The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson
“Well,” Renarin said, “that may be true. But if what Father sees are just delusions, then certainly we’ll be able to prove some parts of them untrue. It seems impossible that every detail he imagines is one that he got from a story or history. Some aspects of the delusions would have to be pure fancy.”
Adolin nodded slowly. “I…You’re right, Renarin. Yes, it’s a good plan.”
“We need to get one of my scribes,” Dalinar said. “So I can dictate the vision I just had while it is fresh.”
“Yes,” Renarin said. “The more details we have, the easier it will be to prove—or disprove—the visions.”
Dalinar grimaced, setting aside his cup and walking over to the others. He sat down. “All right, but who would we use to record the dictation?”
“You have a great number of clerks, Father,” Renarin said.
“And they’re all either wife or daughter to one of my officers,” Dalinar said. How could he explain? It was painful enough for him to expose weakness to his sons. If news of what he saw got around to his officers, it could weaken morale. There might come a time to reveal these things to his men, but he would need to do so carefully. And he’d much rather know for himself whether or not he was mad before he approached others.
“Yes,” Adolin said, nodding—though Renarin still looked perplexed. “I understand. But, Father, we can’t afford to wait for Jasnah to return. It could be months yet.”
“Agreed.” Dalinar said. He sighed. There was another option. “Renarin, send a runner for your aunt Navani.”
Adolin glanced at Dalinar, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a good idea. But I thought you didn’t trust her.”
“I trust her to keep her word,” Dalinar said, resigned. “And to keep confidence. I told her of my plans to abdicate, and she didn’t tell a soul.” Navani was excellent at keeping secrets. Far better than the women of his court. He trusted them to an extent, but keeping a secret like this would require someone supremely exacting in their words and thoughts.
That meant Navani. She would probably find a way to manipulate him using the knowledge, but at least the secret would be safe from his men.
“Go, Renarin,” Dalinar said.
Renarin nodded and stood. He had apparently recovered from his fit, and walked surefooted to the door. As he left, Adolin approached Dalinar. “Father, what will you do if we prove that I’m right, and it’s just your own mind?”
“A part of me wishes for that to happen,” Dalinar said, watching the door swing closed after Renarin. “I fear madness, but at least it is something familiar, something that can be dealt with. I will give you the princedom, then seek help in Kharbranth. But if these things are not delusions, I face another decision. Do I accept what they tell me or not? It may very well be better for Alethkar if I prove to be mad. It will be easier, at the least.”
Adolin considered that, his brow furrowed, his jaw tense. “And Sadeas? He seems to be nearing the completion of his investigation. What do we do?”
It was a legitimate question. Troubles over Dalinar trusting the visions in relation to Sadeas had been what had drawn Dalinar and Adolin to argument in the first place.
Unite them. That wasn’t just a command from the visions. It had been Gavilar’s dream. A unified Alethkar. Had Dalinar let that dream—combined with guilt over failing his brother—drive him to construct supernatural rationalizations for seeking his brother’s will?
He felt uncertain. He hated feeling uncertain.
“Very well,” Dalinar said. “I give you leave to prepare for the worst, just in case Sadeas moves against us. Prepare our officers and call back the companies sent to patrol for bandits. If Sadeas denounces me as having tried to kill Elhokar, we will lock down our warcamp and go on alert. I don’t intend to let him bring me in for execution.”
Adolin looked relieved. “Thank you, Father.”
“Hope it doesn’t come to that, son,” Dalinar said. “The moment Sadeas and I go to war in earnest, Alethkar as a nation will shatter. Ours are the two princedoms that uphold the king, and if we turn to strife, the others will either pick sides or turn to wars of their own.”
Adolin nodded, but Dalinar sat back, disturbed. I’m sorry, he thought to whatever force was sending the visions. But I have to be wise.
In a way, this seemed like a second test to him. The visions had told him to trust Sadeas. Well, he would see what happened.
“…and then it faded,” Dalinar said. “After that, I found myself back here.”
