The Way of Kings

  There were a good number of scratches next to his name, noting gemhearts won. But very few of them were fresh.

  “There are some who say the Blackthorn has lost his sting,” Roion said. He was careful not to insult Dalinar outright, but he went further than he once would have. News of Dalinar’s actions while trapped in the barrack had spread.

  Dalinar forced himself to be calm. “Roion, we cannot continue to treat this war as a game.”

  “All wars are games. The greatest kind, with the pieces lost real lives, the prizes captured making for real wealth! This is the life for which men exist. To fight, to kill, to win.” He was quoting the Sunmaker, the last Alethi king to unite the highprinces. Gavilar had once revered his name.

  “Perhaps,” Dalinar said. “Yet what is the point? We fight to get Shardblades, then use those Shardblades to fight to get more Shardblades. It’s a circle, round and round we go, chasing our tails so we can be better at chasing our tails.”

  “We fight to prepare ourselves to reclaim heaven and take back what is ours.”

  “Men can train without going to war, and men can fight without it being meaningless. It wasn’t always this way. There were times when our wars meant something.”

  Roion raised an eyebrow. “You’re almost making me believe the rumors, Dalinar. They say you’ve lost your taste for combat, that you no longer have the will to fight.” He eyed Dalinar again. “Some are saying that it is time to abdicate in favor of your son.”

  “The rumors are wrong,” Dalinar snapped.

  “That is—”

  “They are wrong,” Dalinar said firmly, “if they claim that I no longer care.” He rested his fingers on the surface of the map again, running them across the smooth parchment. “I care, Roion. I care deeply. About this people. About my nephew. About the future of this war. And that is why I suggest we pursue an aggressive course from now on.”

  “Well, that is good to hear, I suppose.”

  Unite them….

  “I want you to try a joint plateau assault with me,” Dalinar said.

  “What?”

  “I want the two of us to try coordinating our efforts and attack at the same time, working together.”

  “Why would we want to do that?”

  “We could increase our chances of winning gemhearts.”

  “If more troops increased my chances of winning,” Roion said, “then I’d just bring more of my own. The plateaus are too small for fielding large armies, and mobility is more important than sheer numbers.”

  It was a valid point; on the Plains, more didn’t necessarily mean better. Close confines and a requisite forced march to the battlefield changed warfare significantly. The exact number of troops used depended on the size of the plateau and the highprince’s personal martial philosophy.

  “Working together wouldn’t just be about fielding more troops,” Dalinar said. “Each highprince’s army has different strengths. I’m known for my heavy infantry; you have the best archers. Sadeas’s bridges are the fastest. Working together, we could try new tactics. We expend too much effort getting to the plateau in haste. If we weren’t so rushed, competing against one another, maybe we could surround the plateau. We could try letting the Parshendi arrive first, then assault them on our terms, not theirs.”

  Roion hesitated. Dalinar had spent days deliberating with his generals about the possibility of a joint assault. It seemed that there would be distinct advantages, but they wouldn’t know for certain until someone tried it with him.

  He actually seemed to be considering. “Who would get the gemheart?”

  “We split the wealth equally,” Dalinar said.

  “And if we capture a Shardblade?”

  “The man who won it would get it, obviously.”

  “And that’s most likely to be you,” Roion said, frowning. “As you and your son already have Shards.”

  It was the great problem of Shardblades and Shardplate—winning either was highly unlikely unless you already had Shards yourself. In fact, having only one or the other often wasn’t enough. Sadeas had faced Parshendi Shardbearers on the field, and had always been forced to retreat, lest he be slain himself.

  “I’m certain we could arrange something more equitable,” Dalinar finally said. If he won Shards, he’d been hoping to be able to give them to Renarin.

  “I’m sure,” Roion said skeptically.

  Dalinar drew in a breath. He needed to be bolder. “What if I offer them to you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We try a joint attack. If I win a Shardblade or Plate, you get the first set. But I keep the second.”

  Roion’s eyes narrowed. “You’d do that?”

  “On my honor, Roion.”

