away, leaving Dalinar standing awkwardly across the table from Navani. “Am I that much of a threat, Dalinar?” Navani asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Dalinar glanced down, realizing that he was still gripping his dining knife—a wide, serrated blade that could double as a weapon in a pinch. He let it clatter to the table, then winced at the noise. All of the confidence he’d felt speaking with Adolin seemed gone in a heartbeat. Compose yourself! he thought. She’s just family. Every time he spoke with Navani, he felt as if he were facing a predator of the most dangerous breed. “Mathana,” Dalinar said, realizing they were still standing on opposite sides of the narrow table. “Perhaps we should move to…” He trailed off as Navani waved to an attending girl who was barely old enough to wear a woman’s sleeve. The child rushed forward, bearing a low stool. Navani pointed to the spot beside her, a spot only a few feet from the table. The child hesitated, but Navani pointed more insistently and the child set the stool down. Navani sat gracefully, not sitting at the king’s table—which was a masculine dining place—but certainly sitting near enough to be challenging protocol. The serving girl withdrew. At the end of the table, Elhokar noticed his mother’s actions, but said nothing. One did not reprove Navani Kholin, not even if one were king. “Oh, sit down, Dalinar,” she said, voice growing testy. “We have matters of some moment to discuss.” Dalinar sighed, but sat. The seats around them were still empty, and both the music and the hum of conversation on the island were loud enough to keep people from overhearing them. Some women had taken to playing flutes, musicspren spinning around them in the air. “You ask why I returned,” Navani said, voice soft. “Well, I have three reasons. First, I wanted to bring word that the Vedens have perfected their ‘half-shards’ as they call them. They’re claiming the shields can stop blows from a Shardblade.” Dalinar folded his arms before him on the table. He’d heard rumors of this, though he’d discounted them. Men were always claiming to be close to creating new Shards, yet the promises were never fulfilled. “Have you seen one?” “No. But I have confirmation from someone I trust. She says they can only take the shape of a shield and don’t lend any of Plate’s other enhancements. But they can block a Shardblade.” It was a step—a very small step—toward Shardplate. That was disturbing. He wouldn’t believe it himself until he’d seen what these “half-shards” could do. “You could have sent this news via spanreed, Navani.” “Well, I realized soon after reaching Kholinar that leaving here had been a political mistake. More and
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more, these warcamps are the true center of our kingdom.” “Yes,” Dalinar said quietly. “Our absence from our homeland is dangerous.” Hadn’t that been the very argument that had convinced Navani to go home in the first place? The stately woman waved a dismissive hand. “I have determined that the queen is sufficiently endowed with the requisite skills needed to hold Alethkar. There are schemes and plots—there will always be schemes and plots—but the truly important players inevitably make their way here.” “Your son continues to see assassins around every corner,” Dalinar said softly. “And shouldn’t he? After what happened to his father…” “True, but I fear he carries it to extremes. He mistrusts even his allies.” Navani folded her hands in her lap, freehand lying atop safehand. “He’s not very good at this, is he?” Dalinar blinked in shock. “What? Elhokar is a good man! He has more integrity than any other lighteyes in this army.” “But his rule is weak,” Navani said. “You must admit that.” “He is king,” Dalinar said firmly, “and my nephew. He has both my sword and my heart, Navani, and I will not hear ill spoken of him, even by his own mother.” She eyed him. Was she testing his loyalty? Much like her daughter, Navani was a political creature. Intrigue made her blossom like a rockbud in calm wet air. However, unlike Jasnah, Navani was hard to trust. At least with Jasnah one knew where one stood—once again, Dalinar found himself wishing she’d put aside her projects and return to the Shattered Plains. “I’m not speaking ill of my son, Dalinar,” Navani said. “We both know I am as loyal to him as you are. But I like to know what I’m working with, and that requires a definition. He is seen as weak, and I intend to see him protected. Despite himself, if necessary.” “Then we work for the same goals. But if protecting him was the second reason you returned, what was the third?” She smiled a violet-eyed, red-lipped smile at him. A meaningful smile. Blood of my ancestors… Dalinar thought. Stormwinds, but she’s beautiful. Beautiful and deadly. It seemed a particular irony to him that his wife’s face had been erased from his mind, and yet he could remember in complete and intricate detail the months this woman had spent toying with him and Gavilar. She’d played them off one another, fanning their desire before finally choosing the elder son. They’d all known the entire time that she would choose Gavilar. It had hurt anyway. “We need to talk sometime in private,” Navani said. “I want to hear your opinion on some of the things being said in camp.” That probably meant the rumors about him. “I—I’m very busy.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you are. We’re meeting anyway, once I’ve had time to settle here and put out feelers. How about one week from today? I’ll come read to you from that book of my husband’s, and afterward we can chat. We’ll do it in a public place. All
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right?” He sighed. “Very well. But—” “Highprinces and lighteyes,” Elhokar’s suddenly proclaimed. Dalinar and Navani turned toward the end of the table, where the king stood wearing his uniform complete with royal cape and crown. He raised a hand toward the island. The people hushed, and soon the only sound was that of the water burbling through the streams. “I’m sure many of you have heard the rumors regarding the attempt on my life during the hunt three days ago,” Elhokar announced. “When my saddle girth was cut.” Dalinar glanced at Navani. She raised her freehand toward him and rocked it back and forth, indicating that she didn’t find the rumors to be persuasive. She knew about the rumors, of course. Give Navani five minutes in a city and she’d know anything and everything of significance being gossiped about. “I assure you, I was never in real danger,” Elhokar said. “Thanks, in part, to the protection of the King’s Guard and the vigilance of my uncle. However, I believe it wise to treat all threats with due prudence and seriousness. Therefore, I am appointing Brightlord Torol Sadeas to be Highprince of Information, charging him to unearth the truth regarding this attempt on my life.” Dalinar blinked in shock. Then he closed his eyes and let out a soft groan. “Unearth the truth,” Navani said skeptically. “Sadeas?” “Blood of my…He thinks I’m ignoring the threats to him, so he’s looking to Sadeas instead.” “Well, I suppose that’s all right,” she said. “I kind of trust Sadeas.” “Navani,” Dalinar said, opening his eyes. “The incident happened on a hunt I planned, under the protection of my guard and my soldiers. The king’s horse was prepared by my grooms. He publicly asked me to look into this strap business, and now he’s just taken the investigation away from me.” “Oh dear.” She understood. This was nearly the same thing as Elhokar proclaiming that he suspected Dalinar. Any information Sadeas unearthed regarding this “assassination attempt” could only reflect unfavorably on Dalinar. When Sadeas’s hatred of Dalinar and his love of Gavilar conflicted, which would win? But the vision. It said to trust him. Elhokar sat back down, and the buzz of conversation resumed across the island at a higher pitch. The king seemed oblivious of what he had just done. Sadeas was smiling broadly. He rose from his place, bidding farewell to the king, then began mingling. “You still argue he isn’t a bad king?” Navani whispered. “My poor, distracted, oblivious boy.” Dalinar stood up, then walked down the table to where the king continued to eat. Elhokar looked up. “Ah, Dalinar. I suspect you’ll want to give Sadeas your aid.” Dalinar sat down. Sadeas’s half-eaten meal still sat on the table, brass plate scattered with chunks of meat and torn flatbread. “Elhokar,” Dalinar forced out, “I just spoke to you a few days ago. I asked to be Highprince of War, and you said it was too dangerous!” “It is,” Elhokar said. “I spoke to Sadeas about it, and he agreed. The highprinces will never
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stand for someone being put over them in war. Sadeas mentioned that if I started with something less threatening, like appointing someone to Highprince of Information, it might prepare the others for what you want to do.” “Sadeas suggested this,” Dalinar said flatly. “Of course,” Elhokar said. “It is time we had a Highprince of Information, and he specifically noted the cut girth as something he wanted to look into. He knows you’ve always said you aren’t suited to these sorts of things.” Blood of my fathers, Dalinar thought, looking out at the center of the island, where a group of lighteyes gathered around Sadeas. I’ve just been outmaneuvered. Brilliantly. The Highprince of Information had authority over criminal investigations, particularly those of interest to the Crown. In a way, it was nearly as threatening as a Highprince of War, but it wouldn’t seem so to Elhokar. All he saw was that he would finally have someone willing to listen to his paranoid fears. Sadeas was a clever, clever man. “Don’t look so morose, Uncle,” Elhokar said. “I had no idea you’d want the position, and Sadeas just seemed so excited at the idea. Perhaps he’ll find nothing at all, and the leather was simply worn out. You’ll be vindicated in always telling me that I’m not in as much danger as I think I am.” “Vindicated?” Dalinar asked softly, still watching Sadeas. Somehow, I doubt that is likely. Kaladin stood up in the wagon bed, scanning the landscape outside the camp as Rock and Teft put his plan—such as it was—into action. Back home, the air had been drier. If you went about on the day before a highstorm, everything seemed desolate. After storms, plants soon pulled back into their shells, trunks, and hiding places to conserve water. But here in the moister climate, they lingered. Many rockbuds never quite pulled into their shells completely. Patches of grass were common. The trees Sadeas harvested were concentrated in a forest to the north of the warcamps, but a few strays grew on this plain. They were enormous, broad-trunked things that grew with a westward slant, their thick, finger like roots clawing into the stone and—over the years—cracking and breaking the ground around them. Kaladin hopped down from the cart. His job was to hoist up stones and place them on the bed of the vehicle. The other bridgemen brought them to him, laying them in heaps nearby. Bridgemen worked across the broad plain, moving among rockbuds, patches of grass, and bunches of weeds that poked out from beneath boulders. Those grew most heavily on the west side, ready to pull back into their boulder’s shadow if a highstorm approached. It was a curious effect, as if each boulder were the head of an aged man with tufts of green and brown hair growing out from behind his ears. Those tufts were extremely important, for hidden among them were thin reeds known as knobweed. Their rigid stalks were topped with delicate fronds that could retract into the stem. The stems themselves were immobile, but
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they were fairly safe growing behind boulders. Some would be pulled free in each storm—perhaps to attach themselves in a new location once the winds abated. Kaladin hoisted a rock, setting it on the bed of the wagon and rolling it beside some others. The rock’s bottom was wet with lichen and crem. Knobweed wasn’t rare, but neither was it as common as other weeds. A quick description had been enough to send Rock and Teft searching with some success. The breakthrough, however, had happened when Syl had joined the hunt. Kaladin glanced to the side as he stepped down for another stone. She zipped around, a faint, nearly invisible form leading Rock from one stand of reeds to another. Teft didn’t understand how the large Horn eater could consistently find so many more than he did, but Kaladin didn’t feel inclined to explain. He still didn’t understand why Rock could see Syl in the first place. The Horneater said it was something he’d been born with. A pair of bridgemen approached, youthful Dunny and Earless Jaks towing a wooden sled bearing a large stone. Sweat trickled down the sides of their faces. As they reached the wagon, Kaladin dusted off his hands and helped them lift the boulder. Earless Jaks scowled at him, muttering under his breath. “That’s a nice one,” Kaladin said, nodding to the stone. “Good work.” Jaks glared at him and stalked off. Dunny gave Kaladin a shrug, then hurried after the older man. As Rock had guessed, getting the crew assigned to stone-gathering duty had not helped Kaladin’s popularity. But it had to be done. It was the only way to help Leyten and the other wounded. Once Jaks and Dunny left, Kaladin nonchalantly climbed into the wagon bed and knelt down, pushing aside a tarp and uncovering a large pile of knobweed stems. They were about as long as a man’s forearm. He made as if he were moving stones around in the bed, but instead tied a large double handful of the reeds into a bundle using thin rockbud vines. He dropped the bundle over the side of the wagon. The wagon driver had gone to chat with his counterpart on the other wagon. That left Kaladin alone, save for the chull that sat hunkered down in its rock shell, watching the sun with beady crustacean eyes. Kaladin hopped down from the wagon and placed another rock in the bed. Then, he knelt as if to pull a large stone out from under the wagon. With deft hands, however, he tied the reeds into place underneath the bed right beside two other bundles. The wagon had a large open space to the side of the axle, and a wood dowel there provided an excellent place for mounting the bundles. Jezerezeh send that nobody thinks to check the bottom as we roll back into camp. The apothecary said one drop came per stem. How many reeds would Kaladin need? He felt he knew the answer to that question without even giving it much thought. He’d need
