“I hear you had a great victory today,” Evi said softly. “You do service to the king.”

“You’d have hated it, Evi. I killed hundreds of people. If you stay, you’ll have to listen to war reports. Accounts of deaths, many at my hand.”

She was silent for a time. “Could you not … let them surrender to you?”

“The Vedens aren’t here to surrender. They’re here to test us on the battlefield.”

“And the individual men? Do they care for such reasoning as they die?”

“What? Would you like me to stop and ask each man to surrender as I prepare to strike him down?”

“Would that—”

“No, Evi. That wouldn’t work.”

“Oh.”

He stood up, suddenly anxious. “Let’s see the boys, then.”

Leaving his tent and crossing the camp was a slog, his feet feeling like they’d been encased in blocks of crem. He didn’t dare slouch—he always tried to present a strong image for the men and women of the army—but he couldn’t help that his padded garb was wrinkled and stained with sweat.

The land here was lush compared to Kholinar. The thick grass was broken by sturdy stands of trees, and tangled vines draped the western cliff faces. There were places farther into Jah Keved where you couldn’t take a step without vines writhing under your feet.

The boys were by Evi’s wagons. Little Adolin was terrorizing one of the chulls, perched atop its shell and swinging a wooden sword about, showing off for several of the guards—who dutifully complimented his moves. He’d somehow assembled “armor” from strings and bits of broken rockbud shell.

Storms, he’s grown, Dalinar thought. When last he’d seen Adolin, the child had still looked like a toddler, stumbling through his words. Little over a year later, the boy spoke clearly—and dramatically—as he described his fallen enemies. They were, apparently, evil flying chulls.

He stopped when he saw Dalinar, then he glanced at Evi. She nodded, and the child scrambled down from the chull—Dalinar was certain he’d fall at three different points. He got down safely, walked over.

And saluted.

Evi beamed. “He asked the best way to talk to you,” she whispered. “I told him you were a general, the leader of all the soldiers. He came up with that on his own.”

Dalinar squatted down. Little Adolin immediately shied back, reaching for his mother’s skirts.

“Afraid of me?” Dalinar asked. “Not unwise. I’m a dangerous man.”

“Daddy?” the boy said, holding to the skirt with one white-knuckled hand—but not hiding.

“Yes. Don’t you remember me?”

Hesitantly, the motley-haired boy nodded. “I remember you. We talk about you every night when we burn prayers. So you will be safe. Fighting bad men.”

“I’d prefer to be safe from the good ones too,” Dalinar said. “Though I will take what I am offered.” He stood up, feeling … what? Shame to not have seen the boy as often as he should have? Pride at how the boy was growing? The Thrill, still squirming deep down. How had it not dissipated since the battle?

“Where is your brother, Adolin?” Dalinar asked.

The boy pointed toward a nurse who carried a little one. Dalinar had expected a baby, but this child could nearly walk, as evidenced by the nurse putting him down and watching fondly as he toddled a few steps, then sat, trying to grab blades of grass as they pulled away.

The child made no sounds. He just stared, solemn, as he tried to grip blade after blade. Dalinar waited for the excitement he’d felt before, upon meeting Adolin for the first time … but storms, he was just so tired.

“Can I see your sword?” Adolin asked.

Dalinar wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he summoned the Blade anyway, driving it into the ground with the edge pointed away from Adolin. The boy’s eyes grew wide.

“Mommy says I can’t have my Plate yet,” Adolin said.

“Teleb needs it. You can have it when you come of age.”

“Good. I’ll need it to win a Blade.”

Nearby, Evi clicked her tongue softly, shaking her head.

Dalinar smiled, kneeling beside his Blade and resting his hand on the small boy’s shoulder. “I’ll win you one in war, son.”

“No,” Adolin said, chin up. “I want to win my own. Like you did.”

“A worthy goal,” Dalinar said. “But a soldier needs to be willing to accept help. You mustn’t be hardheaded; pride doesn’t win battles.”

The boy cocked his head, frowning. “Your head isn’t hard?” He rapped his knuckles against his own.

Dalinar smiled, then stood up and dismissed Oathbringer. The last embers of the Thrill finally faded. “It’s been a long day,” he told Evi. “I need to rest. We’ll discuss your role here later.”

Evi led him to a bed within one of her stormwagons. Then, at last, Dalinar was able to sleep.

Friend,

Your letter is most intriguing, even revelatory.

The ancient Siln dynasty in Jah Keved had been founded after the death of King NanKhet. No contemporary accounts survived; the best they had dated from two centuries later. The author of that text—Natata Ved, often called Oileyes by her contemporaries—insisted that her methods were rigorous, although by modern standards, historical scholarship had been in its infancy.

Jasnah had long been interested in NanKhet’s death, because he’d ruled for only three months. He’d succeeded to the throne when the previous king, his brother NanHar, had taken ill and died while on campaign in what would become modern Triax.

Remarkably, during the brief span of his reign, NanKhet survived six assassination attempts. The first had come from his sister, who had wanted to place her husband on the throne. After surviving poisoning, NanKhet had put them both to death. Soon after, their son had tried to kill him in his bed. NanKhet, apparently a light sleeper, struck down his nephew with his own sword.

NanKhet’s cousin tried next—that attack left NanKhet blinded in one eye—and was followed by another brother, an uncle, and finally NanKhet’s own son. At the end of three exasperating months, according to Oileyes, “The great, but weary, NanKhet called for an accounting of all his household. He gathered them together at a grand feast, promising the delights of distant Aimia. Instead, when all were assembled, NanKhet had them executed one by one. Their bodies were burned in a grand pyre, upon which was cooked the meat for the feast that he ate alone, at a table set for two hundred.”

Natata Oileyes was known to have had a passion for the dramatic. The text sounded almost delighted when she’d explained how he’d died by choking on the food at that very feast, alone with nobody to help him.

Similar tales repeated themselves throughout the long history of the Vorin lands. Kings fell, and their brothers or sons took the throne. Even a pretender of no true lineage would usually claim kinship through oblique and creative genealogical justifications.

Jasnah was simultaneously fascinated and worried by these accounts. Thoughts about them were unusually present in her mind as she made her way into Urithiru’s basement. Something in her readings the night before had lodged this particular story in her brain.

Tags: Brandon Sanderson The Stormlight Archive Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net