“Yes,” Dalinar said. He had asked for help from the other highprinces. Their reactions had ranged from shock to mirth. None had given him any soldiers.
“That is added to the battalion you assigned to peacekeeping in the areas between warcamps and the exterior merchant markets,” Teshav added. “In total, that’s over a quarter of your forces here, Brightlord.”
“The orders stand, Teshav.” he said. “See to it. But first, I have more to discuss with you regarding the ledgers. Go on ahead to the ledger room and wait for us there.”
She nodded respect. “Of course, Brightlord.” She withdrew with her ward.
Renarin stepped up to Dalinar. “She wasn’t pleased about that, Father.”
“She wishes her husband to be fighting,” Dalinar said. “They all hope that I’ll win another Shardblade out there, then give it to them.” The Parshendi had Shards. Not many, but even a single one was surprising. Nobody had an explanation for where they’d gotten them. Dalinar had won a Parshendi Shardblade and Plate during his first year here. He’d given both to Elhokar to award to a warrior he felt would be the most useful to Alethkar and the war effort.
Dalinar turned and entered the palace proper. The guards at the doorway saluted him and Renarin. The young man kept his eyes forward, staring at nothing. Some people thought him emotionless, but Dalinar knew he was just preoccupied.
“I’ve been meaning to speak with you, son,” Dalinar said. “About the hunt last week.”
Renarin’s eyes flickered downward in shame, the edges of his mouth pulling back in a grimace. Yes, he did have emotions. He just didn’t show them as often as others.
“You realize that you shouldn’t have rushed into battle as you did,” Dalinar said sternly. “That chasmfiend could have killed you.”
“What would you have done, Father, if it had been me in danger?”
“I don’t fault your bravery; I fault your wisdom. What if you’d had one of your fits?”
“Then perhaps the monster would have swept me off the plateau,” Renarin said bitterly, “and I would no longer be such a useless drain on everyone’s time.”
“Don’t say such things! Not even in jest.”
“Was it jest? Father, I can’t fight.”
“Fighting is not the only thing of value a man can do.” The ardents were very specific about that. Yes, the highest Calling of men was to join the battle in the afterlife to reclaim the Tranquiline Halls, but the Almighty accepted the excellence of any man or woman, regardless of what they did.
You just did your best, picking a profession and an attribute of the Almighty to emulate. A Calling and a Glory, it was said. You worked hard at your profession, and you spent your life trying to live according to a single ideal. The Almighty would accept that, particularly if you were lighteyed-the better your blood as a lighteyes, the more innate Glory you had already.
Dalinar’s Calling was to be a leader, and his chosen Glory was determination. He’d chosen both in his youth, though he now viewed them very differently than he once had.
“You are right, of course, Father,” Renarin said. “I am not the first hero’s son to be born without any talent for warfare. The others all got along. So shall I. Likely I will end up as citylord of a small town. Assuming I don’t tuck myself away in the devotaries.” The boy’s eyes turned forward.
I still think of him as “the boy,” Dalinar thought. Even though he’s now in his twentieth year. Wit had been right. Dalinar underestimated Renarin. How would I react, if I were forbidden to fight? Kept back with the women and the merchants?
Dalinar would have been bitter, particularly against Adolin. In fact, Dalinar had often been envious of Gavilar during their boyhood. Renarin, however, was Adolin’s greatest supporter. He all but worshipped his elder brother. And he was brave enough to dash heedless into the middle of a battlefield where a nightmare creature was smashing spearmen and tossing aside Shardbearers.
Dalinar cleared his throat. “Perhaps it is time to again try training you in the sword.”
“My blood weakness-”
“Won’t matter a bit if we get you into a set of Plate and give you a Blade,” Dalinar said. “The armor makes any man strong, and a Shardblade is nearly as light as air itself.”
“Father,” Renarin said flatly, “I’ll never be a Shardbearer. You yourself have said that the Blades and Plate we win from the Parshendi must go to the most skilled warriors.”
