“Zahel gave it to me when I finished my training with him,” Adolin said. “Says it’s from his homeland—they use these things as money. Weird, eh?”
“Why don’t they use spheres?”
“Maybe they don’t have enough gemstones? He’s from somewhere to the west. He doesn’t look like a foreigner though, so I’m guessing it must be Bavland.”
“This side might be a Herald,” Kaladin said, squinting at the strange glyphs. “What does it say?”
“‘War is the last option of the state that has failed,’” Adolin said, tapping the side with the divine robed figure. He pushed it to spin it in Kaladin’s fingers, showing the other side. “‘But it is better than having no options.’”
“Huh,” Kaladin said.
“Zahel told me,” Adolin said, “that he always considered himself a coward for training soldiers. He said that if he truly believed in stopping war, he’d walk away from the sword completely. Then he gave me the disc, and I knew he understood. In a perfect world, no one would have to train for battle. We don’t live in a perfect world.”
“How does this relate to me?” Kaladin asked.
“Well, there’s no shame in you taking time away from the sword. Maybe permanently. All the same, I know you enjoy it.”
“I shouldn’t enjoy killing,” Kaladin said softly. “I shouldn’t even enjoy the fight. I should hate it like my father does.”
“You can hate killing and enjoy the contest,” Adolin said. “Plus there are practical reasons to keep your skills up. Take these months to relax. When I return though, let’s find a chance to spar together again, all right? I want you to see what I see in duels. It’s not about hurting others. It’s about being your best.”
“I … don’t know if I can ever think like you do,” Kaladin said. He wrapped his fist around the metal disc. “But thank you. I’ll keep the offer in mind.”
Adolin clapped him on the shoulder, then glanced toward Syl. “I need to be off into Shadesmar. Any last tips for me?”
“Be careful, Adolin,” she said, flitting up into the air. “My kind aren’t like highspren—we don’t look to laws, but to morality, as our guide.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Adolin said.
“It is … unless you happen to disagree with their interpretation of morality. My kind can be very difficult to persuade with logic, because for us … well, what we feel can often be more important to us than what we think. We’re spren of honor, but remember, honor is—even to us—what humans and spren define it to be. Particularly with our god dead.”
Adolin nodded. “Right, then. Kal, don’t let anyone burn the tower down while I’m away.”
“You should have been the surgeon, Adolin,” Kaladin said. “Not me. You care about people.”
“Don’t be silly,” Adolin said, pulling open the door as he gestured at Kaladin’s work clothing. “I could never dress like that.” He left Kaladin with a wink.
* * *
Adolin strode out the front gate of Urithiru’s imposing tower and entered the chill air of the plateau. He was a full six minutes early. Handy, the way Aunt Navani’s device let him time himself—if everyone had clocks, he’d spend way less time waiting around at winehouses for his friends to arrive.
The broad plain in front of him—too smooth to be natural—stretched like a roadway toward the mountain peaks in the distance. Ten perfectly circular platforms rose from the sides of the plateau, with ramps leading up to each. These Oathgates were portals to places around the world. Currently only four functioned: the ones to the Shattered Plains, Thaylenah, Jah Keved, and Azir.
A group had gathered on the platform leading to the Shattered Plains, but they wouldn’t travel to that destination. This was just the gate where Adolin’s team would enter Shadesmar. His breath puffing before him, Adolin jogged over to the ramp, where his armorers were packing his Shardplate in its traveling chest, cushioned with straw. Though the stuff was as hard as stone, they always took the utmost care with it. There was a certain reverence due to a Shard.
“It’s not going to make the transfer, Brightlord,” one armorer warned him. “When you go to Shadesmar, it will be left behind on the platform. It’s been tested on several suits already.”
“My armor might act differently,” Adolin said. “I want to be sure. If it does fail to make the trip, send it along with Father and his expeditionary force. He’ll lend it to Fisk, to complement his Blade.”
The armorers saluted. Nearby, a few other stragglers were hurrying up the slope to the Oathgate—including Shallan’s newest agent, a tall Alethi woman with excellent taste in dresses. She carried a pack over her shoulder, but … she wasn’t going on the trip, was she?
