Eshava glanced at him. “Nothing. Just seeing if you were attending the conversation, Adolin.”
“No,” Adolin said. “Tell me what you were saying.”
She shrugged, looking at Toral.
Toral leaned forward. “You don’t think the warcamps are ignoring what happens to your father during highstorms, Adolin. Word is that he should abdicate because of it.”
“That would be foolish,” Adolin said firmly. “Considering how much success he’s showing in battle.”
“Stepping down would be far too much of an overreaction,” Danlan agreed. “Though, Adolin, I do wish you could get your father to relax all of these foolish restrictions our camp is under. You and the other Kholin men would be able to truly join society again.”
“I’ve tried,” he said, checking the position of the sun. “Trust me. And, unfortunately, I have a duel to prepare for. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Some more of Sadeas’s sycophants?” Jakamav asked.
“No,” Danlan said, smiling. “It’s Brightlord Resi. There’ve been some vocal provocations from Thanadal, and this might serve to shut his mouth.” She looked at Adolin fondly. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Thanks,” he said, rising, doing up the buttons on his coat. He kissed Danlan’s freehand, waved to the others, and trotted out onto the street.
That was something of an abrupt departure for me, he thought. Will they see how uncomfortable the discussion made me? Probably not. They didn’t know him as Renarin did. Adolin liked to be familiar with a large number of people, but not terribly close with any of them. He didn’t even know Danlan that well yet. He would make his relationship with her last, though. He was tired of Renarin teasing him for jumping in and out of courtships. Danlan was very pretty; it seemed the courtship could work.
He passed through the Outer Market, Toral’s words weighing on him. Adolin didn’t want to become highprince. He wasn’t ready. He liked dueling and chatting with his friends. Leading the army was one thing—but as highprince, he’d have to think of other things. Such as the future of the war on the Shattered Plains, or protecting and advising the king.
That shouldn’t have to be our problem, he thought. But it was as his father always said. If they didn’t do it, who would?
The Outer Market was far more disorganized than the markets inside Dalinar’s warcamp. Here, the ramshackle buildings—mostly built of stone blocks quarried from nearby—had grown up without any specific plan. A large number of the merchants were Thaylen, with their typical caps, vests, and long, wagging eyebrows.
The busy market was one of the few places where soldiers from all ten warcamps mingled. In fact, that had become one of the main functions of the place; it was neutral ground where men and women from different warcamps could meet. It also provided a market that wasn’t heavily regulated, though Dalinar had stepped in to provide some rules once the marketplace had begun to show signs of lawlessness.
Adolin nodded to a passing group of Kholin soldiers in blue, who saluted him. They were on patrol, halberds held at their shoulders, helms gleaming. Dalinar’s troops patrolled this place, and his scribes watched over it. All at his own cost.
His father didn’t like the layout of the Outer Market or its lack of walls. He said that a raid could be catastrophic to it, that it violated the spirit of the Codes. But it had been years since the Parshendi had raided the Alethi side of the Plains. And if they did decide to strike at the warcamps, the scouts and guards would give ample warning.
So what was the point of the Codes? Adolin’s father acted as if they were vitally important. Always be in uniform, always be armed, always stay sober. Be ever vigilant while under threat of attack. But there was no threat of attack.
As he walked through the market, Adolin looked—really looked—for the first time and tried to see what it was his father was doing.
He could pick out Dalinar’s officers easily. They wore their uniforms, as commanded. Blue coats and trousers with silver buttons, knots on the shoulders for rank. Officers who weren’t from Dalinar’s camp wore all kinds of clothing. It was difficult to pick them out from the merchants and other wealthy civilians.
But that doesn’t matter, Adolin told himself again. Because we’re not going to be attacked.
He frowned, passing a group of lighteyes lounging outside another winehouse. Much as he’d just been doing. Their clothing—indeed, their postures and mannerisms—made them look like they cared only about their revelry. Adolin found himself annoyed. There was a war going on. Almost every day, soldiers died. They did so while lighteyes drank and chatted.
