“In prayer? Through the ardents?”
“No, silly. Yourself.”
“In person?” Dalinar asked. “Like, at a temple?”
“If you wish to meet the One in person, you must travel to the Valley,” she said. “There you can speak with the One, or to his avatar, and be granted—”
“The Old Magic,” Dalinar hissed, opening his eyes. “The Nightwatcher. Evi, don’t say things like that.” Storms, her pagan heritage popped up at the strangest times. She could be talking good Vorin doctrine, then out came something like that.
Fortunately, she spoke of it no more. She closed her eyes and hummed softly. Finally, a knock came at the outer door to his rooms.
Hathan, his room steward, would answer that. Indeed, Dalinar heard the man’s voice outside, and that was followed by a light rap on the chamber door. “It is your brother, Brightlord,” Hathan said through the door.
Dalinar leaped, opening the door and passing the short master-servant. Evi followed, trailing along with one hand touching the wall, a habit of hers. They passed open windows that looked down upon a sodden Kholinar, flickering lanterns marking where people moved through the streets.
Gavilar waited in the sitting room, dressed in one of those new suits with the stiff jacket and buttons up the sides of the chest. His dark hair curled to his shoulders, and was matched by a fine beard.
Dalinar hated beards; they got caught in your helm. He couldn’t deny its effect on Gavilar though. Looking at Gavilar in his finery, one didn’t see a backwater thug—a barely civilized warlord who had crushed and conquered his way to the throne. No, this man was a king.
Gavilar rapped a set of papers against the palm of his hand.
“What?” Dalinar asked.
“Rathalas,” Gavilar said, shoving the papers toward Evi as she entered.
“Again!” Dalinar said. It had been years since he’d visited the Rift, that giant trench where he’d won his Shardblade.
“They’re demanding your Blade back,” Gavilar said. “They claim that Tanalan’s heir has returned, and deserves the Shard, as you never won it in a true contest.”
Dalinar felt cold.
“Now, I know this to be patently false,” Gavilar said, “because when we fought at Rathalas all those years ago, you said you dealt with the heir. You did deal with the heir, did you not, Dalinar?”
He remembered that day. He remembered darkening that doorway, the Thrill pulsing inside him. He remembered a weeping child holding a Shardblade. The father, lying broken and dead behind. That soft voice, pleading.
The Thrill had vanished in a moment.
“He was a child, Gavilar,” Dalinar said, his voice hoarse.
“Damnation!” Gavilar said. “He’s a descendant of the old regime. That was … storms, that was a decade ago. He’s old enough to be a threat! The whole city is going into rebellion, the entire region. If we don’t act, the whole Crownlands could break off.”
Dalinar smiled. The emotion shocked him, and he quickly stifled the grin. But surely … surely someone would need to go and rout the rebels.
He turned and caught sight of Evi. She was beaming at him, though he’d have expected her to be indignant at the idea of more wars. Instead, she stepped up to him and took his arm. “You spared the child.”
“I … He could barely lift the Blade. I gave him to his mother, and told her to hide him.”
“Oh, Dalinar.” She pulled him close.
He felt a swelling of pride. Ridiculous, of course. He had endangered the kingdom—how would people react if they knew the Blackthorn himself had broken before a crisis of conscience? They’d laugh.
In that moment, he didn’t care. So long as he could be a hero to this woman.
“Well, I suppose rebellion was to be expected,” Gavilar said as he stared out the window. “It’s been years since the formal unification; people are going to start asserting their independence.” He raised his hand toward Dalinar, turning. “I know what you want, Brother, but you’ll have to forbear. I’m not sending an army.”
“But—”
“I can nip this thing with politics. We can’t have a show of force be our only method of maintaining unity, or Elhokar will spend his entire life putting out fires after I’m gone. We need people to start thinking of Alethkar as a unified kingdom, not separate regions always looking for an advantage against one another.”
“Sounds good,” Dalinar said.
It wasn’t going to happen, not without the sword to remind them. For once, however, he was fine not being the one to point that out.
You mustn’t worry yourself about Rayse. It is a pity about Aona and Skai, but they were foolish—violating our pact from the very beginning.