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every drop he could get. He climbed out and lifted another stone into the wagon. Rock was approaching; the large, tan-skinned Horneater carried an oblong stone that would have been too large for most of the bridgemen to handle alone. Rock shuffled forward slowly, Syl zipping around his head and occasionally landing on the rock to watch him. Kaladin climbed down and trotted across the uneven ground to help. Rock nodded in thanks. Together they hauled the stone to the wagon and set it down on the bed. Rock wiped his brow, turning his back to Kaladin. Sprouting from his pocket was a handful of reeds. Kaladin swiped them and tucked them beneath the tarp. “What do we do if someone notices this thing we are doing?” Rock asked casually. “Explain that I’m a weaver,” Kaladin said, “and that I thought I’d weave myself a hat to keep off the sun.” Rock snorted. “I might do just that,” Kaladin said. He wiped his brow. “It would be nice in this heat. But best nobody sees. The mere fact that we want the reeds would probably be enough to make them deny them to us.” “This thing is true,” Rock said, stretching and glancing upward as Syl zipped over in front of him. “I miss the Peaks.” Syl pointed, and Rock bowed his head in reverence before following after her. Once she had him going in the right direction, however, she flitted back to Kaladin, bobbing up into the air as a ribbon, then falling down to the side of the wagon and reforming her womanly shape, her dress fluttering around her. “I,” she declared, raising a finger, “like him very much.” “Who? Rock?” “Yes,” she said, folding her arms. “He is respectful. Unlike others.” “Fine,” Kaladin said, lifting another stone into the wagon. “You can follow him around instead of bothering me.” He tried not to show worry as he said it. He had grown accustomed to her company. She sniffed. “I can’t follow him. He’s too respectful.” “You just said you liked that.” “I do. Also, I detest it.” She said that with unaffected frankness, as if oblivious of the contradiction. She sighed, sitting down on the side of the wagon. “I led him to a patch of chull dung as a prank. He didn’t even yell at me! He just looked at it, as if trying to figure out some hidden meaning.” She grimaced. “That’s not normal.” “I think the Horneaters must worship spren or something,” Kaladin said, wiping his brow. “That’s silly.” “People believe much sillier things. In some ways, I guess it makes sense to revere the spren. You are kind of odd and magical.” “I’m not odd!” she said, standing up. “I’m beautiful and articulate.” She planted her hands on her hips, but he could see in her expression that she wasn’t really mad. She seemed to be changing by the hour, growing more and more… More and more what? Not exactly humanlike. More individual. Smarter. Syl fell silent as another bridgeman—Natam—approached. The long-faced man was carrying
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a smaller stone, obviously trying not to strain himself. “Ho, Natam,” Kaladin said, reaching down to take the stone. “How goes the work?” Natam shrugged. “Didn’t you say you were once a farmer?” Natam rested beside the wagon, ignoring Kaladin. Kaladin set down the rock, moving it into place. “I’m sorry to make us work like this, but we need the good will of Gaz and the other bridge crews.” Natam didn’t respond. “It will help keep us alive,” Kaladin said. “Trust me.” Natam just shrugged yet again, then wandered away. Kaladin sighed. “This would be a lot easier if I could pin the duty change on Gaz.” “That wouldn’t be very honest,” Syl said, affronted. “Why do you care so much about honesty?” “I just do.” “Oh?” Kaladin said, grunting as he moved back to his work. “And leading men to piles of dung? How honest is that?” “That’s different. It was a joke.” “I fail to see how…” He trailed off as another bridgeman approached. Kaladin doubted anyone else had Rock’s strange ability to see Syl, and didn’t want to be seen talking to himself. The short, wiry bridgeman had said his name was Skar, though Kaladin couldn’t see any obvious scars on his face. He had short dark hair and angular features. Kaladin tried to engage him in conversation too, but got no response. The man even went so far as to give Kaladin a rude gesture before tromping back out. “I’m doing something wrong,” Kaladin said, shaking his head and hopping down from the sturdy wagon. “Wrong?” Syl stepped up to the lip of the wagon, watching him. “I thought that seeing me rescue those three might give them hope. But they’re still indifferent.” “Some watched you run earlier,” Syl said, “when you were practicing with the plank.” “They watched,” Kaladin said. “But they don’t care about helping the wounded. Nobody besides Rock, that is—and he’s only doing it because he has a debt to me. Even Teft wasn’t willing to share his food.” “They’re selfish.” “No. I don’t think that word can apply to them.” He lifted a stone, struggling to explain how he felt. “When I was a slave…well, I’m still a slave. But during the worst parts, when my masters were trying to beat out of me the ability to resist, I was like these men. I didn’t care enough to be selfish. I was like an animal. I just did what I did without thinking.” Syl frowned. Little wonder—Kaladin himself didn’t understand what he was saying. Yet, as he spoke, he began to work out what he meant. “I’ve shown them that we can survive, but that doesn’t mean anything. If those lives aren’t worth living, then they aren’t ever going to care. It’s like I’m offering them piles of spheres, but not giving them anything to spend their wealth on.” “I guess,” Syl said. “But what can you do?” He looked back across the plain of rock, toward the warcamp. The smoke of the army’s many cookfires rose from the craters. “I don’t
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know. But I think we’re going to need a lot more reeds.” That night, Kaladin, Teft, and Rock walked the makeshift streets of Sadeas’s warcamp. Nomon—the middle moon—shone with his pale, blue-white light. Oil lanterns hung in front of buildings, indicating taverns or brothels. Spheres could provide more consistent, renewable light, but you could buy a bundle of candles or a pouch of oil for a single sphere. In the short run, it was often cheaper to do that, particularly if you were hanging your lights in a place they could be stolen. Sadeas didn’t enforce a curfew, but Kaladin had learned that a lone bridgeman had best remain in the lumberyard at night. Half-drunken soldiers in stained uniforms sauntered past, whispering in the ears of whores or boasting to their friends. They called insults at the bridgemen, laughing riotously. The streets felt dark, even with the lanterns and the moonlight, and the haphazard nature of the camp—some stone structures, some wooden shanties, some tents—made it feel disorganized and dangerous. Kaladin and his two companions stepped aside for a large group of soldiers. Their coats were unbuttoned, and they were only mildly drunk. A soldier eyed the bridgemen, but the three of them together—one of them being a brawny Horneater—were enough to dissuade the soldier from doing more than laughing and shoving Kaladin as he passed. The man smelled of sweat and cheap ale. Kaladin kept his temper. Fight back, and he’d be docked pay for brawling. “I don’t like this,” Teft said, glancing over his shoulder at the group of soldiers. “I’m going back to the camp.” “You will be staying,” Rock growled. Teft rolled his eyes. “You think I’m scared of a lumbering chull like you? I’ll go if I want to, and—” “Teft,” Kaladin said softly. “We need you.” Need. That word had strange effects on men. Some ran when you used it. Others grew nervous. Teft seemed to long for it. He nodded, muttering to himself, but stayed with them as they went on. They soon reached the wagonyard. The fenced-off square of rock was near the western side of the camp. It was deserted for the night, the wagons sitting in long lines. Chulls lay slumbering in the nearby pen, looking like small hills. Kaladin crept forward, wary of sentries, but apparently nobody worried about something as large as a wagon being stolen from the middle of the army. Rock nudged him, then pointed to the shadowy chull pens. A lone boy sat upon a pen post, staring up at the moon. Chulls were valuable enough to watch over. Poor lad. How often was he required to wait up nights guarding the sluggish beasts? Kaladin crouched down beside a wagon, the other two mimicking him. He pointed down one row, and Rock moved off. Kaladin pointed the other direction, and Teft rolled his eyes, but did as asked. Kaladin sneaked down the middle row. There were about thirty wagons, ten per row, but checking was quick. A brush of the fingers against the back plank, looking for
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the mark he’d made there. After just a few minutes, a shadowed figure entered Kaladin’s row. Rock. The Horneater gestured to the side and held up five fingers. Fifth wagon from the top. Kaladin nodded and moved off. Just as he reached the indicated wagon, he heard a soft yelp from the direction Teft had gone. Kaladin flinched, then peeked up toward the sentry. The boy was still watching the moon, kicking his toes absently against the post next to him. A moment later, Rock and a sheepish Teft scurried up to Kaladin. “Sorry,” Teft whispered. “The walking mountain startled me.” “If I am being a mountain,” Rock grumbled, “then why weren’t you hearing me coming? Eh?” Kaladin snorted, feeling the back of the indicated wagon, fingers brushing the X mark in the wood. He took a breath, then climbed under the wagon on his back. The reeds were still there, tied in twenty bundles, each about as thick as a handspan. “Ishi, Herald of Luck be praised,” he whispered, untying the first bundle. “All there, eh?” Teft said, leaning down, scratching at his beard in the moonlight. “Can’t believe we found so many. Must have pulled up every reed on the entire plain.” Kaladin handed him the first bundle. Without Syl, they wouldn’t have found a third this many. She had the speed of an insect in flight, and she seemed to have a sense of where to find things. Kaladin untied the next bundle, handing it out. Teft tied it to the other, making a larger bundle. As Kaladin worked, a flurry of small white leaves blew under the wagon and formed into Syl’s figure. She slid to a stop beside his head. “No guards anywhere I could see. Just a boy in the chull pens.” Her white-blue translucent figure was nearly invisible in the darkness. “I hope these reeds are still good,” Kaladin whispered. “If they dried out too much…” “They’ll be fine. You worry like a worrier. I found you some bottles.” “You did?” he asked, so eager that he nearly sat up. He caught himself before smacking his head. Syl nodded. “I’ll show you. I couldn’t carry them. Too solid.” Kaladin quickly untied the rest of the bundles, handing them out to the nervous Teft. Kaladin scooted out, then took two of the larger, tied-together bundles of three. Teft took two of the others, and Rock managed three by tucking one under his arm. They’d need a place to work where they wouldn’t be interrupted. Even if the knobweed seemed worthless, Gaz would find a way to ruin the work if he saw what was happening. Bottle first, Kaladin thought. He nodded to Syl, who led them out of the wagonyard and to a tavern. It looked to have been hastily built from second-rate lumber, but that didn’t stop the soldiers inside from enjoying themselves. Their rowdiness made Kaladin worry about the entire building collapsing. Behind it, in a splintery half-crate, lay a pile of discarded liquor bottles. Glass was precious enough that whole bottles would be