“None of the other highprinces give up their spoils to the king,” Dalinar said. “And who would fault me if, for once, I made a gift to my son?”
Renarin stopped in the hallway, displaying an unusual level of emotion, eyes opening wider, face eager. “You are serious?”
“I give you my oath, son. If I can capture another Blade and Plate, they will go to you.” He smiled. “To be honest, I’d do it simply for the joy of seeing Sadeas’s face when you become a full Shardbearer. Beyond that, if your strength is made equal to others, I expect that your natural skill will make you shine.”
Renarin smiled. Shardplate wouldn’t solve everything, but Renarin would have his chance. Dalinar would see to it. I know what it’s like to be a second son, he thought as they continued walking toward the king’s chambers, overshadowed by an older brother you love yet envy at the same time. Stormfather, but I do.
I still feel that way.
“Ah, good Brightlord Adolin,” the ardent said, walking forward with open arms. Kadash was a tall man in his later years, and wore the shaved head and square beard of his Calling. He also had a twisting scar that ran around the top of his head, a memento from his earlier days as an army officer.
It was uncommon to find a man such as him-a lighteyes who had once been a soldier-in the ardentia. In fact, it was odd for any man to change his Calling. But it wasn’t forbidden, and Kadash had risen far in the ardentia considering his late start. Dalinar said it was a sign of either faith or perseverance. Perhaps both.
The warcamp’s temple had started as a large Soulcast dome, then Dalinar had granted money and stonemasons to transform it into a more suitable house of worship. Carvings of the Heralds now lined the inside walls, and broad windows carved on the leeward side had been set with glass to let in the light. Diamond spheres blazed in bunches hung from the high ceiling, and stands had been set up for the instruction, practice, and testing of the various arts.
Many women were in at the moment, receiving instruction from the ardents. There were fewer men. Being at war, it was easy to practice the masculine arts in the field.
Janala folded her arms, scanning the temple with obvious dissatisfaction as she stood beside Adolin. “First a stinky leatherworker’s shop, now the temple? I had assumed we would walk someplace at least faintly romantic.”
“Religion’s romantic,” Adolin said, scratching his head. “Eternal love and all that, right?”
She eyed him. “I’m going to go wait outside.” She turned and walked out with her handmaiden. “And someone get me a storming palanquin.”
Adolin frowned, watching her go. “I’ll have to buy her something quite expensive to make up for this, I suspect.”
“I don’t see what the problem is,” Kadash said. “I think religion is romantic.”
“You’re an ardent,” Adolin said flatly. “Besides, that scar makes you a little too unsightly for my tastes.” He sighed. “It’s not so much the temple that has set her off, but my lack of attention. I haven’t been a very good companion today.”
“You have matters pressing upon your mind, bright one?” Kadash asked. “Is this about your Calling? You haven’t made much progress lately.”
Adolin grimaced. His chosen Calling was dueling. By working with the ardents to make personal goals and fulfill them, he could prove himself to the Almighty. Unfortunately, during war, the Codes said Adolin was supposed to limit his duels, as frivolous dueling could wound officers who might be needed in battle.
But Adolin’s father avoided battle more and more. So wh
at was the point of not dueling? “Holy one,” Adolin said, “we need to speak somewhere we can’t be overheard.”
Kadash raised an eyebrow and led Adolin around the central apex. Vorin temples were always circular with a gently sloping mound at the center, by custom rising ten feet high. The building was dedicated to the Almighty, maintained by Dalinar and the ardents he owned. All devotaries were welcome to use it, though most would have their own chapter houses in one of the warcamps.
“What is it you wish to ask of me, bright one?” the ardent asked once they reached a more secluded section of the vast chamber. Kadash was deferential, though he had tutored and trained Adolin during his childhood.
“Is my father going mad?” Adolin asked. “Or could he really be seeing visions sent by the Almighty, as I think he believes?”
“That’s a rather blunt question.”
