“‘I understood in a moment of stillness,’” Litima read. “‘Those candle flames were like the lives of men. So fragile. So deadly. Left alone, they lit and warmed. Let run rampant, they would destroy the very things they were meant to illuminate. Embryonic bonfires, each bearing a seed of destruction so potent it could tumble cities and dash kings to their knees. In later years, my mind would return to that calm, silent evening, when I had stared at rows of living lights. And I would understand. To be given loyalty is to be infused like a gemstone, to be granted the frightful license to destroy not only one’s self, but all within one’s care.’”
Litima fell still. It was the end of the sequence.
“Thank you, Brightness Litima,” Dalinar said. “That will do.”
The woman bowed her head respectfully. She gathered her youthful ward from the side of the room and they withdrew, leaving the book on the lectern.
That sequence had become one of Dalinar’s favorites. Listening to it often comforted him. Someone else had known, someone else had understood, how he felt. But today, it didn’t bring the solace it usually did. It only reminded him of Adolin’s arguments. None had been things Dalinar hadn’t considered himself, but being confronted with them by someone he trusted had shaken everything. He found himself staring at his maps, smaller copies of those that hung in the Gallery. They had been recreated for him by the royal cartographer, Isasik Shulin.
What if Dalinar’s visions really were just phantasms? He’d often longed for the glory days of Alethkar’s past. Were the visions his mind’s answer to that, a subconscious way of letting himself be a hero, of giving himself justification for doggedly seeking his goals?
A disturbing thought. Looked at another way, those phantom commands to “unify” sounded a great deal like what the Hierocracy had said when it had tried to conquer the world five centuries before.
Dalinar turned from his maps and walked across the room, his booted feet falling on a soft rug. Too nice a rug. He’d spent the better part of his life in one warcamp or another; he’d slept in wagons, stone barracks, and tents pulled tight against the leeward side of stone formations. Compared with that, his present dwelling was practically a mansion. He felt as if he should cast out all of this finery. But what would that accomplish?
He stopped at the lectern and ran his fingers along the thick pages filled with lines in violet ink. He couldn’t read the words, but he could almost feel them, emanating from the page like Stormlight from a sphere. Were the words of this book the cause of his problems? The visions had started several months after he’d first listened to readings from it.
He rested his hand on the cold, ink-filled pages. Their homeland was stressed nearly to breaking, the war was stalled, and suddenly he found himself captivated by the very ideals and myths that had led to his brother’s downfall. This was a time the Alethi needed the Blackthorn, not an old, tired soldier who fancied himself a philosopher.
Blast it all, he thought. I thought I’d figured this out! He closed the leather-bound volume, the spine crackling. He carried it to the bookshelf and returned it to its place.
“Father?” Renarin asked. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I wish there were, son.” Dalinar tapped the spine of the book lightly. “It’s ironic. This book was once considered one of the great masterpieces of political philosophy. Did you know that? Jasnah told me that kings around the world used to study it daily. Now, it is considered borderline blasphemous.”
Renarin gave no reply.
“Regardless,” Dalinar said, walking back to the wall map. “Highprince Aladar refused my offer of an alliance, just as Roion did. Do you have a thought on whom should I approach next?”
“Adolin says we should be far more worried about Sadeas’s ploy to destroy us than we are.”
The room fell silent. Renarin had a habit of doing that, felling conversations like an enemy archer hunting officers on the battlefield.
“Your brother is right to worry,” Dalinar said. “But moving against Sadeas would undermine Alethkar as a kingdom. For the same reason, Sadeas won’t risk acting against us. He’ll see.”
I hope.
Horns suddenly sounded outside, their deep, resounding calls echoing. Dalinar and Renarin froze. Parshendi spotted on the Plains. A second set came. Twenty-third plateau of the second quadrant. Dalinar’s scouts thought the contested plateau close enough for their forces to reach first.
Dalinar dashed across the room, all other thoughts discarded for the moment, his booted feet thumping on the thick rug. He threw open the door and charged down the Stormlight-illuminated hallway.
