Elhokar narrowed his eyes at Kaladin. “So you do still speak your mind. Even after the trouble it brought you. Tell me. Do you think me a bad king, bridgeman?”
“Yes.”
The king drew in a sharp breath, still holding Kaladin by the arms.
I could do it right here, Kaladin realized. Strike the king down. Put Dalinar on the throne. No hiding, no secrets, no cowardly assassination. A fight, him and me.
That seemed a more honest way to be about it. Sure, Kaladin would probably be executed, but he found that didn’t bother him. Should he do it, for the good of the kingdom?
He could imagine Dalinar’s anger. Dalinar’s disappointment. Death didn’t bother Kaladin, but failing Dalinar . . . Storms.
The king let go and stalked away. “Well, I did ask,” he muttered to himself. “I merely have to win you over as well. I will figure this out. I will be a king to be remembered.”
“Or you could do what is best for Alethkar,” Kaladin said, “and step down.”
The king stopped in place. He turned on Kaladin, expression darkening. “Do not overstep yourself, bridgeman. Bah. I should never have come here.”
“I agree,” Kaladin said. He found this entire experience surreal.
Elhokar made to leave. He stopped at the door, not looking at Kaladin. “When you came, the shadows went away.”
“The . . . shadows?”
“I saw them in mirrors, in the corners of my eyes. I could swear I even heard them whispering, but you frightened them. I haven’t seen them since. There’s something about you. Don’t try to deny it.” The king looked to him. “I am sorry for what I did to you. I watched you fight to help Adolin, and then I saw you defend Renarin . . . and I grew jealous. There you were, such a champion, so loved. And everyone hates me. I should have gone to fight myself.
“Instead, I overreacted to your challenge of Amaram. You weren’t the one who ruined our chance against Sadeas. It was me. Dalinar was right. Again. I’m so tired of him being right, and me being wrong. In light of that, I am not at all surprised that you find me a bad king.”
Elhokar pushed open the door and left.
The Unmade are a deviation, a flair, a conundrum that may not be worth your time. You cannot help but think of them. They are fascinating. Many are mindless. Like the spren of human emotions, only much more nasty. I do believe a few can think, however.
—From the Diagram, Book of the 2nd Desk Drawer: paragraph 14
Dalinar strode from the tent into a subtle rain, joined by Navani and Shallan. The rain sounded softer out here than it had inside the tent, where the drops had drummed upon the fabric.
They had marched farther inward all that morning, bringing them to the very heart of the ruined plateaus. They were close now. So close, they had the Parshendi’s full attention.
It was happening.
An attendant offered an umbrella to each person leaving the tent, but Dalinar waved his away. If his men had to stand in this, he’d join them. He’d be soaked by the end of this day anyway.
He strode through the ranks, following bridgemen in stormcoats who led the way with sapphire lanterns. It was still day, but the thick cloud cover rendered everything dim. He used blue light to identify himself. Roion and Aladar, seeing that Dalinar had eschewed an umbrella, stepped out into the rain with him. Sebarial, of course, stayed underneath his.
They reached the edge of the mass of troops who had formed up in a large oval, facing outward. He knew his soldiers well enough to sense their anxiety. They stood too stiffly, with no shuffling or stretching. They were also silent, not chattering to distract themselves—not even griping. The only voices he heard were occasional barked orders as officers trimmed the lines. Dalinar soon saw what was causing the uneasiness.
Glowing red eyes amassed on the next plateau.
They hadn’t glowed before. Red eyes yes, but not with those uncanny glows. In the dim light, the Parshendi bodies were indistinct, no more than shadows. The crimson eyes hovered like Taln’s Scar—like spheres in the darkness, deeper in color than any ruby. Parshendi beards often bore bits of gemstone woven into them in patterns, but today those didn’t glow.
Too long without a highstorm, Dalinar thought. Even the gems in Alethi spheres—cut with facets and so able to hold light longer—had almost all failed by this point of the Weeping, though larger gemstones might last another week or so.
They had entered the darkest part of the year. The time when Stormlight did not shine.
“Oh, Almighty!” Roion whispered, looking at those red eyes. “Oh, by the names of God himself. What have you brought us to, Dalinar?”