Navani raised her pen, looking thoughtful. It hadn’t taken him long to talk through the vision. She’d scribed expertly, picking out details from him, knowing when to prod for more. She hadn’t said a thing about the irregularity of the request, nor had she seemed amused by his desire to write down one of his delusions. She’d been businesslike and careful. She sat at his writing desk now, hair bound up in curls and crossed with four hair-spikes. Her dress was red, matched by her lip paint, and her beautiful violet eyes were curious.
Stormfather, Dalinar thought, but she’s beautiful.
“Well?” Adolin asked. He stood leaning against the door out of the chamber. Renarin had gone off to collect a highstorm damage report. The lad needed practice at that sort of activity.
Navani raised an eyebrow. “What was that, Adolin?”
“What do you think, Aunt?” Adolin asked.
“I have never heard of any of these places or events,” Navani said. “But I believe you weren’t expecting to me to know of them. Didn’t you say you wished me to contact Jasnah?”
“Yes,” Adolin said. “But surely you have analysis.”
“I reserve judgment, dear,” Navani said, standing up and folding the paper by pressing down with her safehand, holding it in place while she creased the fold tight. She smiled, walking by Adolin and patting him on the shoulder. “Let’s see what Jasnah says before we do any analyzing, shall we?”
“I suppose,” Adolin said. He sounded dissatisfied.
“I spent some time talking with that young lady of yours yesterday,” Navani noted to him. “Danlan? I think you’ve made a wise choice. She’s got a mind in that head of hers.”
Adolin perked up. “You like her?”
“Quite a bit,” Navani said. “I also discovered that she is very fond of avramelons. Did you know that?”
“I didn’t, actually.”
“Good. I would have hated to do all that work to find you a means of pleasing her, only to discover that you already knew it. I took the liberty of purchasing a basket of the melons on my way here. You’ll find them in the antechamber, watched over by a bored soldier who didn’t look like he was doing anything important. If you were to visit her with them this afternoon, I think you’d find yourself very well received.”
Adolin hesitated. He probably knew that Navani was deflecting him from worrying over Dalinar. However, he relaxed, then started smiling. “Well, that might make for a pleasant change, considering events lately.”
“I thought it might,” Navani said. “I’d suggest going soon; those melons are perfectly ripe. Besides, I wish to speak with your father.”
Adolin kissed Navani fondly on the cheek. “Thank you, Mashala.” He allowed her to get away with some things that others could not; around his favored aunt, he was much like a child again. Adolin’s smile widened as he made his way out the door.
Dalinar found himself smiling as well. Navani knew his son well. His smile didn’t last long, however, as he realized that Adolin’s departure left him alone with Navani. He stood up. “What is it you wished to ask of me?” he asked.
“I didn’t say I wanted to ask anything of you, Dalinar,” she said. “I just wanted to talk. We are family, after all. We don’t spend enough time together.”
“If you wish to speak, I shall fetch some soldiers to accompany us.” He glanced at the antechamber outside. Adolin had shut the second door at the end, closing off his view of his guards—and their view of him.
“Dalin
He felt himself growing stiff. “You should go now.”
“Must I?”
“Yes. People will think this is inappropriate. They will talk.”
“You imply that something inappropriate could happen, then?” Navani said, sounding almost girlishly eager.
“Navani, you are my sister.”
“We aren’t related by blood,” she replied. “In some kingdoms, a union between us would be mandated by tradition, once your brother died.”
“We aren’t in other countries. This is Alethkar. There are rules.”
“I see,” she said, strolling closer to him. “And what will you do if I don’t go? Will you call for help? Have me hauled away?”
“Navani,” he said sufferingly. “Please. Don’t do this again. I’m tired.”
“Excellent. That might make it easier to get what I want.”
He closed his eyes. I can’t take this right now. The vision, the confrontation with Adolin, his own uncertain emotions…He didn’t know what to make of things any longer.
