The ardents pushed him back into an alcove, where he joined the lines of other monarchs—most of them highprinces of the Kholin princedom. He would be forever frozen here, the image of a perfect ruler in his prime. Nobody would think of him as he’d been that terrible night, broken from his fall, his grand dreams cut short by treason.

“I’ll have vengeance, Mother,” Elhokar whispered. “I’ll have it!” The young king spun toward the gathered lighteyes, standing before his father’s outstretched stone hand. “You’ve each come to me privately to give support. Well, I demand you swear it in public! Today, we make a pact to hunt those who did this. Today, Alethkar goes to war!”

He was greeted by stunned silence.

“I swear it,” Torol Sadeas said. “I swear to bring vengeance to the traitorous parshmen, Your Majesty. You can depend upon my sword.”

Good, Dalinar thought, as others spoke up. This would hold them together. Even in death, Gavilar provided an excuse for unity.

Unable to stand that stone visage any longer, Dalinar left, stomping into the corridor toward the palace proper. Other voices echoed after him as highprinces swore.

If Elhokar was going to chase those Parshendi back toward the plains, he’d expect the Blackthorn’s help. But … Dalinar hadn’t been that man for years. He patted his pocket, looking for his flask. Damnation. He pretended he was better these days, kept telling himself he was in the process of finding a way out of this mess. Of returning to the man he’d once been.

But that man had been a monster. Frightening, that nobody had blamed him for the things he’d done. Nobody but Evi, who had seen what the killing would do to him. He closed his eyes, hearing her tears.

“Father?” a voice said from behind.

Dalinar forced himself to stand upright, turning as Adolin scrambled up to him.

“Are you well, Father?”

“Yes,” Dalinar said. “I just … need to be alone.”

Adolin nodded. Almighty above, the boy had turned out well, through little effort of Dalinar’s. Adolin was earnest, likable, and a master of the sword. He was truly capable in modern Alethi society, where how you moved among groups was even more important than strength of arm. Dalinar had always felt like a tree stump in those kinds of settings. Too big. Too stupid.

“Go back,” Dalinar said. “Swear for our house on this Vengeance Pact.”

Adolin nodded, and Dalinar continued onward, fleeing those fires below. Gavilar’s stare, judging him. The cries of people dying in the Rift.

By the time he reached the steps, he was practically running. He climbed one level, then another. Sweating, frantic, he raced through ornate hallways past carved walls, sedate woods, and accusatory mirrors. He reached his chambers and scrabbled in his pockets for the keys. He’d locked the place tight; no more would Gavilar sneak in to take his bottles. Bliss waited inside.

No. Not bliss. Oblivion. Good enough.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t— It—

Follow the Codes tonight.

Dalinar’s hands trembled, and he dropped the keys.

There is something strange upon the winds.

Screams for mercy.

Get out of my head! All of you, get out!

In the distance, a voice …

“You must find the most important words a man can say.”

Which key was it? He got one into the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. He couldn’t see. He blinked, feeling dizzy.

“Those words came to me from one who claimed to have seen the future,” the voice said, echoing in the hallway. Feminine, familiar. “ ‘How is this possible?’ I asked in return. ‘Have you been touched by the void?’

“The reply was laughter. ‘No, sweet king. The past is the future, and as each man has lived, so must you.’

“ ‘So I can but repeat what has been done before?’

“ ‘In some things, yes. You will love. You will hurt. You will dream. And you will die. Each man’s past is your future.’

“ ‘Then what is the point?’ I asked. ‘If all has been seen and done?’

“ ‘The question,’ she replied, ‘is not whether you will love, hurt, dream, and die. It is what you will love, why you will hurt, when you will dream, and how you will die. This is your choice. You cannot pick the destination, only the path.’ ”

Dalinar dropped the keys again, sobbing. There was no escape. He would fall again. Wine would consume him like a fire consumed a corpse. Leaving only ash.

There was no way out.

“This started my journey,” the voice said. “And this begins my writings. I cannot call this book a story, for it fails at its most fundamental to be a story. It is not one narrative, but many. And though it has a beginning, here on this page, my quest can never truly end.

“I wasn’t seeking answers. I felt that I had those already. Plenty, in multitude, from a thousand different sources. I wasn’t seeking ‘myself.’ This is a platitude that people have ascribed to me, and I find the phrase lacks meaning.

“In truth, by leaving, I was seeking only one thing.

“A journey.”

For years, it seemed that Dalinar had been seeing everything around him through a haze. But those words … something about them …

Could words give off light?

He turned from his door and walked down the corridor, searching for the source of the voice. Inside the royal reading room, he found Jasnah with a huge tome set before her at a standing table. She read to herself, turning to the next page, scowling.

“What is that book?” Dalinar asked.

Jasnah started. She wiped her eyes, smearing the makeup, leaving her eyes … clean, but raw. Holes in a mask.

“This is where my father got that quote,” she said. “The one he…”

The one he wrote as he died.

Only a few knew of that.

“What book is it?”

“An old text,” Jasnah said. “Ancient, once well regarded. It’s associated with the Lost Radiants, so nobody references it anymore. There has to be some secret here, a puzzle behind my father’s last words. A cipher? But what?”

Dalinar settled down into one of the seats. He felt as if he had no strength. “Will you read it to me?”

Jasnah met his eyes, chewing her lip as she’d always done as a child. Then she read in a clear, strong voice, starting over from the first page, which he’d just heard. He had expected her to stop after a chapter or two, but she didn’t, and he didn’t want her to.

Dalinar listened, rapt. People came to check on them; some brought Jasnah water to drink. For once, he didn’t ask them for anything. All he wanted was to listen.

He understood the words, but at the same time he seemed to be missing what the book said. It was a sequence of vignettes about a king who left his palace to go on a pilgrimage. Dalinar couldn’t define, even to himself, what he found so striking about the tales. Was it their optimism? Was it the talk of paths and choices?

It was so unpretentious. So different from the boasts of society or the battlefield. Just a series of stories, their morals ambiguous. It took almost eight hours to finish, but Jasnah never gave any indication she wanted to stop. When she read the last word, Dalinar found himself weeping again. Jasnah dabbed at her own eyes. She had always been so much stronger than he was, but here they shared an understanding. This was their send-off to Gavilar’s soul. This was their farewell.

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