Words of Radiance (The Stormlight Archive 2)

Eventually, he rose, collected his two guards, and stepped out of the winehouse to a grey sky and a deserted Outer Market. He was mostly over the conversation with Sadeas, and kept reminding himself that up to that point the day had been going very well.

Shallan and her carriage had already gone, of course. He could have ordered a ride for himself, but after being locked away for so long, it felt good to be walking in the open air; chill, wet, and fresh from the storm.

Hands in the pockets of his uniform, he started along a pathway through the Outer Market, strolling around puddles. Gardeners had begun growing ornamental shalebark along the sides of the path, though it wasn’t very high yet, just a few inches. A good shalebark ridge could take years to grow properly.

Those two insufferable bridgemen followed along behind him. Not that Adolin minded the men personally—they seemed like amiable enough fellows, particularly when away from their commander. Adolin just didn’t like needing minders. Though the storm had passed into the west, the afternoon felt gloomy. Clouds obscured the sun, which had moved from its zenith and was drooping slowly toward the distant horizon. He didn’t pass many people, so his only companions were the bridgemen—well, those and a legion of cremlings that had emerged to feast upon plants that lapped at water in pools.

Why did plants spend so much more time in their shells out here than they did back home? Shallan probably knew. He smiled, forcing thoughts of Sadeas into the back of his mind. This thing with Shallan, it was working. It always worked at first though, so he contained his enthusiasm.

She was marvelous. Exotic, witty, and not smothered in Alethi propriety. She was smarter than he was, but she didn’t make him feel stupid. That was a large point in her favor.

He passed out of the market, then crossed the open ground beyond it, eventually reaching Dalinar’s warcamp. The guards let him through with crisp salutes. He idled in the warcamp market, comparing the wares he saw here with those in the market near the Pinnacle.

What will happen to this place, Adolin thought, when the war stops? It would end someday. Perhaps tomorrow, with the negotiations with the Parshendi Shardbearer.

The Alethi presence wouldn’t end here, not with the chasmfiends to hunt, but surely this large a population couldn’t continue, could it? Could he really be witnessing a permanent shift of the king’s seat?

Hours later—after spending some time at jewelry shops looking for something for Shallan—Adolin and his guards reached his father’s complex. By then, Adolin’s feet were starting to ache and the camp had grown dark. He yawned, making his way through the cavernous guts of his father’s bunkerish dwelling. Wasn’t it about time they built a proper mansion? Being an example for the men was all well and good, but there were certain standards a family like theirs should uphold. Particularly if the Shattered Plains were going to remain as important as they had been. It was…

He hesitated, stopping at an intersection and looking right. He’d been intending to visit the kitchens for a snack, but a group of men moved and threw shadows in the other direction. Hushed whispers.

“What is this?” Adolin demanded, marching toward the gathering, his two guards following. “Soldiers? What have you found?”

The men scrambled to turn and salute, spears to shoulders. They were more bridgemen from Kaladin’s unit. Just beyond them were the doors to the wing where Dalinar, Adolin, and Renarin all made their quarters. Those doors lay open, and the men had set spheres on the ground.

What was going on? Normally, two or maybe four men would be on guard here. Not eight. And… why was there a parshman wearing a guardsman uniform, holding a spear with the others?

“Sir!” said a lanky, long-armed man at the front of the bridgemen. “We were just heading in to check on the highprince, when…”

Adolin didn’t hear the rest. He pushed through the bridgemen, finally seeing what the spheres illuminated on the floor of the sitting room.

More scratched glyphs. Adolin knelt down, trying to read them. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been drawn in any kind of picture to help. He thought they were numbers…

“Thirty-two days,” said one of the bridgemen, a short Azish man. “Seek the center.”

Damnation. “Have you told anyone of this?” Adolin asked.

“We just found it,” the Azish man said.

“Post guards at either end of the hallway,” Adolin said. “And send for my aunt.”

* * *

Adolin summoned his Blade, then dismissed it, then summoned it again. A nervous habit. The white fog appeared—manifesting as little vines sprouting in the air—before snapping into the form of a Shardblade, which suddenly weighed down his hand.

He stood in the sitting room, those foreboding markings staring up at him, as if in silent challenge. The closed door kept the bridgemen out so only he, Dalinar, and Navani would be privy to the discussion. Adolin wanted to use the Blade to cut those cursed glyphs away. Dalinar had proven that he was sane. Aunt Navani almost had an entire document of the Dawnchant translated, using the words of Father’s visions as a guide!

The visions were from the Almighty. It all made sense.

Now this.

“They were made with a knife,” Navani said, kneeling beside the glyphs. The sitting room was a large open area, used for receiving callers or holding meetings. Doors beyond led to the study and the bedrooms.

“This knife,” Dalinar replied, holding up a side knife of the style most lighteyes wore. “My knife.”

The edge was blunted and still bore flecks of stone from the gouges. The scratches matched the size of the blade. They’d found it just in front of the door to Dalinar’s study, where he’d spent the highstorm. Alone. Navani’s carriage had been delayed, and she’d been forced to return to the palace or risk being caught in the storm.

“Someone else could have taken it and done this,” Adolin snapped. “They could have sneaked into your study, grabbed it while you were consumed by the visions, and come out here…”

The other two looked at him.

“Often,” Navani said, “the simplest answer is the right one.”

Adolin sighed, dismissing his Blade and slumping down in a chair beside the offending glyphs. His father stood tall. In fact, Dalinar Kholin never seemed to have stood as tall as he did now, hands clasped behind his back, eyes away from the glyphs, toward the wall—eastward.

Dalinar was a rock, a boulder too big for even storms to move. He seemed so sure. It was something to cling to.

“You don’t remember anything?” Navani asked Dalinar, rising.

“No.” He turned to Adolin. “I think it’s obvious now that I was behind each of these. Why does that bother you so, son?”

“It’s the idea of you scribbling on the ground,” Adolin said, shivering. “Lost in one of those visions, not in control of yourself.”

“The Almighty’s path for me is a strange one,” Dalinar said. “Why do I need to get the information this way? Scratches on the ground or the wall? Why not say it to me plainly in the visions?”

“It’s foretelling, you realize,” Adolin said softly. “Seeing the future. A thing of the Voidbringers.”

“Yes.” Dalinar narrowed his eyes. “Seek the center. What do you think, Navani? The center of the Shattered Plains? What truths hide there?”