For I have never been dedicated to a more important purpose, and the very pillars of the sky will shake with the results of our war here. I ask again. Support me. Do not stand aside and let disaster consume more lives. I’ve never begged you for something before, old friend. I do so now.
Adolin was frightened.
He stood beside his father on the staging ground. Dalinar looked… weathered. Creases running back from his eyes, furrows in his skin. Black hair going white like bleached rock along the sides. How could a man standing in full Shardplate—a man who yet retained a warrior’s frame despite his age—look fragile?
In front of them, two chulls followed their handler, stepping up onto the bridge. The wooden span linked two piles of cut stones, a mock chasm only a few feet deep. The chulls’ whiplike antennae twitched, mandibles clacking, fist-size black eyes glancing about. They pulled a massive siege bridge, rolling on creaking wooden wheels.
“That’s much wider than the bridges Sadeas uses,” Dalinar said to Teleb, who stood beside them.
“It’s necessary to accommodate the siege bridge, Brightlord.”
Dalinar nodded absently. Adolin suspected that he was the only one who could see that his father was distressed. Dalinar maintained his usual confident front, his head high, his voice firm when he spoke.
Yet, those eyes. They were too red, too strained. And when Adolin’s
father felt strained, he grew cold and businesslike. When he spoke to Teleb, his tone was too controlled.
Dalinar Kholin was suddenly a man laboring beneath great weight. And Adolin had helped put him there.
The chulls advanced. Their boulderlike shells were painted blue and yellow, the colors and pattern indicating the island of their Reshi handlers.
The bridge beneath them groaned ominously as the larger siege bridge rolled onto it. All around the staging area, soldiers turned to look. Even the workmen cutting a latrine into the stony ground on the eastern side stopped to watch.
The groans from the bridge grew louder. Then they became sharp cracks. The handlers halted the chulls, glancing toward Teleb.
“It’s not going to hold, is it?” Adolin asked.
Teleb sighed. “Storm it, I was hoping…Bah, we made the smaller bridge too thin when we widened it. But if we make it thicker, it will get too heavy to carry.” He glanced at Dalinar. “I apologize for wasting your time, Brightlord. You are correct; this is akin to the ten fools.”
“Adolin, what do you think?” Dalinar asked.
Adolin frowned. “Well…I think perhaps we should keep working with it. This is only the first attempt, Teleb. Perhaps there’s still a way. Design the siege bridges to be narrower, maybe?”
“That could be very costly, Brightlord,” Teleb said.
“If it helps us win one extra gemheart, the effort would be paid for several times over.”
“Yes,” Teleb said, nodding. “I will speak with Lady Kalana. Perhaps she can devise a new design.”
“Good,” Dalinar said. He stared at the bridge for an extended moment.
Then, oddly, he turned to look toward the other side of the staging area, where the workers had been cutting the latrine ditch.
“Father?” Adolin asked.
“Why do you suppose,” Dalinar said, “there are no Shardplate-like suits
for workmen?”
“What?”
“Shardplate gives awesome strength, but we rarely use it for anything other than war and slaughter. Why did the Radiants fashion only weapons?
Why didn’t they make productive tools for use by ordinary men?”
“I don’t know,” Adolin said. “Perhaps because war was the most
important thing around.”
“Perhaps,” Dalinar said, voice growing softer. “And perhaps that’s a final condemnation of them and their ideals. For all of their lofty claims, they never gave their Plate or its secrets to the common people.”
“I…I don’t understand why that’s important, Father.”
Dalinar shook himself slightly. “We should get on with our inspections.
Where’s Ladent?”
“Here, Brightlord.” A short man stepped up to Dalinar. Bald and bearded, the ardent wore thick, blue-grey layered robes from which his hands barely extended. The effect was of a crab who was too small for his shell. It looked terribly hot, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Send a messenger to the Fifth Battalion,” Dalinar told him. “We’ll be
visiting them next.”
“Yes, Brightlord.”
Adolin and Dalinar began to walk. They’d chosen to wear their Shardplate for this day’s inspections. That wasn’t uncommon; many Shardbearers found any excuse they could to wear Plate. Plus, it was good for the men to see their highprince and his heir in their strength.
They drew attention as they left the staging area and entered the warcamp proper. Like Adolin, Dalinar went about unhelmed, though the gorget of his armor was tall and thick, rising like a metal collar up to his chin.
He nodded to soldiers who saluted.
“Adolin,” Dalinar said. “In combat, do you feel the Thrill?”
Adolin started. He knew immediately what his father meant, but he was shocked to hear the words. This wasn’t often discussed. “I…Well, of course.
Who doesn’t?”
Dalinar didn’t reply. He had been so reserved lately. Was that pain in his eyes? The way he was before, Adolin thought, deluded but confident. That was actually better.
Dalinar said nothing more, and the two of them continued through the camp. Six years had let the soldiers settle in thoroughly. Barracks were painted with company and squad symbols, and the space between them was outfitted with firepits, stools, and canvas-shaded dining areas. Adolin’s father had forbidden none of this, though he had set guidelines to discourage sloppiness.
Dalinar had also approved most requests for families to be brought to the Shattered Plains. The officers already had their wives, of course—a good
lighteyes officer was really a team, the man to command and fight, the woman to read, write, engineer, and manage camp. Adolin smiled, thinking of Malasha. Would she prove to be the one for him? She’d been a little cold to him lately. Of course, there was Danlan. He’d only just met her, but he was intrigued.
Regardless, Dalinar had also approved requests by darkeyed common soldiers to bring their families. He even paid half of the cost. When Adolin had asked why, Dalinar had replied that he didn’t feel right forbidding them.
The warcamps were never attacked anymore, so there was no danger. Adolin suspected his father felt that since he was living in a luxurious near-palace, his men might as well have the comfort of their families.
And so it was that children played and ran through the camp. Women hung wash and painted glyphwards as men sharpened spears and polished breastplates. Barrack interiors had been partitioned to create rooms.
“I think you were right,” Adolin said as they walked, trying to draw his father out of his contemplations. “To let so many bring their families here, I mean.”