Testing the visions was a good decision, but he couldn’t shake the disorientation he felt from being unable to decide what to do next. He liked to make decisions and stick to them. He couldn’t do that.
It grated on him.
“I thank you for your scribing and for your willingness to keep this quiet,” he said, opening his eyes. “But I really must ask you to leave now, Navani.”
“Oh, Dalinar,” she said softly. She was close enough that he could smell her perfume. Stormfather, but she was beautiful. Seeing her brought to his mind thoughts of days long past, when he’d desired her so strongly that he’d nearly grown to hate Gavilar for winning her affection.
“Can’t you just relax,” she asked him, “just for a little while?”
“The rules—”
“Everyone else—”
“I cannot be everyone else!” Dalinar said, more sharply than he intended. “If I ignore our code and ethics, what am I, Navani? The other highprinces and lighteyes deserve recrimination for what they do, and I have let them know it. If I abandon my principles, then I become something far worse than they. A hypocrite!”
She froze.
“Please,” he said, tense with emotion. “Just go. Do not taunt me today.”
She hesitated, then walked away without a word.
She would never know how much he wished her to have made one more objection. In his state, he likely would have been unable to argue further. Once the door shut, he let himself sit down in his chair, exhaling. He closed his eyes.
Almighty above, he thought. Please. Just let me know what I am to do.
“He must pick it up, the fallen title! The tower, the crown, and the spear!”
—Dated Vevahach, 1173, 8 seconds pre-death. Subject: a prostitute. Back ground unknown.
A razor-edged arrow snapped into the wood next to Kaladin’s face. He could feel warm blood seep from a gash on his cheek, creeping down his face, mixing with the sweat dripping from his chin.
“Stay firm!” he bellowed, charging over the uneven ground, the bridge’s familiar weight on his shoulders. Nearby—just ahead and to the left—Bridge Twenty floundered, four men at the front falling to arrows, their corpses tripping up those behind.
The Parshendi archers knelt on the other side of the chasm, singing calmly despite the hail of arrows from Sadeas’s side. Their black eyes were like shards of obsidian. No whites. Just that emotionless black. In those moments—listening to men scream, cry, yell, howl—Kaladin hated the Parshendi as much as he hated Sadeas and Amaram. How could they sing while they killed?
The Parshendi in front of Kaladin’s crew pulled and aimed. Kaladin screamed at them, feeling a strange surge of strength as the arrows were loosed.
The shafts zipped through the air in a focused wave. Ten shafts struck the wood near Kaladin’s head, their force throwing a shudder through it, chips of wood splintering free. But not a one struck flesh.
Across the chasm, several of the Parshendi lowered their bows, breaking off their chanting. Their demonic faces bore looks of stupefaction.
“Down!” Kaladin yelled as the bridge crew reached the chasm. The ground was rough here, covered in bulbous rockbuds. Kaladin stepped on the vine from one of them, causing the plant to retract. The bridgemen heaved the bridge up and off their shoulders, then expertly stepped aside, lowering it to the ground. Sixteen other bridge crews lined up with them, setting their bridges down. Behind, Sadeas’s heavy cavalry thundered across the plateau toward them.
The Parshendi drew again.
Kaladin gritted his teeth, throwing his weight against one of the wooden bars on the side, helping shove the massive construction across the chasm. He hated this part; the bridgemen were so exposed.
Sadeas’s archers kept firing, moving to a focused, disruptive attack intended to force back the Parshendi. As always, the archers didn’t seem to mind if they hit bridgemen, and several of those shafts flew dangerously close to Kaladin. He continued to push—sweating, bleeding—and felt a stab of pride for Bridge Four. They were already beginning to move like warriors, light on their feet, moving erratically, making it more difficult for the archers to draw a bead on them. Would Gaz or Sadeas’s men notice?
The bridge thumped into place, and Kaladin bellowed the retreat. Bridgemen ducked out of the way, dodging between thick-shafted black Parshendi arrows and lighter green-fletched ones from Sadeas’s archers. Moash and Rock hoisted themselves up onto the bridge and ran across it, leaping down beside Kaladin. Others scattered around the back of the bridge, ducking in front of the oncoming cavalry charge.