The war room door was open, and Teleb—highofficer on duty—saluted as Dalinar entered. Teleb was a straight-backed man with light green eyes. He kept his long hair in a braid and had a blue tattoo on his cheek, marking him as an Oldblood. At the side of the room, his wife, Kalami, sat behind a long-legged desk on a high stool. She wore her dark hair with only two small side braids pinned up, the rest hanging down the back of her violet dress to brush the top of the stool. She was a historian of note, and had requested permission to record meetings like this one; she planned to scribe a history of the war.
“Sir,” Teleb said. “A chasmfiend crawled atop the plateau here less than a quarter hour ago.” He pointed to the battle map, which had glyphs marking each plateau. Dalinar stepped up to it, a group of his officers gathering around him.
“How far would you say that is?” Dalinar asked, rubbing his chin.
“Perhaps two hours,” Teleb said, indicating a route one of his men had drawn on the map. “Sir, I think we have a good chance at this one. Brightlord Aladar will have to traverse six unclaimed plateaus to reach the contested area, while we have a nearly direct line. Brightlord Sadeas would have trouble, as he’d have to work his way around several large chasms too wide to cross with bridges. I’ll bet he won’t even try for it.”
Dalinar did, indeed, have the most direct line. He hesitated, though. It had been months since he’d last gone on a plateau run. His attention had been diverted, his troops needed for protecting roadways and patrolling the large markets that had grown up outside the warcamps. And now, Adolin’s questions weighed upon him, pressing him down. It seemed like a terrible time to go out to battle.
No, he thought. No, I need to do this. Winning a plateau skirmish would do much for his troops’ morale, and would help discredit the rumors in camp.
“We march!” Dalinar declared.
A few of the officers whooped in excitement, an extreme show of emotion for the normally reserved Alethi.
“And your son, Brightlord?” Teleb asked. He’d heard of the confrontation between them. Dalinar doubted there was a person in all ten warcamps who hadn’t heard of it.
“Send for him,” Dalinar said firmly. Adolin probably needed this as much as, or more than, Dalinar did.
The officers scattered. Dalinar’s armor bearers entered a moment later. It had only been a few minutes since the horns had sounded, but after six years of fighting, the machine of war ran smoothly when battle called. From outside, he heard the horns’ third set begin, calling his forces to battle.
The armor bearers inspected his boots—checking to be certain the laces were tight—then brought a long padded vest to throw over his uniform. Next, they set the sabatons—armor for his boots—on the floor before him. They encased his boots entirely and had a rough surface on the bottoms that seemed to cling to rock. The interiors glowed with the light of the sapphires in their indented pockets.
Dalinar was reminded of his most recent vision. The Radiant, his armor glowing with glyphs. Modern Shardplate didn’t glow like that. Could his mind have fabricated that detail? Would it have?
No time to consider that now, he thought. He discarded his uncertainties and worries, something he’d learned to do during his first battles as a youth. A warrior needed to be focused. Adolin’s questions would still be waiting for him when he got back. For now, he couldn�
�t afford self-doubt or uncertainty. It was time to be the Blackthorn.
He stepped into the sabatons, and the straps tightened of their own accord, fitting around his boots. The greaves came next, going over his legs and knees, locking on to the sabatons. Shardplate wasn’t like ordinary armor; there was no mesh of steel mail and no leather straps at the joints. Shardplate seams were made of smaller plates, interlocking, overlapping, incredibly intricate, leaving no vulnerable gaps. There was very little rubbing or chafing; each piece fit together perfectly, as if it had been crafted specifically for Dalinar.
One always put the armor on from the feet upward. Shardplate was extremely heavy; without the enhanced strength it provided, no man would be able to fight in it. Dalinar stood still as the armor bearers affixed the cuisses over his thighs and locked them to the culet and faulds across his waist and lower back. A skirt made of small, interlocking plates came next, reaching down to just above the knees.
“Brightlord,” Teleb said, stepping up to him. “Have you given thought to my suggestion about the bridges?”