  “Well, nobody would doubt that. But can you blame a man for being wary?”

  “Of what?”

  “I am a highprince, Dalinar,” Roion said. “My princedom is the smallest, true, but I am my own man. I would not see myself subordinated to someone greater.”

  You’ve already become part of something greater, Dalinar thought with frustration. That happened the moment you swore fealty to Gavilar. Roion and the others refused to make good on their promises. “Our kingdom can be so much more than it is, Roion.”

  “Perhaps. But perhaps I’m satisfied with what I have. Either way, you make an interesting proposal. I shall have to think on it further.”

  “Very well,” Dalinar said, but his instinct said that Roion would decline the offer. The man was too suspicious. The highprinces barely trusted one another enough to work together when there weren’t Shardblades and gems at stake.

  “Will I be seeing you at the feast this evening?” Roion asked.

  “Why wouldn’t you?” Dalinar asked with a sigh.

  “Well, the stormwardens have been saying that there could be a highstorm tonight, you see—”

  “I will be there,” Dalinar said flatly.

  “Yes, of course,” Roion said, chuckling. “No reason why you wouldn’t be.” He smiled at Dalinar and withdrew, his attendants following.

  Dalinar sighed, turning to study the Prime Map, thinking through the meeting and what it meant. He stood there for a long time. Looking down on the Plains, as if a god far above. The plateaus looked like close islands, or perhaps jagged pieces set in a massive stained-glass window. Not for the first time, he felt as if he should be able to make out a pattern to the plateaus. If he could see more of them, perhaps. What would it mean if there was an order to the chasms?

  Everyone else was so concerned with looking strong, with proving themselves. Was he really the only one who saw how frivolous that was? Strength for strength’s sake? What good was strength unless you did something with it?

  Alethkar was a light, once, he thought. That’s what Gavilar’s book claims, that’s what the visions are showing me. Nohadon was king of Alethkar, so long ago. In the time before the Heralds left.

  Dalinar felt as if he could almost see it. The secret. The thing that had made Gavilar so excited in the months before his death. If Dalinar could just stretch a little farther, he’d make it out. See the pattern in the lives of men. And finally know.

  But that was what he’d been doing for the last six years. Grasping, stretching, reaching just a little farther. The farther he reached, the more distant those answers seemed to become.

  Adolin stepped into the Gallery of Maps. His father was still there, standing alone. Two members of the Cobalt Guard watched over him from a distance. Roion was nowhere to be seen.

  Adolin approached slowly. His father had that look in his eyes, the absent one he got so often lately. Even when he wasn’t having an episode, he wasn’t entirely here. Not in the way he once had been.

  “Father?” Adolin said, stepping up to him.

  “Hello, Adolin.”

  “How was the meeting with Roion?” Adolin asked, trying to sound cheerful.

  “Disappointing. I’m proving far worse at diplomacy than I once was at war-making.”
>
  “There’s no profit in peace.”

  “That’s what everyone says. But we had peace once, and seemed to do just fine. Better, even.”

  “There hasn’t been peace since the Tranquiline Halls,” Adolin said immediately. “‘Man’s life on Roshar is conflict.’” It was a quotation from The Arguments.

  Dalinar turned to Adolin, looking amused. “Quoting scripture at me? You?”

  Adolin shrugged, feeling foolish. “Well, you see, Malasha is rather religious, and so earlier today I was listening to—”

  “Wait,” Dalinar said. “Malasha? Who’s that?”

  “Daughter of Brightlord Seveks.”

  “And that other girl, Janala?”

  Adolin grimaced, thinking back to the disastrous walk they’d gone on the other day. Several nice gifts had yet to repair that. She didn’t seem half as excited about him now that he wasn’t courting someone else. “Things are rocky. Malasha seems like a better prospect.” He moved on quickly. “I take it that Roion won’t soon be going on any plateau assault with us.”

  Dalinar shook his head. “He’s too afraid that I’m trying to maneuver him into a position where I can seize his lands. Perhaps it was wrong to approach the weakest highprince first. He’d rather hunker down and try to weather what comes at him, holding what he has, as opposed to making a risky play for something greater.”