Maybe the Codes weren’t just about protecting against the Parshendi. Maybe they were about something more—about giving the men commanders they could respect and rely on. About treating war with the gravity it deserved. Maybe it was about not turning a war zone into a festival. The common men had to remain on watch, vigilant. Therefore, Adolin and Dalinar did the same.
Adolin hesitated in the street. Nobody cursed at him or called for him to move—they could see his rank. They just went around him.
I think I see now, he thought. Why had it taken him so long?
Disturbed, he hurried on his way toward the day’s match.
“‘I walked from Abamabar to Urithiru,’” Dalinar said, quoting from memory. “‘In this, the metaphor and experience are one, inseparable to me like my mind and memory. One contains the other, and though I can explain one to you, the other is only for me.’”
Sadeas—sitting beside him—raised an eyebrow. Elhokar sat on Dalinar’s other side, wearing his Shardplate. He’d taken to that more and more, sure that assassins were thirsting for his life. Together, they watched the men dueling down below, at the bottom of a small crater that Elhokar had designated the warcamps’ dueling arena. The rocky shelves running around the inside of the ten-foot-tall wall made excellent seating platforms.
Adolin’s duel hadn’t started yet, and the men who fought right now were lighteyes, but not Shardbearers. Their dull-edged dueling swords were crusted with a white, chalklike substance. When one achieved a hit on the other’s padded armor, it would leave a visible mark.
“So, wait,” Sadeas said to him. “This man who wrote the book…”
“Nohadon is his holy name. Others call him Bajerden, though we’re not certain whether that was actually his real name or not.”
“He decided to walk from where to where?”
“Abamabar to Urithiru,” Dalinar said. “I think it must have been a great distance, from the way the story is told.”
“Wasn’t he a king?”
“Yes.”
“But why—”
“It’s confusing,” Dalinar said. “But listen. You’ll see.” He cleared his throat and continued. “‘I strode this insightful distance on my own, and forbade attendants. I had no steed beyond my well-worn sandals, no companion beside a stout staff to offer conversation with its beats against the stone. My mouth was to be my purse; I stuffed it not with gems, but with song. When singing for sustenance failed me, my arms worked well for cleaning a floor or hogpen, and often earned me a satisfactory reward.
“‘Those dear to me took fright for my safety and, perhaps, my sanity. Kings, they explained, do not walk like beggars for hundreds of miles. My response was that if a beggar could manage the feat, then why not a king? Did they think me less capable than a beggar?
“‘Sometimes I think that I am. The beggar knows much that the king can only guess. And yet who draws up the codes for begging ordinances? Often I wonder what my experience in life—my easy life following the Desolation, and my current level of comfort—has given me of any true experience to use in making laws. If we had to rely on what we knew, kings would only be of use in creating laws regarding the proper heating of tea and cushioning of thrones.’”
Sadeas frowned at this. In front of them, the two swordsmen continued their duel; Elhokar watched keenly. He loved duels. Bringing in sand to coat the floor of this are
na had been one of his first acts at the Shattered Plains.
“‘Regardless,’” Dalinar said, still quoting from The Way of Kings, “‘I made the trip and—as the astute reader has already concluded—survived it. The stories of its excitements will stain a different page in this narrative, for first I must explain my purpose in walking this strange path. Though I was quite willing to let my family think me insane, I would not leave the same as my cognomen upon the winds of history.
“‘My family traveled to Urithiru via the direct method, and had been awaiting me for weeks when I arrived. I was not recognized at the gate, for my mane had grown quite robust without a razor to tame it. Once I revealed myself, I was carried away, primped, fed, worried over, and scolded in precisely that order. Only after all of this was through was I finally asked the purpose of my excursion. Couldn’t I have just taken the simple, easy, and common route to the holy city?’”
“Exactly,” Sadeas interjected. “He could at the very least have ridden a horse!”
“‘For my answer,’” Dalinar quoted, “‘I removed my sandals and proffered my callused feet. They were comfortable upon the table beside my half-consumed tray of grapes. At this point, the expressions of my companions proclaimed that they thought me daft, and so I explained by relating the stories of my trip. One after another, like stacked sacks of tallew, stored for the winter season. I would make flatbread of them soon, then stuff it between these pages.