“Can you do anything to help?” Dalinar asked softly, looking to Shallan, who stood beneath her umbrella at his side, her guards just behind.
Face pale, she shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“The Knights Radiant were warriors,” Dalinar said, very softly.
“If they were, then I’ve got a long way to go. . . .”
“Go, then,” Dalinar told the girl. “When there is an opening in the fighting, find that pathway to Urithiru, if it exists. You’re my only contingency plan, Brightness.”
She nodded.
“Dalinar,” Aladar said, sounding horrified as he watched the red eyes, which were forming into ordered ranks on the other side of the chasm, “tell me straight. When you brought us on this march, did you expect to find these horrors?”
“Yes.” It was true enough. He didn’t know what horrors he’d find, but he had known that something was coming.
“You came anyway?” Aladar demanded. “You hauled us all the way out onto these cursed plains, you let us be surrounded by monsters, to be slaughtered and—”
Dalinar grabbed Aladar by the front of the jacket and hauled him forward. The move caught the other man completely off guard, and he quieted, eyes widening.
“Those are Voidbringers out there,” Dalinar hissed, rain dribbling down his face. “They’ve returned. Yes, it is true. And we, Aladar, we have a chance to stop them. I don’t know if we can prevent another Desolation, but I’d do anything—including sacrificing myself and this entire army—to protect Alethkar from those things. Do you understand?”
Aladar nodded, wide-eyed.
“I hoped to get here before this happened,” Dalinar said, “but I didn’t. So now we’re going to fight. And storm it, we’re going to destroy those things. We’re going to stop them, and we’re going to hope that will stop this evil from spreading to the world’s parshmen, as my niece feared. If you survive this day, you’ll be known as one of the greatest men of our generation.”
He released Aladar, letting the highprince stumble back. “Go to your men, Aladar. Go lead them. Be a champion.”
Aladar stared at Dalinar, mouth gaping. Then, he straightened. He slapped his arm to his chest, giving a salute as crisp as any Dalinar had seen. “It will be done, Brightlord,” Aladar said. “Highprince of War.” Aladar barked to his attendants—including Mintez, the highlord that Aladar usually had use his Shardplate in battle—then put his hand to his side-sword and dashed away in the rain.
“Huh,” Sebarial said from beneath his umbrella. “He’s actually buying into it. He thinks he’s going to be a storming hero.”
“He now knows I was right about the need to unify Alethkar. He’s a good soldier. Most of the highprinces are . . . or were, at some point.”
“Pity you ended up with us two instead of them,” Sebarial said, nodding toward Roion, who still stared out at the shifting red eyes. There were thousands now, still increasing as more Parshendi arrived. Scouts reported that they were gathering on all three plateaus bordering the large one that the Alethi occupied.
“I’m useless in a battle,” Sebarial continued, “and Roion’s archers will be wasted in this rain. Besides, he’s a coward.”
“Roion is not a coward,” Dalinar said, laying a hand on the shorter highprince’s arm. “He’s careful. That did not serve him well in the squabbling over gemhearts, where men like Sadeas threw away lives in exchange for prestige. But out here, care is an attribute I’d choose over recklessness.”
Roion turned to Dalinar, blinking away water. “Is this really happening?”
“Yes,” Dalinar said. “I want you with your men, Roion. They need to see you. This is going to terrify them, but not you. You’re careful, in control.”
“Yeah,” Roion said. “Yes. You . . . you’re going to get us out of this, right?”
“No, I’m not,” Dalinar said.
Roion frowned.
“We’re all going to get ourselves out of it together.”
Roion nodded, and didn’t object. He saluted as Aladar had, if less crisply, then headed toward his army on the northern flank, calling for his aides to give him the numbers of his reserves.
“Damnation,” Sebarial said, watching Roion go. “Damnation. What about me? Where’s my impassioned speech?”
“You,” Dalinar said, “are to go back to the command tent and not get in the way.”
Sebarial laughed. “All right. That I can do.”