“Yes, but how many will leave when this is over?”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m not certain. The Shattered Plains are now a de facto Alethi province. How will this place appear in a hundred years? Will those rings of barracks become neighborhoods? The outer shops become markets? The hills to the west become fields for planting?” He shook his head. “The gemhearts will always be here, it seems. And so long as they are, there will be people here as well.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? So long as those people are Alethi.”
Adolin chuckled.
“Perhaps. And what will happen to the value of gemstones if we continue to capture gemhearts at the rate we have?”
“I…” That was a good question.
“What happens, I wonder, when the scarcest, yet most desirable, substance in the land suddenly becomes commonplace? There’s much going on here, son. Much we haven’t considered. The gemhearts, the Parshendi, the death of Gavilar. You will have to be ready to consider these things.”
“Me?” Adolin said. “What does that mean?”
Dalinar didn’t answer, instead nodding as the commander of the Fifth Battalion hastened up to them and saluted. Adolin sighed and saluted back.
The Twenty-first and Twenty-second Companies were doing close order drill here—an essential exercise whose true value few outside the military ever appreciated. The Twenty-third and Twenty-fourth Companies were doing extended order—or combat—drill, practicing the formations and movements used on the battlefield.
Fighting on the Shattered Plains was very different from regular warfare, as the Alethi had learned from some embarrassing early losses. The Parshendi were squat, muscular, and had that strange, skin-grown armor of theirs. It didn’t cover as fully as plate, but it was far more efficient than what most foot soldiers had. Each Parshendi was essentially an extremely mobile heavy infantryman.
The Parshendi always attacked in pairs, eschewing a regular line of battle. That should have made it easy for a disciplined line to defeat them.
But each pair of Parshendi had such momentum—and was so well armored— that they could break right through a shield wall. Alternatively, their jumping prowess could suddenly deposit entire ranks of Parshendi behind Alethi lines.
Beyond all that, there was that distinctive way they moved as a group in combat. They maneuvered with an inexplicable coordination. What had seemed at first to be mere barbarian savagery turned out to disguise something more subtle and dangerous.
They’d found only two reliable ways to defeat the Parshendi. The first was to use a Shardblade. Effective, but of limited application. The Kholin army had only two Blades, and while Shards were incredibly powerful, they needed proper support. An isolated, outnumbered Shardbearer could be tripped and toppled by his adversaries. In fact, the one time Adolin had seen a full Shardbearer fall to a regular soldier, it had happened because he had been swarmed by spearmen who broke his breastplate. Then a lighteyed archer had slain him from fifty paces, winning the Shards for himself. Not exactly a heroic end.
The other reliable way to fight Parshendi depended on quick-moving formations. Flexibility mixed with discipline: flexibility to respond to the uncanny way Parshendi fought, discipline to maintain lines and make up for individual Parshendi strength.
Havrom, Fifth Battalionlord, waited for Adolin and Dalinar with his companylords in a line. They saluted, right fists to right shoulders, knuckles outward.
Dalinar nodded to them. “Have my orders been seen to, Brightlord
Havrom?”
“Yes, Highprince.” Havrom was built like a tower, and wore a beard with long sides after the Horneater fashion, chin clean-shaven. He had relatives among the Peakfolk. “The men you wanted are waiting in the
audience tent.”
“What’s this?” Adolin asked.
“I’ll show you in a moment,” Dalinar said. “First, review the troops.”
Adolin frowned, but the soldiers were waiting. One company at a time, Havrom had the men fall in. Adolin walked before them, inspecting their lines and uniforms. They were neat and orderly, though Adolin knew that some of the soldiers in their army grumbled at the level of polish required of them. He happened to agree with them on that point.
At the end of the inspection, he questioned a few random men, asked their rank and if they had any specific concerns. None had any. Were they satisfied or just intimidated?
When he was done, Adolin returned to his father.
“You did that well,” Dalinar said.
“All I did was walk down a line.”
“Yes, but the presentation was good. The men know you care for their needs, and they respect you.” He nodded, as if to himself. “You’ve learned well.”
“I think you’re reading too much into a simple inspection, Father.”
Dalinar nodded to Havrom, and the battalionlord led the two of them to an audience tent near the side of the practice field. Adolin, puzzled, glanced at his father.
“I had Havrom gather the soldiers that Sadeas spoke to the other day,”
Dalinar said. “The ones he interviewed while we were on our way to the plateau assault.”
“Ah,” Adolin said. “We’ll want to know what he asked them.”
“Yes,” Dalinar said. He gestured for Adolin to enter before him, and they walked in—tailed by a few of Dalinar’s ardents. Inside, a group of ten soldiers waited on benches. They rose and saluted.
“At ease,” Dalinar said, clasping plated hands behind his back.
“Adolin?” Dalinar nodded toward the men, indicating that Adolin should take the lead in the questioning.
Adolin stifled a sigh. Again? “Men, we need to know what Sadeas asked you and how you responded.”
“Don’t worry, Brightlord,” said one of the men, speaking with a rural northern Alethi accent. “We didn’t tell him nothing.”
The others nodded vigorously.
“He’s an eel, and we know it,” another added.
“He is a highprince,” Dalinar said sternly. “You will treat him with
respect.”
The soldier paled, then nodded.
“What, specifically, did he ask you?” Adolin asked.
“He wanted to know our duties in the camp, Brightlord,” the man said.
“We’re grooms, you see.”
Each soldier was trained in one or two additional skills beyond those of combat. Having a group of soldiers who could care for horses was useful, as it kept civilians from plateau assaults.
“He asked around,” said one of the men. “Or, well, his people did.
Found out we were in charge of the king’s horse during the chasmfiend hunt.”
“But we didn’t say nothing,” the first soldier repeated. “Nothing to get you into trouble, sir. We’re not going to give that ee—er, that highprince, Brightlord sir, the rope to hang you, sir.”
Adolin closed his eyes. If they had acted this way around Sadeas, it would have been more incriminating than the cut girth itself. He couldn’t fault their loyalty, but they acted as if they assumed Dalinar had done something wrong, and needed to defend him.
He opened his eyes. “I spoke to some of you before, I recall. But let me ask again. Did any of you see a cut strap on the king’s saddle?”
