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She didn’t speak much Alethi, but most of the spren were able to speak several human languages. He wasn’t certain if it was an aspect of their nature, or if they simply lived so long that they ended up picking up multiple languages.
Either way, the spren could translate if necessary, and Adolin really did want to bring a Truthwatcher. They had once been well-regarded by the honorspren. Though the woman’s name was Arshqqam, everyone called her the Stump—a nickname that Lift had spread, he believed. Arshqqam had mentioned she was fond of the name, and the way she strode—unbowed by age, insisting on carrying her own things—gave him an inkling of where the moniker had come from.
With her arrival, the entire expedition was accounted for. A half dozen pack animals weren’t many for fifteen people. Normally he’d have expected that many animals for just the food, plus some wagons carrying stormbarrels that could be chained down to catch rainwater. Fortunately, this group had Shallan’s Lightweavers to provide food and water through Soulcasting.
As Adolin crossed the platform, he passed the queen standing—as always—with Wit at her shoulder. She, Dalinar, and Taravangian were the only monarchs at the tower today, and they’d all come to see off the expedition. Jasnah was supervising Ishnah and Vathah, two of Shallan’s agents, determining for herself if they were capable.
Adolin lingered as Vathah knelt beside a large block of obsidian. The glassy stone had been mined in Shadesmar and brought through for the test. Vathah’s hand sank into the block, and then the structure of the obsidian changed—in the blink of an eye, the rock transformed into grain. Kind of. What Vathah made was a large square lump of hardened lavis pulp, not individual seeds like some advanced Soulcasters could make. They could cut off chunks, cook it to mush. It wasn’t tasty, but it was hearty and healthy.
Do they know? Adolin wondered. How much Jasnah sees them as tools? For centuries the Alethi Soulcasting devices—limited though they were—had given his kingdom an unparalleled edge in battle. Now, Lightweavers were Soulcasting and didn’t seem to suffer the same ill effects as users of the devices.
Adolin could see deeper motives in the months Jasnah had spent training Shallan and her agents. Though Shallan wanted her team to become spies, Jasnah seemed to see their powers of illusion as a distant second to their ability to feed armies.
Hopefully the cache of Soulcasting devices found in Aimia would relieve some of that pressure. Shallan watched from the near distance, sitting on a supply box, her expression unreadable. Though by far the most talented at illusions among her people, Shallan’s own abilities in Soulcasting had proven … erratic. Adolin had peeked in on her sessions to see only occasional lumps of grain. Other times, she accidentally created twisted things: flames, sometimes pools of blood, once a translucent crystal.
Jasnah had finally, after eight months of work, officially released Shallan from her wardship. And Shallan truly had earned that release. She’d gone to lessons, memorized the works of scholars, and acted as the perfect ward. Though mastery of Soulcasting eluded her, she had improved over the year.
Jasnah dismissed the two agents, who hastened to join the others. Adolin found himself growing anxious as everyone gathered around the small building at the center of the platform. Not that he had any reason. It was just that it had been months since he’d last visited Shadesmar.
Dalinar stepped up to the group and waited for everyone to quiet. He would want to speak, of course. Adolin’s father could turn anything into an excuse for an inspirational speech.
“I commend your bravery,” Dalinar said to the gathered people. “Know that you go representing not only me, but the entire coalition. With you go the hopes of millions.
“The realm you traverse will be alien and at times hostile. Do not forget that it once held allies, and their fortresses welcomed men with open arms. Your task is to rekindle those ancient alliances, as we have re-formed the ancient bond between nations. Know that you take with you my utmost confidence.”
Not bad, Adolin thought. At least it was short. Adolin’s six men cheered as expected. The Radiants applauded politely, which generally wasn’t the response that one of Dalinar’s rousing speeches received. He continued to treat them like soldiers, though most of the Radiants here today had never been in the military. Shallan was a country lighteyes and scholar turned spy; the Stump had run an orphanage; Godeke had been an ardent. So far as Adolin knew, Zu was the only one who had held anything resembling a weapon before saying her oaths.
Jasnah said a few words, and so did Taravangian. Adolin listened with half an ear, wondering if Taravangian found it odd that the expedition wasn’t taking any Dustbringers. No one had spoken the reason, but it was obvious to Adolin. The Dustbringers didn’t serve Dalinar, at least not loyally enough for his taste.
At the end of the speeches, the members of the expedition began squeezing into the small control building, leading the horses in as well. There might be some way to bring everyone on the platform into Shadesmar, but so far they’d been limited to people standing in the small control building.
Adolin waved for Shallan to go in first without him. Jasnah, Taravangian, and Wit began to retreat across the platform with their attendants. Soon, Adolin and Dalinar stood facing one another, alone outside the building.
A snort broke the air. Gallant had lingered, refusing the grooms who tried to coax him into the building with fruit. Dalinar broke his stern posture and patted the horse on the neck. “Thank you,” he said to Adolin, “for caring for him these last months. I don’t get much time for riding these days.”
“We both know how busy you are, Father.”
“That’s a new uniform,” Dalinar said to him. “Better than some you’ve been wearing lately.”
“That’s amusing,” Adolin said. “Four years ago when I last wore this, you called it disgraceful.”
Dalinar stiffened, lowering his hand from Gallant’s neck. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and stood tall. So storming tall. Sometimes Adolin’s father was more like a Soulcast statue than a person.
“I guess … we’ve both become more lax over the years,” Dalinar said.
“I think I’ve stayed the same person,” Adolin said. “I’m just more willing to let you be disappointed by that person.”
“Son,” Dalinar said, “I’m not disappointed in you.”
“Aren’t you? Can you say that truthfully, with an oath?”
Dalinar fell silent. “I merely want you to be the best man you can be,” he finally said. “A better man than I was at your age. I know that’s the person you really are. And I want you to represent me well. Is that such a terrible thing?”
“I don’t represent you anymore, Father. I’m a highprince. I represent myself. Is that such a terrible thing?”
Dalinar sighed. “Don’t go down this road, son. Do not let my failings drive you to rebel against what you know is right, merely because it’s what I wish of you.”
“I’m not—” Adolin made fists, trying to squeeze out his frustration. “I’m not simply rebelling, Father. I’m not fourteen anymore.”
“No. When you were fourteen you looked up to me for some reason.” Dalinar glanced after the departing figures, growing small on the platform. “You see Taravangian out there? Do you know how he sees the world? Any cost, any price, is worth paying if what you want to achieve is—in the end—worthy.