“I want Teleb in command of your army,” Dalinar said. “And I’m sending both Serugiadis and Rust to join him. Your men will fight better against these things with a few Shardbearers at their head.” All three were men who had been given Shards following Adolin’s dueling spree.
“I’ll give the order that Teleb is to be obeyed.”
“And Sebarial?” Dalinar asked.
“Yes?”
“If you have a mind for it, burn some prayers. I don’t know if anyone up there is listening anymore, but it can’t hurt.” Dalinar turned toward the sea of red eyes. Why were they just standing there watching?
Sebarial hesitated. “Not as confident as you acted to the other two, eh?” He smiled, as if that comforted him, then sauntered off. What a strange man. Dalinar nodded to one of his aides, who went to give the orders to the three Kholin Shardbearers, first picking Serugiadis—a lanky young man whose sister Adolin had once courted—out of his command post along the ranks, then running off to fetch Teleb and explain Dalinar’s orders.
That seen to, Dalinar stepped up to Navani. “I need to know you’re safe in the command tent. As safe as anyone can be.”
“Then pretend I’m there,” she said.
“But—”
“You want my help with fabrials?” Navani said. “I can’t set up that sort of thing remotely, Dalinar.”
He ground his teeth, but what could he say? He was going to need every edge he could get. He looked out at the red eyes again.
“Campfire tales come alive,” said Rock, the massive Horneater bridgeman. Dalinar had never seen that one guarding him or his sons; he was a quartermaster, Dalinar believed. “These things should not be. Why do they not move?”
“I don’t know,” Dalinar said. “Send a few of your men to fetch Rlain. I want to see if he can provide any explanations.” As two bridgemen ran off, Dalinar turned to Navani. “Gather your scribes to write my words. I will speak to the soldiers.”
Within moments, she had a pair of scribes—shivering as they stood under umbrellas with pencils out to write—ready to record his words. They’d send women down the lines and read his message to all the men.
Dalinar climbed into Gallant’s saddle to get a little height. He turned toward the ranks of men nearby. “Yes,” he shouted over the sound of the rain, “these are Voidbringers. Yes, we’re going to fight them. I don’t know what they can do. I don’t know why they’ve returned. But we came here to stop them.
“I know you’re scared, but you have heard of my visions in the highstorms. In the warcamps, the lighteyes mocked me and dismissed what I’d seen as delusions.” He thrust his arm to the side, pointing at the sea of red eyes. “Well out there, you see proof that my visions were true! Out there, you see what I have been told would come!”
Dalinar licked wet lips. He had given many battlefield speeches in his life, but never had he said anything like what came to him now. “I,” he shouted, “have been sent by the Almighty himself to save this land from another Desolation. I have seen what those things can do; I have lived lives broken by the Voidbringers. I’ve seen kingdoms shattered, peoples ruined, technology forgotten. I’ve seen civilization itself brought to the trembling edge of collapse.
“We will prevent this! Today you fight not for the wealth of a lighteyes, or even for the honor of your king. Today, you fight for the good of all men. You will not fight alone! Trust in what I have seen, trust in my words. If those things have returned, then so must the forces that once defeated them. We will see miracles before this day is out, men! We merely have to be strong enough to deserve them.”
He looked across a sea of hopeful eyes. Storms. Were those gloryspren about his head, spinning like golden spheres in the rain? His scribes finished writing down the short speech, then hurriedly started making copies to send with runners. Dalinar watched them go, hoping to the Tranquiline Halls that he hadn’t just lied to everyone.
His force seemed small in this darkness, surrounded by enemies. Soon, he heard his own words being spoken in the distance, read out to the troops. Dalinar remained seated, Shallan beside his horse, though Navani moved off to see to several of her contraptions.
The battle plan called for them to wait a little longer, and Dalinar was content to do so. With these chasms to cross, it was far better to be assaulted than to assault. Perhaps the separate armies forming up would encourage the Parshendi to start the battle by coming to him. Fortunately, the rain meant no arrows. The bowstrings wouldn’t stand the dampness, nor would the animal glue in the Parshendi recurve bows.
The Parshendi started singing.