Numuhukumakiaki’aialunamor had always been taught that the first rule of warfare was to know your enemy. One might assume that such lessons weren’t terribly relevant in his life anymore. Fortunately, making a good stew was a lot like going to war.
Lunamor—called Rock by his friends, on account of their thick, lowlander tongues being incapable of proper speech—stirred his cauldron with an enormous wooden spoon the size of a longsword. A fire burned rockbud husks underneath, and a playful windspren whipped at the smoke, making it blow across him no matter where he stood.
He had placed the cauldron on a plateau of the Shattered Plains, and—beautiful lights and fallen stars—he was surprised to discover that he had missed this place. Who would have thought he could become fond of this barren, windswept flatland? His homeland was a place of extremes: bitter ice, powdery snow, boiling heat, and blessed humidity.
Down here, everything was so … moderate, and the Shattered Plains were the worst of all. In Jah Keved he’d found vine-covered valleys. In Alethkar they had fields of grain, rockbuds spreading endlessly like the bubbles of a boiling cauldron. Then the Shattered Plains. Endless empty plateaus with barely anything growing on them. Strangely, he loved them.
Lunamor hummed softly as he stirred with two hands, churning the stew and keeping the bottom from burning. When the smoke wasn’t in his face—this cursed, too-thick wind had too much air to behave properly—he could smell the scent of the Shattered Plains. An … open scent. The scent of a high sky and baking stones, but spiced by the hint of life in the chasms. Like a pinch of salt. Humid, alive with the odors of plants and rot intermingling.
In those chasms, Lunamor had found himself again after a long time being lost. Renewed life, renewed purpose.
And stew.
Lunamor tasted his stew—using a fresh spoon of course, as he wasn’t a barbarian like some of these lowlander cooks. The longroots still had further to cook before he could add the meat. Real meat, from finger crabs he’d spent all night shelling. Couldn’t cook that too long, or it got rubbery.
The rest of Bridge Four stood arrayed on the plateau, listening to Kaladin. Lunamor had set up so that his back was toward Narak, the city at the center of the Shattered Plains. Nearby, one of the plateaus flashed as Renarin Kholin worked the Oathgate. Lunamor tried not to be distracted by that. He wanted to look out westward. Toward the old warcamps.
Not much longer now to wait, he thought. But don’t dwell on that. The stew needs more crushed limm.
“I trained many of you in the chasms,” Kaladin said. The men of Bridge Four had been augmented by some members of the other bridge crews, and even a couple of soldiers that Dalinar had suggested for training. The group of five scout women was surprising, but who was Lunamor to judge?
“I could train people in the spear,” Kaladin continued, “because I myself had been trained in the spear. What we’re attempting today is different. I barely understand how I learned to use Stormlight. We’re going to have to stumble through this together.”
“It’s all good, gancho,” Lopen called. “How hard can it be to learn how to fly? Skyeels do it all the time, and they are ugly and stupid. Most bridgemen are only one of those things.”
Kaladin stopped in line near Lopen. The captain
seemed in good spirits today, for which Lunamor took credit. He had, after all, made Kaladin’s breakfast.
“The first step will be to speak the Ideal,” Kaladin said. “I suspect a few of you have already said it. But for the rest, if you wish to be a squire to the Windrunners, you will need to swear it.”
They began belting out the words. Everyone knew the right ones by now. Lunamor whispered the Ideal.
Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination.
Kaladin handed Lopen a pouch full of gemstones. “The real test, and proof of your squireship, will be learning to draw Stormlight into yourselves. A few of you have learned it already—”
Lopen started glowing immediately.
“—and they will help the rest learn. Lopen, take First, Second, and Third Squads. Sigzil, you’ve got Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth. Peet, don’t think I haven’t seen you glowing. You take the other bridgemen, and Teft, you take the scouts and…”
Kaladin looked around. “Where is Teft?”
He was only just noticing? Lunamor loved their captain, but he got distracted sometimes. Maybe airsickness.
“Teft didn’t come back to the barracks last night, sir,” Leyten called, looking uncomfortable.