  Dalinar stared at the map, looking distant again. “Gavilar dreamed of unifying Alethkar. Once I thought he’d achieved it, despite what he claimed. The longer I work with these men, the more I realize that Gavilar was right. We failed. We defeated these men, but we never unified them.”

  “So you still intend to approach the others?”

  “I do. I only need one to say yes in order to start. Who do you think we should go to next?”

  “I’m not sure,” Adolin said. “But for now, I think you should know something. Sadeas has sent to us, asking permission to enter our warcamp. He wants to interview the grooms who cared for His Majesty’s horse during the hunt.”

  “His new position gives him the right to make those kinds of demands.”

  “Father,” Adolin said, stepping closer, speaking softly. “I think he’s going to move against us.”

  Dalinar looked at him.

  “I know you trust him,” Adolin said quickly. “And I understand your reasons now. But listen to me. This move puts him in an ideal position to undermine us. The king has grown paranoid enough that he’s suspicious even of you and me—I know you’ve seen it. All Sadeas needs to do is find imaginary ‘evidence’ linking us to an attempt to kill the king, and he’ll be able be able to turn Elhokar against us.”

  “We may have to risk that.”

  Adolin frowned. “But—”

  “I trust Sadeas, son,” Dalinar said. “But even if I didn’t, we couldn’t forbid him entry or block his investigation. We’d not only look guilty in the king’s eyes, but we’d be denying his authority as well.” He shook his head. “If I ever want the other highprinces to accept me as their leader in war, I have to be willing to allow Sadeas his authority as Highprince of Information. I can’t rely upon the old traditions for my authority yet deny Sadeas the same right.”

  “I suppose,” Adolin admitted. “But we could still prepare. You can’t tell me you’re not a little worried.”

  Dalinar hesitated. “Perhaps. This maneuver of Sadeas’s is aggressive. But I’ve been told what to do. ‘Trust Sadeas. Be strong. Act with honor, and honor will aid you.’ That is the advice I’ve been given.”

  “From where?”

  Dalinar looked to him, and it became obvious to Adolin.

  “So we’re betting the future of our house on these visions now,” Adolin said flatly.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Dalinar replied. “If Sadeas did move against us, I wouldn’t simply let him shove us over. But I’m also not going to make the first move against him.”

  “Because of what you’ve seen,” Adolin said, growing frustrated. “Father, you said you’d listen to what I had to say about the visions. Well, please listen now.”

  “This isn’t the proper place.”

  “You always have an excuse,” Adolin said. “I’ve tried to approach you about it five times now, and you always rebuff me!”

  “Perhaps it’s because I know what you’ll say,” Dalinar said. “And I know it won’t do any good.”

  “Or perhaps it’s because you don’t want to be confronted by the truth.”

  “That’s enough, Adolin.”

  “No, no it’s not! We’re mocked in every one of the warcamps, our authority and reputation diminishes by the day, and you refuse to do anything substantial about it!”

  “Adolin. I will not take this from my son.”

  “But you’ll take it from everyone else? Why is that, Father? When others say things about us, you let them. But when Renarin or I take the smallest step toward what you view as being inappropriate, we’re immediately chastised! Everyone else can speak lies, but I can’t speak the truth? Do your sons mean so little to you?”

  Dalinar froze, looking as if he’d been slapped.

  “You aren’t well, Father,” Adolin continued. Part of him realized that he had gone too far, that he was speaking too loudly, but it boiled out anyway. “We need to stop tiptoeing around it! You need to stop making up increasingly irrational explanations to reason away your lapses! I know it’s hard to accept, but sometimes, people get old. Sometimes, the mind stops working right.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong. Maybe it’s your guilt over Gavilar’s death. That book, the Codes, the visions—maybe they’re all attempts to find escape, find redemption, something. What you see is not real. Your life now is a rationalization, a way of trying to pretend that what’s happening isn’t happening. But I’ll go to Damnation itself before I’ll let you drag the entire house down without speaking my mind on it!”