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reused, but these had cracks or broken tops. Kaladin set down his bundles, then selected three nearly whole bottles. He washed them in a nearby water barrel before tucking them into a sack he’d brought for the purpose. He picked up his bundles again, nodding to the others. “Try to look like you’re doing something monotonous,” he said. “Bow your heads.” The other two nodded, and they walked out into a main road, carrying the bundles as if on some work detail. They drew far less attention than they had before. They avoided the lumberyard proper, crossing the open field of rock used as the army’s staging area before walking down the slope of rock leading to the Shattered Plains. A sentry saw them, and Kaladin held his breath, but he said nothing. He probably assumed from their postures that they had a reason to be doing what they were. If they tried to leave the warcamp, it would be a different story, but this section down near the first few chasms wasn’t off limits. Before long, they approached the place where Kaladin had nearly killed himself. What a difference a few days could make. He felt like a different person—a strange hybrid of the man he had once been, the slave he’d become, and the pitiful wretch he still had to fight off. He remembered standing on the edge of the chasm, looking down. That darkness still terrified him. If I fail to save the bridgemen, that wretch will take control again. This time he’ll get his way…. That gave Kaladin a shiver. He set his bundles down beside the chasm ledge, then sat. The other two followed more hesitantly. “We’re going to toss them into the chasm?” Teft asked, scratching his beard. “After all that work?” “Of course not,” Kaladin said. He hesitated; Nomon was bright, but it was still night. “You don’t have any spheres, do you?” “Why?” Teft asked, suspicious. “For light, Teft.” Teft grumbled, pulling out a handful of garnet chips. “Was going to spend these tonight….” he said. They glowed in his palm. “All right,” Kaladin said, slipping out a reed. What had his father said about these? Hesitantly, Kaladin broke off the furry top of the reed, exposing the hollow center. He took the reed by the other end and ran his fingers down its length, squeezing it tight. Two drops of milky white liquid dripped into the empty liquor bottle. Kaladin smiled in satisfaction, then squeezed his fingers along the length again. Nothing came out this time, so he tossed the reed into the chasm. For all his talk of hats, he didn’t want to leave evidence. “I thought you said we aren’t throwing them in!” Teft accused. Kaladin held up the liquor bottle. “Only after we have this out.” “What is it?” Rock leaned closer, squinting. “Knobweed sap. Or, rather, knobweed milk—I don’t think it’s really sap. Anyway, it’s a powerful antiseptic.” “Anti…what?” Teft asked. “It scares away rotspren,” Kaladin said. “They cause infection. This milk is one of the best antiseptics there
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is. Spread it on a wound that’s already infected, and it will still work.” That was good, because Leyten’s wounds had begun to turn an angry red, rotspren crawling all over. Teft grunted, then glanced at the bundles. “There are a lot of reeds here.” “I know,” Kaladin said, handing over the other two bottles. “That’s why I’m glad I don’t have to milk them all on my own.” Teft sighed, but sat down and untied a bundle. Rock did so without the complaining, sitting with his knees bent to the sides, feet pressed together to hold the bottle as he worked. A faint breeze blew up, rattling some of the reeds. “Why do you care about them?” Teft finally asked. “They’re my men.” “That’s not what being bridgeleader means.” “It means whatever we decide,” Kaladin said, noting that Syl had come over to listen. “You, me, the others.” “You think they’ll let you do that?” Teft asked. “The lighteyes and the captains?” “You think they’ll pay enough attention to even notice?” Teft hesitated, then grunted, milking another reed. “Perhaps they will,” Rock said. There was a surprising level of delicacy to the large man’s motions as he milked the reeds. Kaladin hadn’t thought those thick fingers would be so careful, so precise. “Lighteyes, they are often noticing those things that you wish they would not.” Teft grunted again, agreeing. “How did you come here, Rock?” Kaladin asked. “How does a Horneater end up leaving his mountains and coming to the lowlands?” “You shouldn’t ask those kinds of things, son,” Teft said, wagging a finger at Kaladin. “We don’t talk about our pasts.” “We don’t talk about anything,” Kaladin said. “You two didn’t even know each other’s names.” “Names are one thing,” Teft grumbled. “Backgrounds, they’re different. I—” “Is all right,” Rock said. “I will speak of this thing.” Teft muttered to himself, but he did lean forward to listen when Rock spoke. “My people have no Shardblades,” Rock said in his low, rumbling voice. “That’s not unusual,” Kaladin said. “Other than Alethkar and Jah Keved, few kingdoms have many Blades.” It was a matter of some pride among the armies. “This thing is not true,” Rock said. “Thaylenah has five Blades and three full suits of Plate, all held by the royal guards. The Selay have their share of both suits and Blades. Other kingdoms, such as Herdaz, have a single Blade and set of Plate—this is passed down through the royal line. But the Unkalaki, we have not a single Shard. Many of our nuatoma—this thing, it is the same as your lighteyes, only their eyes are not light—” “How can you be a lighteyes without light eyes?” Teft said with a scowl. “By having dark eyes,” Rock said, as if it were obvious. “We do not pick our leaders this way. Is complicated. But do not interrupt story.” He milked another reed, tossing the husk into a pile beside him. “The nuatoma, they see our lack of Shards as great shame. They want these weapons very badly. It is
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believed that the nuatoma who first obtains a Shardblade would become king, a thing we have not had for many years. No peak would fight another peak where a man held one of the blessed Blades.” “So you came to buy one?” Kaladin asked. No Shardbearer would sell his weapon. Each was a distinctive relic, taken from one of the Lost Radiants after their betrayal. Rock laughed. “Ha! Buy? No, we are not so foolish as this. But my nuatoma, he knew of your tradition, eh? It says that if a man kills a Shardbearer, he may take the Blade and Plate as his own. And so my nuatoma and his house, we made a grand procession, coming down to find and kill one of your Shardbearers.” Kaladin almost laughed. “I assume it proved more difficult than that.” “My nuatoma was not a fool,” Rock said, defensive. “He knew this thing would be difficult, but your tradition, it gives us hope, you see? Occasionally, a brave nuatoma will come down to duel a Shardbearer. Someday, one will win, and we will have Shards.” “Perhaps,” Kaladin said, tossing an empty reed into the chasm. “Assuming they agree to duel you in a bout to the death.” “Oh, they always duel,” Rock said, laughing. “The nuatoma brings many riches and promises all of his possessions to the victor. Your lighteyes, they cannot pass by a pond so warm! To kill an Unkalaki with no Shardblade, they do not see this thing as difficult. Many nuatoma have died. But is all right. Eventually, we will win.” “And have one set of Shards,” Kaladin said. “Alethkar has dozens.” “One is a beginning,” Rock said, shrugging. “But my nuatoma lost, so I am bridgeman.” “Wait,” Teft said. “You came all of this way with your brightlord, and once he lost, you up and joined a bridge crew?” “No, no, you do not see,” Rock said. “My nuatoma, he challenged Highprince Sadeas. Is well known that there are many Shardbearers here on Shattered Plains. My nuatoma thought it easier to fight man with only Plate first, then win Blade next.” “And?” Teft said. “Once my nuatoma lost to Brightlord Sadeas, all of us became his.” “So you’re a slave?” Kaladin asked, reaching up and feeling the marks on his forehead. “No, we do not have this thing,” Rock said. “I was not a slave of my nuatoma. I was his family.” “His family?” Teft said. “Kelek! You’re a lighteyes!” Rock laughed again, loud and full-bellied. Kaladin smiled despite himself. It seemed like so long since he’d heard someone laugh like that. “No, no. I was only umarti’a—his cousin, you would say.” “Still, you were related to him.” “On the Peaks,” Rock said, “the relatives of a brightlord are his servants.” “What kind of system is that?” Teft complained. “You have to be a servant to your own relatives? Storm me! I’d rather die, I think I would.” “It is not so bad,” Rock said. “You don’t know my relatives,” Teft said, shivering. Rock laughed again. “You would rather
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serve someone you do not know? Like this Sadeas? A man who is no relation to you?” He shook his head. “Lowlanders. You have too much air here. Makes your minds sick.” “Too much air?” Kaladin asked. “Yes,” Rock said. “How can you have too much air? It’s all around.” “This thing, it is difficult to explain.” Rock’s Alethi was good, but he sometimes forget to add in common words. Other times, he remembered them, speaking his sentences precisely. The faster he spoke, the more words he forgot to put in. “You have too much air,” Rock said. “Come to the Peaks. You will see.” “I guess,” Kaladin said, shooting a glance at Teft, who just shrugged. “But you’re wrong about one thing. You said that we serve someone we don’t know. Well, I do know Brightlord Sadeas. I know him well.” Rock raised an eyebrow. “Arrogant,” Kaladin said, “vengeful, greedy, corrupt to the core.” Rock smiled. “Yes, I think you are right. This man is not among the finest of lighteyes.” “There are no ‘finest’ among them, Rock. They’re all the same.” “They have done much to you, then?” Kaladin shrugged, the question uncovering wounds that weren’t yet healed. “Anyway, your master was lucky.” “Lucky to be slain by a Shardbearer?” “Lucky he didn’t win,” Kaladin said, “and discover how he’d been tricked. They wouldn’t have let him walk away with Sadeas’s Plate.” “Nonsense,” Teft broke in. “Tradition—” “Tradition is the blind witness they use to condemn us, Teft,” Kaladin said. “It’s the pretty box they use to wrap up their lies. It makes us serve them.” Teft set his jaw. “I’ve lived a lot longer than you, son. I know things. If a common man killed an enemy Shardbearer, he’d become a lighteyes. That’s the way of it.” He let the argument lapse. If Teft’s illusions made him feel better about his place in this mess of a war, then who was Kaladin to dissuade him? “So you were a servant,” Kaladin said to Rock. “In a brightlord’s retinue? What kind of servant?” He struggled for the right word, remembering back to the times he’d interacted with Wistiow or Roshone. “A footman? A butler?” Rock laughed. “I was cook. My nuatoma would not come down to the lowlands without his own cook! Your food here, it has so many spices that you cannot taste anything else. Might as well be eating stones powdered with pepper!” “You should talk about food,” Teft said, scowling. “A Horneater?” Kaladin frowned. “Why do they call your people that, anyway?” “Because they eat the horns and shells of the things they catch,” Teft said. “The outsides.” Rock smiled, with a look of longing. “Ah, but the taste is so good.” “You actually eat the shells?” Kaladin asked. “We have very strong teeth,” Rock said proudly. “But there. You now know my story. Brightlord Sadeas, he wasn’t certain what he should do with most of us. Some were made soldiers, others serve in his house hold. I fixed him one meal and he sent me to
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bridge crews.” Rock hesitated. “I may have, uh, enhanced the soup.” “Enhanced?” Kaladin asked, raising an eyebrow. Rock seemed to grow embarrassed. “You see, I was quite angry about my nuatoma’s death. And I thought, these lowlanders, their tongues are all scorched and burned by the food they eat. They have no taste, and…” “And what?” Kaladin asked. “Chull dung,” Rock said. “It apparently has stronger taste than I assumed.” “Wait,” Teft said. “You put chull dung in Highprince Sadeas’s soup?” “Er, yes,” Rock said. “Actually, I put this thing in his bread too. And used it as a garnish on the pork steak. And made a chutney out of it for the buttered garams. Chull dung, it has many uses, I found.” Teft laughed, his voice echoing. He fell on his side, so amused that Kaladin was afraid he’d roll right into the chasm. “Horneater,” Teft finally said, “I owe you a drink.” Rock smiled. Kaladin shook his head to himself, amazed. It suddenly made sense. “What?” Rock said, apparently noticing his expression. “This is what we need,” Kaladin said. “This! It’s the thing I’ve been missing.” Rock hesitated. “Chull dung? This is the thing you need?” Teft burst into another round of laugher. “No,” Kaladin said. “It’s…well, I’ll show you. But first we need this knobweed sap.” They’d barely made their way through one of the bundles, and already his fingers were aching from the milking. “What of you, Kaladin?” Rock asked. “I have been telling you my story. You will tell me yours? How did you come to those marks on your forehead?” “Yeah,” Teft said, wiping his eyes. “Whose food did you trat in?” “I thought you said it was taboo to ask about a bridgeman’s past,” Kaladin said. “You made Rock share, son,” Teft said. “It’s only fair.” “So if I tell my story, that means you’ll tell yours?” Teft scowled immediately. “Now look, I ain’t going to—” “I killed a man,” Kaladin said. That quieted Teft. Rock perked up. Syl, Kaladin noticed, was still watching with interest. That was odd for her; normally, her attention wavered quickly. “You killed a man?” Rock said. “And after this thing, they made you a slave? Is not the punishment for murder usually death?” “It wasn’t murder,” Kaladin said softly, thinking of the scraggly bearded man in the slave wagon who had asked him these same questions. “In fact, I was thanked for it by someone very important.” He fell silent. “And?” Teft finally asked. “And…” Kaladin said, looking down at a reed. Nomon was setting in the west, and the small green disk of Mishim—the final moon—was rising in the east. “And it turns out that lighteyes don’t react very well when you turn down their gifts.” The others waited for more, but Kaladin fell silent, working on his reeds. It shocked him, how painful it still was to remember those events back in Amaram’s army. Either the others sensed his mood, or they felt what he’d said was enough, for they each turned back to their work and
