The Way of Kings

Dalinar shaded his eyes, picking out a large cloth pavilion three plateaus away, flying the king’s flag. Wide, permanent bridges led there; they were relatively close to the Alethi side of the Shattered Plains, on plateaus Dalinar himself maintained. A fully grown chasmfiend living here was his to hunt, the wealth at its heart his privilege to claim.

“You were correct again, Uncle,” Elhokar said.

“I try to make a habit of it.”

“I can’t blame you for that, I suppose. Though I can beat you at a race now and then.”

Dalinar smiled. “I felt like a youth again, chasing after your father on some ridiculous challenge.”

Elhokar’s lips tightened to a thin line, and the gloryspren faded away. Mentioning Gavilar soured him; he felt others compared him unfavorably to the old king. Unfortunately, he was often right.

Dalinar moved on quickly. “We must have seemed of the ten fools, charging away like that. I do wish you’d given me more notice to prepare your honor guard. This is a war zone.”

“Bah. You worry too much, Uncle. The Parshendi haven’t attacked this close to our side of the Plains in years.”

“Well, you seemed worried about your safety two nights ago.”

Elhokar sighed audibly. “How many times must I explain this to you, Uncle? I can face enemy soldiers with Blade in hand. It’s what they might send when we’re not looking, when all is dark and quiet, that you should be trying to protect me from.”

Dalinar didn’t reply. Elhokar’s nervousness – paranoia, even – regarding assassination was strong. But who could blame him, considering what had happened to his father?

I’m sorry, brother, he thought, as he did every time he thought of the night when Gavilar had died. Alone, without his brother to protect him.

“I looked into the matter you asked me about,” Dalinar said, forcing away bad memories.

“You did? What did you discover?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. There were no traces of trespassers on your balcony, and none of the servants reported any strangers in the area.”

“There was someone watching me in the darkness that night.”

“If so, they haven’t returned, Your Majesty. And they left no clues behind.”

Elhokar seemed dissatisfied, and the silence between them grew stark. Below, Adolin met with scouts and prepared for the troop crossing. Elhokar had protested at how many men Dalinar had brought. Most of them wouldn’t be needed on the hunt – the Shardbearers, not the soldiers, would slay the beast. But Dalinar would see his nephew protected. Parshendi raids had grown less bold during the years of fighting – Alethi scribes guessed their numbers were a quarter their prior strength, though it was difficult to judge – but the king’s presence might be enough to entice them into a reckless attack.

The winds blew across Dalinar, returning with them that faint familiarity he’d felt a few minutes before. Standing atop a peak, looking out at desolation. A sense of an awful and amazing perspective.

That’s it, he thought. I did stand atop a formation like this. It happened during–

During one of his visions. The very first one.

You must unite them, the strange, booming words had told him. You must prepare. Build of your people a fortress of strength and peace, a wall to resist the winds. Cease squabbling and unite. The Everstorm comes.

“Your Majesty,” Dalinar found himself saying. “I…” He trailed off as quickly as he began. What could he say? That he’d been seeing visions? That – in defiance of all doctrine and common sense – he thought those visions might be from the Almighty? That he thought they should withdraw from the battlefield and go back to Alethkar?

Pure foolishness.

“Uncle?” the king asked. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Come, let’s get back to the others.”

Adolin twisted one of his hogshide reins around his finger while he sat astride his horse, awaiting the next batch of scout reports. He’d managed to get his mind off his father and Sadeas, and was instead contemplating just how he was going to explain his falling out with Rilla in a way that would earn him some sympathy with Janala.

Janala loved ancient epic poems; could he phrase the falling out in dramatic terms? He smiled, thinking of her luxurious black hair and sly smile. She’d been daring, teasing at him while he was known to be courting someone else. He could use that too. Maybe Renarin was right, perhaps he should have invited her on the hunt. The prospect of fighting a greatshell would have been far more interesting to him if someone beautiful and long-haired were watching…

“New scout reports are in, Brightlord Adolin,” Tarilar said, jogging up.