“Beryl?” Adolin called to her as she passed. “Wasn’t Stargyle chosen to make this journey?”
“Oh, Brightlord!” the darkeyed woman said. “Stargyle’s wife has come down with a sickness. He wants to stay with her, so we decided I should go instead.”
Huh. He nodded absently as the woman hurried up the slope. Shallan had seemed very particular about whom she wanted to bring. Hopefully this hadn’t upset her plans.
Well, nothing to do about it. He stepped over to a tall black horse standing at the ready. Gallant was surrounded by Adolin’s grooms, who were preparing to strap equipment to the horse’s back—including Adolin’s weapons and his trunk of clothing. The horse should have been loaded already. Adolin stepped up to the Ryshadium and stared into his watery blue eyes—which, if he looked closely, had a faint swirl of rainbow colors to them.
The horse glanced at the pack straps the porters were affixing onto his back; they required stools to get high enough.
“What?” Adolin asked.
The horse blew out, then glared at the straps again.
“You think because we’re royalty, we’re above doing a little labor?” Adolin pointed at the horse, meeting his eyes. “It’s like Father always says. Never be unwilling to do something you might ask another to do for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a palafruit. “Here.”
The horse turned away.
“Fine,” Adolin said. “I’ll have them saddle up one of the common horses instead. Leave you behind.”
Gallant turned back to him, glaring. Then, reluctantly, the horse ate the palafruit and spat out the pit. Adolin rubbed him on the muzzle, then patted his neck. Nearby one of the grooms watched, baffled, until one of the others nudged him.
“I talk to my sword too,” Adolin told them. “Funny thing is, she eventually talked back. Never be afraid to show a little respect to those you depend upon, friends.”
The two grooms scuttled away as two workmen hitched Adolin’s armor boxes into place on one side of the horse.
“Thank you,” Adolin said to Gallant. “For being with me. I know you’d rather be with Father.”
The horse blew out, then reached his muzzle into Adolin’s hand. Ryshadium chose their riders; they were not broken or trained. They accepted you, or they did not—and it was very rare for one to allow two riders.
Father loved his horse, he really did. But he was so busy with meetings these days, and Gallant seemed so forlorn. Abandoned, just a little. And well … Adolin had his own loss he was dealing with. So it had seemed a natural pairing, one that over the months had become more and more strong.
The grooms finished with the armor trunks, and then hooked Adolin’s clothing trunk on the other side. That wasn’t nearly as heavy as the Plate, so to weight that side roughly equal, a worker approached with a long box. Adolin stopped him, wanting to do one last check. He knelt to undo the latches and peeked inside.
“Storms,” a voice said. “Pardon, Brightlord, but how many swords do you need?”
Adolin grinned up at Godeke the Edgedancer, who was leading his horse nearby. The slender man wore his hair cropped short, though he wasn’t technically an ardent any longer, and so didn’t need to shave it. Beyond him, Zu—the team’s Stoneward—was lifting her pack onto he
r back. The golden-haired woman continually complained about the cold, and huddled in a coat several sizes too large.
“Well,” Adolin said to Godeke, “you can never have too many swords. Besides, no Shardblades can enter Shadesmar, so a man must be prepared.”
“You’re wearing a sword.”
“This?” Adolin said, patting his side sword. “Oh sure, this is better than nothing, but I’d hate to be caught with just it and no buckler. Besides, I’ve trained to duel mostly on longswords and greatswords.” He pulled his greatsword out of his arms box; the long weapon was intended to be used two-handed. It wasn’t as long as some Shardblades, of course, nor as wide.
“I don’t … know how much dueling you’ll be doing, Brightlord.”
“Obviously,” Adolin said. “That’s why I need these others.” He handed it to the groom. “Fix its scabbard to Gallant’s left shoulder, its guard in line with the saddle.” To Godeke, he continued, “See here, a hand-and-a-half sword for use with or without my shield. A nice swordstaff for horseback—I can screw in this piece to make it longer…”
“I see.”