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prodded no further. The king’s Gallery of Maps balanced beauty and function. The expansive domed structure of Soulcast stone had smooth sides that melded seamlessly with the rocky ground. It was shaped like a long loaf of Thaylen bread, and had large skylights in the ceiling, allowing the sun to shine down on handsome formations of shalebark. Dalinar passed one of these, pinks and vibrant greens and blues growing in a gnarled pattern as high as his shoulders. The crusty, hard plants had no true stalks or leaves, just waving tendrils like colorful hair. Except for those, shalebark seemed more rock than vegetation. And yet, scholars said it must be a plant for the way it grew and reached toward the light. Men did that too, he thought. Once. Highprince Roion stood in front of one of the maps, hands clasped behind his back, his numerous attendants clogging the other side of the gallery. Roion was a tall, light-skinned man with a dark, well-trimmed beard. He was thinning on top. Like most of the others, he wore a short, open-fronted jacket, exposing the shirt underneath. Its red fabric poked out above the jacket’s collar. So sloppy, Dalinar thought, though it was very fashionable. Dalinar just wished that current fashion weren’t so, well, sloppy. “Brightlord Dalinar,” Roion said. “I have difficulty seeing the point of this meeting.” “Walk with me, Brightlord Roion,” Dalinar said, nodding to the side. The other man sighed, but joined Dalinar and walked the pathway between the clusters of plants and the wall of maps. Roion’s attendants followed; they included both a cupbearer and a shieldbearer. Each map was illuminated by diamonds, their enclosures made of mirror-polished steel. The maps were inked, in detail, onto unnaturally large, seamless sheets of parchment. Such parchment was obviously Soulcast. Near the center of the chamber they came to the Prime Map, an enormous, detailed map fixed in a frame on the wall. It showed the entirety of the Shattered Plains that had been explored. Permanent bridges were drawn in red, and plateaus close to the Alethi side had blue glyphpairs on them, indicating which highprince controlled them. The eastern section of the map grew less detailed until the lines vanished. In the middle was the contested area, the section of plateaus where the chasmfiends most often came to make their chrysalises. Few came to the near side, where the permanent bridges were. If they did come, it was to hunt, not to pupate. Controlling the nearby plateaus was still important, as a highprince—by agreement—could not cross a plateau maintained by one of the others unless he had permission. That determined who had the best pathways to the central plateaus, and it also determined who had to maintain the watch-posts and permanent bridges on that plateau. Those plateaus were bought and sold among the highprinces. A second sheet of parchment to the side of the Prime Map listed each highprince and the number of gemhearts he had won. It was a very Alethi thing to do—maintain motivation by making it very clear who
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was winning and who lagged behind. Roion’s eyes immediately went to his own name on the list. Of all the highprinces, Roion had won the fewest gemhearts. Dalinar reached his hand up to the Prime Map, brushing the parchment. The middle plateaus were named or numbered for ease of reference. Foremost of them was a large plateau that stood defiantly near the Parshendi side. The Tower, it was called. An unusually massive and oddly shaped plateau that the chasmfiends seemed particularly fond of using as a spot for pupating. Looking at it gave him pause. The size of a contested plateau determined the number of troops you could field on it. The Parshendi usually brought a large force to the Tower, and they had rebuffed the Alethi assaults there twenty-seven times now. No Alethi had ever won a skirmish upon it. Dalinar had been turned back there twice himself. It was just too close to the Parshendi; they could always get there first and form up, using the slope to give them excellent high ground. But if we could corner them there, he thought, with a large enough force of our own… It could mean trapping and killing a huge number of Parshendi troops. Maybe enough of them to break their ability to wage war on the Plains. It was something to consider. Before that could happen, however, Dalinar would need alliances. He ran his fingers westward. “Highprince Sadeas has been doing very well lately.” Dalinar tapped Sadeas’s warcamp. “He’s been buying plateaus from other highprinces, making it easier and easier for him to get to the battlefields first.” “Yes,” Roion said, frowning. “One hardly needs to see a map to know that, Dalinar.” “Look at the scope of it,” Dalinar said. “Six years of continuous fighting, and nobody has even seen the center of the Shattered Plains.” “That’s never been the point. We hold them in, besiege them, starve them out, and force them to come to us. Wasn’t that your plan?” “Yes, but I never imagined it would take this long. I’ve been thinking that it might be time to change tactics.” “Why? This one works. Hardly a week goes by without a couple of clashes with the Parshendi. Though, might I point out that you have hardly been a model of inspiration in battle lately.” He nodded to Dalinar’s name on the smaller sheet. There were a good number of scratches next to his name, noting gemhearts won. But very few of them were fresh. “There are some who say the Blackthorn has lost his sting,” Roion said. He was careful not to insult Dalinar outright, but he went further than he once would have. News of Dalinar’s actions while trapped in the barrack had spread. Dalinar forced himself to be calm. “Roion, we cannot continue to treat this war as a game.” “All wars are games. The greatest kind, with the pieces lost real lives, the prizes captured making for real wealth! This is the life for which men exist. To fight, to kill, to win.” He was
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quoting the Sunmaker, the last Alethi king to unite the highprinces. Gavilar had once revered his name. “Perhaps,” Dalinar said. “Yet what is the point? We fight to get Shardblades, then use those Shardblades to fight to get more Shardblades. It’s a circle, round and round we go, chasing our tails so we can be better at chasing our tails.” “We fight to prepare ourselves to reclaim heaven and take back what is ours.” “Men can train without going to war, and men can fight without it being meaningless. It wasn’t always this way. There were times when our wars meant something.” Roion raised an eyebrow. “You’re almost making me believe the rumors, Dalinar. They say you’ve lost your taste for combat, that you no longer have the will to fight.” He eyed Dalinar again. “Some are saying that it is time to abdicate in favor of your son.” “The rumors are wrong,” Dalinar snapped. “That is—” “They are wrong,” Dalinar said firmly, “if they claim that I no longer care.” He rested his fingers on the surface of the map again, running them across the smooth parchment. “I care, Roion. I care deeply. About this people. About my nephew. About the future of this war. And that is why I suggest we pursue an aggressive course from now on.” “Well, that is good to hear, I suppose.” Unite them…. “I want you to try a joint plateau assault with me,” Dalinar said. “What?” “I want the two of us to try coordinating our efforts and attack at the same time, working together.” “Why would we want to do that?” “We could increase our chances of winning gemhearts.” “If more troops increased my chances of winning,” Roion said, “then I’d just bring more of my own. The plateaus are too small for fielding large armies, and mobility is more important than sheer numbers.” It was a valid point; on the Plains, more didn’t necessarily mean better. Close confines and a requisite forced march to the battlefield changed warfare significantly. The exact number of troops used depended on the size of the plateau and the highprince’s personal martial philosophy. “Working together wouldn’t just be about fielding more troops,” Dalinar said. “Each highprince’s army has different strengths. I’m known for my heavy infantry; you have the best archers. Sadeas’s bridges are the fastest. Working together, we could try new tactics. We expend too much effort getting to the plateau in haste. If we weren’t so rushed, competing against one another, maybe we could surround the plateau. We could try letting the Parshendi arrive first, then assault them on our terms, not theirs.” Roion hesitated. Dalinar had spent days deliberating with his generals about the possibility of a joint assault. It seemed that there would be distinct advantages, but they wouldn’t know for certain until someone tried it with him. He actually seemed to be considering. “Who would get the gemheart?” “We split the wealth equally,” Dalinar said. “And if we capture a Shardblade?” “The man who won it would get it, obviously.” “And that’s
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most likely to be you,” Roion said, frowning. “As you and your son already have Shards.” It was the great problem of Shardblades and Shardplate—winning either was highly unlikely unless you already had Shards yourself. In fact, having only one or the other often wasn’t enough. Sadeas had faced Parshendi Shardbearers on the field, and had always been forced to retreat, lest he be slain himself. “I’m certain we could arrange something more equitable,” Dalinar finally said. If he won Shards, he’d been hoping to be able to give them to Renarin. “I’m sure,” Roion said skeptically. Dalinar drew in a breath. He needed to be bolder. “What if I offer them to you?” “Excuse me?” “We try a joint attack. If I win a Shardblade or Plate, you get the first set. But I keep the second.” Roion’s eyes narrowed. “You’d do that?” “On my honor, Roion.” “Well, nobody would doubt that. But can you blame a man for being wary?” “Of what?” “I am a highprince, Dalinar,” Roion said. “My princedom is the smallest, true, but I am my own man. I would not see myself subordinated to someone greater.” You’ve already become part of something greater, Dalinar thought with frustration. That happened the moment you swore fealty to Gavilar. Roion and the others refused to make good on their promises. “Our kingdom can be so much more than it is, Roion.” “Perhaps. But perhaps I’m satisfied with what I have. Either way, you make an interesting proposal. I shall have to think on it further.” “Very well,” Dalinar said, but his instinct said that Roion would decline the offer. The man was too suspicious. The highprinces barely trusted one another enough to work together when there weren’t Shardblades and gems at stake. “Will I be seeing you at the feast this evening?” Roion asked. “Why wouldn’t you?” Dalinar asked with a sigh. “Well, the stormwardens have been saying that there could be a highstorm tonight, you see—” “I will be there,” Dalinar said flatly. “Yes, of course,” Roion said, chuckling. “No reason why you wouldn’t be.” He smiled at Dalinar and withdrew, his attendants following. Dalinar sighed, turning to study the Prime Map, thinking through the meeting and what it meant. He stood there for a long time. Looking down on the Plains, as if a god far above. The plateaus looked like close islands, or perhaps jagged pieces set in a massive stained-glass window. Not for the first time, he felt as if he should be able to make out a pattern to the plateaus. If he could see more of them, perhaps. What would it mean if there was an order to the chasms? Everyone else was so concerned with looking strong, with proving themselves. Was he really the only one who saw how frivolous that was? Strength for strength’s sake? What good was strength unless you did something with it? Alethkar was a light, once, he thought. That’s what Gavilar’s book claims, that’s what the visions are showing me. Nohadon was king of Alethkar, so long
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ago. In the time before the Heralds left. Dalinar felt as if he could almost see it. The secret. The thing that had made Gavilar so excited in the months before his death. If Dalinar could just stretch a little farther, he’d make it out. See the pattern in the lives of men. And finally know. But that was what he’d been doing for the last six years. Grasping, stretching, reaching just a little farther. The farther he reached, the more distant those answers seemed to become. Adolin stepped into the Gallery of Maps. His father was still there, standing alone. Two members of the Cobalt Guard watched over him from a distance. Roion was nowhere to be seen. Adolin approached slowly. His father had that look in his eyes, the absent one he got so often lately. Even when he wasn’t having an episode, he wasn’t entirely here. Not in the way he once had been. “Father?” Adolin said, stepping up to him. “Hello, Adolin.” “How was the meeting with Roion?” Adolin asked, trying to sound cheerful. “Disappointing. I’m proving far worse at diplomacy than I once was at war-making.” “There’s no profit in peace.” “That’s what everyone says. But we had peace once, and seemed to do just fine. Better, even.” “There hasn’t been peace since the Tranquiline Halls,” Adolin said immediately. “‘Man’s life on Roshar is conflict.’” It was a quotation from The Arguments. Dalinar turned to Adolin, looking amused. “Quoting scripture at me? You?” Adolin shrugged, feeling foolish. “Well, you see, Malasha is rather religious, and so earlier today I was listening to—” “Wait,” Dalinar said. “Malasha? Who’s that?” “Daughter of Brightlord Seveks.” “And that other girl, Janala?” Adolin grimaced, thinking back to the disastrous walk they’d gone on the other day. Several nice gifts had yet to repair that. She didn’t seem half as excited about him now that he wasn’t courting someone else. “Things are rocky. Malasha seems like a better prospect.” He moved on quickly. “I take it that Roion won’t soon be going on any plateau assault with us.” Dalinar shook his head. “He’s too afraid that I’m trying to maneuver him into a position where I can seize his lands. Perhaps it was wrong to approach the weakest highprince first. He’d rather hunker down and try to weather what comes at him, holding what he has, as opposed to making a risky play for something greater.” Dalinar stared at the map, looking distant again. “Gavilar dreamed of unifying Alethkar. Once I thought he’d achieved it, despite what he claimed. The longer I work with these men, the more I realize that Gavilar was right. We failed. We defeated these men, but we never unified them.” “So you still intend to approach the others?” “I do. I only need one to say yes in order to start. Who do you think we should go to next?” “I’m not sure,” Adolin said. “But for now, I think you should know something. Sadeas has sent to us, asking permission to enter our warcamp. He wants to
