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“I’m sorry,” Dalinar said. “But I don’t—”
She raised her freehand, tapping him on the chest. “I won’t take it from you, Dalinar. We were friends before I even met Gavilar! You still know me as me, not some shadow of a dynasty that crumbled years ago. Don’t you?” She looked at him, pleading.
Blood of my fathers, Dalinar thought with shock. She’s crying. Two small tears.
He had rarely seen her so sincere.
And so he kissed her.
It was a mistake. He knew it was. He grabbed her anyway, pulling her into a rough, tight embrace and pressing his mouth to hers, unable to contain himself. She melted against him. He tasted the salt of her tears as they ran down to her lips and met his.
It lasted long. Too long. Wonderfully long. His mind screamed at him, like a prisoner chained in a cell and forced to watch something horrible. But a part of him had wanted this for decades—decades spent watching his brother court, marry, and then hold the only woman that the young Dalinar had ever wanted.
He’d told himself he would never allow this. He had denied himself feelings for Navani the moment Gavilar had won her hand. Dalinar had stepped aside.
But the taste of her—the smell of her, the warmth of her pressed against him—was too sweet. Like a blossoming perfume, it washed away the guilt. For a moment, that touch banished everything. He couldn’t remember his fear at the visions, his worry about Sadeas, his shame at past mistakes.
He could only think of her. Beautiful, insightful, delicate yet strong at once. He clung to her, something he could hold onto as the rest of the world churned around him.
Eventually, he broke the kiss. She looked up at him, dazed. Passion-spren, like tiny flakes of crystalline snow, floated down in the air around them. Guilt flooded him again. He tried gently to push her away, but she clung to him, holding on tight.
“Navani,” he said.
“Hush.” She pressed her head against his chest.
“We can’t—”
“Hush,” she said, more insistently.
He sighed, but let himself hold her.
“Something is going wrong in this world, Dalinar,” Navani said softly. “The king of Jah Keved was assassinated. I heard it just today. He was killed by a Shin Shardbearer in white clothing.”
“Stormfather!” Dalinar said.
“Something’s going on,” she said. “Something bigger than our war here, something bigger than Gavilar. Have you heard of the twisted things men say when they die? Most ignore it, but surgeons are talking. And stormwardens whisper that the highstorms are growing more powerful.”
“I have heard,” he said, finding it difficult to get the words out, intoxicated by her as he was.
“My daughter seeks something,” Navani said. “She frightens me sometimes. She’s so intense. I honestly believe she’s the most intelligent person I’ve ever known. And the things she searches for… Dalinar, she believes that something very dangerous is near.”
The sun approaches the horizon. The Everstorm comes. The True Desolation. The Night of Sorrows….
“I need you,” Navani said. “I’ve known it for years, though I feared it would destroy you with guilt, so I fled. But I couldn’t stay away. Not with the way they treat me. Not with what is happening to the world. I’m terrified, Dalinar, and I need you. Gavilar was not the man everyone thought him to be. I was fond of him, but he—”
“Please,” Dalinar said, “don’t speak ill of him.”
“Very well.”
Blood of my fathers! He couldn’t get her scent out of his head. He felt paralyzed, holding to her like a man clinging to a stone in the stormwinds.
She looked up at him. “Well, let it be said—then—that I was fond of Gavilar. But I’m more than fond of you. And I’m tired of waiting.”
He closed his eyes. “How can this work?”
“We’ll find a way.”
“We’ll be denounced.”
“The warcamps already ignore me,” Navani said, “and they spread rumors and lies about you. What more can they do to us?”
“They’ll find something. As of yet, the devotaries do not condemn me.”
“Gavilar is dead,” Navani said, resting her head back against his chest. “I was never unfaithful while he lived, though the Stormfather knows I had ample reason. The devotaries can say what they wish, but The Arguments do not forbid our union. Tradition is not the same as doctrine, and I will not hold myself back for fear of offending.”
Dalinar took a deep breath, then forced himself to open his arms and pull back. “If you had hoped to soothe my worries for the day, then this didn’t help.”
She folded her arms. He could still feel where her safehand had touched him on the back. A tender touch, reserved for a family member. “I’m not here to soothe you, Dalinar. Quite the opposite.”
“Please. I do need time to think.”
“I won’t let you put me away. I won’t ignore that this happened. I won’t—”
“Navani,” he gently cut her off, “I will not abandon you. I promise.”
She eyed him, then a wry smile crept onto her face. “Very well. But you began something today.”
“I began it?” he asked, amused, elated, confused, worried, and ashamed at the same time.
“The kiss was yours, Dalinar,” she said idly, pulling open the door and entering his antechamber.
“You seduced me to it.”
“What? Seduced?” She glanced back at him. “Dalinar, I’ve never been more open and honest in my life.”
“I know,” Dalinar said, smiling. “That was the seductive part.” He closed the door softly, then let out a sigh.
Blood of my fathers, he thought, why can’t these things ever be simple?
And yet, in direct contrast with his thoughts, he felt as if the entire world had somehow become more right for having gone wrong.
“The darkness becomes a palace. Let it rule! Let it rule!”
—Kakevah 1173, 22 seconds pre-death. A darkeyed Selay man of unknown profession.
“You think one of those will save us?” Moash asked, scowling as he looked at the prayer tied about Kaladin’s upper right arm.
Kaladin glanced to the side. He stood at parade rest as Sadeas’s soldiers crossed their bridge. The chilly spring air felt good, now that he’d started working. The sky was bright, cloudless, and the stormwardens promised that no highstorm was near.
The prayer tied on his arms was simple. Three glyphs: wind, protection, beloved. A prayer to Jezerezeh—the Stormfather—to protect loved ones and friends. It was the straightforward type his mother had preferred. For all her subtlety and wryness, whenever she’d knitted or written a prayer, it had been simple and heartfelt. Wearing it reminded him of her.
“I can’t believe you paid good money for that,” Moash said. “If there are Heralds watching, they don’t pay any mind to bridgemen.”
“I’ve been feeling nostalgic lately, I guess.” The prayer was probably meaningless, but he’d had reason to start thinking more about religion lately. The life of a slave made it difficult for many to believe that anyone, or anything, was watching. Yet many bridgemen had grown more religious during their captivity. Two groups, opposite reactions. Did that mean some were stupid and others were callous, or something else entirely?