“Here, this is an Emuli kusu,” Adolin said, holding up the long curved sword. “Great for slicing and cutting, especially when doing ride-by charges. Easier to withdraw the blade and better against someone unarmored. And here, I need this Veden house sword if we end up fighting against mail.…”
“I should be—”
“Don’t forget Shardbearers,” Adolin said, hefting a warhammer. It looked small, almost like a workman’s hammer with a longer handle—so tiny compared to the massive Shardbearers’ hammers wielded by men in Plate. He didn’t want to make Gallant haul one of those on their trip. “Need this if I end up being forced to crack some Plate—the swords will simply break, except maybe the house sword. Might be able to get that through a crack, once the armor is weakened.”
“I really—”
“And here, see this one?” He pulled out a unique triangular weapon, gripped at the base with a kind of handle instead of a true hilt. “Thaylen gtet. I’ve always wanted to train with one of these. Figured I might get some practice in.”
Godeke waved to someone farther up the ramp, then hastily said farewell before hiking off, tugging his horse after him. Adolin grinned, then had the workers hang a few more weapons from the horse’s saddle. Gallant tapped his hooves with what seemed to be satisfaction, happier to be outfitted with proper weapons and not just luggage. The workers affixed the box with the rest in place.
“You seem almost pleased,” Zu said, strolling over in her oversized coat. “To not be able to use Shardblades, I mean.”
Adolin hadn’t spoken to the woman much; he hadn’t realized how good her Alethi was. Apparently her people had turned her out when her powers had first manifested several years ago—they hadn’t realized she was a Radiant, and had thought her cursed by some strange god whose name Adolin hadn’t recognized.
The Iriali fought for the enemy now, but Dalinar didn’t turn away anyone who came asking for asylum—particularly if they’d said Radiant oaths.
“Well,” Adolin said, “I wouldn’t say happy. A Shardblade is the superior weapon. No amount of specialization for the situation can make up for the ability to slice through your opponent’s weapons, armor, even body as if they were water. I love wielding mine in duels; there’s just a part of me that regrets that it makes other weapons obsolete.”
“I disagree,” Zu said, summoning her Blade. “Why would you ever regret the existence of one of these?” It appeared in her hand upon her command, forming from mist. She preferred a slender Blade, even longer than his father’s, with a wicked curve to it.
Adolin stood up, breathing heat into his hands as Merit began leading the pack animals up the ramp onto the Oathgate platform. Adolin glanced at Gallant; the horse clopped off to follow, needing no bridle or rope to guide him.
Zu waved her sword overhead slowly in a kind of kata that caught the sun. It transformed in her hands, becoming smaller and shorter—like his side sword—then became straight, with a tip for thrusting. The fact that living Shardblades could change shapes explained a lot to Adolin.
The ancient Shardblades—the dead ones that most Shardbearers used—were locked, apparently into the last shape they’d held. Most were massive things, not clunky—a Shardblade could never be clunky—but also not particularly well suited to most battlefield actions. They were light, yes, but the size could be unwieldy nonetheless.
Modern Radiants preferred functional weapons when actually fighting. However, when they wanted to show off, they created something majestic and otherworldly—something that was less about practicality and more about awe. That indicated most Shardblades, his own included, had practical forms—but had been abandoned in their more showy styles.
“I didn’t mean to imply there’s not art to a Shardblade,” Adolin told Zu. “I truly love Shardblade duels. I just love finding the best weapon for the job. And when that answer isn’t always the same sword, it’s more satisfying.”
“You should become a Radiant,” she said. “Then your sword would always be the right weapon for the job.”
“As if it were that easy,” Adolin said. “Just become a Radiant.”
His equipment seen to, Adolin did a quick head count. Six of his soldiers were coming as guards and workers—darkeyed men specifically chosen because they had good heads on their shoulders. Adolin didn’t pick the best duelists; he chose men who could cook and do laundry in the field. Most importantly, he needed men who wouldn’t balk at oddities.
