Amaram pulled off his helm and hefted the gemheart, tossing it up and catching it. “Your maneuver here today failed, you realize?”
“Failed?” Sadeas said, lifting his faceplate. Nearby, his soldiers slaughtered a pocket of fifty Parshendi who hadn’t managed to get off the plateau when the rest retreated. “I think this went quite nicely.”
Amaram pointed. A stain had appeared on the plateaus to the west, toward the warcamps. The banners indicated that Hatham and Roion, the two highprinces who were supposed to have gone on this plateau run, had arrived together—they used bridges like Dalinar’s, slow plodding things it had been easy to outrun. One of the advantages of the bridge crews Sadeas preferred was that they needed very little training to function. If Dalinar had thought to slow him down with his stunt of trading Oathbringer for Sadeas’s bridgemen, he had been proven a fool.
“We needed to get out here,” Amaram said, “seize the gemheart, and return before the others arrived. Then you could have claimed that you didn’t realize you weren’t in the rotation today. The arrival of both other armies removes that shred of deniability.”
“You mistake me,” Sadeas said. “You assume I still care about deniability.” The last Parshendi died with enraged screams; Sadeas felt proud of that. Others said Parshendi warriors on the field never surrendered, but he’d seen them try it once, long ago, in the first year of the war. They’d laid down their weapons. He’d slaughtered them all personally, with Shardhammer and Plate, beneath the eyes of their retreating companions watching from a nearby plateau.
Never again had any Parshendi denied him or his men their right to finish a battle the proper way. Sadeas waved for the vanguard to gather and escort him back to the warcamps while the rest of the army licked its wounds. Amaram joined him, crossing a bridge and passing idling bridgemen who lay on the ground and slept while better men died.
“I am duty-bound to join you on the battlefield, Your Highness,” Amaram said as they walked, “but I want you to know that I do not approve of our actions here. We should be seeking to bridge our differences with the king and Dalinar, not trying to agitate them further.”
Sadeas snorted. “Don’t give me that noble talk. It works fine for others, but I know you for the ruthless bastard you really are.”
Amaram set his jaw, eyes forward. When they reached their horses, he reached out, hand on Sadeas’s arm. “Torol,” he said softly, “there is so much more to the world than your squabbles. You’re right about me, of course. Take that admission with the understanding that to you, above all others, I can speak the truth. Alethkar needs to be strong for what is coming.”
Sadeas climbed the mounting block the groom had set out. Getting onto a horse in Shardplate could be dangerous to the animal if not done correctly. Besides, he’d once had a stirrup snap on him when he stepped into it to haul himself into the saddle. He’d ended up on his backside.
“Alethkar does need to be strong,” Sadeas said, holding out a gauntleted hand. “So I’ll make it so by force of fist and the rule of blood.”
Amaram reluctantly placed the gemheart there, and Sadeas gripped it, holding his reins in the other hand.
“Do you ever worry?” Amaram asked. “About what you do? About what we must do?” He nodded toward a group of surgeons, carrying wounded men across the bridges.
“Worry?” Sadeas said. “Why should I? It gives the wretches a chance to die in battle for something worthwhile.”
“You say things like that a lot these days, I’ve noticed,” Amaram said. “You weren’t like that before.”
“I’ve learned to accept the world as it is, Amaram,” Sadeas said, turning his horse. “That’s something very few people are willing to do. They stumble along, hoping, dreaming, pretending. That doesn’t change a single storming thing in life. You have to stare the world in the eyes, in all its grimy brutality. You have to acknowledge its depravities. Live with them. It’s the only way to accomplish anything meaningful.”
With a squeeze of the knees, Sadeas started his horse forward, leaving Amaram behind for the moment.
The man would remain loyal. Sadeas and Amaram had an understanding. Even Amaram now being a Shardbearer would not change that.
As Sadeas and his vanguard approached Hatham’s army, he noticed a group of Parshendi on a nearby plateau, watching. Those scouts of theirs were getting bold. He sent a team of archers to go chase them off, then rode toward a figure in resplendent Shardplate at the front of Hatham’s army: the highprince himself, seated upon a Ryshadium. Damnation. Those animals were far superior to any other horseflesh. How to get one?
