The Way of Kings

with exceeding politeness, Bethab by letting his wife give the explanation, Thanadal with hostile civility. “All of them but Sadeas, at least.”

“I doubt it would be wise to approach him with this, Father.”

“You’re probably right.” Dalinar’s voice was cold. He was angry. Furious, even. “They’re sending me a message. They’ve never liked the influence I have over the king, and they’re eager to see me fall. They don’t want to do something I ask them to, just in case it might help me regain my footing.”

“Father, I’m sorry.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best. The important point is that I have failed. I can’t get them to work together. Elhokar was right.” He looked to Adolin. “I would like you to continue inspections for me, son. There’s something I want to do.”

“What?”

“Just some work I see needs to be done.”

Adolin wanted to object, but he couldn’t think of the words to say. Finally, he sighed and gave a nod. “You’ll tell me what this is about, though?”

“Soon,” Dalinar promised. “Very soon.”

Dalinar watched his son leave, striding purposefully away. He would make a good highprince. Dalinar’s decision was a simple one.

Was it time to step aside, and let his son take his place?

If he took this step, Dalinar would be expected to stay out of politics, retiring to his lands and leaving Adolin to rule. It was a painful decision to contemplate, and he had to be careful not to make it hastily. But if he really was going mad, as everyone in the camp seemed to believe, then he had to step down. And soon, before his condition progressed to the point that he no longer had the presence of mind to let go.

A monarch is control, he thought, remembering a passage from The Way of Kings. He provides stability. It is his service and his trade good. If he cannot control himself, then how can he control the lives of men? What merchant worth his Stormlight won’t partake of the very fruit he sells?

Odd, that those quotes still came to him, even as he was wondering if they had-in part-driven him to madness. “Niter,” he said. “Fetch my warhammer. Have it waiting for me at the staging field.”

Dalinar wanted to be moving, working, as he thought. His guards hastened to keep up as he strode down the pathway between the barracks of Battalions Six and Seven. Niter sent several men to fetch the weapon. His voice sounded strangely excited, as if he thought Dalinar was going to do something impressive.

Dalinar doubted he would think it so. He eventually strode out onto the staging field, cape fluttering behind him, plated boots clanking against the stones. He didn’t have to wait long for the hammer; it came pulled by two men on a small cart. Sweating, the soldiers heaved it from the cart, the haft as thick as a man’s wrist and the front of the head larger than an outspread palm. Two men together could barely lift it.

Dalinar grabbed the hammer with one gauntleted hand, swinging it up to rest on his shoulder. He ignored the soldiers performing exercises on the field, walking to where the group of dirty workers chipped at the latrine ditch. They looked up at him, horrified to see the highprince himself looming over them in full Shardplate.

“Who’s in charge here?” Dalinar asked.

A scruffy civilian in brown trousers raised a nervous hand. “Brightlord, how may we serve you?”

“By relaxing for a little while,” Dalinar said. “Out with you.”

The worried workers scrambled out. Lighteyed officers gathered behind, confused by Dalinar’s actions.

Dalinar gripped the haft of his warhammer in a gauntleted hand; the metal shaft was wrapped tightly with leather. Taking a deep breath, he leaped down into the half-finished ditch, lifted the hammer, then swung, slamming the weapon down against the rock.

A powerful crack rang across the practice field, and a wave of shock ran up Dalinar’s arms. The Shardplate absorbed most of the recoil, and he left a large crack in the stones. He hefted and swung again, this time breaking free a large section of rock. Though it would have been difficult for two or three regular men to lift, Dalinar grabbed it with one hand and tossed it aside. It clattered across the stones.

Where were the Shards for regular men? Why hadn’t the ancients, who were so wise, created anything to help them? As Dalinar continued to work, beats of his hammer throwing chips and dust into the air, he easily did the work of twenty men. Shardplate could be used for so many things to ease the lives of workers and darkeyes across Roshar.

It felt good to be working. To be doing something useful. Lately, he felt as if his efforts had been akin to running about in circles. The work helped him think.

He was losing his thirst for battle. That worried him, as the Thrill-the enjoyment and longing for war-was part of what drove the Alethi as a people. The grandest of masculine arts was to become a great warrior, and the most important Calling was to fight. The Almighty himself depended on the Alethi to train themselves in honorable battle so that when they died, they could join the Heralds’ army and win back the Tranquiline Halls.

And yet, thinking about killing was starting to sicken him. It had grown worse since that last bridge assault. What would happen next time he went into battle? He could not lead this way. That was a major reason that abdicating in favor of Adolin looked right.

He continued to swing. Again and again, beating against the stones. Soldiers gathered above and-despite his orders-the workers did not leave to relax. They watched, dumbfounded, as a Shardbearer did their work. Occasionally, he summoned his Blade and used it to cut the rock, slicing out sections before returning to the hammer to break them apart.

He probably looked ridiculous. He couldn’t do the work of all of the laborers in camp, and he had important tasks to fill his time. There was no reason for him to get down in a trench and toil. And yet it felt so good. So wonderful to pitch in directly with the needs of the camp. The results of what he did to protect Elhokar were often difficult to gauge; it was fulfilling to be able to do something where his progress was obvious.

But even in this, he was acting according to the ideals that had infected him. The book spoke of a king carrying the burdens of his people. It said that those who led were the lowest of men, for they were required to serve everyone. It all swirled around in him. The Codes, the teachings of the book, the things the visions-or delusions-showed.

Never fight other men except when forced to in war.

Bang!

Let your actions defend you, not your words.

Bang!

Expect honor from those you meet, and give them the chance to live up to it.

Bang!

Rule as you would be ruled.

Bang!

He stood waist-deep in what would eventually be a latrine, his ears filled with the groans of breaking stone. He was coming to believe those ideals. No, he’d already come to believe them. Now he was living them. What would the world be like if all men lived as the book proclaimed?

Someone had to start. Someone had to be the model. In this, he had a reason not to abdicate. Whether or not he was mad, the way he now did things was better than the way Sadeas or the others did them. One needed only look at the lives of his soldiers and his people to see that was true.

Bang!

Stone could not be changed without pounding. Was it the same with a man like him? Was that why everything was so hard for him suddenly? But why him? Dalinar wasn’t a philosopher or idealist. He was a soldier. And-if he admitted the truth-in earlier years, he’d been a tyrant and a warmonger. Could twilight years spent pretending to follow the precepts of better men erase a lifetime of butchery?

He had begun to sweat. The swath he had cut through the ground was as wide as a man was tall, as deep as his chest, and some thirty yards long. The longer he worked, the more people gathered to watch and whisper.

Shardplate was sacred. Was the highprince really digging a latrine with it? Had the