“‘Yes, I could have traveled quickly. But all men have the same ultimate destination. Whether we find our end in a hallowed sepulcher or a pauper’s ditch, all save the Heralds themselves must dine with the Nightwatcher.
“‘And so, does the destination matter? Or is it the path we take? I declare that no accomplishment has substance nearly as great as the road used to achieve it. We are not creatures of destinations. It is the journey that shapes us. Our callused feet, our backs strong from carrying the weight of our travels, our eyes open with the fresh delight of experiences lived.
“‘In the end, I must proclaim that no good can be achieved of false means. For the substance of our existence is not in the achievement, but in the method. The Monarch must understand this; he must not become so focused on what he wishes to accomplish that he diverts his gaze from the path he must take to arrive there.’”
Dalinar sat back. The rock beneath them had been cushioned and augmented with wooden armrests and back supports. The duel ended with one of the lighteyes—wearing green, as he was subject to Sadeas—scoring a hit on the breastplate of the other, leaving a long white mark. Elhokar clapped his approval, gauntleted hands clanking, and both duelists bowed. The winner’s victory would be recorded by the women sitting in the judging seats. They also held the books of dueling code, and would adjudicate disputes or infractions.
“That is the end of your story, I presume,” Sadeas said, as the next two duelists walked out onto the sand.
“It is,” Dalinar said.
“And you have that entire passage memorized?”
“I likely got a few of the words wrong.”
“Knowing you, that means you might have forgotten a single ‘an’ or ‘the.’”
Dalinar frowned.
“Oh, don’t be so stiff, old friend,” Sadeas said. “That was a compliment. Of sorts.”
“What did you think of the story?” Dalinar asked as the dueling resumed.
“It was ridiculous,” Sadeas said frankly, waving for a servant to bring him some wine. Yellow, as it was yet morning. “He walked all that distance just to make the point that kings should consider the consequences of their commands?”
“It wasn’t just to prove the point,” Dalinar said. “I thought that myself, but I’ve begun to see. He walked because he wanted to experience the things his people did. He used it as a metaphor, but I think he really wanted to know what it was like to walk that far.”
Sadeas took a sip of his wine, then squinted up at the sun. “Couldn’t we get an awning or something set up out here?”
“I like the sun,” Elhokar said. “I spend too much time locked away in those caves we call buildings.”
Sadeas glanced at Dalinar, rolling his eyes.
“Much of The Way of Kings is organized like that passage I quoted you,” Dalinar said. “A metaphor from Nohadon’s life—a real event turned into an example. He calls them the forty parables.”
“Are they all so ridiculous?”
“I think this one is beautiful,” Dalinar said softly.
“I don’t doubt that you do. You always have loved sentimental stories.” He raised a hand. “That was also intended to be a compliment.”
“Of sorts?”
“Exactly. Dalinar, my friend, you always have been emotional. It makes you genuine. It can also get in the way of levelheaded thinking—but so long as it continues to prompt you to save my life, I think I can live with it.” He scratched his chin. “I suppose, by definition, I would have to, wouldn’t I?”
“I guess.”
“The other highprinces think you are self-righteous. Surely you can see why.”
“I…” What could he say? “I don’t mean to be.”
“Well, you do provoke them. Take, for example, the way you refuse to rise to their arguments or insults.”
“Protesting simply draws attention to the issue,” Dalinar said. “The finest defense of character is correct action. Acquaint yourself with virtue, and you can expect proper treatment from those around you.”
“You see, there,” Sadeas said. “Who talks like that?”
“Dalinar does,” Elhokar said, though he was still watching the dueling. “My father used to.”
“Precisely,” Sadeas said. “Dalinar, friend, the others simply cannot accept that the things you say are serious. They assume it must be an act.”
“And you? What do you think of me?”
“I can see the truth.”
“Which is?”
“That you are a self-righteous prude,” Sadeas said lightly. “But you come by it honestly.”
“I’m certain you mean that to be a compliment too.”
