Storms, this place feels eerie, Kaladin thought, limping past deserted barracks, rain pattering against the umbrella that Lopen had tied to Kaladin’s crutch. It worked. Kind of. He passed rainspren, like blue candles sprouting from the ground, each with a single eye in the center of its top. Creepy things. Kaladin had always disliked them.
He fought the rain. Did that make any sense? It seemed that the rain wanted him to stay inside, so he went out. The rain wanted him to give in to the despair, so he forced himself to think. Growing up, he’d had Tien to help lighten the gloom. Now, even thinking of Tien increased that gloom instead—though he couldn’t avoid it. The Weeping reminded him of his brother. Of laughter when the darkness threatened, of cheerful joy and carefree optimism.
Those images warred with ones of Tien’s death. Kaladin squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish that memory. Of the frail young man, barely trained, being cut down. Tien’s own company of soldiers had put him at the front as a distraction, a sacrifice to slow the enemy.
Kaladin set his jaw, opening his eyes. No more moping. He would not whine or wallow. Yes, he’d lost Syl. He’d lost many loved ones during his life. He would survive this agony as he had survived the others.
He continued his limping circuit of the barracks. He did this four times a day. Sometimes Lopen came with him, but today Kaladin was alone. He splashed through puddles of water, and found himself smiling because he wore the boots Shallan had stolen from him.
I never did believe she was a Horneater, he thought. I need to make sure she knows that.
He stopped, leaning on the crutch and looking out through the rain toward the Shattered Plains. He couldn’t see far. The haze of rainfall prevented that.
You come back safely, he thought to those out there. All of you. This time, I can’t help you if something goes wrong.
Rock, Teft, Dalinar, Adolin, Shallan, everyone in Bridge Four—all out on their own. How different a place would the world be if Kaladin had been a better man? If he’d used his powers and had returned to the warcamp with Shallan full of Stormlight? He had been so close to revealing what he could do . . .
You’d been thinking that for weeks, he thought to himself. You’d never have done it. You were too scared.
He hated admitting it, but it was true.
Well, if his suspicions about Shallan were true, perhaps Dalinar would have his Radiant anyway. May she make a better run of it than Kaladin had.
He continued on his limping way, rounding back to Bridge Four’s barrack. He stopped when he saw a fine carriage, pulled by horses bearing the king’s livery, waiting in front of it.
Kaladin cursed, hobbling forward. Lopen ran out to meet him, not carrying an umbrella. A lot of people gave up on trying to stay dry during the Weeping.
“Lopen!” Kaladin said. “What?”
“He’s waiting for you, gancho,” Lopen said, gesturing urgently. “The king himself.”
Kaladin limped more quickly toward his room. The door was open, and Kaladin peeked in to find King Elhokar standing inside, looking about the small chamber. Moash guarded the door, and Taka—a former member of the King’s Guard—stood nearer to the king.
“Your Majesty?” Kaladin asked.
“Ah,” the king said, “bridgeman.” Elhokar’s cheeks were flushed. He’d been drinking, though he didn’t appear drunk. Kaladin understood. With Dalinar and that disapproving glare of his gone for a time, it was probably nice to relax with a bottle.
When Kaladin had first met the king, he’d thought Elhokar lacked regality. Now, oddly, he thought Elhokar did look like a king. It wasn’t that the king had changed—the man still had his imperious features, with that overly large nose and condescending manner. The change was in Kaladin. The things he’d once associated with kingship—honor, strength of arms, nobility—had been replaced with Elhokar’s less inspiring attributes.
“This is really all that Dalinar assigns one of his officers?” Elhokar asked, gesturing around the room. “That man. He expects everyone to live with his own austerity. It is as if he’s completely forgotten how to enjoy himself.”
Kaladin looked to Moash, who shrugged, Shardplate clinking.
The king cleared his throat. “I was told you were too weak to make the trip to see me. I see that might not be the case.”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said. “I’m not well, but I walk the camp each day to rebuild my strength. I feared that my weakness and appearance might be offensive to the Throne.”
