“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.
25
The Butcher
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.
The objects of her attention were a set of icicle-like pendants of rock that had formed on the edges of the roof. Highstorms dropped stormwater, and stormwater carried crem. If left alone, crem eventually hardened into stone. Buildings grew stalactites, formed by stormwater slowly dripping from the eaves. You had to clean them off regularly, or risk weighing down the roof so much that it collapsed.
She noticed him and smiled, her cheeks flushed from the cold. With a narrow face, a bold chin, and full lips, she was a pretty woman. At least Kal thought so. Prettier than the baker’s wife, for sure.
“Your father dismissed you from your lessons already?” she asked.
“Everyone hates Father,” Kal blurted out.
His mother turned back to her work. “Kaladin, you’re thirteen. You’re old enough to know not to say foolish things like that.”
“It’s true,” he said stubbornly. “I heard some women talking, just now. They said that Father stole the spheres from Brightlord Wistiow. They say that Father enjoys slicing people open and doing things that ain’t natural.”
“Aren’t natural.”
“Why can’t I speak like everyone else?”
“Because it isn’t proper.”
“It’s proper enough for Nanha Terith.”
“And what do you think of her?”
Kal hesitated. “She’s ignorant. And she likes to gossip about things she doesn’t know anything about.”
“Well, then. If you wish to emulate her, I can obviously find no objection to the practice.”
Kal grimaced. You had to watch yourself when speaking with Hesina; she liked to twist words about. He leaned back against the wall of the town hall, watching his breath puff out in front of him. Perhaps a different tactic would work. “Mother, why do people hate Father?”
“They don’t hate him,” she said. However, his calmly asked question got her to continue. “But he does make them uncomfortable.”
“Why?”
“Because some people are frightened of knowledge. Your father is a learned man; he knows things the others can’t understand. So those things must be dark and mysterious.”
“They aren’t afraid of luckmerches and glyphwards.”
“Those you can understand,” his mother said calmly. “You burn a glyphward out in front of your house, and it will turn away evil. It’s easy. Your father won’t give someone a ward to heal them. He’ll insist that they stay in bed, drinking water, taking some foul medicine, and washing their wound each day. It’s hard. They’d rather leave it all to fate.”
Kal considered that. “I think they hate him because he fails too often.”
“There is that. If a glyphward fails, you can blame it on the will of the Almighty. If your father fails, then it’s his fault. Or such is the perception.” His mother continued working, flakes of stone falling to the ground around her. “They’ll never actually hate your father-he’s too useful. But he’ll never really be one of them. That’s the price of being a surgeon. Having power over the lives of men is an uncomfortable responsibility.”
“And if I don’t want that responsibility? What if I just want to be something normal, like a baker, or a farmer, or…” Or a soldier, he added in his mind. He’d picked up a staff a few times in secret, and though he’d never been able to replicate that moment when he’d fought Jost, there was something invigorating about holding a weapon. Something that drew him and excited him.
“I think,” his mother said, “that you’ll find the lives of bakers and farmers are not so enviable.”
“At least they have friends.”
“And so do you. What of Tien?”
“Tien’s not my friend, Mother. He’s my brother.”
“Oh, and he can’t be both at once?”
Kal rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
She climbed down from the stepladder, patting his shoulder. “Yes, I do, and I’m sorry to make light of it. But you put yourself in a difficult position. You want friends, but do you really want to act like the other boys? Give up your studies so you can slave in the fields? Grow old before your time, weathered and furrowed by the sun?”
Kal didn’t reply.
“The things that others have always seem better than what you have,” his mother said. “Bring the stepladder.”
Kal followed dutifully, rounding the town hall to the other side, then putting down the ladder so his mother could climb up to begin work again.
“The others think Father stole those spheres.” Kal shoved his hands in his pockets. “They think he wrote out that order from Brightlord Wistiow and had the old man sign it when he didn’t know what he was doing.”
His mother was silent.
“I hate their lies and gossip,” Kal said. “I hate them for making up things about us.”
“Don’t hate them, Kal. They’re good people. In this case, they’re just repeating what they’ve heard.” She glanced at the citylord’s manor, distant upon a hill above the town. Every time Kal saw it, he felt like he should go up and talk to Laral. But the last few times he’d tried, he hadn’t been allowed to see her. Now that her father was dead, her nurse oversaw her time, and the woman didn’t think mingling with boys from the town was appropriate.