“You’ve known him longer than most, Kadash, and I know you to be loyal. I also know you to be one who keeps his ears open and notices things, so I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors.” Adolin shrugged. “Seems like a time for bluntness if there ever was one.”
“I take it, then, the rumors are not unfounded.”
“Unfortunately, no. It happens during every highstorm. He raves and thrashes about, and afterward claims to have seen things.”
“What sorts of things?”
“I’m not certain, precisely.” Adolin grimaced. “Things about the Radiants. And perhaps…about what is to come.”
Kadash looked disturbed. “This is dangerous territory, bright one. What you are asking me about risks tempting me to violate my oaths. I am an ardent, owned by and loyal to your father.”
“But he is not your religious superior.”
“No. But he is the Almighty’s guardian of this people, set to watch me and make certain I don’t rise above my station.” Kadash pursed his lips. “It is a delicate balance we walk, bright one. Do you know much of the Hierocracy, the War of Loss?”
“The church tried to seize control,” Adolin said, shrugging. “The priests tried to conquer the world-for its own good, they claimed.”
“That was part of it,” Kadash said. “The part we speak of most often. But the problem goes much deeper. The church back then, it clung to knowledge. Men were not in command of their own religious paths; the priests controlled the doctrine, and few members of the Church were allowed to know theology. They were taught to follow the priests. Not the Almighty or the Heralds, but the priests.”
He began walking, leading Adolin around the back rim of the temple chamber. They passed statues of the Heralds, five male, five female. In truth, Adolin knew very little of what Kadash was saying. He’d never had much of a mind for history that didn’t relate directly to the command of armies.
“The problem, bright one,” Kadash said, “was mysticism. The priests claimed that common men could not understand religion or the Almighty. Where there should have been openness, there was smoke and whispers. The priests began to claim visions and prophecies, though such things had been denounced by the Heralds themselves. Voidbinding is a dark and evil thing, and the soul of it was to try to divine the future.”
Adolin froze. “Wait, you’re saying-”
“Don’t get ahead of me please, bright one,” Kadash assured, turning back toward him. “When the priests of the Hierocracy were cast down, the Sunmaker made a point of interrogating them and going through their correspondences with one another. It was discovered that there had been no prophecies. No mystical promises from the Almighty. That had all been an excuse, fabricated by the priests to placate and control the people.”
Adolin frowned. “Where are you going with this, Kadash?”
“As close as I dare to the truth, bright one,” the ardent said. “As I cannot be as blunt as you.”
“You think my father’s visions are fabrications, then.”
“I would never accuse my highprince of lying,” Kadash said. “Or even of feebleness. But neither can I condone mysticism or prophecy in any form. To do so would be to deny Vorinism. The days of the priests are gone. The days of lying to the people, of keeping them in darkness, are gone. Now, each man chooses his own path, and the ardents help him achieve closeness to the Almighty through it. Instead of shadowed prophecies and pretend powers held by a few, we have a population who understand their beliefs and their relationship with their God.”
He stepped closer, speaking very softly. “Your father is not to be mocked or diminished. If his visions are true, then it is between him and the Almighty. All I can say is this: I know something of what it is to be haunted by the death and destruction of war. I see in your father’s eyes much of what I have felt, but worse. My personal opinion is that the things he sees are likely more a reflection of his past than any mystical experience.”
“So he is going mad,” Adolin whispered.
“I did not say that.”
“You implied that the Almighty probably wouldn’t send visions like these.”
“I did.”
“And that his visions are a product of his own mind.”
“Likely so,” the ardent said, raising his finger. “A delicate balance, you see. One that is particularly difficult to keep when speaking to my highprince’s own son.” He reached out, taking Adolin’s arm. “If any are to help him, it must be you. It would not be the place of any other, even myself.”
Adolin nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
“You should likely go see to that young woman now.”
“Yes,” Adolin said with a sigh. “I fear that even with the right gift, she and I are not long for courting. Renarin will mock me again.”
