It also wasn’t strange to ride at the front of the force, Dalinar’s banner flapping over his head. Adolin had been leading them to battle on his own for six weeks now.
No, the strangest part was riding his father’s horse.
Gallant was a large black animal, bulkier and squatter than Sureblood, Adolin’s horse. Gallant looked like a warhorse even when compared to other Ryshadium. So far as Adolin knew, no man had ever ridden him but Dalinar. Ryshadium were finicky that way. It had taken a lengthy explanation from Dalinar to even get the horse to allow Adolin to hold the reins, let alone climb into the saddle.
It had eventually worked, but Adolin wouldn’t dare ride Gallant into battle; he was pretty sure the beast would throw him off and run away, looking to protect Dalinar. It did feel odd climbing on a horse that wasn’t Sureblood. He kept expecting Gallant to move differently than he did, turn his head at the wrong times. When Adolin patted his neck, the horse’s mane felt off to him in ways he couldn’t explain. He and his Ryshadium were more than simply rider and horse, and he found himself oddly melancholy to be out on a ride without Sureblood.
Foolishness. He had to stay focused. The procession approached the meeting plateau, which had a large, oddly shaped mound of rock near the center. This plateau was close to the Alethi side of the Plains, but much farther south than Adolin had ever gone. Early patrols had said chasmfiends were more common out in this region, but they never spotted a chrysalis here. Some kind of hunting ground, but not a place for pupating?
The Parshendi weren’t there yet. When the scouts reported that the plateau was secure, Adolin urged Gallant across the mobile bridge. He felt warm in his Plate; the seasons, it seemed, had finally decided to inch through spring and maybe even toward summer.
He approached the rock mound at the center. It really was odd. Adolin circled it, noticing its shape, ridged in places, almost like . . .
“It’s a chasmfiend,” Adolin realized. He passed the face, a hollowed-out piece of stone that evoked the exact feeling of a chasmfiend’s head. A statue? No, it was too natural. A chasmfiend had died here centuries ago, and instead of being blown away, had slowly crusted over with crem.
The result was eerie. The crem had duplicated the creature’s form, clinging to the carapace, entombing it. The hulking rock seemed like a creature born of stone, like the ancient stories of Voidbringers.
Adolin shivered, nudging the horse away from the stone corpse and toward the other side of the plateau. Shortly, he heard alarms from the outrunners. Parshendi coming. He steeled himself, ready to summon his Shardblade. Behind him arrayed a group of bridgemen, ten in number, including that parshman. Captain Kaladin had remained with Dalinar back in the warcamp, just in case.
Adolin was the one more exposed. Part of him wished for the assassin to come today. So Adolin could try himself again. Of all the duels he hoped to fight in the future, this one—against the man who had killed his uncle—would be the most important, even more than taking down Sadeas.
The assassin did not make an appearance as a group of two hundred Parshendi crossed from the next plateau, jumping gracefully and landing on the meeting plateau. Adolin’s soldiers stirred, armor clanking, spears lowering. It had been years since men and Parshendi had met without blood being spilled.
“All right,” Adolin said in his helm. “Fetch my scribe.”
Brightness Inadara was carried up through the ranks in a palanquin. Dalinar wanted Navani with him—ostensibly because he wanted her advice, but probably also to protect her.
“Let’s go,” Adolin said, nudging Gallant forward. They crossed the plateau, just him and Brightness Inadara, who rose from her palanquin to walk. She was a wizened matron, with grey hair she cut short for simplicity. He’d seen sticks with more flesh on them than she had, but she was keen-minded and as trustworthy a scribe as they had.
The Parshendi Shardbearer emerged from the ranks and strode forward on the rocks alone. Uncaring, unworried. This was a confident one.
Adolin dismounted and went the rest of the way on foot, Inadara at his side. They stopped a few feet from the Parshendi, the three of them alone on an expanse of rock, the fossilized chasmfiend staring at them from the left.
“I am Eshonai,” the Parshendi said. “Do you remember me?”
