Chapter 15

This family did not speak my language, but we could both write glyphs, which proved facilitative in our conversation. As I shared their kindly cookfire, I learned some of their story.

—From The Way of Kings , fourth parable

T hough Shallan had insisted on going to gather and talk with her Lightweavers, Adolin managed a few hours’ sleep. He rose, planning to arrive early for the meeting so he could get updates on current troop placements. Unfortunately, something interrupted his plans. It was called a shower.

Water rained down through holes in the ceiling of a small room beside his bedroom. A light behind the stones indicated the level of heat, and if he pressed his hand to it and rotated, he could make the water warmer or colder. A similar dial let him control the pressure and flow.

He was a highprince. A Shardbearer. And this was the single greatest moment of luxury he’d ever known. Steam filled the room like a Thaylen sauna as warm water melted away his fatigue, his anxiety. Both had seemed solid as stone, but even stone gave way—eventually—before rainwater.

Storms. He could have stayed in here for hours. He turned up the pressure, letting the water massage his back. How would this feel after a hard training session? He released a huge sigh, drawing not a few joyspren. Storms, there really were a lot more spren in the tower now than before, weren’t there?

Shallan peeked in, a splash of auburn red against the yellow-brown strata. Her meetings must be done.

“What is that ?” she asked, her eyes going wide.

“Hakindar calls it a shower,” Adolin said, naming their room steward.

She stared, aqua eyes bright as spheres. “I need to try it.” She was in there a moment later, looking stunning as she crowded him to the side. “Does it have to feel like a highstorm?”

“You can adjust the pressure here,” he said, pulling his eyes away and showing her. She turned it down—changing the flow from a beating frenzy to a soft sprinkle.

“Aaaahh …” she said. “But not hot enough.”

“Are you trying to drive me out?” Adolin asked as she turned the heat up to uncomfortable levels.

“It’s like rain,” she said, her head tipped back so the water could wash across her face, “if rain were warm .”

“Hot.”

“Heat is life. It reminds me that I’m alive.”

“You … forget that?”

“Once in a while,” she whispered, then leaned on him, wet hair against his chest. “You’re warm too.”

“Hakindar brought me six different soaps,” Adolin said. “And a rough sand mix from Marat to exfoliate! There’s this one soap out of Thaylenah—they use it on their eyebrows—that is fantastic for hair.”

She nodded absently, her eyes closed. So he held her, skin against skin, slick and warm. This was perfection. This was what he’d always wanted, and had never been able to find, until he met her. Not merely skin to skin. Soul to soul. He ran his fingers through her wet hair, massaging her scalp, her cheek against his chest.

“I love you,” he whispered. She grinned back, and he picked her up off the ground a little, surrounded by joyspren, holding her tight.

“I still …” Shallan whispered. “I still need to deal with the Ghostbloods. I might have to miss Dalinar’s meeting. Will you … will you tell him and Navani … about Mraize, and what I’ve done? I’m not sure I can spare the time.”

“Of course,” Adolin said, impressed by how willing she was to be open about these issues. And if she didn’t want to—perhaps couldn’t—explain to Dalinar herself right now, he understood. “I don’t blame you for wanting someone to prep my father for you. He can be … stern to those who disappoint him.”

She perhaps sensed the bitterness in his tone, noticed how several joyspren winked away. It had been a year since Adolin had learned Dalinar killed his mother, and he couldn’t let go. As he set Shallan down, she took his face in her hands.

“Would it help to talk?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Shallan,” he said. “Honestly, I don’t want to think about him. Or talk to him. I don’t want to fix things between us. I just … I …”

He’d thought waiting would let the pain fade. It had instead festered. He found himself more angry than he’d been when he’d first found out.

“Another time,” he told Shallan. “I promise. You’re really going to miss the meeting? Did you hear about Thaylen City? A second attack. Maybe more. We’ll know once the scout reports come in.”

“You can handle it,” she said. “Mraize is here in the tower somewhere, and will move against me soon. So I have to move first. It will help if you’ll talk to the Bondsmiths, maybe get me authorization for Radiant troops and a preemptive strike, if I can find the current Ghostblood nest.”