“Actually, this time I’m just trying to annoy you.” Sadeas raised his cup of wine to Dalinar.
To the side, Elhokar grinned. “Sadeas. That was quite nearly clever. Shall I have to name you the new Wit?”
“What happened to the old one?” Sadeas’s voice was curious, even eager, as if hoping to hear that tragedy had befallen Wit.
Elhokar’s grin became a scowl. “He vanished.”
“Is that so? How disappointing.”
“Bah.” Elhokar waved a gauntleted hand. “He does this on occasion. He’ll return eventually. Unreliable as Damnation itself, that one. If he didn’t make me laugh so, I’d have replaced him seasons ago.”
They fell silent, and the dueling continued. A few other lighteyes—both women and men—watched, seated on the benchlike ridges. Dalinar noted with discomfort that Navani had arrived, and was chatting with a group of women, including Adolin’s latest infatuation, the auburn-haired scribe.
Dalinar’s eyes lingered on Navani, drinking in her violet dress, her mature beauty. She’d recorded his most recent visions without complaint, and seemed to have forgiven him for throwing her out of his rooms so sharply. She never mocked him, never acted skeptical. He appreciated that. Should he thank her, or would she see that as an invitation?
He averted his gaze from her, but found that he couldn’t watch the dueling swordsmen without catching sight of her in the corner of his eye. So, instead, he glanced up into the sky, squinting against the afternoon sun. The sounds of metal hitting metal came from below. Behind him, several large snails clung to the rock, waiting for highstorm water.
He had so many questions, so many uncertainties. He listened to The Way of Kings and worked to discover what Gavilar’s last words had meant. As if, somehow, they held the key to both his madness and the nature of the visions. But the truth was that he didn’t know anything, and he could
n’t rely on his own decisions. That was unhinging him, bit by bit, point by point.
Clouds seemed less frequent here, in these windswept plains. Just the blazing sun broken by the furious highstorms. The rest of Roshar was influenced by the storms—but here in the East, the feral, untamed highstorms ruled supreme. Could any mortal king hope to claim these lands? There were legends of them being inhabited, of there being more than just unclaimed hills, desolate plains, and overgrown forests. Natanatan, the Granite Kingdom.
“Ah,” Sadeas said, sounding as if he’d tasted something bitter. “Did he have to come?”
Dalinar lowered his head and followed Sadeas’s gaze. Highprince Vamah had arrived to watch the dueling, retinue in tow. Though most of them wore his traditional brown and grey colorings, the highprince himself wore a long grey coat that had slashes cut across it to reveal the bright red and orange silk underneath, matched by the ruffles peeking out of the cuffs and collar.
“I thought you had a fondness for Vamah,” Elhokar said.
“I tolerate him,” Sadeas replied. “But his fashion sense is absolutely repulsive. Red and orange? Not even a burnt orange, but a blatant, eye-breaking orange. And the rent style hasn’t been fashionable for ages. Ah, wonderful, he’s sitting directly across from us. I shall be forced to stare at him for the rest of the session.”
“You shouldn’t judge people so harshly based on how they look,” Dalinar said.
“Dalinar,” Sadeas said flatly, “we are highprinces. We represent Alethkar. Many around the world view us as a center of culture and influence. Should I not, therefore, have the right to encourage a properpresentation to the world?”
“A proper presentation, yes,” Dalinar said. “It is right for us to be fit and neat.” It would be nice if your soldiers, for instance, kept their uniforms clean.
“Fit, neat, and fashionable,” Sadeas corrected.
“And me?” Dalinar asked, looking down at his simple uniform. “Would you have me dress in those ruffles and bright colors?”
“You?” Sadeas asked. “You’re completely hopeless.” He raised a hand to forestall objection. “No, I am unfair. That uniform has a certain… timeless quality to it. The military suit, by virtue of its utility, will never be completely out of fashion. It’s a safe choice—steady. In a way, you avoid the issue of fashion by not playing the game.” He nodded to Vamah. “Vamah tries to play, but does so very poorly. And that is unforgivable.”