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interview the grooms who cared for His Majesty’s horse during the hunt.” “His new position gives him the right to make those kinds of demands.” “Father,” Adolin said, stepping closer, speaking softly. “I think he’s going to move against us.” Dalinar looked at him. “I know you trust him,” Adolin said quickly. “And I understand your reasons now. But listen to me. This move puts him in an ideal position to undermine us. The king has grown paranoid enough that he’s suspicious even of you and me—I know you’ve seen it. All Sadeas needs to do is find imaginary ‘evidence’ linking us to an attempt to kill the king, and he’ll be able be able to turn Elhokar against us.” “We may have to risk that.” Adolin frowned. “But—” “I trust Sadeas, son,” Dalinar said. “But even if I didn’t, we couldn’t forbid him entry or block his investigation. We’d not only look guilty in the king’s eyes, but we’d be denying his authority as well.” He shook his head. “If I ever want the other highprinces to accept me as their leader in war, I have to be willing to allow Sadeas his authority as Highprince of Information. I can’t rely upon the old traditions for my authority yet deny Sadeas the same right.” “I suppose,” Adolin admitted. “But we could still prepare. You can’t tell me you’re not a little worried.” Dalinar hesitated. “Perhaps. This maneuver of Sadeas’s is aggressive. But I’ve been told what to do. ‘Trust Sadeas. Be strong. Act with honor, and honor will aid you.’ That is the advice I’ve been given.” “From where?” Dalinar looked to him, and it became obvious to Adolin. “So we’re betting the future of our house on these visions now,” Adolin said flatly. “I wouldn’t say that,” Dalinar replied. “If Sadeas did move against us, I wouldn’t simply let him shove us over. But I’m also not going to make the first move against him.” “Because of what you’ve seen,” Adolin said, growing frustrated. “Father, you said you’d listen to what I had to say about the visions. Well, please listen now.” “This isn’t the proper place.” “You always have an excuse,” Adolin said. “I’ve tried to approach you about it five times now, and you always rebuff me!” “Perhaps it’s because I know what you’ll say,” Dalinar said. “And I know it won’t do any good.” “Or perhaps it’s because you don’t want to be confronted by the truth.” “That’s enough, Adolin.” “No, no it’s not! We’re mocked in every one of the warcamps, our authority and reputation diminishes by the day, and you refuse to do anything substantial about it!” “Adolin. I will not take this from my son.” “But you’ll take it from everyone else? Why is that, Father? When others say things about us, you let them. But when Renarin or I take the smallest step toward what you view as being inappropriate, we’re immediately chastised! Everyone else can speak lies, but I can’t speak the truth? Do your sons mean so little to you?” Dalinar
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froze, looking as if he’d been slapped. “You aren’t well, Father,” Adolin continued. Part of him realized that he had gone too far, that he was speaking too loudly, but it boiled out anyway. “We need to stop tiptoeing around it! You need to stop making up increasingly irrational explanations to reason away your lapses! I know it’s hard to accept, but sometimes, people get old. Sometimes, the mind stops working right. “I don’t know what’s wrong. Maybe it’s your guilt over Gavilar’s death. That book, the Codes, the visions—maybe they’re all attempts to find escape, find redemption, something. What you see is not real. Your life now is a rationalization, a way of trying to pretend that what’s happening isn’t happening. But I’ll go to Damnation itself before I’ll let you drag the entire house down without speaking my mind on it!” He practically shouted those last words. They echoed in the large chamber, and Adolin realized he was shaking. He had never, in all his years of life, spoken to his father in such a way. “You think I haven’t wondered these things?” Dalinar said, his voice cold, his eyes hard. “I’ve gone through each point you’ve made a dozen times over.” “Then maybe you should go over them a few more.” “I must trust myself. The visions are trying to show me something important. I cannot prove it or explain how I know. But it’s true.” “Of course you think that,” Adolin said, exasperated. “Don’t you see? That’s exactly what you would feel. Men are very good at seeing what they want to! Look at the king. He sees a killer in every shadow, and a worn strap becomes a convoluted plot to take his life.” Dalinar fell silent again. “Sometimes, the simple answers are the right ones, Father!” Adolin said. “The king’s strap just wore out. And you…you’re seeing things that aren’t there. I’m sorry.” They locked expressions. Adolin didn’t look away. He wouldn’t look away. Dalinar finally turned from him. “Leave me, please.” “All right. Fine. But I want you to think about this. I want you to—” “Adolin. Go.” Adolin gritted his teeth, but turned and stalked away. It needed to be said, he told himself as he left the gallery. That didn’t make him feel any less sick about having to be the one who said it. SEVEN YEARS AGO “It ain’t right, what they do,” the woman’s voice said. “You ain’t supposed to cut into folks, peering in to see what the Almighty placed hidden for good reason.” Kal froze, standing in an alleyway between two houses in Hearthstone. The sky was wan overhead; winter had come for a time. The Weeping was near, and highstorms were infrequent. For now, it was too cold for plants to enjoy the respite; rockbuds spent winter weeks curled up inside their shells. Most creatures hibernated, waiting for warmth to return. Fortunately, seasons generally lasted only a few weeks. Unpredictability. That was the way of the world. Only after death was there stability. So the ardents taught, at
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least. Kal wore a thick, padded coat of breachtree cotton. The material was scratchy but warm, and had been dyed a deep brown. He kept the hood up, his hands in his pockets. To his right sat the baker’s place—the family slept in the triangular crawlspace in back, and the front was their store. To Kal’s left was one of Hearthstone’s taverns, where lavis ale and mudbeer flowed in abundance during winter weeks. He could hear two women, unseen but chatting a short distance way. “You know that he stole from the old citylord,” one woman’s voice said, keeping her voice down. “An entire goblet full of spheres. The surgeon says they were a gift, but he was the only one there when the citylord died.” “There is a document, I hear,” the first voice said. “A few glyphs. Not a proper will. And whose hand wrote those glyphs? The surgeon himself. It ain’t right, the citylord not having a woman there to be scribe. I’m telling you. It ain’t right what they do.” Kal gritted his teeth, tempted to step out and let the women see that he’d heard them. His father wouldn’t approve, though. Lirin wouldn’t want to cause strife or embarrassment. But that was his father. So Kal marched right out of the alleyway, passing Nanha Terith and Nanha Relina standing and gossiping in front of the bakery. Terith was the baker’s wife, a fat woman with curly dark hair. She was in the middle of another calumny. Kal gave her a sharp look, and her brown eyes showed a satisfying moment of discomfiture. Kal crossed the square carefully, wary of patches of ice. The door to the bakery slammed shut behind him, the two women fleeing inside. His satisfaction didn’t last long. Why did people always say such things about his father? They called him morbid and unnatural, but would scurry out to buy glyphwards and charms from a passing apothecary or luck-merch. The Almighty pity a man who actually did something useful to help! Still stewing, Kal turned a few corners, walking to where his mother stood on a stepladder at the side of the town hall, carefully chipping at the eaves of the building. Hesina was a tall woman, and she usually kept her hair pulled back into a tail, then wrapped a kerchief around her head. Today, she wore a knit hat over that. She had a long brown coat that matched Kal’s, and the blue hem of her skirt just barely peeked out at the bottom. The objects of her attention were a set of icicle-like pendants of rock that had formed on the edges of the roof. Highstorms dropped stormwater, and stormwater carried crem. If left alone, crem eventually hardened into stone. Buildings grew stalactites, formed by stormwater slowly dripping from the eaves. You had to clean them off regularly, or risk weighing down the roof so much that it collapsed. She noticed him and smiled, her cheeks flushed from the cold. With a narrow face, a bold chin, and full lips, she
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was a pretty woman. At least Kal thought so. Prettier than the baker’s wife, for sure. “Your father dismissed you from your lessons already?” she asked. “Everyone hates Father,” Kal blurted out. His mother turned back to her work. “Kaladin, you’re thirteen. You’re old enough to know not to say foolish things like that.” “It’s true,” he said stubbornly. “I heard some women talking, just now. They said that Father stole the spheres from Brightlord Wistiow. They say that Father enjoys slicing people open and doing things that ain’t natural.” “Aren’t natural.” “Why can’t I speak like everyone else?” “Because it isn’t proper.” “It’s proper enough for Nanha Terith.” “And what do you think of her?” Kal hesitated. “She’s ignorant. And she likes to gossip about things she doesn’t know anything about.” “Well, then. If you wish to emulate her, I can obviously find no objection to the practice.” Kal grimaced. You had to watch yourself when speaking with Hesina; she liked to twist words about. He leaned back against the wall of the town hall, watching his breath puff out in front of him. Perhaps a different tactic would work. “Mother, why do people hate Father?” “They don’t hate him,” she said. However, his calmly asked question got her to continue. “But he does make them uncomfortable.” “Why?” “Because some people are frightened of knowledge. Your father is a learned man; he knows things the others can’t understand. So those things must be dark and mysterious.” “They aren’t afraid of luckmerches and glyphwards.” “Those you can understand,” his mother said calmly. “You burn a glyphward out in front of your house, and it will turn away evil. It’s easy. Your father won’t give someone a ward to heal them. He’ll insist that they stay in bed, drinking water, taking some foul medicine, and washing their wound each day. It’s hard. They’d rather leave it all to fate.” Kal considered that. “I think they hate him because he fails too often.” “There is that. If a glyphward fails, you can blame it on the will of the Almighty. If your father fails, then it’s his fault. Or such is the perception.” His mother continued working, flakes of stone falling to the ground around her. “They’ll never actually hate your father—he’s too useful. But he’ll never really be one of them. That’s the price of being a surgeon. Having power over the lives of men is an uncomfortable responsibility.” “And if I don’t want that responsibility? What if I just want to be something normal, like a baker, or a farmer, or…” Or a soldier, he added in his mind. He’d picked up a staff a few times in secret, and though he’d never been able to replicate that moment when he’d fought Jost, there was something invigorating about holding a weapon. Something that drew him and excited him. “I think,” his mother said, “that you’ll find the lives of bakers and farmers are not so enviable.” “At least they have friends.” “And so do you. What of Tien?” “Tien’s not my friend,