He sighed, wrapping his arms around her again. “Is this ever going to end? We met not long before the Everstorm, and married in the middle of a war. I’ve had enough of wearing uniforms every day. Watching cities fall. Feeling that I need to hold on tight every time I have you in my arms, as I don’t know when the next chance will be.”

“I know,” she whispered, head to his chest once more. “I want to kiss you until you can’t breathe and spend a week never leaving our rooms. But we can’t. Not yet. Mraize will try to hurt me, love. Prove that I was foolish to cross him. To get to me, he’ll capture or kill you if he can. I have to act before he does.”

He met her eyes, as best he could with both of them blinking away water. She reached up to push a cascade of soaked red hair out of her face. It might not have been the best place for a meaningful stare, but neither of them moved, and the joyspren were soon joined by passionspren—like snowflakes, but more crystalline.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For understanding?”

“For trusting me to understand,” he said. “I’ve never begrudged you your secrets, Shallan, but now that you’re sharing them, I find them precious.”

She cocked her head. “I … have shared them, haven’t I? You know it all. All about Mraize, the Ghostbloods, Formless …” She gripped his arms tight, pressing her entire self against him, and grinned, water dripping from her nose. “You know it all and you don’t hate me! Right?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“It’s almost kind of all right,” she said. “It can maybe, possibly work out … if I stop Mraize. I don’t know why he wants to find the prison of the most powerful Unmade, but …”

Adolin nodded. “I’ll represent you at the meeting.”

She moved to slip away, without even conditioning her hair. He pulled her back. Not for the hair though.

“Surely we have a few minutes,” he said, “before running to the next crisis? I mean, haven’t you always wondered what it would be like, out in the rain …?”

She paused, holding his hand. “Drat,” she said.

“What?”

“I was trying very hard to stay focused, Adolin Kholin,” she said, “and pretend you aren’t the most gorgeous statue of a man to ever grace the world.”

“Even when he’s wet?” he said.

“Um, especially when he’s wet, love.”

She stepped back to him, went up on her toes, and kissed him, water falling around them like applause. The heat he’d been fighting off rose within him, outdoing that of the stream from above, and the passionspren fell more powerfully. It seemed that whether or not she had time to spare, they were going to find it.

Dalinar stomped through the corridors of Urithiru, throwing on his coat. He was joined by Colot, second-in-command of the Cobalt Guard. The tall lighteyed man had little tufts of red hair mixed through his black, dark enough that they were visible only in direct light.

Dalinar didn’t need guards these days, but he said nothing as the man followed. Colot had been bouncing between positions for a few years, and the last thing he needed was to feel useless or rejected. Again. Kelen, the Windrunner squire who had come to fetch Dalinar, hovered along beside the two of them. It had been merely three days since Navani had reenergized the tower, and the Windrunners already appeared perfectly comfortable flying all the time.

Even at this time of night, Urithiru was usually active—but today the main thoroughfare was less congested than normal. The invasion and the curfews had a lingering effect. People were still traumatized, hiding in their rooms, recovering from the stress. Dalinar stormed forward, keeping momentum, as had always been his way. People who spotted him would yelp and jump back, but mostly he ignored everyone.

As they neared the atrium, where they’d be able to travel to the meeting chambers at the top of the tower, Windrunner Sigzil came streaking through the corridor and landed nearby. “I have the initial scout reports, sir.”

“And?”

“And you were right, sir,” Sigzil said, holding up a stack of papers as they walked. “It’s not just Azimir and Thaylen City—there’s a third offensive. A large number of Fused are marching on the Shattered Plains.”

Damnation. Two was bad enough—particularly when one was Thaylen City, which had barely recovered from the Battle of Thaylen Field a year ago. It didn’t have much of a defensive force remaining, and what few ships the royal navy maintained had been dedicated to the Veden blockade. He’d need to send Fen support. A great deal of it.

“What do we know about the Fused?” Dalinar asked.

“We sent two Windrunners,” Sigzil said, “who were stationed at a scout post in the Frostlands. Sir, they estimate almost a thousand Fused, and at least one thunderclast is with them, if not both.”

