Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive 3)

He felt all the shame of losing control, but none of the satisfaction of actually getting to fight.

Dalinar seized his mug, but it was empty. Stormfather! He threw it and stood up, wanting to scream.

He was fortunately distracted by the back door to the wrestling den inching open, revealing a familiar pale face. Toh wore Alethi clothing now, one of the new suits that Gavilar preferred, but it fit him poorly. He was too spindly. No man would ever mistake Toh—with that overcautious gait and wide-eyed innocence—for a soldier.

“Dalinar?” he asked, looking over the spilled drinks and the locked sphere lamps on the walls. “The guards said I could find you here. Um … was this a party?”

“Ah, Toh,” Havar said, lounging back in his seat. “How could it have been a party without you?”

Toh’s eyes flicked toward the chunk of firemoss on the ground nearby. “I’ll never understand what you see in these places, Dalinar.”

“He’s just getting to know the common people, Brightlord,” Bashin said, pocketing the firemoss. “You know us darkeyed types, always wallowing in depravity. We need good role models to—”

He cut off as Dalinar raised his hand. He didn’t need underlings to cover for him. “What is it, Toh?”

“Oh!” the Riran man said. “They were going to send a messenger, but I wanted to deliver the news. My sister, you see. It’s a little early, but the midwives aren’t surprised. They say it’s natural when—”

Dalinar gasped, like he’d been punched in the stomach. Early. Midwives. Sister.

He charged for the door, and didn’t hear the rest of what Toh said.

* * *

Evi looked like she’d fought in a battle.

He’d seen that expression on the faces of soldiers many times: that sweaty brow, that half-dazed, drowsy look. Exhaustionspren, like jets in the air. These were the mark of a person pushed past the limits of what they thought they could do.

She bore a smile of quiet satisfaction. A look of victory. Dalinar pushed past doting surgeons and midwives, stepping up to Evi’s bed. She held out a limp hand. Her left hand, which was wrapped only in a thin envelope that ended at the wrist. It would have been a sign of intimacy, to an Alethi. But Evi still preferred that hand.

“The baby?” he whispered, taking the hand.

“A son. Healthy and strong.”

“A son. I … I have a son?” Dalinar dropped to his knees beside the bed. “Where is he?”

“Being washed, my lord,” said one of the midwives. “He will be returned shortly.”

“Torn buttons,” Evi whispered. “You’ve been fighting again, Dalinar?”

“Just a small diversion.”

“That’s what you say each time.”

Dalinar squeezed her hand through the envelope, too elated to prickle at the chastisement. “You and Toh came here to Alethkar because you wanted someone to protect you. You sought out a fighter, Evi.”

She squeezed his hand back. A nurse approached with a bundle in her arms and Dalinar looked up, stunned, unable to rise.

“Now,” the woman said, “many men are apprehensive at first when—”

She cut off as Dalinar found his strength and seized the child from her arms. He held the boy aloft in both hands, letting out a whooping laugh, gloryspren bursting around him as golden spheres.

“My son!” he said.

“My lord!” the nurse said. “Be careful!”

“He’s a Kholin,” Dalinar said, cradling the child. “He’s made of hardy stuff.” He looked down at the boy, who—red faced—wiggled and thrashed with his tiny fists. He had shockingly thick hair, black and blond mixed. Good coloring. Distinctive.

May you have your father’s strength, Dalinar thought, rubbing the child’s face with his finger, and at least some of your mother’s compassion, little one.

Looking into that face, swelling with joy, Dalinar finally understood. This was why Gavilar thought so much about the future, about Alethkar, about crafting a kingdom that would last. Dalinar’s life so far had stained him crimson and thrashed his soul. His heart was so crusted over with crem, it might as well have been a stone.

But this boy … he could rule the princedom, support his cousin the king, and live a life of honor.

“His name, Brightlord?” asked Ishal, an aged ardent from the Devotary of Purity. “I would burn the proper glyphwards, if it pleases you.”

“Name…” Dalinar said. “Adoda.” Light. He glanced toward Evi, who nodded in agreement.

“Without a suffix, my lord? Adodan? Adodal?”

“Lin,” Dalinar whispered. Born unto. “Adolin.” A good name, traditional, full of meaning.

With regret, Dalinar surrendered the child to the nurses, who returned him to his mother, explaining that it was important to train the baby to suckle as soon as possible. Most in the room began to file out to offer privacy, and as they did, Dalinar caught sight of a regal figure standing at the back. How had he missed Gavilar there?

Gavilar took him by the arm and gave him a good thump on the back as they left the chamber. Dalinar was so dazed he barely felt it. He needed to celebrate—buy drinks for every man in the army, declare a holiday, or just run through the city whooping for joy. He was a father!

“An excellent day,” Gavilar said. “A most excellent day.”

“How do you contain it?” Dalinar said. “This excitement?”

Gavilar grinned. “I let the emotion be my reward for the work I have done.”

Dalinar nodded, then studied his brother. “What?” Dalinar said. “Something is wrong.”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me, Brother.”

“I don’t want to ruin your wonderful day.”

“Wondering will ruin it more than anything you could say, Gavilar. Out with it.”

The king mulled, then nodded toward Dalinar’s den. They crossed the main chamber, passing furniture that was far too showy—colorful, with floral patterns and plush cushions. Evi’s taste was partially to blame, though it was also just … life, these days. His life was plush.

The den was more to his liking. A few chairs, a hearth, a simple rug. A cabinet with various exotic and potent wines, each in a distinctive bottle. They were the type it was almost a shame to drink, as it spoiled the display.

“It’s your daughter,” Dalinar guessed. “Her lunacy.”

“Jasnah is fine, and recovering. It’s not that.” Gavilar frowned, his expression dangerous. He’d agreed to a crown after much debate—Sunmaker hadn’t worn one, and the histories said Jezerezeh’Elin refused them as well. But people did love symbols, and most Western kings wore crowns. Gavilar had settled upon a black iron circlet. The more Gavilar’s hair greyed, the easier the crown was to see.

A servant had set a fire in the hearth, though it was burning low, only a single flamespren crawling along the embers.

“I am failing,” Gavilar said.

“What?”

“Rathalas. The Rift.”

“But I thought—”

“Propaganda,” Gavilar said. “Intended to quiet critical voices in Kholinar. Tanalan is raising an army and settling into his fortifications. Worse, I think the other highprinces are encouraging him. They want to see how I handle this.” He sneered. “There’s talk I’ve grown soft over the years.”