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Mother. He’s my brother.” “Oh, and he can’t be both at once?” Kal rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.” She climbed down from the stepladder, patting his shoulder. “Yes, I do, and I’m sorry to make light of it. But you put yourself in a difficult position. You want friends, but do you really want to act like the other boys? Give up your studies so you can slave in the fields? Grow old before your time, weathered and furrowed by the sun?” Kal didn’t reply. “The things that others have always seem better than what you have,” his mother said. “Bring the stepladder.” Kal followed dutifully, rounding the town hall to the other side, then putting down the ladder so his mother could climb up to begin work again. “The others think Father stole those spheres.” Kal shoved his hands in his pockets. “They think he wrote out that order from Brightlord Wistiow and had the old man sign it when he didn’t know what he was doing.” His mother was silent. “I hate their lies and gossip,” Kal said. “I hate them for making up things about us.” “Don’t hate them, Kal. They’re good people. In this case, they’re just repeating what they’ve heard.” She glanced at the citylord’s manor, distant upon a hill above the town. Every time Kal saw it, he felt like he should go up and talk to Laral. But the last few times he’d tried, he hadn’t been allowed to see her. Now that her father was dead, her nurse oversaw her time, and the woman didn’t think mingling with boys from the town was appropriate. The nurse’s husband, Miliv, had been Brightlord Wistiow’s head steward. If there was a source of bad rumors about Kal’s family, it probably came from him. He never had liked Kal’s father. Well, Miliv wouldn’t matter soon. A new citylord was expected to arrive any day. “Mother,” Kal said, “those spheres are just sitting there doing nothing but glowing. Can’t we spend some to keep you from having to come out here and work?” “I like working,” she said, scraping away again. “It clears the head.” “Didn’t you just tell me that I wouldn’t like having to labor? My face furrowed before its time, or something poetic like that?” She hesitated, then laughed. “Clever boy.” “Cold boy,” he grumbled, shivering. “I work because I want to. We can’t spend those spheres—they’re for your education—and so my working is better than forcing your father to charge for his healings.” “Maybe they’d respect us more if we did charge.” “Oh, they respect us. No, I don’t think that is the problem.” She looked down at Kal. “You know that we’re second nahn.” “Sure,” Kal said, shrugging. “An accomplished young surgeon of the right rank could draw the attention of a poorer noble family, one who wished money and acclaim. It happens in the larger cities.” Kal glanced up at the mansion again. “That’s why you encouraged me to play with Laral so much. You wanted to marry me off
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to her, didn’t you?” “It was a possibility,” his mother said, returning to her work. He honestly wasn’t certain how he felt about that. The last few months had been strange for Kal. His father had forced him into his studies, but in secret he’d spent his time with the staff. Two possible paths. Both enticing. Kal did like learning, and he longed for the ability to help people, bind their wounds, make them better. He saw true nobility in what his father did. But it seemed to Kal that if he could fight, he could do something even more noble. Protect their lands, like the great lighteyed heroes of the stories. And there was the way he felt when holding a weapon. Two paths. Opposites, in many ways. He could only choose one. His mother kept chipping away at the eaves, and—with a sigh—Kal fetched a second stepladder and set of tools from the workroom, then joined her. He was tall for his age, but he still had to stand high on the ladder. He caught his mother smiling as he worked, no doubt pleased at having raised such a helpful young man. In reality, Kal just wanted the chance to pound on something. How would he feel, marrying someone like Laral? He’d never be her equal. Their children would have a chance of being lighteyed or darkeyed, so even his children might outrank him. He knew he’d feel terribly out of place. That was another aspect of becoming a surgeon. If he chose that path, he would be choosing the life of his father. Choosing to set himself apart, to be isolated. If he went to war, however, he would have a place. Maybe he could even do the nearly unthinkable, win a Shardblade and become a true lighteyes. Then he could marry Laral and not have to be her inferior. Was that why she’d always encouraged him to become a soldier? Had she been thinking about these kinds of things, even back then? Back then, these kinds of decisions—marriage, his future—had seemed impossibly far-off to Kal. He felt so young. Did he really have to consider these questions? It would still be another few years before the surgeons of Kharbranth would let him take their tests. But if he were going to become a soldier instead, he’d have to join the army before that happened. How would his father react if Kal just up and went with the recruiters? Kal wasn’t certain he’d be able to face Lirin’s disappointed eyes. As if in response to his thoughts, Lirin’s voice called from nearby. “Hesina!” Kal’s mother turned, smiling and tucking a stray lock of dark hair back into her kerchief. Kal’s father rushed down the street, his face anxious. Kal felt a sudden jolt of worry. Who was wounded? Why hadn’t Lirin sent for him? “What is it?” Kal’s mother asked, climbing down. “He’s here, Hesina,” Kal’s father said. “About time.” “Who?” Kal asked, jumping down from the stepladder. “Who’s here?” “The new citylord, son,” Lirin said, his breath puffing
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in the cold air. “His name is Brightlord Roshone. No time to change, I’m afraid. Not if we want to catch his first speech. Come on!” The three of them hurried away, Kal’s thoughts and worries banished in the face of the chance to meet a new lighteyes. “He didn’t send word ahead,” Lirin said under his breath. “That could be a good sign,” Hesina replied. “Maybe he doesn’t feel he needs everyone to dote on him.” “That, or he’s inconsiderate. Stormfather, I hate getting a new Landed. Always makes me feel like I’m throwing a handful of stones into a game of breakneck. Will we throw the queen or the tower?” “We shall see soon enough,” Hesina said, glancing at Kal. “Don’t let your father’s words unnerve you. He always gets pessimistic at times like this.” “I do not,” Lirin said. She gave him a look. “Name one other time.” “Meeting my parents.” Kal’s father pulled up short, blinking. “Stormwinds,” he muttered, “let’s hope this doesn’t go half as poorly as that.” Kal listened with curiosity. He’d never met his mother’s parents; they weren’t often spoken of. Soon, the three of them reached the south side of town. A crowd was gathered, and Tien was already there, waiting. He waved in his excitable way, jumping up and down. “Wish I had half that boy’s energy,” Lirin said. “I’ve got a place for us picked out!” Tien called eagerly, pointing. “By the rain barrels! Come on! We’re going to miss it!” Tien scurried over, climbing atop the barrels. Several of the town’s other boys noticed him, and they nudged one another, one making some comment Kal couldn’t hear. It set the others laughing at Tien, and that immediately made Kal furious. Tien didn’t deserve mockery just because he was a little small for his age. This wasn’t a good time to confront the other boys, though, so Kal sullenly joined his parents beside the barrels. Tien smiled at him, standing atop his barrel. He’d piled a few of his favorite rocks near him, stones of different colors and shapes. There were rocks all around them, and yet Tien was the only person he knew who found wonder in them. After a moment’s consideration, Kal climbed atop a barrel—careful not to disturb any of Tien’s rocks—so he too could get a better view of the citylord’s procession. It was enormous. There must have been a dozen wagons in that line, following a fine black carriage pulled by four sleek black horses. Kal gawked despite himself. Wistiow had only owned one horse, and it had seemed as old as he was. Could one man, even a lighteyes, own that much furniture? Where would he put it all? And there were people too. Dozens of them, riding in the wagons, walking in groups. There were also a dozen soldiers in gleaming breastplates and leather skirts. This lighteyes even had his own honor guard. Eventually the procession reached the turn-off to Hearthstone. A man riding a horse led the carriage and its soldiers forward to the
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town while most of the wagons continued up to the manor. Kal grew increasingly excited as the carriage rolled slowly into place. Would he finally get to see a real, lighteyed hero? The word around town claimed it was likely that the new citylord would be someone King Gavilar or Highprince Sadeas had promoted because he’d distinguished himself in the wars to unite Alethkar. The carriage turned sideways so that the door faced the crowd. The horses snorted and stomped the ground, and the carriage driver hopped down and quickly opened the door. A middle-aged man with a short, grey-streaked beard stepped out. He wore a ruffled violet coat, tailored so that it was short at the front—reaching only to his waist—but long at the back. Beneath it, he wore a golden takama, a long, straight skirt that went down to his calves. A takama. Few wore them anymore, but old soldiers in town spoke of the days when they’d been popular as warrior’s garb. Kal hadn’t expected the takama to look so much like a woman’s skirt, but still, it was a good sign. Roshone himself seemed a little too old, a little too flabby, to be a true soldier. But he wore a sword. The lighteyed man scanned the crowd, a distasteful look on his face, as if he’d swallowed something bitter. Behind the man, two people peeked out. A younger man with a narrow face and an older woman with braided hair. Roshone studied the crowd, then shook his head and turned around to climb back in the carriage. Kal frowned. Wasn’t he going to say anything? The crowd seemed to share Kal’s shock; a few of them began whispering in anxiety. “Brightlord Roshone!” Kal’s father called. The crowd hushed. The lighteyed man glanced back. People shied away, and Kal found himself shrinking down beneath that harsh gaze. “Who spoke?” Roshone demanded, his voice a low baritone. Lirin stepped forward, raising a hand. “Brightlord. Was your trip pleasant? Please, can we show you the town?” “What is your name?” “Lirin, Brightlord. Hearthstone’s surgeon.” “Ah,” Roshone said. “You’re the one who let old Wistiow die.” The brightlord’s expression darkened. “In a way, it’s your fault I’m in this pitiful, miserable quarter of the kingdom.” He grunted, then climbed back in the carriage and slammed the door. Within seconds, the carriage driver had replaced the stairs, climbed into his place, and started turning the vehicle around. Kal’s father slowly let his arm fall to his side. The townspeople began to chatter immediately, gossiping about the soldiers, the carriage, the horses. Kal sat down on his barrel. Well, he thought. I guess we could expect a warrior to be curt, right? The heroes from the legends weren’t necessarily the polite types. Killing people and fancy talking didn’t always go together, old Jarel had once told him. Lirin walked back, his expression troubled. “Well?” Hesina said, trying to sound cheerful. “What do you think? Did we throw the queen or the tower?” “Neither.” “Oh? And what did we throw instead?” “I’m not sure,”
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he said, glancing over his shoulder. “A pair and a trio, maybe. Let’s get back home.” Tien scratched his head in confusion, but the words weighed on Kal. The tower was three pairs in a game of breakneck. The queen was two trios. The first was an outright loss, the other an outright win. But a pair and a trio, that was called the butcher. Whether you won or not would depend on the other throws you made. And, more importantly, on the throws of everyone else. “I stood in the darkened monastery chamber,’” Litima read, standing at the lectern with the tome open before her, “‘its far reaches painted with pools of black where light did not wander. I sat on the floor, thinking of that dark, that Unseen. I could not know, for certain, what was hidden in that night. I suspected there were walls, sturdy and thick, but could I know without seeing? When all was hidden, what could a man rely upon as True?’” Litima—one of Dalinar’s scribes—was tall and plump and wore a violet silk gown with yellow trim. She read to Dalinar as he stood, regarding the maps on the wall of his sitting room. That room was fitted with handsome wood furnishings and fine woven rugs imported up from Marat. A crystal carafe of afternoon wine—orange, not intoxicating—sat on a high-legged serving table in the corner, sparkling with the light of the diamond spheres hanging in chandeliers above. “‘Candle flames,’” Litima continued. The selection was from The Way of Kings, read from the very copy that Gavilar had once owned. “‘A dozen candles burned themselves to death on the shelf before me. Each of my breaths made them tremble. To them, I was a behemoth, to frighten and destroy. And yet, if I strayed too close, they could destroy me. My invisible breath, the pulses of life that flowed in and out, could end them freely, while my fingers could not do the same without being repaid in pain.’” Dalinar idly twisted his signet ring in thought; it was sapphire with his Kholin glyphpair on it. Renarin stood next to him, wearing a coat of blue and silver, golden knots on the shoulders marking him as a prince. Adolin wasn’t there. Dalinar and he had been stepping gingerly around one another since their argument in the Gallery. “‘I understood in a moment of stillness,’” Litima read. “‘Those candle flames were like the lives of men. So fragile. So deadly. Left alone, they lit and warmed. Let run rampant, they would destroy the very things they were meant to illuminate. Embryonic bonfires, each bearing a seed of destruction so potent it could tumble cities and dash kings to their knees. In later years, my mind would return to that calm, silent evening, when I had stared at rows of living lights. And I would understand. To be given loyalty is to be infused like a gemstone, to be granted the frightful license to destroy not only one’s self, but all within one’s care.’” Litima fell still.