Felt was the best of them, an older foreign man, one of Dalinar’s friends from the early days. He was steady and reliable, and had training as a scout. Merit was a groom, and Urad was an excellent hunter, should they need to forage. Adolin wasn’t certain how useful that would be in Shadesmar, but best to be prepared.
Felt’s wife, Malli, worked in the quartermaster’s office, and was along to act as a scribe. No actual servants, though Shallan’s three Lightweavers did odd jobs for her.
That left the three full Radiants. Godeke and Zu he’d already checked on. Asking around, Adolin found that their final Radiant—a Tashikki woman—had returned to the tower to check on something. So he idled near the ramp, waiting until he saw her crossing the plateau.
The woman had to be in her seventies, with dark brown furrowed skin and silver hair. She was slender, but not frail. Adolin suspected from her firm step that she relied on Stormlight to strengthen her. Though he’d seen her wearing a Tashikki wrap in the tower before, today she wore rugged traveling clothing and a shawl over her hair, with a pack slung over one shoulder. As she approached, Adolin reached to help her carry it, but she tightened her fingers.
She didn’t speak much Alethi, but most of the spren were able to speak several human languages. He wasn’t certain if it was an aspect of their nature, or if they simply lived so long that they ended up picking up multiple languages.
Either way, the spren could translate if necessary, and Adolin really did want to bring a Truthwatcher. They had once been well-regarded by the honorspren. Though the woman’s name was Arshqqam, everyone called her the Stump—a nickname that Lift had spread, he believed. Arshqqam had mentioned she was fond of the name, and the way she strode—unbowed by age, insisting on carrying her own things—gave him an inkling of where the moniker had come from.
With her arrival, the entire expedition was accounted for. A half dozen pack animals weren’t many for fifteen people. Normally he’d have expected that many animals for just the food, plus some wagons carrying stormbarrels that could be chained down to catch rainwater. Fortunately, this group had Shallan’s Lightweavers to provide food and water through Soulcasting.
As Adolin crossed the platform, he passed the queen standing—as always—with Wit at her shoulder. She, Dalinar, and Taravangian were the only monarchs at the tower today, and they’d all come to see off the expedition. Jasnah was supervising Ishnah and Vathah, two of Shallan’s a
gents, determining for herself if they were capable.
Adolin lingered as Vathah knelt beside a large block of obsidian. The glassy stone had been mined in Shadesmar and brought through for the test. Vathah’s hand sank into the block, and then the structure of the obsidian changed—in the blink of an eye, the rock transformed into grain. Kind of. What Vathah made was a large square lump of hardened lavis pulp, not individual seeds like some advanced Soulcasters could make. They could cut off chunks, cook it to mush. It wasn’t tasty, but it was hearty and healthy.
Do they know? Adolin wondered. How much Jasnah sees them as tools? For centuries the Alethi Soulcasting devices—limited though they were—had given his kingdom an unparalleled edge in battle. Now, Lightweavers were Soulcasting and didn’t seem to suffer the same ill effects as users of the devices.
Adolin could see deeper motives in the months Jasnah had spent training Shallan and her agents. Though Shallan wanted her team to become spies, Jasnah seemed to see their powers of illusion as a distant second to their ability to feed armies.
Hopefully the cache of Soulcasting devices found in Aimia would relieve some of that pressure. Shallan watched from the near distance, sitting on a supply box, her expression unreadable. Though by far the most talented at illusions among her people, Shallan’s own abilities in Soulcasting had proven … erratic. Adolin had peeked in on her sessions to see only occasional lumps of grain. Other times, she accidentally created twisted things: flames, sometimes pools of blood, once a translucent crystal.
Jasnah had finally, after eight months of work, officially released Shallan from her wardship. And Shallan truly had earned that release. She’d gone to lessons, memorized the works of scholars, and acted as the perfect ward. Though mastery of Soulcasting eluded her, she had improved over the year.
Jasnah dismissed the two agents, who hastened to join the others. Adolin found himself growing anxious as everyone gathered around the small building at the center of the platform. Not that he had any reason. It was just that it had been months since he’d last visited Shadesmar.
Rhythm of War (9781429952040) Page 38