Kaladin lingered, waving for his men to get out of the way. Once they were all free, he glanced back at the bridge, which bristled with arrows. Not a single man down. A miracle. He turned to run—
Someone stumbled to his feet on the other side of the bridge. Dunny. The youthful bridgeman had a white and green fletched arrow sprouting from his shoulder. His eyes were wide, dazed.
Kaladin cursed, running back. Before he’d taken two steps, a black-hafted arrow took the youth in the other side. He fell to the deck of the bridge, blood spraying the dark wood.
The charging horses did not slow. Frantic, Kaladin reached the side of the bridge, but something pulled him back. Hands on his shoulder. He stumbled, spinning to find Moash there. Kaladin snarled at him, trying to shove the man aside, but Moash—using a move Kaladin himself had taught him—yanked Kaladin sideways, tripping him. Moash threw himself down, holding Kaladin to the ground as heavy cavalry thundered across the bridge, arrows cracking against their silvery armor.
Broken bits of arrow sprinkled to the ground. Kaladin struggled for a moment, but then let himself fall still.
“He’s dead,” Moash said, harshly. “There’s nothing you could have done. I’m sorry.”
There’s nothing you could have done….
There isn’t ever anything I can do. Stormfather, why can’t I save them?
The bridge stopped shaking, the cavalry smashing into the Parshendi and making space for the foot soldiers, who clanked across next. The cavalry would retreat after the foot soldiers gained purchase, the horses too valuable to risk in extended fighting.
Yes, Kaladin thought. Think about the tactics. Think about the battle. Don’t think about Dunny.
He pushed Moash off him, rising. Dunny’s corpse was mangled beyond recognition. Kaladin set his jaw and turned, striding away without looking back. He brushed past the watching bridgemen and stepped up to the lip of the chasm, clasping his hands to his forearms behind his back, feet spread. It wasn’t dangerous, so long as he stood far down from the bridge. The Parshendi had put away bows and were falling back. The chrysalis was a towering, oval stone mound on the far left side of the plateau.
Kaladin wanted to watch. It helped him think like a soldier, and thinking like a sol
Except the ones on the other side of the chasm. Kaladin stared at the fighting, but had difficulty focusing on the tactics. Dunny’s death tore at him too much. The lad had been a friend, one of the first to support him, one of the best of the bridgemen.
Each bridgeman dead edged them closer to disaster. It would take weeks to train the men properly. They’d lose half of their number—perhaps even more—before they were anywhere near ready to fight. That wasn’t good enough.
Well, you’ll have to find a way to fix it, Kaladin thought. He’d made his decision, and had no room for despair. Despair was a luxury.
He broke parade rest and stalked away from the chasm. The other bridgemen turned to look after him, surprised. Kaladin had recently taken to watching entire battles standing like that. Sadeas’s soldiers had noticed. Many saw it as bridgemen behaving above their station. A few, however, seemed to respect Bridge Four for the display. He knew there were rumors about him because of the storm; these were adding to those.
Bridge Four followed, and Kaladin led them across the rocky plateau. He pointedly did not look again at the broken, mangled body on the bridge. Dunny had been one of the only bridgemen to retain any hint of innocence. And now he was dead, trampled by Sadeas, struck by arrows from both sides. Ignored, forgotten, abandoned.
There was nothing Kaladin could do for him. So instead, Kaladin made his way to where the members of Bridge Eight lay, exhausted, on a patch of open stone. Kaladin remembered lying like that after his first bridge runs. Now he barely felt winded.
As usual, the other bridge crews had left their wounded behind as they retreated. One poor man from Eight was crawling toward the others, an arrow through his thigh. Kaladin walked up to him. He had dark brown skin and brown eyes, his thick black hair pulled back into a long, braided tail. Painspren crawled around him. He looked up with as Kaladin and the members of Bridge Four loomed over him.