“Are we going to bet?” Havar asked.
“Sure,” Bashin replied. “I’ll put three garnet marks on the shorter one.”
“I’ll take that bet,” Havar said, “but not for the money. If I win, I want your hat.”
“Deal! Ha! So you’re finally going to admit how dashing it is?”
“Dashing? Storms, Bashin. I’m going to do you a favor and burn the thing.”
Dalinar sat back, mind dulled by the firemoss.
“Burn my hat?” Bashin said. “Storms, Havar. That’s harsh. Just because you envy my dashing profile.”
“The only thing dashing about that hat is how it makes women run the other way.”
“It’s exotic. From the west. Everyone knows fashion comes from the west.”
“Yeah, from Liafor and Yezier. Where did you get that hat again?”
“The Purelake.”
“Ah, that bastion of culture and fashion! Are you going shopping in Bavland next?”
“Barmaids don’t know the difference,” Bashin grumbled. “Anyway, can we just watch the match? I’m looking forward to winning those marks off you.” He took a drink, but fingered his hat anxiously.
Dalinar closed his eyes. He felt as if he could drift off, maybe get some sleep without worrying about Evi, or dreaming of war.…
In the ring, bodies smacked against each other.
That sound—the grunts of exertion as the wrestlers tried to push each other from the ring—reminded him of the battle. Dalinar opened his eyes, dropped the moss, and leaned forward.
The shorter wrestler danced out of the other’s grip. They revolved around one another, crouched, hands at the ready. When they locked again, the shorter man pushed his opponent off balance. Better stance, Dalinar thought. Kept himself low. That taller fellow has gotten by too long on his strength and size. He’s got terrible form.
The two strained, backing toward the edge of the ring, before the taller man managed to trip them both. Dalinar stood up as others, ahead of him, raised their hands and cheered.
The contest. The fight.
That led me to almost kill Gavilar.
Dalinar sat back down.
The shorter man won. Havar sighed, but rolled a few glowing spheres to Bashin. “Double or nothing on the next bout?”
“Nah,” Bashin said, hefting the marks. “This should be enough.”
“For what?”
“To bribe a few influential young dandies into trying hats like mine,” Bashin said. “I tell you, once word gets out, everyone is going to be wearing them.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“So long as I’m a fashionable one.”
Dalinar reached to the floor and picked up the firemoss. He tossed it onto the table and stared at it, then took a pull from his mug of wine. The next wrestling match started, and he winced as the two competitors collided. Storms. Why did he keep putting himself into situations like this?
“Dalinar,” Havar said. “Any word yet on when we’re going to the Rift?”
“The Rift?” Bashin asked. “What about it?”
“Are you dense?” Havar said.
“No,” Bashin said, “but I might be drunk. What’s up with the Rift?”
“Rumor is they want to set up their own highprince,” Havar said. “Son of the old one, what was his name…”
“Tanalan,” Dalinar said. “But we are not going to be visiting the Rift, Havar.”
“Surely the king can’t—”
“We won’t be going,” Dalinar said. “You’ve got men to train. And I…” Dalinar drank more wine. “I’m going to be a father. My brother can handle the Rift with diplomacy.”
Havar leaned back, flippantly dropping his mug to the table. “The king can’t politic his way past open rebellion, Dalinar.”
Dalinar closed his fist around the firemoss, but didn’t rub it. How much of his interest in the Rift was his duty to protect Gavilar’s kingdom, and how much was his craving to feel the Thrill again?
Damnation. He felt like half a man these days.
One of the wrestlers had shoved the other from the ring, disturbing the line of lights. The loser was declared, and a parshman carefully reset the ring. As he did so, a master-servant stepped up to Dalinar’s table.
“Pardon, Brightlord,” he whispered. “But you should know. The feature match will have to be canceled.”
“What?” Bashin said. “What’s wrong? Makh isn’t going to fight?”
“Pardon,” the master-servant repeated. “But his opponent has stomach problems. The match must be canceled.”