The men looked at each other, shaking heads. “No, Brightlord,” one of the men replied. “If we’d seen it, we’d have changed it, right we would.”
“But, Brightlord,” one of the men added, “there was a lot of confusion that day, and a lot of people. Wasn’t a right regular plateau assault or nothing like that. And, well, to be honest, sir, who’d have thought that we’d need to protect the king’s saddle, of all things under the Halls?”
Dalinar nodded to Adolin, and they stepped out of the tent. “Well?”
“They probably didn’t do much to help our cause,” Adolin said with a grimace. “Despite their ardor. Or, rather, because of it.”
“Agreed, unfortunately.” Dalinar let out a sigh. He waved to Tadet; the short ardent was standing to the side of the tent. “Interview them separately,”
Dalinar told him softly. “See if you can tease specifics from them. Try to find
out the exact words Sadeas used, and what their exact responses were.”
“Yes, Brightlord.”
“Come, Adolin,” Dalinar said. “We’ve still got a few inspections to do.”
“Father,” Adolin said, taking Dalinar’s arm. Their armor clinked softly.
Dalinar turned to him, frowning, and Adolin made a quick gesture toward the Cobalt Guard. A request for space to speak. The guards moved efficiently and quickly, clearing a private space around the two men.
“What is this about, Father?” Adolin demanded softly.
“What? We’re doing inspections and seeing to camp business.”
“And in each case, you shove me out into the lead,” Adolin said.
“Awkwardly, in a few cases, I might add. What’s wrong? What’s going on inside that head of yours?”
“I thought you had a distinct problem with the things going on inside my
head.”
Adolin winced. “Father, I—”
“No, it’s all right, Adolin. I’m just trying to make a difficult decision. It helps me to move about while I do it.” Dalinar grimaced. “Another man might find a place to sit and brood, but that never seems to help me. I’ve got too much to do.”
“What is it you’re trying to decide?” Adolin asked. “Perhaps I can help.”
“You already have. I—” Dalinar cut off, frowning. A small force of soldiers was walking up to the Fifth Battalion’s practice yards. They were escorting a man in red and brown. Those were Thanadal’s colors.
“Don’t you have a meeting with him this evening?” Adolin asked.
“Yes,” Dalinar said.
Niter—head of the Cobalt Guard—ran to intercept the newcomers. He could be overly suspicious at times, but that wasn’t a terrible trait for a bodyguard to have. He returned to Dalinar and Adolin shortly. Tanfaced, Niter bore a black beard, cut short. He was a lighteyes of very low rank, and had been with the guard for years. “He says that Highprince Thanadal will be unable to meet with you today as planned.”
Dalinar’s expression grew dark. “I will speak to the runner myself.”
Reluctantly, Niter waved the spindly fellow forward. He approached and dropped to one knee before Dalinar. “Brightlord.”
This time, Dalinar didn’t ask for Adolin to take the lead. “Deliver your message.”
“Brightlord Thanadal regrets that he is unable to attend you this day.”
“And did he offer another time to meet?”
“He regrets to say that he has grown too busy. But he would be happy to speak with you at the king’s feast one evening.”
In public, Adolin thought, where half the men nearby will be eavesdropping while the other half—likely including Thanadal himself—will probably be drunk.
“I see,” Dalinar said. “And did he give any indication of when he’d no longer be so busy?”
“Brightlord,” the messenger said, growing uncomfortable. “He said that if you pressed, I should explain that he has spoken with several of the other highprinces, and feels he knows the nature of your inquiry. He said to tell you he does not wish to form an alliance, nor does he have any intention of going on a joint plateau assault with you.”
Dalinar’s expression grew darker. He dismissed the messenger with a wave, then turned to Adolin. The Cobalt Guard still kept a space open around them so they could talk.
“Thanadal was the last of them,” Dalinar said. Each highprince had turned him down in his own way. Hatham with exceeding politeness, Bethab by letting his wife give the explanation, Thanadal with hostile civility. “All of them but Sadeas, at least.”
“I doubt it would be wise to approach him with this, Father.”
“You’re probably right.” Dalinar’s voice was cold. He was angry.
Furious, even. “They’re sending me a message. They’ve never liked the influence I have over the king, and they’re eager to see me fall. They don’t want to do something I ask them to, just in case it might help me regain my
footing.”
“Father, I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps it’s for the best. The important point is that I have failed. I can’t get them to work together. Elhokar was right.” He looked to Adolin. “I would like you to continue inspections for me, son. There’s something I want
to do.”
“What?”
“Just some work I see needs to be done.”
Adolin wanted to object, but he couldn’t think of the words to say.
Finally, he sighed and gave a nod. “You’ll tell me what this is about,
though?”
“Soon,” Dalinar promised. “Very soon.”
Dalinar watched his son leave, striding purposefully away. He would make a good highprince. Dalinar’s decision was a simple one.
Was it time to step aside, and let his son take his place?
If he took this step, Dalinar would be expected to stay out of politics, retiring to his lands and leaving Adolin to rule. It was a painful decision to contemplate, and he had to be careful not to make it hastily. But if he really was going mad, as everyone in the camp seemed to believe, then he had to step down. And soon, before his condition progressed to the point that he no longer had the presence of mind to let go.
A monarch is control, he thought, remembering a passage from The Way of Kings. He provides stability. It is his service and his trade good. If he cannot control himself, then how can he control the lives of men? What merchant worth his Stormlight won’t partake of the very fruit he sells?
Odd, that those quotes still came to him, even as he was wondering if they had—in part—driven him to madness. “Niter,” he said. “Fetch my warhammer. Have it waiting for me at the staging field.”
Dalinar wanted to be moving, working, as he thought. His guards hastened to keep up as he strode down the pathway between the barracks of Battalions Six and Seven. Niter sent several men to fetch the weapon. His voice sounded strangely excited, as if he thought Dalinar was going to do something impressive.
Dalinar doubted he would think it so. He eventually strode out onto the staging field, cape fluttering behind him, plated boots clanking against the stones. He didn’t have to wait long for the hammer; it came pulled by two men on a small cart. Sweating, the soldiers heaved it from the cart, the haft as thick as a man’s wrist and the front of the head larger than an outspread palm.