The nurse’s husband, Miliv, had been Brightlord Wistiow’s head steward. If there was a source of bad rumors about Kal’s family, it probably came from him. He never had liked Kal’s father. Well, Miliv wouldn’t matter soon. A new citylord was expected to arrive any day.
“Mother,” Kal said, “those spheres are just sitting there doing nothing but glowing. Can’t we spend some to keep you from having to come out here and work?”
“I like working,” she said, scraping away again. “It clears the head.”
“Didn’t you just tell me that I wouldn’t like having to labor? My face furrowed before its time, or something poetic like that?”
She hesitated, then laughed. “Clever boy.”
“Cold boy,” he grumbled, shivering.
“I work because I want to. We can’t spend those spheres-they’re for your education-and so my working is better than forcing your father to charge for his healings.”
“Maybe they’d respect us more if we did charge.”
“Oh, they respect us. No, I don’t think that is the problem.” She looked down at Kal. “You know that we’re second nahn.”
“Sure,” Kal said, shrugging.
“An accomplished young surgeon of the right rank could draw the attention of a poorer noble family, one who wished money and acclaim. It happens in the larger cities.”
Kal glanced up at the mansion again. “That’s why you encouraged me to play with Laral so much. You wanted to marry me off to her, didn’t you?”
“It was a possibility,” his mother said, returning to her work.
He honestly wasn’t certain how he felt about that. The last few months had been strange for Kal. His father had forced him into his studies, but in secret he’d spent his time with the staff. Two possible paths. Both enticing. Kal did like learning, and he longed for the ability to help people, bind their wounds, make them better. He saw true nobility in what his father did.
But it seemed to Kal that if he could fight, he could do something even more noble. Protect their lands, like the great lighteyed heroes of the stories. And there was the way he felt when holding a weapon.
Two paths. Opposites, in many ways. He could only choose one.
His mother kept chipping away at the eaves, and-with a sigh-Kal fetched a second stepladder and set of tools from the workroom, then joined her. He was tall for his age, but he still had to stand high on the ladder. He caught his mother smiling as he worked, no doubt pleased at having raised such a helpful young man. In reality, Kal just wanted the chance to pound on something.
How woul
d he feel, marrying someone like Laral? He’d never be her equal. Their children would have a chance of being lighteyed or darkeyed, so even his children might outrank him. He knew he’d feel terribly out of place. That was another aspect of becoming a surgeon. If he chose that path, he would be choosing the life of his father. Choosing to set himself apart, to be isolated.
If he went to war, however, he would have a place. Maybe he could even do the nearly unthinkable, win a Shardblade and become a true lighteyes. Then he could marry Laral and not have to be her inferior. Was that why she’d always encouraged him to become a soldier? Had she been thinking about these kinds of things, even back then? Back then, these kinds of decisions-marriage, his future-had seemed impossibly far-off to Kal.
He felt so young. Did he really have to consider these questions? It would still be another few years before the surgeons of Kharbranth would let him take their tests. But if he were going to become a soldier instead, he’d have to join the army before that happened. How would his father react if Kal just up and went with the recruiters? Kal wasn’t certain he’d be able to face Lirin’s disappointed eyes.
As if in response to his thoughts, Lirin’s voice called from nearby. “Hesina!”
Kal’s mother turned, smiling and tucking a stray lock of dark hair back into her kerchief. Kal’s father rushed down the street, his face anxious. Kal felt a sudden jolt of worry. Who was wounded? Why hadn’t Lirin sent for him?
“What is it?” Kal’s mother asked, climbing down.
“He’s here, Hesina,” Kal’s father said.
“About time.”
“Who?” Kal asked, jumping down from the stepladder. “Who’s here?”
“The new citylord, son,” Lirin said, his breath puffing in the cold air. “His name is Brightlord Roshone. No time to change, I’m afraid. Not if we want to catch his first speech. Come on!”
The three of them hurried away, Kal’s thoughts and worries banished in the face of the chance to meet a new lighteyes.
“He didn’t send word ahead,” Lirin said under his breath.
“That could be a good sign,” Hesina replied. “Maybe he doesn’t feel he needs everyone to dote on him.”
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