Kadash smiled. “Best not to give up so easily, bright one. Go now. But do return sometime so we can speak of your goals in regard to your Calling. It has been too long since you’ve Elevated.”
Adolin nodded and hurried from the chamber.
After hours going over the ledgers with Teshav, Dalinar and Renarin reached the hallway before the king’s chambers. They walked in silence, the soles of their boots clapping the marble flooring, the sound echoing against stone walls.
The corridors of the king’s war palace were growing richer by the week. Once, this hallway had been just another Soulcast stone tunnel. As Elhokar settled in, he had ordered improvements. Windows were cut into the leeward side. Marble tiling was set into the floor. The walls were carved with reliefs, with mosaic trim at the corners. Dalinar and Renarin passed a group of stonemasons carefully cutting a scene of Nalan’Elin, emitting sunlight, the sword of retribution held over his head.
They reached the king’s antechamber, a large, open room guarded by ten members of the King’s Guard, dressed in blue and gold. Dalinar recognized each face; he had personally organized the unit, handpicking its members.
Highprince Ruthar waited to see the king. He had brawny arms folded in front of him, and wore a short black beard that surrounded his mouth. The red silk coat was cut short and did not button; almost more of a sleeved vest, it was a mere token nod to traditional Alethi uniform. The shirt underneath was ruffled and white, and his blue trousers were loose, with wide cuffs.
Ruthar glanced Dalinar’s way and nodded to him-a minor token of respect-then turned to chat with one of his attendants. He cut off, however, as the guards at the doorway stepped aside to let Dalinar enter. Ruthar sniffed in annoyance. Dalinar’s easy access to the king galled the other highprinces.
The king wasn’t in his wardroom, but the wide doors to his balcony were open. Dalinar’s guardsmen waited behind as he stepped out onto the balcony, Renarin hesitantly following. The light outside was dimming as sunset neared. Setting the war palace up high like this was tactically sound, but it meant the place was mercilessly buffeted by storms. That was an old campaign conundrum. Did one choose the best position to weather storms, or did one seize the high ground?
Most would have chosen the former; their warcamps on the edge of the Shattered Plains were unlikely to be attacked, making the advantag
e of the high ground less important. But kings tended to prefer height. In this instance, Dalinar had encouraged Elhokar, just in case.
The balcony itself was a thick platform of rock cut onto the top of the small peak, edged with an iron railing. The king’s rooms were a Soulcast dome sitting atop the natural formation, with covered ramps and stairways leading to tiers lower on the hillside. Those housed the king’s various attendants: guards, stormwardens, ardents, and distant family members. Dalinar had his own bunker at his warcamp. He refused to call it a palace.
The king leaned against the railing, two guards watching from a distance. Dalinar motioned for Renarin to join them, so that he could speak with the king in private.
The air was cool-spring having come for a time-and it was sweet with the scents of evening: blooming rockbuds and wet stone. Below, the warcamps were starting to come alight, ten sparkling circles filled with watch-fires, cook fires, lamps, and the steady glow of infused gems. Elhokar stared over the camps and toward the Shattered Plains. They were utterly dark, save for the occasional twinkle of a watchpost.
“Do they watch us, from out there?” Elhokar asked as Dalinar joined him.
“We know their raiding bands move at night, Your Majesty,” Dalinar said, resting one hand on the iron railing. “I can’t help but think they watch us.”
The king’s uniform had the traditional long coat with buttons up the sides, but it was loose and relaxed, and ruffled lace poked out of the collar and cuffs. His trousers were solid blue, and were cut in the same baggy fashion as Ruthar’s. It all looked so informal to Dalinar. Increasingly, their soldiers were being led by a slack group who dressed in lace and spent their evenings at feasts.
This is what Gavilar foresaw, Dalinar thought. This is why he grew so insistent that we follow the Codes.
“You look thoughtful, Uncle,” Elhokar said.
“Just considering the past, Your Majesty.”
“The past is irrelevant. I only look forward.”
Dalinar was not certain he agreed with either statement.
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