Two men together could barely lift it.
Dalinar grabbed the hammer with one gauntleted hand, swinging it up to rest on his shoulder. He ignored the soldiers performing exercises on the field, walking to where the group of dirty workers chipped at the latrine ditch.
They looked up at him, horrified to see the highprince himself looming over
them in full Shardplate.
“Who’s in charge here?” Dalinar asked.
A scruffy civilian in brown trousers raised a nervous hand. “Brightlord,
how may we serve you?”
“By relaxing for a little while,” Dalinar said. “Out with you.”
The worried workers scrambled out. Lighteyed officers gathered behind, confused by Dalinar’s actions.
Dalinar gripped the haft of his warhammer in a gauntleted hand; the metal shaft was wrapped tightly with leather. Taking a deep breath, he leaped down into the half-finished ditch, lifted the hammer, then swung, slamming the weapon down against the rock.
A powerful crack rang across the practice field, and a wave of shock ran up Dalinar’s arms. The Shardplate absorbed most of the recoil, and he left a large crack in the stones. He hefted and swung again, this time breaking free a large section of rock. Though it would have been difficult for two or three regular men to lift, Dalinar grabbed it with one hand and tossed it aside. It clattered across the stones.
Where were the Shards for regular men? Why hadn’t the ancients, who were so wise, created anything to help them? As Dalinar continued to work, beats of his hammer throwing chips and dust into the air, he easily did the work of twenty men. Shardplate could be used for so many things to ease the lives of workers and darkeyes across Roshar.
It felt good to be working. To be doing something useful. Lately, he felt as if his efforts had been akin to running about in circles. The work helped him think.
He was losing his thirst for battle. That worried him, as the Thrill—the enjoyment and longing for war—was part of what drove the Alethi as a people. The grandest of masculine arts was to become a great warrior, and the most important Calling was to fight. The Almighty himself depended on the Alethi to train themselves in honorable battle so that when they died, they could join the Heralds’ army and win back the Tranquiline Halls.
And yet, thinking about killing was starting to sicken him. It had grown worse since that last bridge assault. What would happen next time he went into battle? He could not lead this way. That was a major reason that abdicating in favor of Adolin looked right.
He continued to swing. Again and again, beating against the stones.
Soldiers gathered above and—despite his orders—the workers did not leave to relax. They watched, dumbfounded, as a Shardbearer did their work.
Occasionally, he summoned his Blade and used it to cut the rock, slicing out sections before returning to the hammer to break them apart.
He probably looked ridiculous. He couldn’t do the work of all of the laborers in camp, and he had important tasks to fill his time. There was no reason for him to get down in a trench and toil. And yet it felt so good. So wonderful to pitch in directly with the needs of the camp. The results of what he did to protect Elhokar were often difficult to gauge; it was fulfilling to be able to do something where his progress was obvious.
But even in this, he was acting according to the ideals that had infected him. The book spoke of a king carrying the burdens of his people. It said that those who led were the lowest of men, for they were required to serve everyone. It all swirled around in him. The Codes, the teachings of the book, the things the visions—or delusions—showed.
Never fight other men except when forced to in war.
Bang!
Let your actions defend you, not your words.
Bang!
Expect honor from those you meet, and give them the chance to live up
to it.
Bang!
Rule as you would be ruled.
Bang!
He stood waist-deep in what would eventually be a latrine, his ears filled with the groans of breaking stone. He was coming to believe those ideals. No, he’d already come to believe them. Now he was living them. What would the world be like if all men lived as the book proclaimed?
Someone had to start. Someone had to be the model. In this, he had a reason not to abdicate. Whether or not he was mad, the way he now did things was better than the way Sadeas or the others did them. One needed only look at the lives of his soldiers and his people to see that was true.
Bang!
Stone could not be changed without pounding. Was it the same with a man like him? Was that why everything was so hard for him suddenly? But why him? Dalinar wasn’t a philosopher or idealist. He was a soldier. And—if he admitted the truth—in earlier years, he’d been a tyrant and a warmonger.
Could twilight years spent pretending to follow the precepts of better men erase a lifetime of butchery?
He had begun to sweat. The swath he had cut through the ground was as wide as a man was tall, as deep as his chest, and some thirty yards long. The
longer he worked, the more people gathered to watch and whisper.
Shardplate was sacred. Was the highprince really digging a latrine with it? Had the stress affected him that profoundly? Frightened of highstorms.
Growing cowardly. Refusing to duel or defend himself from slurs. Afraid of
fighting, wishing to give up the war.
Suspected of trying to kill the king.
Eventually, Teleb decided that letting all the people stare down at Dalinar wasn’t respectful, and he ordered the men back to their separate duties. He cleared away the workers, taking Dalinar’s order to heart and commanding them to sit in the shade and “converse in a lighthearted manner.” From someone else, that command might have been said with a smile, but Teleb was as literal as the rocks themselves.
Still Dalinar worked. He knew where the latrine was supposed to end; he’d approved the work order. A long, sloping trough was to be cut, then covered with oiled and tarred boards to seal in the scent. A latrine house would be set at the high end, and the contents could be Soulcast to smoke once every few months.
The work felt even better once he was alone. One man, breaking rocks, pounding beat after beat. Like the drums the Parshendi had played on that day so long past. Dalinar could feel those beats still, could hear them in his
mind, shaking him.
I’m sorry, brother.
He had spoken to the ardents about his visions. They felt that the visions were most likely a product of an overtaxed mind.
He had no reason to believe the truth of anything the visions showed him. In following them, he had done more than just ignore Sadeas’s maneuvers; he’d depleted his resources precariously. His reputation was on the brink of ruin. He was in danger of dragging down the entire Kholin house.
And that was the most important point in favor of him abdicating. If he continued, his actions could very well lead to the deaths of Adolin, Renarin, and Elhokar. He would risk his own life for his ideals, but could he risk the lives of his sons?
Chips sprayed, bouncing off his Plate. He was beginning to feel worn and tired. The Plate didn’t do the work for him—it enhanced his strength, so each strike of the hammer was his own. His fingers were growing numb from the repeated vibration of the hammer’s haft. He was close to a decision. His
mind was calm, clear.
