“We had to use spyglasses,” Lyn said. “There weren’t as many people out as usual, but there were some Windrunners on the roof, and I think I made out Teft up there, and Isom the Lightweaver. They held up a big sign, with glyphs that we think read ‘patience’ and ‘progress.’”
Dalinar nodded. “Thank you, Radiant. Go give a full report, with details, to Brightness Teshav, then get something to eat.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said. She started toward the exit.
Something nagged at Dalinar, however. That weight hadn’t completely eased. “Lyn?” he called.
“Sir?”
“The enemy has Lightweavers. Or at least something similar.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Though the only confirmed report we have of them is that incursion at the Thaylen vault a year ago.”
He resisted shooting a glance at Szeth—so quiet, so easy to forget—standing nearby, wearing the face of an Alethi man.
“Ask Companylord Sigzil to send another team of scouts later tonight,” Dalinar said. “I’ll infuse the traveling gemstones for another run. Have this new team watch the tower from a distance, hidden, then report anything suspicious they might see.”
“Wise suggestion, sir,” Lyn said, then bowed and retreated.
Jasnah nodded to him, then returned to her exaggerated discussion of the maps. Yes, she was acting a role here.
Dalinar glanced at Ruthar, whose face was steadily growing redder. Perhaps he’d had a few drinks too many while waiting for the monarchs to finish their planning, but plainly he did not like how Jasnah was blatantly interjecting herself into the war plans. It was a masculine art, and Ruthar had been forbidden from participating in the planning today.
Looking at him, it was hard not to agree with what Jasnah had said about Alethkar. Gavilar’s grand unification of the kingdom hadn’t lasted ten years past his death before essentially breaking into civil war. Alethi squabbling had ended up favoring men like Ruthar. Oily, belligerent, aggressive. The last representation of old Alethkar.
Jasnah was making herself into bait. And Ruthar bit. Hard.
“Am I the only one seeing this?” Ruthar asked a little too loudly to his attendants. “I didn’t say anything when she was made queen. Other nations have queens. But are any of them in this room interrogating a general?”
One of his companions tried to calm him, but he brushed her off, shouting, “It’s a disgrace! Dalinar writing? He might as well put on a havah and start painting. We deserve the judgments of the Almighty, after giving the throne to a godless wh—” He stopped himself just in time, perhaps realizing how still the tent had grown.
Dalinar stepped forward to berate the man. There was nothing for it now but to—
“Wit,” Jasnah said, her voice cold.
Wit strode forward, his hands spread to the sides, as if stepping out from behind curtains to face an adoring crowd. “I see you’re envious of those more skilled in the masculine arts than you, Ruthar,” Wit said. “I agree, you could use lessons on how to be a man—but those in this room would teach lessons far too advanced. Let me call in a eunuch to instruct you, and once you’ve reached his level, we’ll talk further.”
“Harsher,” Jasnah said.
“You speak of honor, Ruthar, though you’ve never known it,” Wit said, his voice rising. “You’ll never find it though. You see, I hid your honor in a place you could never find it: in the arms of someone who truly loves you.”
“Wit,” Jasnah said. “Harsher.”
“I’ve been speaking to your children, Ruthar,” Wit said. “No, this part isn’t a joke. Relis, Ivanar. Yes, I know them. I know a lot of things. Would you like to explain to the queen where Ivanar’s broken arm last month truly came from? Tell me, do you beat your children because you’re a sadist, or because you’re a coward and they are the only ones who won’t dare fight back? Or … oh, silly Wit. It’s both, isn’t it?”
“How dare you!” Ruthar roared, shoving away the attendant who tried to control him. Angerspren rose around his feet, like pools of bubbling blood. “I demand trial by swords! Me versus you, stupid fool. Or me against your champion, if you’re too much of a coward to face me!”
“Trial by combat accepted,” Wit said lightly, undoing his belt and sliding free his sheathed sword. “Shall we?”
“Fine!” Ruthar said, drawing his sword, causing many of the women and attendants to scatter to the sides of the large tent.
“This is idiocy,” Dalinar said, stepping between them. “Ruthar, you’ve been baited. Killing a Queen’s Wit is punishable by exile and forfeit of title. You know this.”
Ruthar grunted, the words sinking in.
“Besides,” Dalinar said, glancing over his shoulder, “that man is no simple Wit. I’m not sure if you can kill him.”
“You tell me I’d forfeit my title,” Ruthar growled. “What title? What lands do I hold? And exile? We are in exile, Blackthorn. Maybe I should challenge you. You’ve lost our kingdom, and now you expect me to waste my time in foreign lands? Protecting those we should have conquered? We would have, if your nephew had been half the man his father was.”
“Ruthar,” Wit said, “you don’t need to fight him. Or me. I accept your challenge, but I exercise my right to choose a champion. You won’t risk losing your lands by killing a Wit.”
“Excellent,” Ruthar said. “I accept. Stop trying to interfere, Blackthorn.”
Dalinar reluctantly stepped to the side. He felt a mounting dread, but there was nothing illegal here. And he doubted any action he could take would prevent this trap from springing.
“So,” Ruthar said, brandishing his sword. “Wit. You call me coward, then wiggle out of a challenge? So be it! Who do you want me to kill, then?”
“Your Majesty?” Wit said. “If you don’t mind?” He cocked his sheathed sword to the side, hilt out, as Jasnah brushed past and drew the weapon—a thin, silvery blade that Dalinar didn’t think he’d ever seen unsheathed.
Dalinar’s dread deepened as Jasnah stepped into striking range, batting aside Ruthar’s sword. He recovered from his shock and blocked her next strike. She was better than Dalinar might have expected, but her stance was uncertain, and she overreached. At best, she was equal to a promising student.
She had two distinct advantages though. She was Radiant. And Ruthar was an idiot.
“I refuse this,” he said, tossing his sword aside. “I will not face a woman in combat. It is demeaning.”
And so, Jasnah stabbed him straight through the throat.
This lunge was better than the previous one, but it was not her skill that won the fight—it was the fact that Ruthar underestimated how far she would go. Indeed, Ruthar’s eyes bulged as shockspren shattered around him as yellow glass. He stumbled back, gushing lifeblood across his beautiful doublet.
“Renarin!” Jasnah called.
Dalinar’s younger son scrambled into the tent from outside, and the full level of her preparation became manifest. The twisting feeling in Dalinar’s stomach began to release. He’d been preparing to lock down the tent, send guards for Ruthar’s next of kin, and institute martial law.