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It was the end of the sequence. “Thank you, Brightness Litima,” Dalinar said. “That will do.” The woman bowed her head respectfully. She gathered her youthful ward from the side of the room and they withdrew, leaving the book on the lectern. That sequence had become one of Dalinar’s favorites. Listening to it often comforted him. Someone else had known, someone else had understood, how he felt. But today, it didn’t bring the solace it usually did. It only reminded him of Adolin’s arguments. None had been things Dalinar hadn’t considered himself, but being confronted with them by someone he trusted had shaken everything. He found himself staring at his maps, smaller copies of those that hung in the Gallery. They had been recreated for him by the royal cartographer, Isasik Shulin. What if Dalinar’s visions really were just phantasms? He’d often longed for the glory days of Alethkar’s past. Were the visions his mind’s answer to that, a subconscious way of letting himself be a hero, of giving himself justification for doggedly seeking his goals? A disturbing thought. Looked at another way, those phantom commands to “unify” sounded a great deal like what the Hierocracy had said when it had tried to conquer the world five centuries before. Dalinar turned from his maps and walked across the room, his booted feet falling on a soft rug. Too nice a rug. He’d spent the better part of his life in one warcamp or another; he’d slept in wagons, stone barracks, and tents pulled tight against the leeward side of stone formations. Compared with that, his present dwelling was practically a mansion. He felt as if he should cast out all of this finery. But what would that accomplish? He stopped at the lectern and ran his fingers along the thick pages filled with lines in violet ink. He couldn’t read the words, but he could almost feel them, emanating from the page like Stormlight from a sphere. Were the words of this book the cause of his problems? The visions had started several months after he’d first listened to readings from it. He rested his hand on the cold, ink-filled pages. Their homeland was stressed nearly to breaking, the war was stalled, and suddenly he found himself captivated by the very ideals and myths that had led to his brother’s downfall. This was a time the Alethi needed the Blackthorn, not an old, tired soldier who fancied himself a philosopher. Blast it all, he thought. I thought I’d figured this out! He closed the leather-bound volume, the spine crackling. He carried it to the bookshelf and returned it to its place. “Father?” Renarin asked. “Is there something I can do for you?” “I wish there were, son.” Dalinar tapped the spine of the book lightly. “It’s ironic. This book was once considered one of the great masterpieces of political philosophy. Did you know that? Jasnah told me that kings around the world used to study it daily. Now, it is considered borderline blasphemous.” Renarin gave no reply. “Regardless,” Dalinar said, walking back
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to the wall map. “Highprince Aladar refused my offer of an alliance, just as Roion did. Do you have a thought on whom should I approach next?” “Adolin says we should be far more worried about Sadeas’s ploy to destroy us than we are.” The room fell silent. Renarin had a habit of doing that, felling conversations like an enemy archer hunting officers on the battlefield. “Your brother is right to worry,” Dalinar said. “But moving against Sadeas would undermine Alethkar as a kingdom. For the same reason, Sadeas won’t risk acting against us. He’ll see.” I hope. Horns suddenly sounded outside, their deep, resounding calls echoing. Dalinar and Renarin froze. Parshendi spotted on the Plains. A second set came. Twenty-third plateau of the second quadrant. Dalinar’s scouts thought the contested plateau close enough for their forces to reach first. Dalinar dashed across the room, all other thoughts discarded for the moment, his booted feet thumping on the thick rug. He threw open the door and charged down the Stormlight-illuminated hallway. The war room door was open, and Teleb—highofficer on duty—saluted as Dalinar entered. Teleb was a straight-backed man with light green eyes. He kept his long hair in a braid and had a blue tattoo on his cheek, marking him as an Oldblood. At the side of the room, his wife, Kalami, sat behind a long-legged desk on a high stool. She wore her dark hair with only two small side braids pinned up, the rest hanging down the back of her violet dress to brush the top of the stool. She was a historian of note, and had requested permission to record meetings like this one; she planned to scribe a history of the war. “Sir,” Teleb said. “A chasmfiend crawled atop the plateau here less than a quarter hour ago.” He pointed to the battle map, which had glyphs marking each plateau. Dalinar stepped up to it, a group of his officers gathering around him. “How far would you say that is?” Dalinar asked, rubbing his chin. “Perhaps two hours,” Teleb said, indicating a route one of his men had drawn on the map. “Sir, I think we have a good chance at this one. Brightlord Aladar will have to traverse six unclaimed plateaus to reach the contested area, while we have a nearly direct line. Brightlord Sadeas would have trouble, as he’d have to work his way around several large chasms too wide to cross with bridges. I’ll bet he won’t even try for it.” Dalinar did, indeed, have the most direct line. He hesitated, though. It had been months since he’d last gone on a plateau run. His attention had been diverted, his troops needed for protecting roadways and patrolling the large markets that had grown up outside the warcamps. And now, Adolin’s questions weighed upon him, pressing him down. It seemed like a terrible time to go out to battle. No, he thought. No, I need to do this. Winning a plateau skirmish would do much for his troops’ morale, and would help discredit the rumors
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in camp. “We march!” Dalinar declared. A few of the officers whooped in excitement, an extreme show of emotion for the normally reserved Alethi. “And your son, Brightlord?” Teleb asked. He’d heard of the confrontation between them. Dalinar doubted there was a person in all ten warcamps who hadn’t heard of it. “Send for him,” Dalinar said firmly. Adolin probably needed this as much as, or more than, Dalinar did. The officers scattered. Dalinar’s armor bearers entered a moment later. It had only been a few minutes since the horns had sounded, but after six years of fighting, the machine of war ran smoothly when battle called. From outside, he heard the horns’ third set begin, calling his forces to battle. The armor bearers inspected his boots—checking to be certain the laces were tight—then brought a long padded vest to throw over his uniform. Next, they set the sabatons—armor for his boots—on the floor before him. They encased his boots entirely and had a rough surface on the bottoms that seemed to cling to rock. The interiors glowed with the light of the sapphires in their indented pockets. Dalinar was reminded of his most recent vision. The Radiant, his armor glowing with glyphs. Modern Shardplate didn’t glow like that. Could his mind have fabricated that detail? Would it have? No time to consider that now, he thought. He discarded his uncertainties and worries, something he’d learned to do during his first battles as a youth. A warrior needed to be focused. Adolin’s questions would still be waiting for him when he got back. For now, he couldn’t afford self-doubt or uncertainty. It was time to be the Blackthorn. He stepped into the sabatons, and the straps tightened of their own accord, fitting around his boots. The greaves came next, going over his legs and knees, locking on to the sabatons. Shardplate wasn’t like ordinary armor; there was no mesh of steel mail and no leather straps at the joints. Shardplate seams were made of smaller plates, interlocking, overlapping, incredibly intricate, leaving no vulnerable gaps. There was very little rubbing or chafing; each piece fit together perfectly, as if it had been crafted specifically for Dalinar. One always put the armor on from the feet upward. Shardplate was extremely heavy; without the enhanced strength it provided, no man would be able to fight in it. Dalinar stood still as the armor bearers affixed the cuisses over his thighs and locked them to the culet and faulds across his waist and lower back. A skirt made of small, interlocking plates came next, reaching down to just above the knees. “Brightlord,” Teleb said, stepping up to him. “Have you given thought to my suggestion about the bridges?” “You know how I feel about man-carried bridges, Teleb,” Dalinar said as the armor bearers locked his breastplate into place, then worked on the rerebraces and vambraces for his arms. Already, he could feel the strength of the Plate surging through him. “We wouldn’t have to use the smaller bridges for the assault,” Teleb said. “Just for getting
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to the contested plateau.” “We’d still have to bring the chull-pulled bridges to get across that last chasm,” Dalinar said. “I’m not convinced that bridge crews would move us any more quickly. Not when we have to wait for those animals.” Teleb sighed. Dalinar reconsidered. A good officer was one who accepted orders and fulfilled them, even when he disagreed. But the mark of a great officer was that he also tried to innovate and offer appropriate suggestions. “You may recruit and train a single bridge crew,” Dalinar said. “We shall see. In these races, even a few minutes can be meaningful.” Teleb smiled. “Thank you, sir.” Dalinar waved with his left hand as the armor bearers locked the gauntlet onto his right. He made a fist, tiny plates curving perfectly. The left gauntlet followed. Then the gorget went over his head, covering his neck, the pauldrons on his shoulders, and the helm on his head. Finally, the armor bearers affixed his cape to the pauldrons. Dalinar took a deep breath, feeling the Thrill build for the approaching battle. He strode from the war room, footfalls firm and solid. Attendants and servants scattered before him, making way. Wearing Shardplate again after a long period without was like waking up after a night of feeling groggy or disoriented. The spring of the step, the impetus the armor seemed to lend him, made him want to race down the hallway and— And why not? He broke into a sprint. Teleb and the others cried out in surprise, rushing to keep up. Dalinar outpaced them easily, reaching the front gates of the complex and leaping through, throwing himself off the long steps leading down from his enclave. He exulted, grinning as he hung in the air, then slammed to the ground. The force cracked the stone beneath him, and he crouched into the impact. Before him, neat rows of barracks ran through his warcamp, formed in radials with a meeting ground and mess hall at the center of each battalion. His officers reached the top of the stairs, looking down with amazement. Renarin was with them, wearing his uniform that had never seen battle, his hand raised against the sunlight. Dalinar felt foolish. Was he a youth just given his first taste of Shardplate? Back to work. Stop playing. Perethom, his infantrylord, saluted as Dalinar strode up. “Second and Third Battalions are on duty today, Brightlord. Forming ranks to march.” “First Bridge Squad is gathered, Brightlord,” Havarah—the bridgelord—said, striding up. He was a short man, with some Herdazian blood in him as evidenced by his dark, crystalline fingernails, though he didn’t wear a spark-flicker. “I have word from Ashelem that the archery company is ready.” “Cavalry?” Dalinar asked. “And where is my son?” “Here, Father,” called a familiar voice. Adolin—his Shardplate painted a deep Kholin blue—made his way through the gathering crowd. His visor was up, and he looked eager, though when he met Dalinar’s eyes, he glanced away immediately. Dalinar held up a hand, quieting several officers who were trying to give him reports.
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He strode to Adolin, and the youth looked up, meeting his gaze. “You said what you felt you must,” Dalinar said. “And I’m not sorry I did,” Adolin replied. “But I am sorry for how, and where, I said it. That won’t happen again.” Dalinar nodded, and that was enough. Adolin seemed to relax, a weight coming off his shoulders, and Dalinar turned back to his officers. In moments, he and Adolin were leading a hurried group to the staging area. As they did, Dalinar did note Adolin waving to a young woman who stood beside the way, wearing a red dress, her hair up in a very nice braiding. “Is that—er—” “Malasha?” Adolin said. “Yes.” “She looks nice.” “Most of the time she is, though she’s somewhat annoyed that I wouldn’t let her come with me today.” “She wanted to come into battle?” Adolin shrugged. “Says she’s curious.” Dalinar said nothing. Battle was a masculine art. A woman wanting to come to the battlefield was like…well, like a man wanting to read. Unnatural. Ahead, in the staging area, the battalions were forming ranks, and a squat lighteyed officer hurried up to Dalinar. He had patches of red hair on his otherwise dark Alethi head and a long, red mustache. Ilamar, the cavalrylord. “Brightlord,” he said, “my apologies for the delay. Cavalry is mounted and ready.” “We march, then,” Dalinar said. “All ranks—” “Brightlord!” a voice said. Dalinar turned as one of his messengers approached. The darkeyed man wore leathers marked with blue bands on the arms. He saluted, saying, “Highprince Sadeas has demanded admittance to the warcamp!” Dalinar glanced at Adolin. His son’s expression darkened. “He claims the king’s writ of investigation grants him the right,” the messenger said. “Admit him,” Dalinar said. “Yes, Brightlord,” the messenger said, turning back. One of the lesser officers, Moratel, went with him so that Sadeas could be welcomed and escorted by a lighteyes as befitted his station. Moratel was least among those in attendance; everyone understood he was the one Dalinar would send. “What do you think Sadeas wants this time?” Dalinar said quietly to Adolin. “Our blood. Preferably warm, perhaps sweetened with a shot of tallew brandy.” Dalinar grimaced, and the two of them hurried past the ranks of soldiers. The men had an air of anticipation, spears held high, darkeyed citizen officers standing at the sides with axes on their shoulders. At the front of the force, a group of chulls snorted and rummaged at the rocks by their feet; harnessed to them were several enormous mobile bridges. Gallant and Adolin’s white stallion Sureblood were waiting, their reins held at the ready by grooms. Ryshadium hardly needed handlers. Once, Gallant had kicked open his stall and made his way to the staging grounds on his own when a groom had been too slow. Dalinar patted the midnight destrier on the neck, then swung into the saddle. He scanned the staging field, then raised his arm to give the command to move. However, he noticed a group of mounted men riding up to