“You know how I feel about man-carried bridges, Teleb,” Dalinar said as the armor bearers locked his breastplate into place, then worked on the rerebraces and vambraces for his arms. Already, he could feel the strength of the Plate surging through him.
“We wouldn’t have to use the smaller bridges for the assault,” Teleb said. “Just for getting to the contested plateau.”
“We’d still have to bring the chull-pulled bridges to get across that last chasm,” Dalinar said. “I’m not convinced that bridge crews would move us any more quickly. Not when we have to wait for those animals.”
Teleb sighed.
Dalinar reconsidered. A good officer was one who accepted orders and fulfilled them, even when he disagreed. But the mark of a great officer was that he also tried to innovate and offer appropriate suggestions.
“You may recruit and train a single bridge crew,” Dalinar said. “We shall see. In these races, even a few minutes can be meaningful.”
Teleb smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
Dalinar waved with his left hand as the armor bearers locked the gauntlet onto his right. He made a fist, tiny plates curving perfectly. The left gauntlet followed. Then the gorget went over his head, covering his neck, the pauldrons on his shoulders, and the helm on his head. Finally, the armor bearers affixed his cape to the pauldrons.
Dalinar took a deep breath, feeling the Thrill build for the approaching battle. He strode from the war room, footfalls firm and solid. Attendants and servants scattered before him, making way. Wearing Shardplate again after a long period without was like waking up after a night of feeling groggy or disoriented. The spring of the step, the impetus the armor seemed to lend him, made him want to race down the hallway and—
And why not?
He broke into a sprint. Teleb and the others cried out in surprise, rushing to keep up. Dalinar outpaced them easily, reaching the front gates of the complex and leaping through, throwing himself off the long steps leading down from his enclave. He exulted, grinning as he hung in the air, then slammed to the ground. The force cracked the stone beneath him, and he crouched into the impact.
Before him, neat rows of barracks ran through his warcamp, formed in radials with a meeting ground and mess hall at the center of each battalion. His officers reached the top of the stairs, looking down with amazement. Renarin was with them, wearing his uniform that had never seen battle, his hand raised against the sunlight.
Dalinar felt foolish. Was he a youth just given his first taste of Shardplate? Back to work. Stop playing.
Perethom, his infantrylord, saluted as Dalinar strode up. “Second and Third Battalions are on duty today, Brightlord. Forming ranks to march.”
“First Bridge Squad is gathered, Brightlord,” Havarah—the bridgelord—said, striding up. He was a short man, with some Herdazian blood in him as evidenced by his dark, crystalline fingernails, though he didn’t wear a spark-flicker. “I have word from Ashelem that the archery company is ready.”
“Cavalry?” Dalinar asked. “And where is my son?”
“Here, Father,” called a familiar voice. Adolin—his Shardplate painted a deep Kholin blue—made his way through the gathering crowd. His visor was up, and he looked eager, though when he met Dalinar’s eyes, he glanced away immediately.
Dalinar held up a hand, quieting several officers who were trying to give him reports. He strode to Adolin, and the youth looked up, meeting his gaze.
“You said what you felt you must,” Dalinar said.
“And I’m not sorry I did,” Adolin replied. “But I am sorry for how, and where, I said it. That won’t happen again.”
Dalinar nodded, and that was enough. Adolin seemed to relax, a weight coming off his shoulders, and Dalinar turned back to his officers. In moments, he and Adolin were leading a hurried group to the staging area. As they did, Dalinar did note Adolin waving to a young woman who stood beside the way, wearing a red dress, her hair up in a very nice braiding.
“Is that—er—”
“Malasha?” Adolin said. “Yes.”
“She looks nice.”
“Most of the time she is, though she’s somewhat annoyed that I wouldn’t let her come with me today.”
“She wanted to come into battle?”
Adolin shrugged. “Says she’s curious.”
Dalinar said nothing. Battle was a masculine art. A woman wanting to come to the battlefield was like…well, like a man wanting to read. Unnatural.
Ahead, in the staging area, the battalions were forming ranks, and a squat lighteyed officer hurried up to Dalinar. He had patches of red hair on his otherwise dark Alethi head and a long, red mustache. Ilamar, the cavalrylord.