“No,” Adolin said. He pitched his voice down to try and match the voice of his father, and hoped that—with the helm in place—it would be enough to fool this woman, who couldn’t know well what Dalinar sounded like.
“Not surprising,” Eshonai said. “I was young and unimportant when we first met. Barely worth remembering.”
Adolin had originally expected Parshendi conversation to be singsongish, from what he’d heard said of them. That wasn’t the case at all. Eshonai had a rhythm to her words, the way she emphasized them and where she paused. She changed tones, but the result was more of a chant than a song.
Inadara took out a writing board and spanreed, then started writing down what Eshonai said.
“What is this?” Eshonai demanded.
“I came alone, as you asked,” Adolin said, trying to project his father’s air of command. “But I will record what is said and send it back to my generals.”
Eshonai did not raise her faceplate, so Adolin had a good excuse not to raise his. They stared at each other through eye slits. This was not going as well as his father had hoped, but it was about what Adolin had expected.
“We are here,” Adolin said, using the words his father had suggested he begin with, “to discuss the terms of a Parshendi surrender.”
Eshonai laughed. “That is not the point at all.”
“Then what?” Adolin demanded. “You seemed eager to meet with me. Why?”
“Things have changed since I spoke with your son, Blackthorn. Important things.”
“What things?”
“Things you cannot imagine,” Eshonai said.
Adolin waited, as if pondering, but actually giving Inadara time to correspond with the warcamps. Inadara leaned up to him, whispering what Navani and Dalinar had written for him to say.
“We tire of this war, Parshendi,” Adolin said. “Your numbers dwindle. We know this. Let us make a truce, one that would benefit us both.”
“We are not as weak as you believe,” Eshonai said.
Adolin found himself frowning. When she’d spoken to him before, she’d seemed passionate, inviting. Now she was cold and dismissive. Was that right? She was Parshendi. Perhaps human emotions didn’t apply to her.
Inadara whispered more to him.
“What do you want?” Adolin asked, speaking the words his father sent. “How can there be peace?”
“There will be peace, Blackthorn, when one of us is dead. I came here because I wanted to see you with my own eyes, and I wanted to warn you. We have just changed the rules of this conflict. Squabbling over gemstones no longer matters.”
No longer matters? Adolin started to sweat. She makes it sound like they were playing their own game all this time. Not desperate at all. Could the Alethi have misjudged everything so profoundly?
She turned to go.
No. All of this, just to have the meeting puff into smoke? Storm it!
“Wait!” Adolin cried, stepping forward. “Why? Why are you acting like this? What is wrong?”
She looked back at him. “You really want to end this?”
“Yes. Please. I want peace. Regardless of the cost.”
“Then you will have to destroy us.”
“Why?” Adolin repeated. “Why did you kill Gavilar, all those years ago? Why betray our treaty?”
“King Gavilar,” Eshonai said, as if mulling over the name. “He should not have revealed his plans to us that night. Poor fool. He did not know. He bragged, thinking we would welcome the return of our gods.” She shook her head, then turned again and jogged off, armor clinking.
Adolin stepped back, feeling useless. If his father had been there, would he have been able to do more? Inadara still wrot
e, sending the words to Dalinar.
A reply from him finally came. “Return to the warcamps. There is nothing you, or I myself, could have done. Clearly, her mind is already made up.”
Adolin spent the return ride brooding. When he finally reached the warcamps a few hours later, he found his father in conference with Navani, Khal, Teshav, and the army’s four battalionlords.
Together, they pored over the words that Inadara had sent. A group of parshman servants quietly brought wine and fruit. Teleb—wearing the Plate that Adolin had won from his duel with Eranniv—watched from the side of the room, Shardhammer on his back, faceplate up. His people had once ruled Alethkar. What did he think of all this? The man usually kept his opinions to himself.
Adolin stomped into the room, pulling off his father’s—well, Renarin’s—helm. “I should have let you go,” Adolin said. “It wasn’t a trap. Perhaps you could have talked sense to her.”