He swung the hammer again.
“Wouldn’t the Blade be more efficient?” asked a dry, feminine voice.
Dalinar froze, the hammer’s head resting on broken stone. He turned to see Navani standing beside the trough, wearing a gown of blue and soft red, her grey-sprinkled hair reflecting light from a sun that was unexpectedly close to setting. She was attended by two young women—not her own wards, but ones she had “borrowed” from other lighteyed women in the camp.
Navani stood with her arms folded, the sunlight behind her like a halo.
Dalinar hesitantly raised an armored forearm to block the light. “Mathana?”
“The rockwork,” Navani said, nodding to the trough. “Now, I wouldn’t presume to make judgments; hitting things is a masculine art. But are you not in the possession of a sword that can cut through stone as easily as—I once had it described to me—a highstorm blows over a Herdazian?”
Dalinar looked back at the rocks. Then he raised his hammer again and slammed it into the stones, making a satisfying crunch. “Shardblades are too good at cutting.”
“Curious,” she said. “I’ll do my best to pretend there was sense in that.
As an aside, has it ever struck you that most masculine arts deal with destroying, while feminine arts deal with creation?”
Dalinar swung again. Bang! Remarkable how much easier it was to have a conversation with Navani while not looking directly at her. “I do use the Blade to cut down the sides and middle. But I still have to break up the rocks.
Have you ever tried to lift out a chunk of stone that has been sliced by a
Shardblade?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“It’s not easy.” Bang! “Blades make a very thin cut. The rocks still press against one another. It’s hard to grasp or move them.” Bang! “It’s more complicated than it seems.” Bang! “This is the best way.”
Navani dusted a few chips of stone from her dress. “And more messy, I
see.”
Bang!
“So, are you going to apologize?” she asked.
“For?”
“For missing our appointment.”
Dalinar froze in midswing. He’d completely forgotten that, at the feast when she’d first returned, he’d agreed to have Navani read for him today. He
hadn’t told his scribes of the appointment. He turned toward her, chagrined.
He’d been angered because Thanadal had canceled their appointment, but at least he had thought to send a messenger.
Navani stood with arms folded, safehand tucked away, sleek dress seeming to burn with sunlight. She bore a hint of a smile on her lips. By standing her up, he’d put himself—by honor—in her power.
“I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I’ve had some difficult things to consider lately, but that doesn’t excuse forgetting you.”
“I know. I’ll ponder a way to let you make up for the lapse. But for now, you should know that one of your spanreeds is flashing.”
“What? Which one?”
“Your scribes say it is the one bound to my daughter.”
Jasnah! It had been weeks since they’d last communicated; the messages he’d sent her had prompted only the tersest of answers. When Jasnah was deeply immersed in one of her projects, she often ignored all else.
If she was sending to him now, either she’d discovered something or she was taking a break to renew her contacts.
Dalinar turned to look down the latrine. He’d nearly completed it; and he realized he’d been unconsciously planning to make his final decision once he reached the end. He itched to continue working.
But if Jasnah wanted to converse… He needed to talk with her. Perhaps he could persuade her to return to the Shattered Plains. He would feel a lot more secure about abdicating if he knew that she would come watch over Elhokar and Adolin.
Dalinar tossed aside his hammer—his pounding had bent the haft a good thirty degrees and the head was a misshapen lump—and jumped out of the ditch. He’d have a new weapon forged; that was not unusual for Shardbearers.
“Your pardon, Mathana,” Dalinar said, “but I fear I must beg your leave so soon after begging your forgiveness. I must receive this communication.”
He bowed to her and turned to hurry away.
“Actually,” Navani said from behind, “I think I’ll beg something of you.
It has been months since I’ve spoken with my daughter. I’ll join you, if you’ll permit it.”
He hesitated, but he couldn’t deny her so soon after giving her offense.
“Of course.” He waited as Navani walked to her palanquin and settled herself. The bearers lifted it, and Dalinar struck out again, the bearers and
Navani’s borrowed wards walking close.
“You are a kind man, Dalinar Kholin,” Navani said, that same sly smile on her lips as she sat back in the cushioned chair. “I’m afraid that I’m compelled to find you fascinating.”
“My sense of honor makes me easy to manipulate,” Dalinar said, eyes forward. Dealing with her was not something he needed right now. “I know it does. No need to toy with me, Navani.”
She laughed softly. “I’m not trying to take advantage of you, Dalinar, I —” She paused. “Well, perhaps I am taking advantage of you just a little. But I’m not ‘toying’ with you. This last year in particular, you’ve begun to be the person the others all claim that they are. Can’t you see how intriguing that
makes you?”
“I don’t do it to be intriguing.”
“If you did, it wouldn’t work!” She leaned toward him. “Do you know why I picked Gavilar instead of you all those years ago?”
Blast. Her comments—her presence—were like a goblet of darkwine poured into the middle of his crystal thoughts. The clarity he’d sought in hard labor was quickly vanishing. Did she have to be so forward? He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he picked up his pace and hoped that she’d see he didn’t want to discuss the topic.
It was no use. “I didn’t pick him because he would become king, Dalinar. Though that’s what everyone says. I chose him because you frightened me. That intensity of yours…it scared your brother too, you
know.”
He said nothing.
“It’s still in there,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes. But you’ve wrapped armor around it, a glistening set of Shardplate to contain it. That is part of what I find fascinating.”
He stopped, looking at her. The palanquin bearers halted. “This would
not work, Navani,” he said softly.
“Wouldn’t it?”
He shook his head. “I will not dishonor my brother’s memory.” He regarded her sternly, and she eventually nodded.
When he continued walking, she said nothing, though she did eye him slyly from time to time. Eventually, they reached his personal complex, marked by fluttering blue banners with the glyphpair khokh and linil, the former drawn in the shape of a crown, the second forming a tower.
Dalinar’s mother had drawn the original design, the same his signet ring bore, though Elhokar used a sword and crown instead.
The soldiers at the entrance to his complex saluted, and Dalinar waited for Navani to join him before entering. The cavernous interior was lit by infused sapphires. Once they reached his sitting chamber, he was again struck by just how lavish it had gotten over the months.
