The Way of Kings

do suggest that you avoid leaping to conclusions. Adolin has pointed out that this would be a terribly clumsy way to try to kill you. A fall from horseback isn’t a serious threat to a man wearing Plate.”

“Yes, but during a hunt?” Elhokar said. “Perhaps they wanted the chasmfiend to kill me.”

“We weren’t supposed to be in danger from the hunt,” Dalinar said. “We were supposed to pelt the greatshell from a distance, then ride up and butcher it.”

Elhokar narrowed his eyes, looking at Dalinar, then at Adolin. It was almost as if the king were suspicious of them. The look was gone in a second. Had Adolin imagined it? Stormfather! he thought.

From behind, Vamah began calling to the king. Elhokar glanced at him and nodded. “This isn’t over, Uncle,” he said to Dalinar. “Look into that strap.”

“I will.”

The king handed the strap back, then left, armor clinking.

“Father,” Adolin said immediately, “did you see-”

“I’ll speak to him about it,” Dalinar said. “Sometime when he isn’t so worked up.”

“But-”

“I will speak to him, Adolin. You look into that strap. And go gather your men.” He nodded toward something in the distant west. “I think I see that bridge crew coming.”

Finally, Adolin thought, following his gaze. A small group of figures was crossing the plateau in the distance, bearing Dalinar’s banner and leading a bridge crew carrying one of Sadeas’s mobile bridges. They’d sent for one of those, as they were faster than Dalinar’s larger, chull-pulled bridges.

Adolin hurried off to give the orders, though he found himself distracted by his father’s words, Gavilar’s final message, and now the king’s look of distrust. It seemed he would have plenty to preoccupy his mind on the long ride back to the camps.

Dalinar watched Adolin rush away to do as ordered. The lad’s breastplate still bore a web of cracks, though it had stopped leaking Stormlight. With time, the armor would repair itself. It could reform even if it was completely shattered.

The lad liked to complain, but he was as good a son as a man could ask for. Fiercely loyal, with initiative and a strong sense of command. The soldiers liked him. Perhaps he was a little too friendly with them, but that could be forgiven. Even his hotheadedness could be forgiven, assuming he learned to channel it.

Dalinar left the young man to his work and went to check on Gallant. He found the Ryshadium with the grooms, who had set up a horse picket on the southern side of the plateau. They had bandaged the horse’s scrapes, and he was no longer favoring his leg.

Dalinar patted the large stallion on the neck, looking into those deep black eyes. The horse seemed ashamed. “It wasn’t your fault you threw me, Gallant,” Dalinar said in a soothing voice. “I’m just glad you weren’t harmed too badly.” He turned to a nearby groom. “Give him extra feed this evening, and two crispmelons.”

“Yes sir, Brightlord. But he won’t eat extra food. He never does if we try to give it to him.”

“He’ll eat it tonight,” Dalinar said, patting the Ryshadium’s neck again. “He only eats it when he feels he deserves it, son.”

The lad seemed confused. Like most of them, he thought of Ryshadium as just another breed of horse. A man couldn’t really understand until he’d had one accept him as rider. It was like wearing Shardplate, an experience that was completely indescribable.

“You’ll eat both of those crispmelons,” Dalinar said, pointing at the horse. “You deserve them.”

Gallant blustered.

“You do,” Dalinar said. The horse nickered, seeming content. Dalinar checked the leg, then nodded to the groom. “Take good care of him, son. I’ll ride another horseback.”

“Yes, Brightlord.”

They got him a mount-a sturdy, dust-colored mare. He was extra careful when he swung into the saddle. Ordinary horses always seemed so fragile to him.

The king rode out after the first squad of troops, Wit at his side. Sadeas, Dalinar noted, rode behind, where Wit couldn’t get at him.

The bridge crew waited silently, resting as the king and his procession crossed. Like most of Sadeas’s bridge crews, this one was constructed from a jumble of human refuse. Foreigners, deserters, thieves, murderers, and slaves. Many probably deserved their punishment, but the frightful way Sadeas chewed through them put Dalinar on edge. How long would it be before he could no longer fill the bridge crews with the suitably expendable? Did any man, even a murderer, deserve such a fate?

A passage from The Way of Kings came to Dalinar’s head unbidden. He’d been listening to readings from the book more often than he’d represented to Adolin.

I once saw a spindly man carrying a stone larger than his head upon his back, the passage went. He stumbled beneath the weight, shirtless under the sun, wearing only a loincloth. He tottered down a busy thoroughfare. People made way for him. Not because they sympathized with him, but because they feared the momentum of his steps. You dare not impede one such as this.

The monarch is like this man, stumbling along, the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. Many give way before him, but so few are willing to step in and help carry the stone. They do not wish to attach themselves to the work, lest they condemn themselves to a life full of extra burdens.

I left my carriage that day and took up the stone, lifting it for the man. I believe my guards were embarrassed. One can ignore a poor shirtless wretch doing such labor, but none ignore a king sharing the load. Perhaps we should switch places more often. If a king is seen to assume the burden of the poorest of men, perhaps there will be those who will help him with his own load, so invisible, yet so daunting.

Dalinar was shocked that he could remember the story word for word, though he probably shouldn’t have been. In searching for the meaning behind Gavilar’s last message, he’d listened to readings from the book almost every day of the last few months.

He’d been disappointed to find that there was no clear meaning behind the quote Gavilar had left. He’d continued to listen anyway, though he tried to keep his interest quiet. The book did not have a good reputation, and not just because it was associated with the Lost Radiants. Stories of a king doing the work of a menial laborer were the least of its discomforting passages. In other places, it outright said that lighteyes were beneath darkeyes. That contradicted Vorin teachings.

Yes, best to keep this quiet. Dalinar had spoken truly when he’d told Adolin he didn’t care what people said about him. But when the rumors impeded his ability to protect Elhokar, they could become dangerous. He had to be careful.

He turned his mount and clopped up onto the bridge, then nodded his thanks to the bridgemen. They were the lowest in the army, and yet they bore the weight of kings.

16

Cocoons

SEVEN AND A HALF YEARS AGO

“He wants to send me to Kharbranth,” Kal said, perched atop his rock. “To train to become a surgeon.”

“What, really?” Laral asked, as she walked across the edge of the rock just in front of him. She had golden streaks in her otherwise black hair. She wore it long, and it streamed out behind her in a gust of wind as she balanced, hands out to the sides.

The hair was distinctive. But, of course, her eyes were more so. Bright, pale green. So different from the browns and blacks of the townspeople. There really was something different about being a lighteyes.

“Yes, really,” Kal said with a grunt. “He’s been talking about it for a couple of years now.”