“You’ve learned to speak politically, I see,” the king said, folding his arms. “The truth is that my command is meaningless, even to a darkeyes. I no longer have authority in the eyes of men.”
Great. Here we go again.
The king waved curtly. “Out, you other two. I’d speak to this man alone.”
Moash glanced at Kaladin, looking concerned, but Kaladin nodded. With reluctance, Moash and Taka walked out, shutting the door, leaving them to the light of a few dwindling spheres that the king set out. Soon, those wouldn’t have any Stormlight to them at all—it had been too long without a highstorm. They’d need to break out candles and oil lamps.
“How did you know,” the king asked him, “how to be a hero?”
“Your Majesty?” Kaladin asked, sagging against his crutch.
“A hero,” the king said, waving flippantly. “Everyone loves you, bridgeman. You saved Dalinar, you fought Shardbearers, you came back after falling into the storming chasms! How do you do it? How do you know?”
“It’s really just luck, Your Majesty.”
“No, no,” the king said. He began pacing. “It’s a pattern, though I can’t figure it out. When I try to be strong, I make a fool of myself. When I try to be merciful, people walk all over me. When I try to listen to counsel, it turns out I’ve picked the wrong men! When I try to do everything on my own, Dalinar has to take over lest I ruin the kingdom.
“How do people know what to do? Why don’t I know what to do? I was born to this office, given the throne by the Almighty himself! Why would he give me the title, but not the capacity? It defies reason. And yet, everyone seems to know things that I do not. My father could rule even the likes of Sadeas—men loved Gavilar, feared him, and served him all at once. I can’t even get a darkeyes to obey a command to come visit the palace! Why doesn’t this work? What do I have to do?”
Kaladin stepped back, shocked at the frankness. “Why are you asking me this, Your Majesty?”
“Because you know the secret,” the king said, still pacing. “I’ve seen how your men regard you; I’ve heard how people speak of you. You’re a hero, bridgeman.” He stopped, then walked up to Kaladin, taking him by the arms. “Can you teach me?”
Kaladin regarded him, baffled.
“I want to be a king like my father was,” Elhokar said. “I want to lead men, and I want them to respect me.”
“I don’t . . .” Kaladin swallowed. “I don’t know if that’s possible, Your Majesty.”
Elhokar narrowed his eyes at Kaladin. “So you do still speak your mind. Even after the trouble it brought you. Tell me. Do you think me a bad king, bridgeman?”
“Yes.”
The king drew in a sharp breath, still holding Kaladin by the arms.
I could do it right here, Kaladin realized. Strike the king down. Put Dalinar on the throne. No hiding, no secrets, no cowardly assassination. A fight, him and me.
That seemed a more honest way to be about it. Sure, Kaladin would probably be executed, but he found that didn’t bother him. Should he do it, for the good of the kingdom?
He could imagine Dalinar’s anger. Dalinar’s disappointment. Death didn’t bother Kaladin, but failing Dalinar . . . Storms.
The king let go and stalked away. “Well, I did ask,” he muttered to himself. “I merely have to win you over as well. I will figure this out. I will be a king to be remembered.”
“Or you could do what is best for Alethkar,” Kaladin said, “and step down.”
The king stopped in place. He turned on Kaladin, expression darkening. “Do not overstep yourself, bridgeman. Bah. I should never have come here.”
“I agree,” Kaladin said. He found this entire experience surreal.
Elhokar made to leave. He stopped at the door, not looking at Kaladin. “When you came, the shadows went away.”
“The . . . shadows?”
“I saw them in mirrors, in the corners of my eyes. I could swear I even heard them whispering, but you frightened them. I haven’t seen them since. There’s something about you. Don’t try to deny it.” The king looked to him. “I am sorry for what I did to you. I watched you fight to help Adolin, and then I saw you defend Renarin . . . and I grew jealous. There you were, such a champion, so loved. And everyone hates me. I should have gone to fight myself.
“Instead, I overreacted to your challenge of Amaram. You weren’t the one who ruined our chance against Sadeas. It was me. Dalinar was right. Again. I’m so tired of him being right, and me being wrong. In light of that, I am not at all surprised that you find me a bad king.”