It came in a sudden roar over the rains, startling his men, making them shy backward in a wave. The song wasn’t one Dalinar had ever heard during plateau runs. This was more staccato, more frenetic. It rose all around, coming from the three surrounding plateaus, shouted like thrown axes at the Alethi in the center.
Dalinar shivered. Wind blew against him, stronger than was normal during the Weeping. The gust drove raindrops against the side of his face. Cold bit his skin.
“Brightlord!”
Dalinar turned in his saddle, noting four bridgemen approaching along with Rlain—he still had the man under guard at all times. He waved for his guards to part, allowing the Parshendi bridgeman to scramble up to his horse.
“That song!” Rlain said. “That song.”
“What is it, man?”
“It is death,” Rlain whispered. “Brightlord, I have never heard it before, but the rhythm is one of destruction. Of power.”
Across the chasm, the Parshendi started to glow. Tiny lines of red sparked around their arms, blinking and shaking, like lightning.
“What is that?” Shallan asked.
Dalinar narrowed his eyes, and another burst of wind washed over him.
“You have to stop it,” Rlain said. “Please. Even if you have to kill them. Do not let them finish that song.”
It was the day of the countdown he had scribbled on the walls without knowing. The last day.
Dalinar made his decision based on instinct. He called for a messenger, and one jogged up—Teshav’s ward, a girl in her fifteenth year. “Pass the word,” he commanded her. “Send to General Khal at the command tent, the battalionlords, my son, Teleb, and the other highprinces. We’re changing strategies.”
“Brightlord?” the messenger asked. “What change?”
“We attack. Now!”
* * *
Kaladin stopped at the entrance to the lighteyed training grounds, rainwater streaming off his umbrella’s waxed cloth, surprised at what he saw. In preparation for a storm, the ardents normally swept and shoveled the sand into covered trenches at the edges of the ground to keep it from being blown away.
He had expected to see something similar during the Weeping. Instead, they had left the sand out, but had then placed a short wooden barrier across the gateway in. It plugged the front of the sparring grounds, allowing them to fill up with water. A small cascade of rainwater poured over the lip of the barrier and into the roadway.
Kaladin regarded the small lake that now filled the courtyard, then sighed and reached down, undoing his laces, then pulling off both boots and socks. When he stepped in, the cold water came up to his calves.
Soft sand squished between his toes. What was the purpose of this? He crossed the courtyard, crutch under his arm, boots joined by the laces and slung over his shoulder. The chill water numbed his wounded foot, which actually felt nice, though his leg still hurt with each step. It seemed that the two weeks of healing hadn’t done much for his wounds. His continued insistence that he walk so much probably wasn’t helping.
He’d been spoiled by his abilities; a soldier with such a wound normally would take months to recover. Without Stormlight, he’d just have to be patient and heal like everyone else.
He had expected to find the training grounds as abandoned as most of the camp. Even the markets were relatively empty, people preferring to remain indoors during the Weeping. Here, however, he found the ardents laughing and chatting as they sat in chairs in the raised arcades framing the sparring grounds. They sewed leather practice jerkins, cups of auburn wine on tables at their sides. That area rose enough above the yard floor to stay dry.
Kaladin walked along, searching among them, but didn’t find Zahel. He even peeked in the man’s room, but it was empty.
“Up above, bridgeman!” one of the ardents called. The bald woman pointed toward the stairwell at the corner, where Kaladin had often sent guards to secure the roof when Adolin and Renarin practiced.
Kaladin waved in thanks, then hobbled over and awkwardly made his way up the steps. He had to close his umbrella to fit. Rain fell on his head as he poked it out of the opening in the roof, where the stairwell ended. The roof was made of tile set into hardened crem, and Zahel lay there in a hammock he’d strung between two poles. Kaladin thought they might be lightning rods, which didn’t strike him as safe. A tarp hung above the hammock and kept Zahel almost dry.
The ardent swung gently, eyes closed, holding a square bottle of hard honu, a type of lavis grain liquor. Kaladin inspected the rooftop, judging his ability to cross those sloped tiles without toppling off and breaking his neck.
“Ever been to the Purelake, bridgeman?” Zahel asked.
“No,” Kaladin said. “One of my men talks about it, though.”
“What have you heard?”