Three of his clerks waited with their attending girls. All six stood up when he entered. Adolin was also there.
Dalinar frowned at the youth. “Shouldn’t you be seeing to the inspections?”
Adolin started. “Father, I finished those hours ago.”
“You did?” Stormfather! How long did I spend pounding on those stones?
“Father,” Adolin said, stepping up to him. “Can we speak privately for a moment?” As usual, Adolin’s black-peppered blond hair was an unruly mop.
He’d changed from his Plate and bathed, and now he wore a fashionable— though battle-worthy—uniform with a long blue coat, buttoned at the sides, and straight, stiff brown trousers beneath.
“I’m not ready to discuss that as yet, son,” Dalinar said softly. “I need a little more time.”
Adolin studied him, eyes concerned. He will make a fine highprince, Dalinar thought. He’s been reared to it in a way that I never was.
“All right then,” Adolin said. “But there’s something else I want to ask you.” He pointed toward one of the clerks, a woman with auburn hair and only a few strands of black. She was lithe and long-necked, wearing a green dress, her hair arranged high on her head in a complex set of braids held together with four traditional steel hair-spikes.
“This is Danlan Morakotha,” Adolin said softly to Dalinar. “She came into camp yesterday to spend a few months with her father, Brightlord Morakotha. She has been calling on me recently, and I took the liberty of offering her a position among your clerks while she is here.”
Dalinar blinked. “What about…”
“Malasha?” Adolin sighed. “Didn’t work out.”
“And this one?” Dalinar asked, voice hushed, yet incredulous. “How long did you say she’s been in camp? Since yesterday? And you’ve already got her calling on you?”
Adolin shrugged. “Well, I do have a reputation to maintain.”
Dalinar sighed, eyeing Navani, who stood close enough to hear. She pretended—for propriety—that she wasn’t listening in. “You know, it is customary to eventually choose just one woman to court.” You’re going to need a good wife, son. Perhaps very soon.
“When I’m old and boring, perhaps,” Adolin said, smiling at the young woman. She was pretty. But only in camp one day? Blood of my ancestors, Dalinar thought. He’d spent three years courting the woman who’d eventually become his wife. Even if he couldn’t remember her face, he did remember how persistently he’d pursued her.
Surely he’d loved her. All emotion regarding her was gone, wiped from his mind by forces he should never have tempted. Unfortunately, he did remember how much he’d desired Navani, years before meeting the woman who would become his wife.
Stop that, he told himself. Moments ago, he’d been on the brink of deciding to abdicate his seat as highprince. It was no time to let Navani distract him.
“Brightness Danlan Morakotha,” he said to the young woman. “You are welcome among my clerks. I understand that I’ve received a communication?”
“Indeed, Brightlord,” the woman said, curtsying. She nodded to the line of five spanreeds sitting on his bookshelf, set upright in pen holders. The spanreeds looked like ordinary writing reeds, except that each had a small infused ruby affixed. The one on the far right pulsed slowly.
Litima was there, and though she had seniority, she nodded for Danlan to fetch the spanreed. The young woman hurried to the bookshelf and moved the still-blinking reed to the small writing desk beside the lectern. She carefully clipped a piece of paper onto the writing board and put the ink vial into its hole, twisting it snugly into place and then pulling the stopper.
Lighteyed women were very proficient at working with just their freehand.
She sat down, looking up at him, seeming slightly nervous. Dalinar didn’t trust her, of course—she could easily be a spy for one of the other highprinces. Unfortunately, there weren’t any women in camp he trusted completely, not with Jasnah gone.
“I am ready, Brightlord,” Danlan said. She had a breathy, husky voice.
Just the type that attracted Adolin. He hoped she wasn’t as vapid as those he usually picked.
“Proceed,” Dalinar said, waving Navani toward one of the room’s plush
easy chairs. The other clerks sat back down on their bench.
Danlan turned the spanreed’s gemstone one notch, indicating that the request had been acknowledged. Then she checked the levels on the sides of the writing board—small vials of oil with bubbles at the center, which allowed her to make the board perfectly flat. Finally, she inked the reed and placed it on the dot at the top left of the page. Holding it upright, she twisted the gemstone setting one more time with her thumb. Then she removed her hand.
The reed remained in place, tip against the paper, hovering as if held in a phantom hand. Then it began to write, mimicking the exact movements Jasnah made miles away, writing with a reed conjoined to this one.
Dalinar stood beside the writing table, armored arms folded. He could see that his proximity made Danlan nervous, but he was too anxious to sit.
Jasnah had elegant handwriting, of course—Jasnah rarely did anything without taking the time to perfect it. Dalinar leaned forward as the familiar— yet indecipherable—lines appeared on the page in stark violet. Faint wisps of reddish smoke floated up from the gemstone.
The pen stopped writing, freezing in place.
“‘Uncle,’” Danlan read, “‘I presume that you are well.’”
“Indeed,” Dalinar replied. “I am well cared for by those around me.”
The words were code indicating that he didn’t trust—or at least didn’t know —everyone listening. Jasnah would be careful not to send anything too sensitive.
Danlan took the pen and twisted the gemstone, then wrote out the words, sending them across the ocean to Jasnah. Was she still in Tukar? After Danlan finished writing, she returned it to the dot at the top left—the spot where the pens were both to be placed so Jasnah could continue the conversation—then turned the gemstone back to the previous setting.
“‘As I expected, I have found my way to Kharbranth,’” Danlan read.
“‘The secrets I seek are too obscure to be contained even in the Palanaeum, but I find hints. Tantalizing fragments. Is Elhokar well?’”
Hints? Fragments? Of what? She had a penchant for drama, Jasnah did, though she wasn’t as flamboyant about it as the king.
“Your brother tried very hard to get himself killed by a chasmfiend a few weeks back,” Dalinar replied. Adolin smiled at that, leaning with his shoulder against the bookcase. “But evidently the Heralds watch over him.
He is well, though your presence here is sorely missed. I’m certain he could
use your counsel. He is relying heavily on Brightness Lalai to act as clerk.”
Perhaps that would make Jasnah return. There was little love lost between herself and Sadeas’s cousin, who was the king’s head scribe in the queen’s absence.
