The Way of Kings

were grouped almost like a bouquet, growing on a large oval stone placed beside the pathway.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask for you to not feel guilty,” Navani said. “Can’t you let yourself bend, just a little?”

“I’m not certain if I can. Particularly not now. Explaining why would be difficult.”

“Could you try to? For me?”

“I… Well, I’m a man of extremes, Navani. I discovered that when I was a youth. I’ve learned, repeatedly, that the only way to control those extremes is to dedicate my life to something. First it was Gavilar. Now it’s the Codes and the teachings of Nohadon. They’re the means by which I bind myself. Like the enclosure of a fire, meant to contain and control it.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m a weak man, Navani. I really am. If I give myself a few feet of leeway, I burst through all of my prohibitions. The momentum of following the Codes these years after Gavilar’s death is what keeps me strong. If I let a few cracks into that armor, I might return to the man I once was. A man I never want to be again.”

A man who had contemplated murdering his own brother for the throne-and for the woman who had married that brother. But he couldn’t explain that, didn’t dare let Navani know what his desire for her had once almost driven him to do.

On that day, Dalinar had sworn that he would never hold the throne himself. That was one of his restraints. Could he explain how she, without trying, pried at those restraints? How it was difficult to reconcile his long- fermenting love for her with his guilt at finally taking for himself what he’d long ago given up for his brother?

“You are not a weak man, Dalinar,” Navani said.

“I am. But weakness can imitate strength if bound properly, just as cowardice can imitate heroism if given nowhere to flee.”

“But there’s nothing in Gavilar’s book that prohibits us. It’s just tradition that-”

“It feels wrong,” Dalinar said. “But please, don’t worry; I do enough worrying for both of us. I will find a way to make this work; I just ask your understanding. It will take time. When I display frustration, it is not with you, but with the situation.”

“I suppose I can accept that. Assuming you can live with the rumors. They’re starting already.”

“They won’t be the first rumors to plague me,” he said. “I’m starting to worry less about them and more about Elhokar. How will we explain to him?”

“I doubt he’ll notice,” Navani said, snorting softly, resuming her walk. He followed. “He’s so fixated on the Parshendi and, occasionally, the idea that someone in camp is trying to kill him.”

“This might feed into that,” Dalinar said. “He could read a number of conspiracies out of the two of us entering a relationship.”

“Well, he-”

Horns began sounding loudly from below. Dalinar and Navani stopped to listen and identify the call.

“Stormfather,” Dalinar said. “That’s the Tower itself where a chasmfiend has been seen. It’s one of the plateaus Sadeas has been watching.” Dalinar felt a surge of excitement. “Highprinces have failed every time to win a gemheart there. It will be a major victory if he and I can do it together.”

Navani looked troubled. “You’re right about him, Dalinar. We do need him for our cause. But keep him at arm’s length.”

“Wish me the wind’s favor.” He reached toward her, but then stopped himself. What was he going to do? Embrace her here, in public? That would set off the rumors like fire across a pool of oil. He wasn’t ready for that yet. Instead, he bowed to her, then hastened off to answer the call and collect his Shardplate.

It wasn’t until he was halfway down the path that he paused to consider Navani’s choice of words. She had said “We need him” for “our cause.”

What was their cause? He doubted that Navani knew either. But she had already started to think of them as together in their eff orts.

And, he realized, so did he.

The horns called, such a pure and beautiful sound to signify the imminence of battle. It caused a frenzy in the lumberyard. The orders had come down. The Tower was to be assaulted again-the very place where Bridge Four had failed, the place where Kaladin had caused a disaster.

Largest of the plateaus. Most coveted.

Bridgemen ran this way and that for their vests. Carpenters and apprentices rushed out of the way. Matal shouted orders; an actual run was the only time he did that without Hashal. Bridgeleaders, showing a modicum of leadership, bellowed for their teams to line up.

A wind whipped the air, blowing wood chips and bits of dried grass into the sky. Men yelled, bells rang. And into this chaos strode Bridge Four, Kaladin at their head. Despite the urgency, soldiers stopped, bridgemen gaped, carpenters and apprentices stilled.

Thirty-five men marched in rusty orange carapace armor, expertly crafted by Leyten to fit onto leather jerkins and caps. They’d cut off arm guards and shin guards to complement the breastplates. The helms were built from several different headpieces, and had been ornamented-at Leyten’s insistence-with ridges and cuts, like tiny horns or the edges of a crab’s shell. The breastplates and guards were ornamented as well, cut into toothlike patterns, each one reminiscent of a saw blade. Earless Jaks had bought blue and white paint and drawn designs across the orange armor.

Each member of Bridge Four carried a large wooden shield strapped- tightly now-with red Parshendi bones. Ribs, for the most part, shaped in spiral patterns. Some of the men had tied finger bones to the centers so they would rattle, and others had attached protruding sharp ribs to the sides of their helms, giving them the look of fangs or mandibles.

The onlookers watched with amazement. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen this armor, but this would be the first run where every man of Bridge Four had it. All together, it made an impressive sight.

Ten days, with six bridge runs, had allowed Kaladin and his team to perfect their method. Five men to be decoys with five more in the front holding shields and using only one arm to support the bridge. Their numbers were augmented by the wounded they’d saved from other crews, now strong enough to help carry.

So far-despite six bridge runs-there hadn’t been a single fatality. The other bridgemen were whispering about a miracle. Kaladin didn’t know about that. He just made certain to keep a full pouch of infused spheres with him at all times. Most of the Parshendi archers seemed to focus on him. Somehow, they could tell that he was the center of all this.

They reached their bridge and formed up, shields strapped to rods on the sides to await use. As they hefted their bridge, a spontaneous round of cheering rose up from the other crews.

“That’s new,” Teft said from Kaladin’s left.

“Guess they finally realized what we are,” Kaladin said.

“And what’s that?”

Kaladin settled the bridge onto his shoulders. “We’re their champions. Bridge forward!”

They broke into a trot, leading the way down from the staging yard, ushered by cheers.

My father is not insane, Adolin thought, alive with energy and excitement as his armorers strapped on his Shardplate.

Adolin had stewed over Navani’s revelation for days. He’d been wrong in such a horrible way. Dalinar Kholin wasn’t growing weak. He wasn’t getting senile. He wasn’t a coward. Dalinar had been right, and Adolin had been wrong. After much soul searching, Adolin had come to a decision.

He was glad that he’d been wrong.

He grinned, flexing the fingers of his Plated hand as the armorers moved to his other side. He didn’t know what the visions meant, or what the implications of those visions would be. His father was some kind of prophet, and that was daunting to consider.

But for now, it was enough that Dalinar was not insane. It was time to trust him. Stormfather knew, Dalinar had earned that right from his sons.

The armorers finished with Adolin’s Shardplate. As they stepped away, Adolin hurried out of the armoring