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the staging field, led by a figure in dark red Shardplate. Sadeas. Dalinar stifled a sigh and gave the command to move out, though he himself waited for the Highprince of Information. Adolin came over on Sureblood, and he gave Dalinar a glance that seemed to say, “Don’t worry, I’ll behave.” As always, Sadeas was a model of fashion, his armor painted, his helm ornamented with a completely different metallic pattern than he had worn last time. This one was shaped like a stylized sunburst. It looked almost like a crown. “Brightlord Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “This is an inconvenient time for your investigation.” “Unfortunately,” Sadeas said, reining in. “His Majesty is very eager to have answers, and I cannot stop my investigation, even for a plateau assault. I need to interview some of your soldiers. I’ll do it on the way out.” “You want to come with us?” “Why not? I won’t delay you.” He glanced at the chulls, who lurched into motion, pulling the bulky bridges. “I doubt that even were I to decide to crawl, I could slow you any further.” “Our soldiers need to concentrate on the upcoming battle, Brightlord,” Adolin said. “They should not be distracted.” “The king’s will must be done,” Sadeas said, shrugging, not even bothering to look at Adolin. “Need I present the writ? Surely you don’t intend to forbid me.” Dalinar studied his former friend, looking into those eyes, trying to see into the man’s soul. Sadeas lacked his characteristic smirk; he usually wore one of those when he was pleased with how a plot was going. Did he realize that Dalinar knew how to read his expressions, and so masked his emotions? “No need to present anything, Sadeas. My men are at your disposal. If you have need of anything, simply ask. Adolin, with me.” Dalinar turned Gallant and galloped down the line toward the front of the marching army. Adolin followed reluctantly, and Sadeas remained behind with his attendants. The long ride began. The permanent bridges here were Dalinar’s, maintained and guarded by his soldiers and scouts, connecting plateaus that he controlled. Sadeas spent the trip riding near the middle of the column of two thousand. He periodically sent an attendant to pull certain soldiers out of line. Dalinar spent the ride mentally preparing himself for the battle ahead. He spoke with his officers about the layout of the plateau, got a report on where specifically the chasmfiend had chosen to make its chrysalis, and sent scouts ahead to watch for Parshendi. Those scouts carried their long poles to get them from plateau to plateau without bridges. Dalinar’s force eventually reached the end of the permanent bridges, and had to start waiting for the chull bridges to be lowered across the chasms. The big machines were built like siege towers, with enormous wheels and armored sections at the side where soldiers could push. At a chasm, they unhooked the chulls, pushed the machine forward by hand, and ratcheted a crank at the back to lower the bridge. Once the bridge was set
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down, the machinery was unlocked and pulled across. The bridge was built so they could lock the machine onto the other side, pull the bridge up, then turn and hook the chulls up again. It was a slow process. Dalinar watched from horseback, fingers tapping the side of his hogshide saddle as the first chasm was spanned. Perhaps Teleb was right. Could they use lighter, more portable bridges to get across these early chasms, then resort to the siege bridges only for the final assault? A clatter of hooves on rock announced someone riding up the side of the column. Dalinar turned, expecting Adolin, and instead found Sadeas. Why had Sadeas asked to be Highprince of Information, and why was he so dogged in pursuing this matter of the broken girth? If he did decide to create some kind of false implication of Dalinar’s guilt… The visions told me to trust him, Dalinar told himself firmly. But he was growing less certain about them. How much dared he risk on what they’d said? “Your soldiers are quite loyal to you,” Sadeas noted as he arrived. “Loyalty is the first lesson of a soldier’s life,” Dalinar said. “I would be worried if these men hadn’t yet mastered it.” Sadeas sighed. “Really, Dalinar. Must you always be so sanctimonious?” Dalinar didn’t reply. “It’s odd, how a leader’s influence can affect his men,” Sadeas said. “So many of these are like smaller versions of you. Bundles of emotion, wrapped up and tied until they become stiff from the pressure. They’re so sure in some ways, yet so insecure in others.” Dalinar kept his jaw clenched. What is your game, Sadeas? Sadeas smiled, leaning in, speaking softly. “You want so badly to snap at me, don’t you? Even in the old days, you hated it when someone implied that you were insecure. Back then, your displeasure often ended with a head or two rolling across the stones.” “I killed many who did not deserve death,” Dalinar said. “A man should not fear losing his head because he took one too many sips of wine.” “Perhaps,” Sadeas said lightly. “But don’t you ever want to let it out, as you used to? Doesn’t it pound on you inside, like someone trapped within a large drum? Beating, banging, trying to claw free?” “Yes,” Dalinar said. The admission seemed to surprise Sadeas. “And the Thrill, Dalinar. Do you still feel the Thrill?” Men didn’t often speak of the Thrill, the joy and lust for battle. It was a private thing. “I feel each of the things you mention, Sadeas,” Dalinar said, eyes forward. “But I don’t always let them out. A man’s emotions are what define him, and control is the hallmark of true strength. To lack feeling is to be dead, but to act on every feeling is to be a child.” “That has the stink of a quote about it, Dalinar. From Gavilar’s little book of virtues, I assume?” “Yes.” “Doesn’t it bother you at all that the Radiants betrayed us?” “Legends. The Recreance is an event
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so old, it might as well be in the shadowdays. What did the Radiants really do? Why did they do it? We don’t know.” “We know enough. They used elaborate tricks to imitate great powers and pretend a holy calling. When their deceptions were discovered, they fled.” “Their powers were not lies. They were real.” “Oh?” Sadeas said, amused. “You know this? Didn’t you just say the event was so old, it might as well have been in the shadowdays? If the Radiants had such marvelous powers, why can nobody reproduce them? Where did those incredible skills go?” “I don’t know,” Dalinar said softly. “Perhaps we’re just not worthy of them any longer.” Sadeas snorted, and Dalinar wished he’d bitten his tongue. His only evidence for what he said was his visions. And yet, if Sadeas belittled something, he instinctively wanted to stand up for it. I can’t afford this. I need to be focused on the battle ahead. “Sadeas,” he said, determined to change the topic. “We need to work harder to unify the warcamps. I want your help, now that you’re Highprince of Information.” “To do what?” “To do what needs to be done. For the good of Alethkar.” “That’s exactly what I’m doing, old friend,” Sadeas said. “Killing Parshendi. Winning glory and wealth for our kingdom. Seeking vengeance. It would be best for Alethkar if you’d stop wasting so much time in camp—and stop talking of fleeing like cowards. It would be best for Alethkar if you’d start acting like a man again.” “Enough, Sadeas!” Dalinar said, more loudly than he’d intended. “I gave you leave to come along for your investigation, not to taunt me!” Sadeas sniffed. “That book ruined Gavilar. Now it’s doing the same to you. You’ve listened to those stories so much they’ve got your head full of false ideals. Nobody ever really lived the way the Codes claim.” “Bah!” Dalinar said, waving a hand and turning Gallant. “I don’t have time for your snideness today, Sadeas.” He trotted his horse away, furious at Sadeas, then even more furious at himself for losing his temper. He crossed the bridge, stewing, thinking of Sadeas’s words. He found himself remembering a day when he stood with his brother beside the Impossible Falls of Kholinar. Things are different now, Dalinar, Gavilar had said. I see now, in ways I never did before. I wish I could show you what I mean. It had been three days before his death. Ten heartbeats. Dalinar closed his eyes, breathing in and out—slowly, calmingly—as they prepared themselves behind the siege bridge. Forget Sadeas. Forget the visions. Forget his worries and fears. Just focus on the heartbeats. Nearby, chulls scraped the rock with their hard, carapaced feet. The wind blew across his face, smelling wet. It always smelled wet out here, in these humid stormlands. Soldiers clanked, leather creaked. Dalinar raised his head toward the sky, his heart thumping deep within him. The brilliant white sun stained his eyelids red. Men shifted, called, cursed, loosened swords in their sheaths, tested bowstrings. He could
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feel their tension, their anxiety mixed with excitement. Among them, anticipationspren began to spring from the ground, streamers connected by one side to the stone, the others whipping in the air. Some fearspren boiled up among them. “Are you ready?” Dalinar asked softly. The Thrill was rising within him. “Yes.” Adolin’s voice was eager. “You never complain about the way we attack,” Dalinar said, eyes still closed. “You never challenge me on this.” “This is the best way. They’re my men too. What is the point of being a Shardbearer if we cannot lead the charge?” The tenth heartbeat sounded in Dalinar’s chest; he could always hear the beats when he was summoning his Blade, no matter how loud the world around him was. The faster they passed, the sooner the blade arrived. So the more urgent you felt, the sooner you were armed. Was that intentional, or just some quirk of the Shardblade’s nature? Oathbringer’s familiar weight settled into his hand. “Go,” Dalinar said, snapping his eyes open. He slammed his visor down as Adolin did the same, Stormlight rising from the sides as the helms sealed shut and became translucent. The two of them burst out from behind the massive bridge—one Shardbearer on each side, a figure of blue and another of slate grey. The energy of the armor pulsed through Dalinar as he dashed across the stone ground, arms pumping in rhythm with his steps. The wave of arrows came immediately, loosed from the Parshendi kneeling on the other side of the chasm. Dalinar flung his arm up in front of his eye slit as arrows sprayed across him, scraping metal, some shafts snapping. It felt like running against a hailstorm. Adolin bellowed a war cry from the right, voice muffled by his helm. As they approached the chasm lip, Dalinar lowered his arm despite the arrows. He needed to be able to judge his approach. The gulf was mere feet away. His Plate gave him a surge of strength as he reached the edge of the chasm. Then leaped. For a moment, he soared above the inky chasm, cape flapping, arrows filling the air around him. He was reminded of the flying Radiant from his vision. But this was nothing so mystical, just a standard Shardplate-assisted jump. Dalinar cleared the chasm and crashed back to the ground on the other side, sweeping his Blade down and across to slay three Parshendi with a single blow. Their eyes burned black and smoke rose as they collapsed. He swung again. Bits of armor and weapons sprayed into the air where arrows had once flown, sheared free by his Blade. As always, it sliced apart anything inanimate, but blurred when it touched flesh, as if turning to mist. The way it reacted to flesh and cut steel so easily, it sometimes felt to Dalinar like he was swinging a weapon of pure smoke. As long as he kept the Blade in motion, it could not get caught in chinks or stopped by the weight of what it was cutting. Dalinar spun,
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sweeping out with his Blade in a line of death. He sheared through souls themselves, leaving Parshendi to drop dead to the ground. Then he kicked, tossing a corpse into the faces of the Parshendi nearby. A few more kicks sent corpses flying—a Plate-driven kick could easily send a body tumbling thirty feet—clearing the ground around him for better footing. Adolin hit the plateau not far away, spinning and falling into Windstance. Adolin shoved his shoulder into a group of archers, tossing them backward and throwing several into the chasm. Gripping his Shardblade with both hands, he did an initial sweep as Dalinar had, cutting down six enemies. The Parshendi were singing, many of them wearing beards that glowed with small uncut gemstones. Parshendi always sang as they fought; that song changed as they abandoned their bows—pulling out axes, swords, or maces—and threw themselves at the two Shardbearers. Dalinar put himself at the optimal distance from Adolin, allowing his son to protect his blind spots, but not getting too close. The two Shardbearers fought, still near the lip of the chasm, cutting down the Parshendi who tried desperately to push them backward by sheer force of numbers. This was their best chance to defeat the Shardbearers. Dalinar and Adolin were alone, without their honor guard. A fall from this height would certainly kill even a man in Plate. The Thrill rose within him, so sweet. Dalinar kicked away another corpse, though he didn’t need the extra room. They’d noticed that the Parshendi grew enraged when you moved their dead. He kicked another body, taunting them, drawing them toward him to fight in pairs as they often did. He cut down a group that came, singing in voices angry at what he’d done to their dead. Nearby, Adolin began to lay about him with punches as the Parshendi got too close; he was fond of the tactic, switching between using his sword in two hands or one. Parshendi corpses flew this way and that, bones and armor shattered by the blows, orange Parshendi blood spraying across the ground. Adolin moved back to his Blade a moment later, kicking away a corpse. The Thrill consumed Dalinar, giving him strength, focus, and power. The glory of the battle grew grand. He’d stayed away from this too long. He saw with clarity now. They did need to push harder, assault more plateaus, win the gemhearts. Dalinar was the Blackthorn. He was a natural force, never to be halted. He was death itself. He— He felt a sudden stab of powerful revulsion, a sickness so strong that it made him gasp. He slipped, partially on a patch of blood, but partially because his knees grew suddenly weak. The corpses before him suddenly seemed a horrifying sight. Eyes burned out like spent coals. Bodies limp and broken, bones shattered where Adolin had punched them. Heads cracked open, blood and brains and entrails spilled around them. Such butchery, such death. The Thrill vanished. How could a man enjoy this? The Parshendi surged toward him. Adolin was there in a
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heartbeat, attacking with more skill than any other man Dalinar had known. The lad was a genius with the Blade, an artist with paint of only one shade. He struck expertly, forcing the Parshendi back. Dalinar shook his head, recovering his stance. He forced himself to resume fighting, and as the Thrill began to rise again, Dalinar hesitantly embraced it. The odd sickness faded, and his battle reflexes took control. He spun into the Parshendi advance, sweeping out with his Blade in broad, aggressive strokes. He needed this victory. For himself, for Adolin, and for his men. Why had he been so horrified? The Parshendi had murdered Gavilar. It was right to kill them. He was a soldier. Fighting was what he did. And he did it well. The Parshendi advance unit broke before his assault, scattering back toward a larger mass of their troops, who were forming ranks in haste. Dalinar stepped back and found himself looking down at the corpses around him, with their blackened eyes. Smoke still curled from a few. The sick feeling returned. Life ended so quickly. The Shardbearer was destruction incarnate, the most powerful force on a battlefield. Once these weapons meant protecting, a voice inside of him whispered. The three bridges crashed to the ground a few feet away, and the cavalry charged across a moment later, led by compact Ilamar. A few windspren danced past in the air, nearly invisible. Adolin called for his horse, but Dalinar just stood, looking down at the dead. Parshendi blood was orange, and it smelled like mold. Yet their faces—marbled black or white and red—looked so human. A parshman nurse had practically raised Dalinar. Life before death. What was that voice? He glanced back across the chasm, toward where Sadeas—well outside of bow range—sat with his attendants. Dalinar could sense the disapproval in his ex-friend’s posture. Dalinar and Adolin risked themselves, taking a dangerous leap across the chasm. An assault of the type Sadeas had pioneered would cost more lives. But how many lives would Dalinar’s army lose if one of its Shardbearers was pushed into the chasm? Gallant charged across the bridge alongside a line of soldiers, who cheered for the Ryshadium. He slowed near Dalinar, who grabbed the reins. Right now, he was needed. His men were fighting and dying, and this was not a time for regret or second-guessing. A Plate-enhanced jump put him in the saddle. Then, Shardblade raised high, he charged into battle to kill for his men. That was not what the Radiants had fought for. But at least it was something. They won the battle. Dalinar stepped back, feeling fatigued as Adolin did the honors of harvesting the gemheart. The chrysalis itself sat like an enormous, oblong rockbud, fifteen feet tall and attached to the uneven stone ground by something that looked like crem. There were bodies all around it, some human, others Parshendi. The Parshendi had tried to get into it quickly and flee, but they’d only managed to get a few cracks into the shell. The fighting had been
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