Danlan scratched away, writing the words. To the side, Navani cleared her throat.
“Oh,” Dalinar said, “add this: Your mother is here in the warcamps again.”
A short time later, the pen wrote of its own volition. “‘Send my mother my respect. Keep her at arm’s length, Uncle. She bites.’”
From the side, Navani sniffed, and Dalinar realized he hadn’t signaled that Navani was actually listening. He blushed as Danlan continued speaking.
“‘I cannot speak of my work via spanreed, but I’m growing increasingly concerned. There is something here, hidden by the sheer number of accrued pages in the historical record.’”
Jasnah was a Veristitalian. She’d explained it to him once; they were an order of scholars who tried to find the truth in the past. They wished to create unbiased, factual accounts of what had happened in order to extrapolate what to do in the future. He wasn’t clear on why they thought themselves different
from regular historians.
“Will you be returning?” Dalinar asked.
“‘I cannot say,’” Danlan read after the reply came. “‘I do not dare stop my research. But a time may soon come when I dare not stay away either.’”
What? Dalinar thought.
“‘Regardless,’” Danlan continued, “‘I have some questions for you. I need you to describe for me again what happened when you met that first Parshendi patrol seven years ago.’”
Dalinar frowned. Despite the Plate’s augmentation, his digging had left him feeling tired. But he didn’t dare sit on one of the room’s chairs while wearing his Plate. He took off one of his gauntlets, though, and ran his hand through his hair. He wasn’t fond of this topic, but part of him was glad of the distraction. A reason to hold off on making a decision that would change his life forever.
Danlan looked at him, prepared to dictate his words. Why did Jasnah want this story again? Hadn’t she written an account of these very events in her biography of her father?
Well, she would eventually tell him why, and—if her past revelations
were any indication—her current project would be of great worth. He wished Elhokar had received a measure of his sister’s wisdom.
“These are painful memories, Jasnah. I wish I’d never convinced your father to go on that expedition. If we’d never discovered the Parshendi, then they couldn’t have assassinated him. The first meeting happened when we were exploring a forest that wasn’t on the maps. This was south of the Shattered Plains, in a valley about two weeks’ march from the Drying Sea.”
During Gavilar’s youth, only two things had thrilled him—conquest and hunting. When he hadn’t been seeking one, it had been the other. Suggesting the hunt had seemed rational at the time. Gavilar had been acting oddly, losing his thirst for battle. Men had started to say that he was weak. Dalinar had wanted to remind his brother of the good times in their youth. Hence the hunt for a legendary chasmfiend.
“Your father wasn’t with me when I ran across them,” Dalinar continued, thinking back. Camping on humid, forested hills. Interrogating Natan natives via translators. Looking for scat or broken trees. “I was leading scouts up a tributary of the Deathbend River while your father scouted downstream. We found the Parshendi camped on the other side. I didn’t believe it at first. Parshmen. Camped, free and organized. And they carried weapons. Not crude ones, either. Swords, spears with carved hafts…”
He trailed off. Gavilar hadn’t believed either, when Dalinar told him.
There was no such thing as a free parshman tribe. They were servants, and always had been servants.
“‘Did they have Shardblades then?’” Danlan said. Dalinar hadn’t realized that Jasnah had made a response.
“No.”
A scratched reply eventually came. “‘But they have them now. When did you first see a Parshendi Shardbearer?’”
“After Gavilar’s death,” Dalinar said.
He made the connection. They’d always wondered why Gavilar had wanted a treaty with the Parshendi. They wouldn’t have needed one just to harvest the greatshells on the Shattered Plains; the Parshendi hadn’t lived on the Plains then.
Dalinar felt a chill. Could his brother have known that these Parshendi had access to Shardblades? Had he made the treaty hoping to get out of them where they’d found the weapons?
Is it his death? Dalinar wondered. Is that the secret Jasnah’s looking
for? She’d never shown Elhokar’s dedication to vengeance, but she thought differently from her brother. Revenge wouldn’t drive her. But questions. Yes, questions would.
“‘One more thing, Uncle,’” Danlan read. “‘Then I can go back to digging through this labyrinth of a library. At times, I feel like a cairn robber, sifting through the bones of those long dead. Regardless. The Parshendi, you once mentioned how quickly they seemed to learn our language.’”
“Yes,” Dalinar said. “In a matter of days, we were speaking and communicating quite well. Remarkable.” Who would have thought that parshmen, of all people, had the wit for such a marvel? Most he’d known didn’t do much speaking at all.
“‘What were the first things they spoke to you about?’” Danlan said.
“‘The very first questions they asked? Can you remember?’”
Dalinar closed his eyes, remembering days with the Parshendi camped just across the river from them. Gavilar had become fascinated by them.
“They wanted to see our maps.”
“Did they mention the Voidbringers?”
Voidbringers? “Not that I recall. Why?”
“‘I’d rather not say right now. However, I want to show you something.
Have your scribe get out a new sheet of paper.’”
Danlan affixed a new page to the writing board. She put the pen to the corner and let go. It rose and began to scratch back and forth in quick, bold strokes. It was a drawing. Dalinar stood up and stepped closer, and Adolin crowded near. Reed and ink wasn’t the best medium, and drawing across spans wasn’t precise. The pen leaked tiny globs of ink in places it wouldn’t have on the other side, and though the inkwell was in the exact same place— allowing Jasnah to re-ink both her reed and Dalinar’s at the same time—his reed sometimes ran out before the one on the other side.
Still, the picture was marvelous. This isn’t Jasnah, Dalinar realized.
Whoever was doing the drawing was far, far more talented than his niece.
The picture resolved into a depiction of a tall shadow looming over some buildings. Hints of carapace and claws showed in the thin ink lines, and shadows were made by drawing finer lines close together.
Danlan set it aside, getting out a third sheet of paper. Dalinar held the drawing up, Adolin at his side. The nightmarish beast in the lines and shadows was faintly familiar. Like… “It’s a chasmfiend,” Adolin said, pointing. “It’s distorted—far more
menacing in the face and larger at the shoulders, and I don’t see its second set of foreclaws—but someone was obviously trying to draw one of them.”