Apparently, news was spreading through the room. The crowd manifested their disapproval with boos and curses, shouts, and spilled drinks. A tall, bald man stood at the side of the ring, bare-chested. He argued with several of the lighteyed organizers, pointing at the ring, angerspren boiling on the floor around him.
To Dalinar, this racket sounded like the calls of battle. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, finding a euphoria far superior to the firemoss. Storms. He should have gotten drunker. He was going to slip.
Might as well be quick about it then. He tossed aside the firemoss and stood, then pulled off his shirt.
“Dalinar!” Havar said. “What are you doing?”
“Gavilar says I need to have more concern for our people’s sorrows,” Dalinar said, stepping up onto the table. “Seems like we’ve got a room full of sorrow here.”
Havar gaped, jaw dropping.
“Bet on me,” Dalinar said. “For old times’ sake.” He leaped off the table on the other side, then shoved through the crowd. “Someone tell that man he has a challenger!”
Silence spread from him like a bad smell. Dalinar found himself at the edge of the ring in a completely quiet room, packed with once-rowdy men both lighteyed and dark. The wrestler—Makh—stepped back, his dark green eyes wide, angerspren vanishing. He had a powerful build, arms that bulged like they were overstuffed. Word was, he’d never been defeated.
“Well?” Dalinar said. “You wanted a fight and I need a workout.”
“Brightlord,” the man said. “This was to be a freeform bout, all hits and holds allowed.”
“Excellent,” Dalinar said. “What? You worried about injuring your highprince? I promise you clemency for anything done to me.”
“Hurting you?” the man said. “Storms, that’s not what I’m afraid of.” He shivered visibly, and a Thaylen woman—perhaps his manager—smacked him on the arm. She thought he’d been rude. The wrestler only bowed and backed away.
Dalinar turned about the room, confronted by a sea of faces that suddenly seemed very uncomfortable. He’d broken some kind of rule here.
The gathering dissolved, parshmen retrieving spheres from the ground. It seemed Dalinar had been too hasty to judge rank unimportant here. They’d suffered him as an observer, but he was not to participate.
Damnation. He growled softly as he stalked to his bench, those angerspren following him on the floor. He took his shirt from Bashin with a swipe of the hand. Back with his elites, any man—from the lowest spearman to the highest captains—would have sparred or wrestled with him. Storms, he’d faced the cook several times, much to the amusement of everyone involved.
He sat down and pulled on his shirt, stewing. He’d ripped the buttons free in removing it so quickly. The room fell silent as people continued to leave, and Dalinar just sat there, tense—his body still expecting the fight that would never come. No Thrill. Nothing to fill him.
Soon, he and his friends were alone in the room, surveying empty tables, abandoned cups, and spilled drinks. The place somehow smelled even worse now than it had when crowded with men.
“Probably for the best, Brightlord,” Havar said.
“I want to be among soldiers again, Havar,” Dalinar whispered. “I want to be marching again. Best sleep a man can get is after a long march. And, Damnation, I want to fight. I want to face someone who won’t pull their punches because I’m a highprince.”
<
br /> “Then let’s find such a fight, Dalinar!” Havar said. “Surely the king will let us go. If not to the Rift, then to Herdaz or one of the isles. We can bring him land, glory, honor!”
“That wrestler,” Dalinar said, “there was … something to his words. He was certain I would hurt him.” Dalinar drummed his fingers on the table. “Was he scared off because of my reputation in general, or is there something more specific?”
Bashin and Havar shared a look.
“When?” Dalinar asked.
“Tavern fight,” Havar said. “Two weeks back? Do you remember it?”
Dalinar remembered a haze of monotony broken by light, a burst of color in his life. Emotion. He breathed out. “You told me everyone was fine.”
“They lived,” Havar said.
“One … of the brawlers you fought will never walk,” Bashin admitted. “Another had to have his arm removed. A third babbles like a child. His brain doesn’t work anymore.”
“That’s far from fine,” Dalinar snapped.
“Pardon, Dalinar,” Havar said. “But when facing the Blackthorn, that’s as good as one can expect.”