“ Storms, ” Dalinar said. A thousand Fused? He’d never faced a battle with more than two hundred. There weren’t that many Radiants in all Roshar—not by half. “Why the Shattered Plains? Did they get wind of Jasnah’s plan to found a second Alethi kingdom there?”

The Windrunners didn’t have answers for him, though it did make sense to send Fused. Odium couldn’t get many troops to the Shattered Plains before the deadline—so he’d have to rely on quality rather than quantity. Plus, Fused moved far faster than conventional troops, especially if they had Heavenly Ones to fly them part of the distance.

“A three-way assault,” Kelen said, hovering to his left. “Striking at our three most powerful strongholds other than Urithiru.”

“Assuming,” Sigzil said, “they aren’t planning to strike here as well.”

“The Sibling is confident,” Dalinar said, “that no Fused would dare set foot here now, and that Regal powers won’t work. They’d have to use conventional troops, which would be massacred by our Radiants.”

But this did seem to be a message. Strikes on Dalinar’s coalition: Azimir, Thaylen City, and the Shattered Plains, which was becoming Alethkar in exile. Once the contest arrived in eight days, the borders would freeze—and while the enemy could probably capture more land by pushing at the borders, this was more intimidating. It warned that Odium could cut out the very hearts of his enemies if he wanted.

Well, let him try. They reached the atrium and stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the central hub below. A large window ran up the length of the far wall, stretching a hundred stories into the sky, showing darkness outside.

“Just in case,” Dalinar said, “wake every soldier. Send patrols to scan the nearby mountains and into Shadesmar here. Post quadruple guard forces at any possible incursion point into Urithiru—including the Oathgates and the caverns. Any news on the other monarchs?”

“They’re confirmed for your meeting, sir,” Sigzil said, holding up the papers. “Teshav asked me to deliver these. Letters from Azir and Thaylenah—both sound quite alarmed, but agree that meeting is wise.”

Dalinar had given him authority, as leader of the Windrunners, to read letters like this. It was wonderful to have another man around who didn’t feel embarrassed to be seen reading. In the past, Sigzil had always been coy about his training in Azir, and whether it included the ability to read Alethi scripts. In the face of Dalinar’s decisions, his need for subterfuge had evaporated.

“Has anyone seen Wit?” Dalinar asked.

“There,” Sigzil said, pointing toward one of the lifts already rising to the upper floors. “I spotted him and the queen on their way.”

“Good,” Dalinar said, holding out his hand. “If you’ll give me a Lashing, I might beat them there. Then …” He trailed off as he noticed someone approaching down the hallway. The nursemaid, carrying little Gavinor, dressed in his schoolchild’s outfit of knee-length trousers and a blouse.

“Mararin?” Dalinar said to her. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m taking him up to the garden room,” Mararin said. “It comforts him, Brightlord. I apologize; I didn’t expect to encounter you.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

Gav buried his face in her havah, but peeked at Dalinar. The boy’s eyes were red from tears.

“Nightmares?” Dalinar asked Mararin.

She nodded. The woman could be stern, but she cared deeply for the children she watched over.

“Grampa?” Gav whispered, yawning. “You promised to play swords with me.”

“You need sleep, Gav,” Dalinar said softly, stepping toward him. “And Grampa has important work today. We will play tomorrow.”

Gavinor nodded, rubbing his eyes on Mararin’s dress.

“Get him something to eat,” Dalinar said. “Then bring him up to the tower top. Maybe after my meeting I can—”

“Dalinar Kholin?” a voice asked.

He spun, but found that Colot the guardsman had already stepped between him and the speaker. She was a shorter woman, Makabaki, in brown clothing. Black hair in tight curls, heavyset build. Dark brown eyes that shimmered with something he couldn’t define.

“Do I know you?” Dalinar asked.

“We’ve met,” she said, then turned and walked along the balcony railing. She waved for him to follow.

“You give orders to the king of Urithiru?” Colot said. “What manner of—”

“Stay back,” Dalinar said, waving to them all. Then he ran to catch up to the woman. Her air, attitude, and looks dredged up deep memories. Ones he’d once forgotten by her own hand.

No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

Cultivation. The third god.