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“That’s how I am,” he said dryly. “Bringing death and lies wherever I go. Me and the Nightwatcher.”
She frowned.
“That was—” he began.
“Yes,” she said. “That was sarcasm.” She cocked her head. “I know what sarcasm is.” Then she smiled deviously. “I know what sarcasm is!”
Stormfather, Kaladin thought, looking into those gleeful little eyes. That strikes me as ominous.
“So, wait,” he said. “This sort of thing has never happened to you before?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember anything farther back than about a year ago, when I first saw you.”
“Really?”
“That’s not odd,” Syl said, shrugging translucent shoulders. “Most spren don’t have long memories.” She hesitated. “I don’t know why I know that.”
“Well, maybe this is normal. You could have gone through this cycle before, but you’ve just forgotten it.”
“That’s not very comforting. I don’t like the idea of forgetting.”
“But don’t death and lying make you uncomfortable?”
“They do. But, if I were to lose these memories…” She glanced into the air, and Kaladin traced her movements, noting a pair of windspren darting through the sky on a gusting breeze, uncaring and free.
“Scared to go onward,” Kaladin said, “but terrified to go back to what you were.”
She nodded.
“I know how you feel,” he said. “Come on. I need to eat, and there are some things I want to pick up after lunch.”
You do not agree with my quest. I understand that, so much as it is possible to understand someone with whom I disagree so completely.
Four hours after the chasmfiend attack, Adolin was still overseeing the cleanup. In the struggle, the monster had destroyed the bridge leading back to the warcamps. Fortunately, some soldiers had been left on the other side, and they’d gone to fetch a bridge crew.
Adolin walked amid the soldiers, gathering reports as the late afternoon sun inched toward the horizon. The air had a musty, moldy scent. The smell of greatshell blood. The beast itself lay where it had fallen, chest cut open. Some soldiers were harvesting its carapace amid cremlings that had come out to feast on the carcass. To Adolin’s left, long lines of men lay in rows, using cloaks or shirts as pillows on the ragged plateau surface. Surgeons from Dalinar’s army tended them. Adolin blessed his father for always bringing the surgeons, even on a routine expedition like this one.
He continued on his way, still wearing his Shardplate. The troops could have made their way back to the warcamps by another route—there was still a bridge on the other side, leading farther out onto the Plains. They could have moved eastward, then wrapped back around. Dalinar, however, had made the call—much to Sadeas’s dismay—that they would wait and tend the wounded, resting the few hours it would take to get a bridge crew.
Adolin glanced toward the pavilion, which tinkled with laughter. Several large rubies glowed brightly, set atop poles, with worked golden tines holding them in place. They were fabrials that gave off heat, though there was no fire involved. He didn’t understand how fabrials worked, though the more spectacular ones needed large gemstones to function.
Once again, the other lighteyes enjoyed their leisure while he worked. This time he didn’t mind. He would have found it difficult to enjoy himself after such a disaster. And it had been a disaster. A minor lighteyed officer approached, carrying a final list of casualties. The man’s wife read it, then they left him with the sheet and retreated.
There were nearly fifty men dead, twice as many wounded. Many were men Adolin had known. When the king had been given the initial estimate, he had brushed aside the deaths, indicating that they’d be rewarded for their valor with positions in the Heraldic Forces above. He seemed to have conveniently forgotten that he’d have been one of the casualties himself, if not for Dalinar.
Adolin sought out his father with his eyes; Dalinar stood at the edge of the plateau, looking eastward again. What did he search for out there? This wasn’t the first time Adolin had seen such extraordinary actions from his father, but they had seemed particularly dramatic. Standing beneath the massive chasmfiend, holding it back from killing his nephew, Plate glowing. That image was fixed in Adolin’s memory.
The other lighteyes stepped more lightly around Dalinar now, and during the last few hours, Adolin hadn’t heard a single mention of his weakness, not even from Sadeas’s men. He feared it wouldn’t last. Dalinar was heroic, but only infrequently. In the weeks that followed, the others would begin to talk again of how he rarely went on plateau assaults, about how he’d lost his edge.
Adolin found himself thirsting for more. Today when Dalinar had leaped to protect Elhokar, he’d acted like the stories said he had during his youth. Adolin wanted that man back. The kingdom needed him.
Adolin sighed, turning away. He needed to give the final casualty report to the king. Likely he’d be mocked for it, but perhaps—in waiting to deliver it—he might be able to listen in on Sadeas. Adolin still felt he was missing something about that man. Something his father saw, but he did not.
So, steeling himself for the barbs, he made his way toward the pavilion.
Dalinar faced eastward with gauntleted hands clasped behind his back. Somewhere out there, at the center of the Plains, the Parshendi made their base camp.
Alethkar had been at war for nearly six years, engaging in an extended siege. The siege strategy had been suggested by Dalinar himself—striking at the Parshendi base would have required camping on the Plains, weathering highstorms, and relying on a large number of fragile bridges. One failed battle, and the Alethi could have found themselves trapped and surrounded, without any way back to fortified positions.
But the Shattered Plains could also be a trap for the Parshendi. The eastern and southern edges were impassable—the plateaus there were weathered to the point that many were little more than spires, and the Parshendi could not jump the distance between them. The Plains were edged by mountains, and packs of chasmfiends prowled the land between, enormous and dangerous.
With the Alethi army boxing them in on the west and north—and with scouts placed south and east just in case—the Parshendi could not escape. Dalinar had argued that the Parshendi would run out of supplies. They’d either have to expose themselves and try to escape the Plains, or would have to attack the Alethi in their fortified warcamps.
It had been an excellent plan. Except, Dalinar hadn’t anticipated the gemhearts.
He turned from the chasm, walking across the plateau. He itched to go see to his men, but he needed to show trust in Adolin. He was in command, and he would do well by it. In fact, it seemed he was already taking some final reports over to Elhokar.
Dalinar smiled, looking at his son. Adolin was shorter than Dalinar, and his hair was blond mixed with black. The blond was an inheritance from his mother, or so Dalinar had been told. Dalinar himself remembered nothing of the woman. She had been excised from his memory, leaving strange gaps and foggy areas. Sometimes he could remember an exact scene, with everyone else crisp and clear, but she was a blur. He couldn’t even remember her name. When others spoke it, it slipped from his mind, like a pat of butter sliding off a too-hot knife.
