The Way of Kings

You’re trying to make up for failing Dunny, Kaladin thought. Helping these others won’t bring him back.

He lost the one he’d suspected would die, but saved the other four, and the one who’d taken a knock to the head was beginning to wake up. Kaladin sat back on his knees, weary, hands covered in blood. He washed them off with a stream of water from Lopen’s waterskins, then reached up, finally remembering his own wound, where the arrow had sliced his cheek.

He froze. He prodded at his skin, but couldn’t find the wound. He had felt blood on his cheek and chin. He’d felt the arrow slice him, hadn’t he?

He stood up, feeling a chill, and raised his hand to his forehead. What was happening?

Someone stepped up beside him. Moash’s now-clean-shaven face exposed a faded scar along his chin. He studied Kaladin. “About Dunny…”

“You were right to do what you did,” Kaladin said. “You probably saved my life. Thank you.”

Moash nodded slowly. He turned to look at the four wounded men; Lopen and Dabbid were giving them drinks of water, asking their names “I was wrong about you,” Moash said suddenly, holding out a hand to Kaladin.

Kaladin took the hand, hesitant. “Thank you.”

“You’re a fool and an instigator. But you’re an honest one.” Moash chuckled to himself. “If you get us killed, it won’t be on purpose. Can’t say that for some I’ve served under. Anyway, let’s get these men ready for moving.”

54 Gibletish

“The burdens of nine become mine. Why must I carry the madness of them all? Oh, Almighty, release me.”

– Dated Palaheses, 1173, unknown seconds pre-death. Subject: a wealthy lighteyes. Sample collected secondhand.

The cold night air threatened that a stretch of winter might soon be coming. Dalinar wore a long, thick uniform coat over trousers and shirt. It buttoned stiffly up the chest and to the collar, and was long in the back and on the sides, coming down to his ankles, flowing at the waist like a cloak. In earlier years, it might have been worn with a takama, though Dalinar had never liked the skirtlike garments.

The purpose of the uniform was not fashion or tradition, but to distinguish him easily for those who followed him. He wouldn’t have nearly the problem with the other lighteyes if they would at least wear their colors.

He stepped onto the king’s feasting island. Stands had been set up at the sides where the braziers normally stood, each one bearing one of those new fabrials that gave off heat. The stream between the islands had slowed to a trickle; ice had stopped melting in the highlands.

Attendance at the feast tonight was small, though that was mostly manifest on the four islands that were not the king’s. Where there was access to Elhokar and the highprinces, people would attend even if the feast were held in the middle of a highstorm. Dalinar walked down the central pathway, and Navani – sitting at a women’s dining table – caught his eyes. She turned away, perhaps still remembering his abrupt words to her at their last meeting.

Wit wasn’t at his customary place insulting those who walked onto the king’s island; in fact, he wasn’t to be seen at all. Not surprising, Dalinar thought. Wit didn’t like to grow predictable; he’d spent several recent feasts on his pedestal doling out insults. Likely he felt he’d played out that tactic.

All nine other highprinces were in attendance. Their treatment of Dalinar had grown stiff and cold since refusing his requests to fight together. As if they were offended by the mere offer. Lesser lighteyes made alliances, but the highprinces were like kings themselves. Other highprinces were rivals, to be kept at arm’s length.

Dalinar sent a servant to fetch him food and sat down at the table. His arrival had been delayed while he took reports from the companies he’d called back, so he was one of the last to eat. Most of the others had turned to mingling. To the right, an officer’s daughter was playing a serene flute melody to a group of onlookers. To the left, three women had set up sketchpads and were each drawing the same man. Women were known to challenge each other to duels in the way of men with Shardblades, though they rarely used the word. These were always “friendly competitions” or “games of talent.”