Dalinar crossed his arms on the table, grinding his teeth. The firemoss wasn’t working. Yes, it gave him a quick rush of euphoria, but that only made him want the greater headiness of the Thrill. Even now he felt on edge—he had the urge to smash this table and everything in the room. He’d been so ready for the fight; he’d surrendered to the temptation, and then had the pleasure stolen from him.
He felt all the shame of losing control, but none of the satisfaction of actually getting to fight.
Dalinar seized his mug, but it was empty. Stormfather! He threw it and stood up, wanting to scream.
He was fortunately distracted by the back door to the wrestling den inching open, revealing a familiar pale face. Toh wore Alethi clothing now, one of the new suits that Gavilar preferred, but it fit him poorly. He was too spindly. No man would ever mistake Toh—with that overcautious gait and wide-eyed innocence—for a soldier.
“Dalinar?” he asked, looking over the spilled drinks and the locked sphere lamps on the walls. “The guards said I could find you here. Um … was this a party?”
“Ah, Toh,” Havar said, lounging back in his seat. “How could it have been a party without you?”
Toh’s eyes flicked toward the chunk of firemoss on the ground nearby. “I’ll never understand what you see in these places, Dalinar.”
“He’s just getting to know the common people, Brightlord,” Bashin said, pocketing the firemoss. “You know us darkeyed types, always wallowing in depravity. We need good role models to—”
He cut off as Dalinar raised his hand. He didn’t need underlings to cover for him. “What is it, Toh?”
“Oh!” the Riran man said. “They were going to send a messenger, but I wanted to deliver the news. My sister, you see. It’s a little early, but the midwives aren’t surprised. They say it’s natural when—”
Dalinar gasped, like he’d been punched in the stomach. Early. Midwives. Sister.
He charged for the door, and didn’t hear the rest of what Toh said.
* * *
Evi looked like she’d fought in a battle.
He’d seen that expression on the faces of soldiers many times: that sweaty brow, that half-dazed, drowsy look. Exhaustionspren, like jets in the air. These were the mark of a person pushed past the limits of what they thought they could do.
She bore a smile of quiet satisfaction. A look of victory. Dalinar pushed past doting surgeons and midwives, stepping up to Evi’s bed. She held out a limp hand. Her left hand, which was wrapped only in a thin envelope that ended at the wrist. It would have been a sign of intimacy, to an Alethi. But Evi still preferred that hand.
“The baby?” he whispered, taking the hand.
“A son. Healthy and strong.”
“A son. I … I have a son?” Dalinar dropped to his knees beside the bed. “Where is he?”
“Being washed, my lord,” said one of the midwives. “He will be returned shortly.”
“Torn buttons,” Evi whispered. “You’ve been fighting again, Dalinar?”
“Just a small diversion.”
“That’s what you say each time.”
Dalinar squeezed her hand through the envelope, too elated to prickle at the chastisement. “You and Toh came here to Alethkar because you wanted someone to protect you. You sought out a fighter, Evi.”
She squeezed his hand back. A nurse approached with a bundle in her arms and Dalinar looked up, stunned, unable to rise.
“Now,” the woman said, “many men are apprehensive at first when—”
She cut off as Dalinar found his strength and seized the child from her arms. He held the boy aloft in both hands, letting out a whooping laugh, gloryspren bursting around him as golden spheres.
“My son!” he said.
“My lord!” the nurse said. “Be careful!”
“He’s a Kholin,” Dalinar said, cradling the child. “He’s made of hardy stuff.” He looked down at the boy, who—red faced—wiggled and thrashed with his tiny fists. He had shockingly thick hair, black and blond mixed. Good coloring. Distinctive.
May you have your father’s strength, Dalinar thought, rubbing the child’s face with his finger, and at least some of your mother’s compassion, little one.
Looking into that face, swelling with joy, Dalinar finally understood. This was why Gavilar thought so much about the future, about Alethkar, about crafting a kingdom that would last. Dalinar’s life so far had stained him crimson and thrashed his soul. His heart was so crusted over with crem, it might as well have been a stone.