“These are the people who murdered my brother on the very night they signed a treaty with him,” Dalinar said, inspecting maps on the table. “It seems they have not changed at all from that day. You did perfectly, son; we know everything we need to.”
“We do?” Adolin said, walking up to the table, helm under arm.
“Yes,” Dalinar said, looking up. “We know that they will not agree to peace, no matter what. My conscience is clear.”
Adolin looked over the outspread maps. “What is this?” he asked, noting troop movement symbols. They were all pointed across the Shattered Plains.
“A plan of assault,” Dalinar said quietly. “The Parshendi will not deal with us, and they are planning something big. Something to change the war. The time has come to bring the fight directly to them and end this war, one way or another.”
“Stormfather,” Adolin said. “And if we’re surrounded while we’re out there?”
“We will take everyone,” Dalinar said, “our whole army, and as many of the highprinces as will join me. Soulcasters for food. The Parshendi won’t be able to surround that large a force, and even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. We’d be able to stand against them.”
“We can leave right after the final highstorm before the Weeping,” Navani said, writing some numbers on the side of the map. “It is the Light Year, and so we’ll have steady rains, but no highstorms for weeks. We won’t be exposed to one while out on the Plains.”
It would also put them out on the Shattered Plains, alone, within days of the date that had been scratched on the walls and floor. . . . Adolin’s spine crawled.
“We have to beat them to it,” Dalinar said softly, scanning the maps. “Interrupt whatever it is they are planning. Before the countdown ends.” He looked up at Adolin. “I need you to duel more. High-profile matches, as high profile as you can manage. Win Shards for me, son.”
“I’m dueling Elit tomorrow,” Adolin said. “From there, I have a plan for my next target.”
“Good. To succeed out on the Plains, we will need Shardbearers—and we will need the loyalty of as many highprinces as will follow me. Focus your dueling on the Shardbearers of the faction loyal to Sadeas, and beat them with as much fanfare as you can manage. I will go to the neutral highprinces, and will remind them of their oaths to fulfill the Vengeance Pact. If we can take Shards from those who follow Sadeas and use them to end the war, it will go a long way toward proving what I’ve been saying all along. That unity is the path to Alethi greatness.”
Adolin nodded. “I’ll see it done.”
Now, as the Truthwatchers were esoteric in nature, their order being formed entirely of those who never spoke or wrote of what they did, in this lies frustration for those who would see their exceeding secrecy from the outside; they were not naturally inclined to explanation; and in the case of Corberon’s disagreements, their silence was not a sign of an exceeding abundance of disdain, but rather an exceeding abundance of tact.
—From Words of Radiance, chapter 11, page 6
Kaladin strolled along the Shattered Plains at night, passing tufts of shalebark and vines, lifespren spinning about them as motes. Puddles still lingered in low spots from the previous day’s highstorm, fat with crem for the plants to feast upon. To his left, Kaladin heard the sounds of the warcamps, busy with activity. To the right . . . silence. Just those endless plateaus.
When he’d been a bridgeman, Sadeas’s troops hadn’t stopped him from walking this path. What was there for men out here, on the Plains? Instead, Sadeas had posted guards at the edges of the camps and at bridges, so the slaves couldn’t escape.
What was there for men out here? Nothing but salvation itself, discovered in the depths of those chasms.
Kaladin turned and strolled out along one of the chasms, passing soldiers on guard duty at bridges, torches shivering in the wind. They saluted him.
There, he thought, picking his way along a particular plateau. The warcamps to his left stained the air with light, enough to see where he was. At the plateau’s edge he came to the place where he had met with the King’s Wit on that night weeks ago. A night of decision, a night of change.
Kaladin stepped up to the edge of the chasm, looking eastward.
Change and decision. He checked over his shoulder. He’d passed the guard post, and now nobody was close enough to see him. So, belt laden with bags of spheres, Kaladin stepped off into the chasm.
* * *
Shallan did not care for Sadeas’s warcamp.
The air was different here than it was in Sebarial’s camp. It stank, and it smelled of desperation.