“Brightlord,” he said, “my apologies for the delay. Cavalry is mounted and ready.”
“We march, then,” Dalinar said. “All ranks—”
“Brightlord!” a voice said.
Dalinar turned as one of his messengers approached. The darkeyed man wore leathers marked with blue bands on the arms. He saluted, saying, “Highprince Sadeas has demanded admittance to the warcamp!”
Dalinar glanced at Adolin. His son’s expression darkened.
“He claims the king’s writ of investigation grants him the right,” the messenger said.
“Admit him,” Dalinar said.
“Yes, Brightlord,” the messenger said, turning back. One of the lesser officers, Moratel, went with him so that Sadeas could be welcomed and escorted by a lighteyes as befitted his station. Moratel was least among those in attendance; everyone understood he was the one Dalinar would send.
“What do you think Sadeas wants this time?” Dalinar said quietly to Adolin.
“Our blood. Preferably warm, perhaps sweetened with a shot of tallew brandy.”
Dalinar grimaced, and the two of them hurried past the ranks of soldiers. The men had an air of anticipation, spears held high, darkeyed citizen officers standing at the sides with axes on their shoulders. At the front of the force, a group of chulls snorted and rummaged at the rocks by their feet; harnessed to them were several enormous mobile bridges.
Gallant and Adolin’s white stallion Sureblood were waiting, their reins held at the ready by grooms. Ryshadium hardly needed handlers. Once, Gallant had kicked open his stall and made his way to the staging grounds on his own when a groom had been too slow. Dalinar patted the midnight destrier on the neck, then swung into the saddle.
He scanned the staging field, then raised his arm to give the command to move. However, he noticed a group of mounted men riding up to the staging field, led by a figure in dark red Shardplate. Sadeas.
Dalinar stifled a sigh and gave the command to move out, though he himself waited for the Highprince of Information. Adolin came over on Sureblood, and he gave Dalinar a glance that seemed to say, “Don’t worry, I’ll behave.”
As always, Sadeas was a model of fashion, his armor painted, his helm ornamented with a completely diff
erent metallic pattern than he had worn last time. This one was shaped like a stylized sunburst. It looked almost like a crown.
“Brightlord Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “This is an inconvenient time for your investigation.”
“Unfortunately,” Sadeas said, reining in. “His Majesty is very eager to have answers, and I cannot stop my investigation, even for a plateau assault. I need to interview some of your soldiers. I’ll do it on the way out.”
“You want to come with us?”
“Why not? I won’t delay you.” He glanced at the chulls, who lurched into motion, pulling the bulky bridges. “I doubt that even were I to decide to crawl, I could slow you any further.”
“Our soldiers need to concentrate on the upcoming battle, Brightlord,” Adolin said. “They should not be distracted.”
“The king’s will must be done,” Sadeas said, shrugging, not even bothering to look at Adolin. “Need I present the writ? Surely you don’t intend to forbid me.”
Dalinar studied his former friend, looking into those eyes, trying to see into the man’s soul. Sadeas lacked his characteristic smirk; he usually wore one of those when he was pleased with how a plot was going. Did he realize that Dalinar knew how to read his expressions, and so masked his emotions? “No need to present anything, Sadeas. My men are at your disposal. If you have need of anything, simply ask. Adolin, with me.”
Dalinar turned Gallant and galloped down the line toward the front of the marching army. Adolin followed reluctantly, and Sadeas remained behind with his attendants.
The long ride began. The permanent bridges here were Dalinar’s, maintained and guarded by his soldiers and scouts, connecting plateaus that he controlled. Sadeas spent the trip riding near the middle of the column of two thousand. He periodically sent an attendant to pull certain soldiers out of line.
Dalinar spent the ride mentally preparing himself for the battle ahead. He spoke with his officers about the layout of the plateau, got a report on where specifically the chasmfiend had chosen to make its chrysalis, and sent scouts ahead to watch for Parshendi. Those scouts carried their long poles to get them from plateau to plateau without bridges.
The Way of Kings Page 46