“Sadeas?” Hatham called out to him. “What have you done here?”
After a quick moment of decision, Sadeas lifted his arm back and hurled the gemheart across the plateau separating them. It hit the rock near Hatham and bounced along in a roll, glowing faintly.
“I was bored,” Sadeas shouted back. “I thought I’d save you some trouble.”
Then, ignoring further questions, Sadeas continued on his way. Adolin Kholin had a duel today, and he’d decided not to miss it, just in case the youth embarrassed himself again.
* * *
A few hours later, Sadeas settled down into his place in the dueling arena, tugging at the stock on his neck. Insufferable things—fashionable, but insufferable. He would never tell a soul, not even Ialai, that he secretly wished he could just go about in a simple uniform like Dalinar.
He couldn’t ever do that, of course. Not just because he wouldn’t be seen bowing to the Codes and the king’s authority, but because a military uniform was actually the wrong uniform for these days. The battles they fought for Alethkar at the moment weren’t battles with sword and shield.
It was important to dress the part when you had a role to play. Dalinar’s military outfits proved he was lost, that he didn’t understand the game he was playing.
Sadeas leaned back to wait as whispers filled the arena like water in a bowl. A large attendance today. Adolin’s stunt in his previous duel had drawn attention, and anything novel was of interest to the court. Sadeas’s seat had a space cleared around it to give him extra room and privacy, though it was really just a simple chair built onto the stone bleachers of this pit of an arena.
He hated how his body felt outside of Shardplate, and he hated more how he looked. Once, he’d turned heads as he walked. His power had filled a room; everyone had looked to him, and many had lusted when seeing him. Lusted for his power, for who he was.
He was losing that. Oh, he was still powerful—perhaps more so. But the look in their eyes was different. And every way of responding to his loss of youthfulness made him look petulant.
He was dying, step by step. Like every man, true, but he felt that death looming. Decades away, hopefully, but it cast a long, long shadow. The only path to immortality was through conquest.
Rustling cloth announced Ialai slipping into the seat beside his. Sadeas reached out absently, resting his hand on the small of her back and scratching at that place she liked. Her name was symmetrical. A tiny bit of blasphemy from her parents—some people dared imply such holiness of their children. Sadeas liked those types. Indeed, the name was what had first intrigued him about her.
“Mmmm,” his wife said with a sigh. “Very nice. The duel hasn’t started yet, I see.”
“Mere moments away, I believe.”
“Good. I can’t stand waiting. I hear you gave away the gemheart you captured today.”
“Threw it at Hatham’s feet and rode away, as if I didn’t have a care.”
“Clever. I should have seen that as an option. You’ll undermine Dalinar’s claim that we only resist him because of our greed.”
Below, Adolin finally stepped out onto the field, wearing his blue Shardplate. Some of the lighteyes clapped politely. Across the way, Eranniv left his own preparatory room, his polished Plate its natural color except across the breastplate, which he’d painted a deep black.
Sadeas narrowed his
eyes, still scratching Ialai’s back. “This duel should not even be happening,” he said. “Everyone was supposed to be too afraid, or too dismissive, to accept his challenges.”
“Idiots,” Ialai said softly. “They know, Torol, what they’re supposed to do—I’ve dropped the right hints and promises. And yet every one of them secretly wants to be the man who brings down Adolin. Duelists are not a particularly dependable lot. They are brash, hotheaded, and care too much about showing off and gaining renown.”
“His father’s plan cannot be allowed to work,” Sadeas said.
“It won’t.”
Sadeas glanced at where Dalinar had set up. Sadeas’s own position was not too far away—within shouting distance. Dalinar didn’t look at him.
“I built this kingdom,” Sadeas said softly. “I know how fragile it is, Ialai. It should not be so difficult to knock the thing down.” That would be the only way to properly build it anew. Like reforging a weapon. You melted down the remnants of the old before you created the replacement.