  He practically shouted those last words. They echoed in the large chamber, and Adolin realized he was shaking. He had never, in all his years of life, spoken to his father in such a way.

  “You think I haven’t wondered these things?” Dalinar said, his voice cold, his eyes hard. “I’ve gone through each point you’ve made a dozen times over.”

  “Then maybe you should go over them a few more.”

  “I must trust myself. The visions are trying to show me something important. I cannot prove it or explain how I know. But it’s true.”

  “Of course you think that,” Adolin said, exasperated. “Don’t you see? That’s exactly what you would feel. Men are very good at seeing what they want to! Look at the king. He sees a killer in every shadow, and a worn strap becomes a convoluted plot to take his life.”

  Dalinar fell silent again.

  “Sometimes, the simple answers are the right ones, Father!” Adolin said. “The king’s strap just wore out. And you…you’re seeing things that aren’t there. I’m sorry.”

  They locked expressions. Adolin didn’t look away. He wouldn’t look away.

  Dalinar finally turned from him. “Leave me, please.”

  “All right. Fine. But I want you to think about this. I want you to—”

  “Adolin. Go.”

  Adolin gritted his teeth, but turned and stalked away. It needed to be said, he told himself as he left the gallery.

  That didn’t make him feel any less sick about having to be the one who said it.

  SEVEN YEARS AGO

  “It ain’t right, what they do,” the woman’s voice said. “You ain’t supposed to cut into folks, peering in to see what the Almighty placed hidden for good reason.”

  Kal froze, standing in an alleyway between two houses in Hearthstone. The sky was wan overhead; winter had come for a time. The Weeping was near, and highstorms were infrequent. For now, it was too cold for plants to enjoy the respite; rockbuds spent winter weeks curled up inside their shells. Most creatures hibernated, waiting for warmth to return. Fortunately, seasons generally lasted only a
few weeks. Unpredictability. That was the way of the world. Only after death was there stability. So the ardents taught, at least.

  Kal wore a thick, padded coat of breachtree cotton. The material was scratchy but warm, and had been dyed a deep brown. He kept the hood up, his hands in his pockets. To his right sat the baker’s place—the family slept in the triangular crawlspace in back, and the front was their store. To Kal’s left was one of Hearthstone’s taverns, where lavis ale and mudbeer flowed in abundance during winter weeks.

  He could hear two women, unseen but chatting a short distance way.

  “You know that he stole from the old citylord,” one woman’s voice said, keeping her voice down. “An entire goblet full of spheres. The surgeon says they were a gift, but he was the only one there when the citylord died.”

  “There is a document, I hear,” the first voice said.

  “A few glyphs. Not a proper will. And whose hand wrote those glyphs? The surgeon himself. It ain’t right, the citylord not having a woman there to be scribe. I’m telling you. It ain’t right what they do.”

  Kal gritted his teeth, tempted to step out and let the women see that he’d heard them. His father wouldn’t approve, though. Lirin wouldn’t want to cause strife or embarrassment.

  But that was his father. So Kal marched right out of the alleyway, passing Nanha Terith and Nanha Relina standing and gossiping in front of the bakery. Terith was the baker’s wife, a fat woman with curly dark hair. She was in the middle of another calumny. Kal gave her a sharp look, and her brown eyes showed a satisfying moment of discomfiture.

  Kal crossed the square carefully, wary of patches of ice. The door to the bakery slammed shut behind him, the two women fleeing inside.

  His satisfaction didn’t last long. Why did people always say such things about his father? They called him morbid and unnatural, but would scurry out to buy glyphwards and charms from a passing apothecary or luck-merch. The Almighty pity a man who actually did something useful to help!

  Still stewing, Kal turned a few corners, walking to where his mother stood on a stepladder at the side of the town hall, carefully chipping at the eaves of the building. Hesina was a tall woman, and she usually kept her hair pulled back into a tail, then wrapped a kerchief around her head. Today, she wore a knit hat over that. She had a long brown coat that matched Kal’s, and the blue hem of her skirt just barely peeked out at the bottom.