The Way of Kings

Adolin’s father sat in one of his large, high-backed chairs, hands laced before him, stoic. The warcamps didn’t know of his decision yet – bless the Heralds – but he intended to make the announcement soon. Perhaps at tonight’s feast.

“All right, fine,” Adolin said. “Perhaps I said it. But I didn’t mean it. Or at least I didn’t mean for it to have this effect on you.”

“We had this discussion a week ago, Adolin,” Dalinar said softly.

“Yes, and you promised to think over your decision!”

“I have. My resolve has not wavered.”

Adolin continued to pace; Renarin stood up straight, watching him as he stalked past. I’m a fool, Adolin thought. Of course this is what Father would do. I should have seen it.

“Look,” Adolin said, “just because you might have some problems doesn’t mean you have to abdicate.”

“Adolin, our enemies will use my weakness against us. In fact, you believe that they are already doing so. If I don’t give up the princedom now, matters could grow much worse than they are now.”

“But I don’t want to be highprince,” Adolin complained. “Not yet, at least.”

“Leadership is rarely about what we want, son. I think too few among the Alethi elite realize that fact.”

“And what will happen to you?” Adolin asked, pained. He stopped and looked toward his father.

Dalinar was so firm, even sitting there, contemplating his own madness. Hands clasped before him, wearing a stiff blue uniform with a coat of Kholin blue, silver hair dusting his temples. Those hands of his were thick and callused, his expression determined. Dalinar made a decision and stuck to it, not wavering or debating.

Mad or not, he was what Alethkar needed. And Adolin had – in his haste – done what no warrior on the battlefield had ever been able to do: chop Dalinar Kholin’s legs out from under him and send him away in defeat.

Oh, Stormfather, Adolin thought, stomach twisting in pain. Jezerezeh, Kelek, and Ishi, Heralds above. Let me find a way to right this. Please.

“I will return to Alethkar,” Dalinar said. “Though I hate to leave our army here down a Shardbearer. Could I… but no, I could not give them up.”

“Of course not!” Adolin said, aghast. A Shardbearer, giving up his Shards? It almost never happened unless the Bearer was too weak and sickly to use them.

Dalinar nodded. “I have long worried that our homeland is in danger, now that every single Shardbearer fights out here on the Plains. Well, perhaps this change of winds is a blessing. I will return to Kholinar and aid the queen, make myself useful fighting against border incursions. Perhaps the Reshi and the Vedens will be less likely to strike against us if they know that they’d be facing a full Shardbearer.”

“That’s possible,” Adolin said. “But they could also escalate and start sending a Shardbearer of their own on raids.”

That seemed to worry his father. Jah Keved was the only other kingdom in Roshar that owned a substantial number of Shards, nearly as many as Alethkar. There hadn’t been a direct war between them in centuries. Alethkar had been too divided, and Jah Keved was little better. But if the two kingdoms clashed in force, it would be a war the like of which hadn’t been seen since the days of the Hierocracy.

Distant thunder rumbled outside, and Adolin turned sharply toward Dalinar. His father remained in his chair, staring westward, away from the storm. “We will continue this discussion afterward,” Dalinar said. “For now, you two should tie my arms to the chair.”

Adolin grimaced, but did as he was told without complaint.

Dalinar blinked, looking around. He was on the battlement of a single-walled fortress. Crafted from large blocks of deep red stone, the wall was sheer and straight. It was built across a rift in the leeward side of a tall rock formation overlooking an open plain of stone, like a wet leaf stuck across a crack in a boulder.

These visions feel so real, Dalinar thought, glancing at the spear he held in his hand and then down at his antiquated uniform: a cloth skirt and leather jerkin. It was hard to remember that he was really sitting in his chair, arms tied down. He couldn’t feel the ropes or hear the highstorm.

He considered waiting out the vision, doing nothing. If this wasn’t real, why should he participate? Yet he didn’t completely believe – couldn’t completely believe – that he was coming up with these delusions on his own. His decision to abdicate to Adolin was motivated by his doubts. Was he mad? Was he misinterpreting? At the very least, he could no longer trust himself. He didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. In such a situation a man should step down from his authority and sort things through.