The duel began down below, Adolin striding across the sands toward Eranniv, who wielded old Gavilar’s Blade, with its wicked design. Adolin engaged too quickly. Was the boy that eager?
In the crowd, lighteyes grew quiet and darkeyes shouted, eager for another display like last time. However, this didn’t devolve into a wrestling match. The two exchanged testing blows and Adolin backed away, having taken a hit on his shoulder.
Sloppy, Sadeas thought.
“I finally discovered the nature of that disturbance at the king’s chambers two weeks ago,” Ialai noted.
Sadeas smiled, eyes still on the bout. “Of course you did.”
“Assassination attempt,” she said. “Someone sabotaged the king’s balcony in a crude attempt at dropping him a hundred feet to the rocks. From what I hear, it nearly worked.”
“Not so crude then, if it almost killed him.”
“Pardon, Torol, but almost is a big distinction in assassinations.”
True.
Sadeas searched within himself, seeking some sign of emotion at hearing that Elhokar had almost died. He found none beside a faint sense of pity. He was fond of the boy, but to rebuild Alethkar, all vestiges of former rule would need to be removed. Elhokar would need to die. Preferably in a quiet manner, after Dalinar had been dealt with. Sadeas expected he’d have to cut the boy’s throat himself, out of respect for old Gavilar.
“Who commissioned the assassins, do you suppose?” Sadeas asked, speaking softly enough that—with the buffer his guards kept around their seats—he didn’t have to worry about being overheard.
“Hard to tell,” Ialai replied, scooting to the side and twisting to get him to scratch a different part of her back. “It wouldn’t be Ruthar or Aladar.”
Both were solidly in Sadeas’s palm. Aladar with some resignation, Ruthar eagerly. Roion was too much a coward, others too careful. Who else could have done it?
“Thanadal,” Sadeas guessed.
“He’s the most likely. But I will see what I can discover.”
“It might be the same ones as with the king’s armor,” Sadeas said. “Perhaps we could find out more if I exercise my authority.”
Sadeas was Highprince of Information—one of the old designations, from previous centuries, which split duties in the kingdom among highprinces. It technically gave Sadeas authority over investigations and policing.
“Perhaps,” Ialai said hesitantly.
“But?”
She shook her head, watching another exchange of the duelists down below. This bout of fighting left Adolin with Stormlight streaming from one gauntlet, to the booing of some of the darkeyes. Why were those people even allowed in? There were lighteyes who were unable to attend because Elhokar reserved seating for their inferiors.
“Dalinar,” Ialai said, “has responded to our ploy of making you Highprince of Information. He used it as precedent for making himself Highprince of War. And so now, every step you take invoking your rights as Highprince of Information cements his authority over this conflict.”
Sadeas nodded. “You have a plan, then?”
“Not quite yet,” Ialai said. “But I’m forming one. You’ve noticed how he started up patrols outside of the camps? And in the Outer Market. Should that be your duty?”
“No, that’s the job of a Highprince of Commerce, which the king hasn’t appointed. However, I should have authority over policing all ten camps, and appointing judges and magistrates. He should have involved me the moment an attempt was made on the king’s life. But he didn’t.” Sadeas chewed on the thought for a moment, removing his hand from Ialai’s back, letting her sit up straight.
“There is a weakness here we can exploit,” Sadeas said. “Dalinar has always had a problem giving up authority. He never really trusts anyone to do their job. He didn’t come to me when he should have. This weakens his claims that all parts of the kingdom should work together. It’s a chink in his armor. Can you ram a dagger in it?”
Ialai nodded. She’d use her informants to start questions in court: Why, if Dalinar was trying to forge a better Alethkar, was he unwilling to give up any power? Why hadn’t he involved Sadeas in the king’s protection? Why wouldn’t he open his doors to Sadeas’s judges?
What authority did the Throne have, really, if it made assignments like the one to Sadeas, only to pretend they hadn’t been given?
“You should renounce your appointment as Highprince of Information in protest,” Ialai said.
“No. Not yet. We wait until the rumors have nipped at old Dalinar, made him decide he needs to let me do my job. Then, the moment before he tries to involve me, I renounce.”