But this boy … he could rule the princedom, support his cousin the king, and live a life of honor.
“His name, Brightlord?” asked Ishal, an aged ardent from the Devotary of Purity. “I would burn the proper glyphwards, if it pleases you.”
“Name…” Dalinar said. “Adoda.” Light. He glanced toward Evi, who nodded in agreement.
“Without a suffix, my lord? Adodan? Adodal?”
“Lin,” Dalinar whispered. Born unto. “Adolin.” A good name, traditional, full of meaning.
With regret, Dalinar surrendered the child to the nurses, who returned him to his mother, explaining that it was important to train the baby to suckle as soon as possible. Most in the room began to file out to offer privacy, and as they did, Dalinar caught sight of a regal figure standing at the back. How had he missed Gavilar there?
Gavilar took him by the arm and gave him a good thump on the back as they left the chamber. Dalinar was so dazed he barely felt it. He needed to celebrate—buy drinks for every man in the army, declare a holiday, or just run through the city whooping for joy. He was a father!
“An excellent day,” Gavilar said. “A most excellent day.”
“How do you contain it?” Dalinar said. “This excitement?”
Gavilar grinned. “I let the emotion be my reward for the work I have done.”
Dalinar nodded, then studied his brother. “What?” Dalinar said. “Something is wrong.”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me, Brother.”
“I don’t want to ruin your wonderful day.”
“Wondering will ruin it more than anything you could say, Gavilar. Out with it.”
The king mulled, then nodded toward Dalinar’s den. They crossed the main chamber, passing furniture that was far too showy—colorful, with floral patterns and plush cushions. Evi’s taste was partially to blame, though it was also just … life, these days. His life was plush.
The den was more to his liking. A few chairs, a hearth, a simple rug. A cabinet with various exotic and potent wines, each in a distinctive bottle. They were the type it was almost a shame to drink, as it spoiled the display.
“It’s your daughter,” Dalinar guessed. “Her lunacy.”
“Jasnah is fine, and recovering. It’s not that.” Gavilar frowned, his expression dangerous. H
e’d agreed to a crown after much debate—Sunmaker hadn’t worn one, and the histories said Jezerezeh’Elin refused them as well. But people did love symbols, and most Western kings wore crowns. Gavilar had settled upon a black iron circlet. The more Gavilar’s hair greyed, the easier the crown was to see.
A servant had set a fire in the hearth, though it was burning low, only a single flamespren crawling along the embers.
“I am failing,” Gavilar said.
“What?”
“Rathalas. The Rift.”
“But I thought—”
“Propaganda,” Gavilar said. “Intended to quiet critical voices in Kholinar. Tanalan is raising an army and settling into his fortifications. Worse, I think the other highprinces are encouraging him. They want to see how I handle this.” He sneered. “There’s talk I’ve grown soft over the years.”
“They’re wrong.” Dalinar had seen it, these months living with Gavilar. His brother had not grown soft. He was still as eager for conquest as ever; he simply approached it differently. The clash of words, the maneuvering of princedoms into positions where they were forced to obey.
The fire’s embers seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. “Do you ever wonder about the time when this kingdom was truly great, Dalinar?” Gavilar asked. “When people looked to the Alethi. When kings sought their advice. When we were … Radiant.”
“Traitors,” Dalinar said.
“Does the act of a single generation negate many generations of domination? We revere the Sunmaker when his reign lasted but the blink of an eye—yet we ignore the centuries the Radiants led. How many Desolations did they defend mankind?”
“Um…” The ardents talked about this in prayers, didn’t they? He tried a guess. “Ten?”
“A meaningless number,” Gavilar said, waving his fingers. “The histories just say ‘ten’ because it sounds significant. Either way, I have failed in my diplomatic efforts.” He turned toward Dalinar. “It is time to show the kingdom that we are not soft, Brother.”
Oh no. Hours ago, he would have leaped in excitement. But after seeing that child …
You’ll be anxious again in a few days, Dalinar told himself. A man can’t change in a moment.
“Gavilar,” he whispered, “I’m worried.”
Oathbringer Page 59