“Yes,” Dalinar said, rubbing his chin.
“‘This is a depiction from one of the books here,’” Danlan read. “‘My new ward is quite skilled at drawing, and so I had her reproduce it for you.
Tell me. Does it remind you of anything?’”
A new ward? Dalinar thought. It had been years since Jasnah had taken one. She always said she didn’t have the time. “This picture’s of a chasmfiend,” Dalinar said.
Danlan wrote the words. A moment later, the reply came. “‘The book describes this as a picture of a Voidbringer.’” Danlan frowned, cocking her head. “‘The book is a copy of a text originally written in the years before the Recreance. However, the illustrations are copied from another text, even older. In fact, some think that picture was drawn only two or three generations after the Heralds departed.’”
Adolin whistled softly. That would make it very old indeed. So far as Dalinar understood, they had few pieces of art or writing dating from the shadowdays, The Way of Kings being one of the oldest, and the only complete text. And even it had survived only in translation; they had no copies in the original tongue.
“‘Before you jump to conclusions,’” Danlan read, “‘I’m not implying that the Voidbringers were the same thing as chasmfiends. I believe that the ancient artist didn’t know what a Voidbringer looked like, and so she drew the most horrific thing she knew of.’”
But how did the original artist know what a chasmfiend looked like?
Dalinar thought. We only just discovered the Shattered Plains— But of course. Though the Unclaimed Hills were now empty, they had once been an inhabited kingdom. Someone in the past had known about chasmfiends, known them well enough to draw one and label it a Voidbringer.
“‘I must go now,’” Jasnah said via Danlan. “‘Care for my brother in my absence, Uncle.’”
“Jasnah,” Dalinar sent, choosing his words very carefully. “Things are difficult here. The storm begins to blow unchecked, and the building shakes and moans. You may soon hear news that shocks you. It would be very nice if you could return and lend your aid.”
He waited quietly for the reply, the spanreed scratching. “‘I should like
to promise a date when I will come.’” Dalinar could almost hear Jasnah’s calm, cool voice. “‘But I cannot estimate when my research will be completed.’”
“This is very important, Jasnah,” Dalinar said. “Please reconsider.”
“‘Be assured, Uncle, that I am coming. Eventually. I just can’t say
when.’”
Dalinar sighed.
“‘Note,’” Jasnah wrote, “‘that I am most eager to see a chasmfiend for myself.’”
“A dead one,” Dalinar said. “I have no intention of letting you repeat your brother’s experience of a few weeks ago.”
“‘Ah,’” Jasnah sent back, “‘dear, overprotective Dalinar. One of these years, you will have to admit that your favored niece and nephew have grown up.’”
“I’ll treat you as adults so long as you act the part,” Dalinar said. “Come speedily, and we’ll get you a dead chasmfiend. Take care.”
They waited to see if a further response came, but the gem stopped blinking, Jasnah’s transmission complete. Danlan put away the spanreed and the board, and Dalinar thanked the clerks for their aid. They withdrew; Adolin looked as if he wanted to linger, but Dalinar gestured for him to leave.
Dalinar looked down at the picture of the chasmfiend again, unsatisfied.
What had he gained from the conversation? More vague hints? What could be so important about Jasnah’s research that she would ignore threats to the kingdom?
He would have to compose a more forthright letter to her once he’d made his announcement, explaining why he had decided to step down.
Perhaps that would bring her back.
And, in a moment of shock, Dalinar realized that he had made his decision. Sometime between leaving the trench and now, he’d stopped treating his abdication as an if and started thinking of it as a when. It was the right decision. He felt sick about it, but certain. A man sometimes needed to do things that were unpleasant.
It was the discussion with Jasnah, he realized. The talk of her father. He was acting like Gavilar at the end. That had nearly undermined the kingdom.
Well, he needed to stop himself before he got that far. Perhaps whatever was happening to him was some kind of disease of the mind, inherited from their parents. It—
“You are quite fond of Jasnah,” Navani said.
Dalinar started, turning away from the picture of the chasmfiend. He’d assumed she’d followed Adolin out. But she still stood there, looking at him.
“Why is it,” Navani said, “that you encourage her so strongly to return?”
He turned to face Navani, and realized that she’d sent her two youthful attendants out with the clerks. They were now alone.
“Navani,” he said. “This is inappropriate.”
“Bah. We’re family, and I have questions.”
Dalinar hesitated, then walked to the center of the room. Navani stood near the door. Blessedly, her attendants had left open the door at the end of the antechamber, and beyond it were two guards in the hall outside. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but so long as Dalinar could see the guards and they him, his conversation with Navani was just barely, proper.
“Dalinar?” Navani asked. “Are you going to answer me? Why is it you trust my daughter so much when others almost universally revile her?”
“I consider their disdain for her to be a recommendation,” he said.
“She is a heretic.”
“She refused to join any of the devotaries because she did not believe in their teachings. Rather than compromise for the sake of appearances, she has been honest and has refused to make professions she does not believe. I find that a sign of honor.”
Navani snorted. “You two are a pair of nails in the same doorframe.
Stern, hard, and storming annoying to pull free.”
“You should go now,” Dalinar said, nodding toward the hallway. He suddenly felt very exhausted. “People will talk.”
“Let them. We need to plan, Dalinar. You are the most important highprince in—”
“Navani,” he cut in. “I’m going to abdicate in favor of Adolin.”
She blinked in surprise.
“I’m stepping down as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements.
It will be a few days at most.” Speaking the words felt odd, as if saying them made his decision real.
Navani looked pained. “Oh, Dalinar,” she whispered. “This is a terrible mistake.”
“It is mine to make. And I must repeat my request. I have many things to think about, Navani, and I can’t deal with you right now.” He pointed at the doorway.
Navani rolled her eyes, but left as requested. She shut the door behind her.
That’s it, Dalinar thought, letting out a long exhalation. I’ve made the decision.
Too weary to remove his Plate unassisted, he sank down onto the floor, resting his head back against the wall. He would tell Adolin of his decision in the morning, then announce it at a feast within the week. From there, he
would return to Alethkar and his lands.
It was over.
THE END OF
Part Two