It would widen the cracks that way, both in Dalinar, and in the kingdom itself.
Adolin’s bout continued below. He certainly didn’t look like his heart was in it. He kept leaving himself open, taking hits. This was the youth who had bragged about his skill so often? He was good, of course, but not nearly that good. Not as good as Sadeas had himself seen when the boy had been on the battlefield fighting the . . .
He was faking.
Sadeas found himself grinning. “Now that’s almost clever,” he said softly.
“What?” Ialai asked.
“Adolin is fighting beneath his capacity,” Sadeas explained as the youth got a hit—barely—on Eranniv’s helm. “He’s reluctant to display his real skill, as he fears it will scare others away from dueling him. If he looks barely capable enough to win this fight, others might decide to pounce.”
Ialai narrowed her eyes, watching the fight. “Are you sure? Couldn’t he just be having an off day?”
“I’m sure,” Sadeas said. Now that he knew what to watch for, he could easily read it in Adolin’s specific moves, the way he teased Eranniv to attack him, then barely fended off the blows. Adolin Kholin was cleverer than Sadeas had given him credit for.
Better at dueling as well. It took skill to win a bout—but it took true mastery to win while making it look the whole time that you were behind. As the fight progressed, the crowd got into it, and Adolin made it a close contest. Sadeas doubted many others would see what he did.
When Adolin, moving lethargically and leaking Light from a dozen hits—all carefully allowed on different sections of Plate, so none shattered and exposed him to real danger—managed to bring down Eranniv with a “lucky” blow at the end, the crowd roared in appreciation. Even the lighteyes seemed drawn in.
Eranniv stormed off, shouting about Adolin’s luck, but Sadeas found himself quite impressed. There might be a future for this boy, he thought. More so than his father, at least.
“Another Shard won,” Ialai said with dissatisfaction as Adolin raised a hand and walked off the field. “I’ll redouble my efforts to make certain this doesn’t happen again.”
Sadeas tapped his finger against the side of his seat. “What was it you said about duelists? That they’re brash? Hotheaded?”
“Yes. And?”
“Adolin is b
oth of those things and more,” Sadeas said softly, considering. “He can be goaded, pushed around, brought to anger. He has passion like his father, but he controls it less securely.”
Can I get him right up to the cliff’s edge, Sadeas thought, then shove him off?
“Stop discouraging people from fighting him,” Sadeas said. “Don’t encourage them to fight him, either. Step back. I want to see how this develops.”
“That sounds dangerous,” Ialai said. “That boy is a weapon, Torol.”
“True,” Sadeas said, standing, “but you are rarely cut by a weapon if you are the one holding its hilt.” He helped his wife to her feet. “I also want you to tell Ruthar’s wife that he can ride with me next time I decide to strike out on my own for a gemheart. Ruthar is eager. He can be of use to us.”
She nodded, walking toward the exit. Sadeas followed, but hesitated, casting a glance toward Dalinar. How would this be if the man weren’t trapped in the past? If he’d been willing to see the real world, rather than imagining it?
You’d probably have ended up killing him then too, Sadeas admitted to himself. Don’t try to pretend otherwise.
Best to be honest, at the very least, with oneself.
’Tis said it was warm in the land far away
When Voidbringers entered our songs.
We brought them home to stay
And then those homes became their own,
It happened gradually.
And years ahead ’twil still be said ’tis how it has to be.
—From the Listener Song of Histories, 12th stanza
Shallan gasped at the sudden flare of color.
It disrupted the landscape like breaking lightning in an otherwise clear sky. Shallan set down her spheres—Tyn was having her practice palming them—and stood up in the wagon, steadying herself with her freehand on the back of her seat. Yes, it was unmistakable. Brilliant red and yellow on an otherwise dull canvas of brown and green.
“Tyn,” Shallan said. “What’s that?”
The other woman lounged with feet out, a wide-brimmed white hat tipped over her eyes despite the fact that she was supposed to be driving. Shallan wore Bluth’s hat, which she’d recovered from his things, to keep the sun off.
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