Elhokar pushed open the door and left.
The Unmade are a deviation, a flair, a conundrum that may not be worth your time. You cannot help but think of them. They are fascinating. Many are mindless. Like the spren of human emotions, only much more nasty. I do believe a few can think, however.
—From the Diagram, Book of the 2nd Desk Drawer: paragraph 14
Dalinar strode from the tent into a subtle rain, joined by Navani and Shallan. The rain sounded softer out here than it had inside the tent, where the drops had drummed upon the fabric.
They had marched farther inward all that morning, bringing them to the very heart of the ruined plateaus. They were close now. So close, they had the Parshendi’s full attention.
It was happening.
An attendant offered an umbrella to each person leaving the tent, but Dalinar waved his away. If his men had to stand in this, he’d join them. He’d be soaked by the end of this day anyway.
He strode through the ranks, following bridgemen in stormcoats who led the way with sapphire lanterns. It was still day, but the thick cloud cover rendered everything dim. He used blue light to identify himself. Roion and Aladar, seeing that Dalinar had eschewed an umbrella, stepped out into the rain with him. Sebarial, of course, stayed underneath his.
They reached the edge of the mass of troops who had formed up in a large oval, facing outward. He knew his soldiers well enough to sense their anxiety. They stood too stiffly, with no shuffling or stretching. They were also silent, not chattering to distract themselves—not even griping. The only voices he heard were occasional barked orders as officers trimmed the lines. Dalinar soon saw what was causing the uneasiness.
Glowing red eyes amassed on the next plateau.
They hadn’t glowed before. Red eyes yes, but not with those uncanny glows. In the dim light, the Parshendi bodies were indistinct, no more than shadows. The crimson eyes hovered like Taln’s Scar—like spheres in the darkness, deeper in color than any ruby. Parshendi beards often bore bits of gemstone woven into them in patterns, but today those didn’t glow.
Too long without a highstorm, Dalinar thought. Even the gems in Alethi spheres—cut with facets and so able to hold light longer—had almost all failed by this point of the Weeping, though larger gemstones might last another week or so.
They had entered the darkest part of the year. The time when Stormlight did not shine.
“Oh, Almighty!” Roion whispered, looking at those red eyes. “Oh, by the names of God himself. What have you brought us to, Dalinar?”
“Can you do anything to help?” Dalinar asked softly, looking to Shallan, who stood beneath her umbrella at his side, her guards just behind.
Face pale, she shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“The Knights Radiant were warriors,” Dalinar said, very softly.
“If they were, then I’ve got a long way to go. . . .”
“Go, then,” Dalinar told the girl. “When there is an opening in the fighting, find that pathway to Urithiru, if it exists. You’re my only contingency plan, Brightness.”
She nodded.
“Dalinar,” Aladar said, sounding horrified as he watched the red eyes, which were forming into ordered ranks on the other side of the chasm, “tell me straight. When you brought us on this march, did you expect to find these horrors?”
“Yes.” It was true enough. He didn’t know what horrors he’d find, but he had known that something was coming.
“You came anyway?” Aladar demanded. “You hauled us all the way out onto these cursed plains, you let us be surrounded by monsters, to be slaughtered and—”
Dalinar grabbed Aladar by the front of the jacket and hauled him forward. The move caught the other man completely off guard, and he quieted, eyes widening.
“Those are Voidbringers out there,” Dalinar hissed, rain dribbling down his face. “They’ve returned. Yes, it is true. And we, Aladar, we have a chance to stop them. I don’t know if we can prevent another Desolation, but I’d do anything—including sacrificing myself and this entire army—to protect Alethkar from those things. Do you understand?”
Aladar nodded, wide-eyed.
“I hoped to get here before this happened,” Dalinar said, “but I didn’t. So now we’re going to fight. And storm it, we’re going to destroy those things. We’re going to stop them, and we’re going to hope that will stop this evil from spreading to the world’s parshmen, as my niece feared. If you survive this day, you’ll be known as one of the greatest men of our generation.”