“Fine. I’ll help the scouts. Lopen, Sigzil, Peet, talk your squads through how to draw in Stormlight. Before the day is done, I want everyone on this plateau glowing like they swallowed a lantern.”
They broke up, obviously eager. Translucent red streamers rose from the stone, whipping as if in the wind, one end connected to the ground. Anticipationspren. Lunamor gave them the sign of respect, hand to his shoulder, then his forehead. These were lesser gods, but still holy. He could see their true shapes beyond the streamers, a faint shadow of a larger creature at the bottom.
Lunamor handed off his stirring to Dabbid. The young bridgeman didn’t talk, and hadn’t since Lunamor had helped Kaladin pull him from the battlefield. He could stir though, and run waterskins. He had become something of an unofficial mascot for the team, as he’d been the first bridgeman that Kaladin had saved. When bridgemen passed Dabbid, they gave a subtle salute.
Huio was on kitchen duty with Lunamor today, as was becoming more common. Huio requested it, and the others avoided it. The squat, beefy Herdazian man was humming softly to himself as he stirred the shiki, a brownish Horneater drink that Lunamor had chilled overnight in metal bins on the plateau outside Urithiru.
Strangely, Huio took a handful of lazbo from a pot and sprinkled it into the liquid.
“What are you doing, crazy man!” Lunamor bellowed, stomping up. “Lazbo? In drink? That thing is spicy powder, airsick lowlander!”
Huio said something in Herdazian.
“Bah!” Lunamor said. “I do not speak this crazy language you use. Lopen! Come here and talk to this cousin you have! He is ruining our drinks!”
Lopen, however, was gesturing wildly at the sky and talking about how he’d stuck himself to the ceiling earlier.
Lunamor grunted and looked back at Huio, who proffered a spoon dripping with liquid.
“Airsick fool,” Lunamor said, taking a sip. “You will ruin…”
Blessed gods of sea and stone. That was good. The spice added just the right kick to the chilled drink, combining flavors in a completely unexpected—yet somehow complementary—way.
Huio smiled. “Bridge Four!” he said in thickly accented Alethi.
“You are lucky man,” Lunamor said, pointing. “I will not kill you today.” He took another sip, then gestured with the spoon. “Go do this thing to other bins of shiki.”
Now, where was Hobber? The lanky, gap-toothed man couldn’t be too far away. That was one advantage of having an assistant chef who could not walk; he usually stayed where you put him.
“Watch me now, carefully!” Lopen said to his group, Stormlight puffing from his mouth as he spoke. “All right. Here it is. I, the Lopen, will now fly. You may applaud as you feel is appropriate.”
He jumped up, then crashed back to the plateau.
“Lopen!” Kaladin called. “You’re supposed to be helping the others, not showing off!”
“Sorry, gon!” Lopen said. He quivered on the ground, his face pressed to the stone, and didn’t rise.
“Did you … did you stick yourself to the ground?” Kaladin asked.
“Just part of the plan, gon!” Lopen called back. “If I am to become a delicate cloud upon the sky, I must first convince the ground that I am not abandoning her. Like a worried lover, sure, she must be comforted and reassured that I will return following my dramatic and regal ascent to the sky.”
“You’re not a king, Lopen,” Drehy said. “We’ve been over this.”
“Of course I am not. I am a former king. You are obviously one of the stupid ones I mentioned earlier.”
Lunamor grunted in amusement and rounded his little cooking station toward Hobber, who he now remembered was peeling tubers by the side of the plateau. Lunamor slowed. Why was Kaladin kneeling before Hobber’s stool, holding out … a gemstone?
Ahhh … Lunamor thought.
“I had to breathe to draw it in,” Kaladin explained softly. “I’d been doing it unconsciously for weeks, maybe months, before Teft explained the truth to me.”
“Sir,” Hobber said, “I don’t know if … I mean, sir, I’m no Radiant. I was never that good with the spear. I’m barely a passable cook.”
Passable was a stretch. But he was earnest and helpful, so Lunamor was happy to have him. Besides, he needed a job he could do sitting. A month back, the Assassin in White had swept through the king’s palace at the warcamps, trying to kill Elhokar—and the attack had left Hobber with dead legs.
