Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive #3)

“Your name?” Dalinar asked as they walked.

“Rial,” the man said. “Bridge Thirteen.” The soldier raised a hand and gave a precise salute, so careful it could have been given by one of Dalinar’s finest officers, except he maintained the same lazy expression.

“Well, Sergeant Rial, I was not alone,” Dalinar said. “Where did you get this habit of questioning officers?”

“It isn’t a habit if you only do it once, Brightlord.”

“And you’ve only ever done it once?”

“Ta you?”

“To anyone.”

“Well,” Rial said, “those don’t count, Brightlord. I’m a new man. Reborn in the bridge crews.”

Lovely. “Well, Rial, do you know what time it is? I have trouble telling in these storming corridors.”

“You could use the clock device Brightness Navani sent you, sir,” Rial said. “I think that’s what they’re for, you know.”

Dalinar affixed him with another glare.

“Wasn’t questioning you, sir,” Rial said. “It wasn’t a question, see.…”

Dalinar finally turned and stalked back down the corridor to his rooms. Where was that package Navani had given him? He found it on an end table, and from inside it removed a leather bracer somewhat like what an archer would wear. It had two clock faces set into the top. One showed the time with three hands—even seconds, as if that mattered. The other was a stormclock, which could be set to wind down to the next projected highstorm.

How did they get it all so small? he wondered, shaking the device. Set into the leather, it also had a painrial—a gemstone fabrial that would take pain from him if he pressed his hand on it. Navani had been working on various forms of pain-related fabrials for use by surgeons, and had mentioned using him as a test subject.

He strapped the device to his forearm, right above the wrist. It felt conspicuous there, wrapping around the outside of his uniform sleeve, but it had been a gift. In any case, he had an hour until his next scheduled meeting. Time to work out some of his restless energy. He collected his two guards, then made his way down a level to one of the larger chambers near where he housed his soldiers.

The room had black and grey strata on the walls, and was filled with men training. They all wore Kholin blue, even if just an armband. For now both lighteyes and dark practiced in the same chamber, sparring in rings with padded cloth mats.

As always, the sounds and smells of sparring warmed Dalinar. Sweeter than the scent of flatbread baking was that of oiled leather. More welcoming than the sound of flutes was that of practice swords rapping against one another. Wherever he was, and whatever station he obtained, a place like this would always be home.

He found the swordmasters assembled at the back wall, seated on cushions and supervising their students. Save for one notable exception, they all had squared beards, shaved heads, and simple, open-fronted robes that tied at the waist. Dalinar owned ardents who were experts in all manner of specialties, and per tradition any man or woman could come to them and be apprenticed in a new skill or trade. The swordmasters, however, were his pride.

Five of the six men rose and bowed to him. Dalinar turned to survey the room again. The smell of sweat, the clang of weapons. They were the signs of preparation. The world might be in chaos, but Alethkar prepared.

Not Alethkar, he thought. Urithiru. My kingdom. Storms, it was going to be difficult to accustom himself to that. He would always be Alethi, but once Elhokar’s proclamation came out, Alethkar would no longer be his. He still hadn’t figured out how to present that fact to his armies. He wanted to give Navani and her scribes time to work out the exact legalities.

“You’ve done well here,” Dalinar said to Kelerand, one of the swordmasters. “Ask Ivis if she’d look at expanding the training quarters into adjacent chambers. I want you to keep the troops busy. I’m worried about them getting restless and starting more fights.”

“It will be done, Brightlord,” Kelerand said, bowing.

“I’d like a spar myself,” Dalinar said.

“I shall find someone suitable, Brightlord.”

“What about you, Kelerand?” Dalinar said. The swordmaster bested Dalinar two out of three times, and though Dalinar had given up delusions of someday becoming the better swordsman—he was a soldier, not a duelist—he liked the challenge.

“I will,” Kelerand said stiffly, “of course do as my highprince commands, though if given a choice, I shall pass. With all due respect, I don’t feel that I would make a suitable match for you today.”

Dalinar glanced toward the other standing swordmasters, who lowered their eyes. Swordmaster ardents weren’t generally like their more religious counterparts. They could be formal at times, but you could laugh with them. Usually.

They were still ardents though.

“Very well,” Dalinar said. “Find me someone to fight.”

Though he’d intended it only as a dismissal of Kelerand, the other four joined him, leaving Dalinar. He sighed, leaning back against the wall, and glanced to the side. One man still lounged on his cushion. He wore a scruffy beard and clothing that seemed an afterthought—not dirty, but ragged, belted with rope.

“Not offended by my presence, Zahel?” Dalinar asked.

“I’m offended by everyone’s presence. You’re no more revolting than the rest, Mister Highprince.”

Dalinar settled down on a stool to wait.

“You didn’t expect this?” Zahel said, sounding amused.

“No. I thought … well, they’re fighting ardents. Swordsmen. Soldiers, at heart.”

“You’re dangerously close to threatening them with a decision, Brightlord: choose between God and their highprince. The fact that they like you doesn’t make the decision easier, but more difficult.”

“Their discomfort will pass,” Dalinar said. “My marriage, though it seems dramatic now, will eventually be a mere trivial note in history.”

“Perhaps.”

“You disagree?”

“Every moment in our lives seems trivial,” Zahel said. “Most are forgotten while some, equally humble, become the points upon which history pivots. Like white on black.”

“White … on black?” Dalinar asked.

“Figure of speech. I don’t really care what you did, Highprince. Lighteyed self-indulgence or serious sacrilege, either way it doesn’t affect me. But there are those who are asking how far you’re going to end up straying.”

Dalinar grunted. Honestly, had he expected Zahel of all people to be helpful? He stood up and began to pace, annoyed at his own nervous energy. Before the ardents could return with someone for him to duel, he stalked back into the middle of the room, looking for soldiers he recognized. Men who wouldn’t feel inhibited sparring with a highprince.

He eventually located one of General Khal’s sons. Not the Shardbearer, Captain Halam Khal, but the next oldest son—a beefy man with a head that had always seemed a little too small for his body. He was stretching after some wrestling matches.