He released Aladar, letting the highprince stumble back. “Go to your men, Aladar. Go lead them. Be a champion.”
Aladar stared at Dalinar, mouth gaping. Then, he straightened. He slapped his arm to his chest, giving a salute as crisp as any Dalinar had seen. “It will be done, Brightlord,” Aladar said. “Highprince of War.” Aladar barked to his attendants—including Mintez, the highlord that Aladar usually had use his Shardplate in battle—then put his hand to his side-sword and dashed away in the rain.
“Huh,” Sebarial said from beneath his umbrella. “He’s actually buying into it. He thinks he’s going to be a storming hero.”
“He now knows I was right about the need to unify Alethkar. He’s a good soldier. Most of the highprinces are . . . or were, at some point.”
“Pity you ended up with us two instead of them,” Sebarial said, nodding toward Roion, who still stared out at the shifting red eyes. There were thousands now, still increasing as more Parshendi arrived. Scouts reported that they were gathering on all three plateaus bordering the large one that the Alethi occupied.
“I’m useless in a battle,” Sebarial continued, “and Roion’s archers will be wasted in this rain. Besides, he’s a coward.”
“Roion is not a coward,” Dalinar said, laying a hand on the shorter highprince’s arm. “He’s careful. That did not serve him well in the squabbling over gemhearts, where men like Sadeas threw away lives in exchange for prestige. But out here, care is an attribute I’d choose over recklessness.”
Roion turned to Dalinar, blinking away water. “Is this really happening?”
“Yes,” Dalinar said. “I want you with your men, Roion. They need to see you. This is going to terrify them, but not you. You’re careful, in control.”
“Yeah,” Roion said. “Yes. You . . . you’re going to get us out of this, right?”
“No, I’m not,” Dalinar said.
Roion frowned.
“We’re all going to get ourselves out of it together.”
Roion nodded, and didn’t object. He saluted as Aladar had, if less crisply, then headed toward his army on the northern flank, calling for his aides to give him the numbers of his reserves.
“Damnation,” Sebarial said, watching Roion go. “Damnation. What about me? Where’s my impassioned speech?”
“You,” Dalinar said, “are to go back to the command tent and not get in t
he way.”
Sebarial laughed. “All right. That I can do.”
“I want Teleb in command of your army,” Dalinar said. “And I’m sending both Serugiadis and Rust to join him. Your men will fight better against these things with a few Shardbearers at their head.” All three were men who had been given Shards following Adolin’s dueling spree.
“I’ll give the order that Teleb is to be obeyed.”
“And Sebarial?” Dalinar asked.
“Yes?”
“If you have a mind for it, burn some prayers. I don’t know if anyone up there is listening anymore, but it can’t hurt.” Dalinar turned toward the sea of red eyes. Why were they just standing there watching?
Sebarial hesitated. “Not as confident as you acted to the other two, eh?” He smiled, as if that comforted him, then sauntered off. What a strange man. Dalinar nodded to one of his aides, who went to give the orders to the three Kholin Shardbearers, first picking Serugiadis—a lanky young man whose sister Adolin had once courted—out of his command post along the ranks, then running off to fetch Teleb and explain Dalinar’s orders.
That seen to, Dalinar stepped up to Navani. “I need to know you’re safe in the command tent. As safe as anyone can be.”
“Then pretend I’m there,” she said.
“But—”
“You want my help with fabrials?” Navani said. “I can’t set up that sort of thing remotely, Dalinar.”
He ground his teeth, but what could he say? He was going to need every edge he could get. He looked out at the red eyes again.
“Campfire tales come alive,” said Rock, the massive Horneater bridgeman. Dalinar had never seen that one guarding him or his sons; he was a quartermaster, Dalinar believed. “These things should not be. Why do they not move?”
“I don’t know,” Dalinar said. “Send a few of your men to fetch Rlain. I want to see if he can provide any explanations.” As two bridgemen ran off, Dalinar turned to Navani. “Gather your scribes to write my words. I will speak to the soldiers.”