Kaladin folded the gemstone in Hobber’s fingers. “Just try,” the captain said softly. “Being a Radiant isn’t so much about your strength or skill, but about your heart. And yours is the best of all of us.”
The captain seemed intimidating to many outsiders. A perpetual storm for an expression, an intensity that made men wilt when it turned on them. But there was also an astonishing tenderness to this man. Kaladin gripped Hobber on the arm, and almost seemed to be tearing up.
Some days, it seemed you couldn’t break Kaladin Stormblessed with all the stones on Roshar. Then one of his men would get wounded, and you’d see him crack.
Kaladin headed back toward the scouts he’d been helping, and Lunamor jogged to catch up. He bowed to the little god who rode on the bridge captain’s shoulder, then asked, “You think Hobber can do this thing, Kaladin?”
“I’m sure he can. I’m sure all of Bridge Four can, and perhaps some of these others.”
“Ha!” Lunamor said. “Finding a smile on your face, Kaladin Stormblessed, is like finding lost sphere in your soup. Surprising, yes, but very nice too. Come, I have drink you must try.”
“I need to get back to—”
“Come! Drink you must try!” Lunamor guided him to the big pot of shiki and poured him a cup.
Kaladin slurped it down. “Hey, that’s pretty good, Rock!”
“Is not my recipe,” Lunamor said. “Huio has changed this thing. I now have to either promote him or push him off side of plateau.”
“Promote him to what?” Kaladin asked, getting himself another cup.
“To airsick lowlander,” Lunamor said, “second class.”
“You might be too fond of that term, Rock.”
Nearby, Lopen talked to the ground, against which he was still pressed. “Don’t worry, dear one. The Lopen is vast enough to be possessed by many, many forces, both terrestrial and celestial! I must soar to the air, for if I were to remain only on the ground, surely my growing magnitude would cause the land to crack and break.”
Lunamor looked to Kaladin. “I am fond of term, yes. But only because this thing has astounding number of applications among you.”
Kaladin grinned, sipping his shiki and watching the men. Farther along the plateau, Drehy suddenly raised his long arms and called out, “Ha!” H
e was glowing with Stormlight. Bisig soon followed. That should fix his hand—he too had been injured by the Assassin in White.
“This will work, Rock,” Kaladin said. “The men have been close to the power for months now. And once they have it, they’ll be able to heal. I won’t have to go into battle worrying which of you I’ll lose.”
“Kaladin,” Lunamor said softly. “This thing we have begun, it is still war. Men will die.”
“Bridge Four will be protected by their power.”
“And the enemy? They will not have power?” He stepped closer. “Surely I do not wish to dampen Kaladin Stormblessed when he is optimistic, but nobody is ever perfectly safe. This is sad truth, my friend.”
“Maybe,” Kaladin admitted. He got a distant look on his face. “Your people only let younger sons go to war, right?”
“Only tuanalikina, fourth son and younger, can be wasted in war. First, second, and third sons are too valuable.”
“Fourth son and younger. So hardly ever.”
“Ha! You do not know the size of Horneater families.”
“Still, it has to mean fewer men dying in battle.”
“Peaks are different place,” Lunamor said, smiling at Sylphrena as she rose off Kaladin’s shoulder and started dancing on the nearby winds. “And not just because we have right amount of air for brains to work. To attack another peak is costly and difficult, requiring much preparation and time. We speak of this thing more than we do him.”
“It sounds nice.”
“You will visit with me someday!” Lunamor said. “You and all Bridge Four, as you are family now.”
“Ground,” Lopen insisted, “I will still love you. I’m not attracted to anyone the way I am to you. Whenever I leave, I’ll come right back!”
Kaladin glanced at Lunamor.
“Perhaps,” Lunamor noted, “when that one is away from too much toxic air, he will be less…”
“Lopen?”
“Though upon consideration, this thing would be sad.”
Kaladin chuckled, handing Lunamor his cup. Then he leaned in. “What happened to your brother, Rock?”
“My two brothers are well, so far as I know.”
Oathbringer Page 45