Was desperation even a smell? She thought she could describe it. The scent of sweat, of cheap drink, and of crem that had not been cleaned off the streets. That all churned above roads that were poorly lit. In Sebarial’s camp, people walked in groups. Here, they loped along in packs.
Sebarial’s camp smelled of spice and industry—of new leather and, sometimes, livestock. Dalinar’s camp smelled of polish and oil. Around every second corner in Dalinar’s camp, someone was doing something practical. There were too few soldiers in Dalinar’s camp these days, but each wore his uniform, as if it were a shield against the chaos of the times.
In Sadeas’s camp, the men who wore their uniforms wore them with unbuttoned jackets and wrinkled trousers. She passed tavern after tavern, each spitting forth a racket. The women who idled in front of some indicated that not all were simply taverns. Whorehouses were common in every camp, of course, but they seemed more blatant here.
She passed fewer parshmen than she commonly saw in Sebarial’s camp. Sadeas preferred traditional slaves: men and women with branded foreheads, scurrying about with backs bowed and shoulders slumped.
This was, honestly, what she’d expected from all of the warcamps. She’d read accounts of men at war—of camp followers and discipline problems. Of tempers flaring, of the attitudes of men who were trained to kill. Perhaps, instead of wondering at the awfulness of Sadeas’s camp, she should be marveling that the others weren’t the same.
Shallan hurried on her way. She wore the face of a young darkeyed man, her hair pushed up into her cap. She wore a pair of sturdy gloves. Even disguised as a boy, she wasn’t about to go around with her safehand exposed.
Before leaving tonight, she had done a series of sketches to use as new faces, if need be. Testing had proven she could draw a sketch in the morning, then use it for an image in the afternoon. If she waited longer than about a day, though, the image she created was blurred and sometimes looked melted. That made perfect sense to Shallan. The process of creation left a picture in her mind that eventually wore thin.
Her current face had been based on the messenger youths who moved in Sadeas’s camp. Though her heart thumped every time she passed a pack of soldiers, nobody gave her a second glance.
Amaram was a highlord—a man of third dahn, which made him a full rank higher than Shallan’s father had been, two ranks higher than Shallan herself. That entitled him to his own little domain within his liege’s warcamp. His manor
flew his own banner, and he had his own personal military force occupying nearby buildings. Posts set into the stone and striped with his colors—burgundy and forest green—delineated his sphere of influence. She passed them without pausing.
“Hey, you!”
Shallan froze in place, feeling very small in the darkness. Not small enough. She turned slowly as a pair of patrolling guards walked up. Their uniforms were sharper than any she’d seen in this camp. Even the buttons were polished, though at the waists they wore skirtlike takama instead of trousers. Amaram was a traditionalist, and his uniforms reflected that.
The guards loomed over her, as most Alethi did. “Messenger?” one asked. “This time of night?” He was a solid fellow with a greying beard and a thick, wide nose.
“It’s not even second moon yet, sir,” Shallan said in what she hoped was a boyish voice.
He frowned at her. What had she said? Sir, she realized. He’s not an officer.
“Report at the guard posts from now on when you visit,” the man said, pointing toward a small, lit area in the distance behind them. “We’re going to start keeping a secure perimeter.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Oh, stop harassing the lad, Hav,” the other soldier said. “You can’t expect him to know rules that half the soldiers don’t even know yet.”
“On with you,” Hav said, waving Shallan through. She hastened to obey. A secure perimeter? She didn’t envy these men that task. Amaram didn’t have a wall to keep people out, just some striped posts.
Amaram’s manor was relatively small—two stories, with a handful of rooms on each floor. It might once have been a tavern, and was temporary, as he’d only just arrived at the warcamps. Stacked piles of crembrick and stone nearby indicated some far grander building was being planned. Near the piles stood other buildings that had been appropriated as barracks for Amaram’s personal guard, which included only about fifty men. Most of the soldiers he’d brought, recruited from Sadeas’s lands and sworn to him, would billet elsewhere.