The Way of Kings (Page 60)

Dalinar stopped, puffing, lowering his poker. Other lights had fallen—and still were falling—from the sky in the direction of the village; presumably, some of these strange Shardbearers had landed there as well.

“Well,” a strong voice said, “I must say that I’ve never before had the pleasure of fighting alongside a comrade with such…unconventional means.”

Dalinar turned to find the male Shardbearer regarding him. Where had the man’s helm gone? The Shardbearer stood with his Blade resting on his armored shoulder, and he inspected Dalinar with eyes of such bright blue, they were almost white. Were those eyes actually glowing, leaking Stormlight? His skin was dark brown, like a Makabaki, and he had short black curly hair. His armor no longer glowed, though one large symbol—emblazoned across the front of the breastplate—still gave off a faint blue light.

Dalinar recognized the symbol, the particular pattern of the stylized double eye, eight spheres connected with two at the center. It had been the symbol of the Lost Radiants, back when they’d been called the Knights Radiant.

The female Shardbearer watched the village.

“Who trained you in the sword?” the male knight asked Dalinar.

Dalinar met the eyes of the knight. He had no idea how to respond.

“This is my husband Heb, good knight,” Taffa said, rushing forward, leading her daughter by the hand. “He’s never seen a sword, far as I know.”

“Your stances are unfamiliar to me,” the knight said. “But they were practiced and precise. This level of skill comes only with years of training. I have rarely seen a man—knight or soldier—fight as well as you did.”

Dalinar remained silent.

“No words for me, I see,” the knight said. “Very well. But should you wish to put that mysterious training of yours to use, come to Urithiru.”

“Urithiru?” Dalinar said. He’d heard that name somewhere.

“Yes,” the knight said. “I cannot promise you a position in one of the orders—that decision is not mine—but if your skill with the sword is similar to your skill with hearth-tending implements, then I am confident you will find a place with us.” He turned eastward, toward the village. “Spread the word. Signs like this one are not without import. A Desolation is coming.” He turned to his companion. “I will go. Guard these three and lead them to the village. We cannot leave them alone in the dangers of this night.”

His companion nodded. The blue knight’s armor began to glow faintly, then he launched into the air, as if falling straight up. Dalinar stumbled back, shocked, watching the glowing blue figure rise, then arc downward toward the village.

“Come,” the woman said, voice ringing inside her helm. She began to hurry down the incline.

“Wait,” Dalinar said, hastening after her, Taffa scooping up her daughter and following. Behind them, the oil was burning out.

The female knight slowed to allow Dalinar and Taffa to keep pace with her.

“I must know,” Dalinar said, feeling foolish. “What year is it?”

The knight turned to him. Her helm was gone. He blinked; when had that happened? Unlike her companion, she had light skin—not pale like someone from Shinovar, but a natural light tan, like an Alethi. “It is Eighth Epoch, three thirty-seven.”

Eighth Epoch? Dalinar thought. What does that mean? This vision had been different from the others. They had been more brief, for one thing. And the voice that spoke to him. Where was it?

“Where am I?” Dalinar asked the knight. “What kingdom?”

The knight frowned. “Are you not healed?”

“I am well. I just…I need to know. Which kingdom am I in?”

“This is Natanatan.”

Dalinar released an inhaled breath. Natanatan. The Shattered Plains lay in the land that had once been Natanatan. The kingdom had fallen centuries ago.

“And you fight for Natanatan’s king?” he asked.

She laughed. “The Knights Radiant fight for no king and for all of them.”

“Then where do you live?”

“Urithiru is where our orders are centered, but we live in cities all across Alethela.”

Dalinar froze in place. Alethela. It was the historical name for the place that had become Alethkar. “You cross kingdom borders to fight?”

“Heb,” Taffa said. She seemed very concerned. “You were the one who promised me that the Radiants would come protect us, just before you went out searching for Seeli. Is your mind still muddled? Lady knight, could you heal him again?”

“I should save Regrowth for others who might be wounded,” the woman said, glancing at the village. The fighting seemed to be dying down.

“I’m fine,” Dalinar said. “Alethk…Alethela. You live there?”

“It is our duty and our privilege,” the woman said, “to stay vigilant for the Desolation. One kingdom to study the arts of war so that the others might have peace. We die so that you may live. It has ever been our place.”

Dalinar stood still, sorting through that.

“All who can fight are needed,” the woman said. “And all who have a desire to fight should be compelled to come to Alethela. Fighting, even this fighting against the Ten Deaths, changes a person. We can teach you so that it will not destroy you. Come to us.”

Dalinar found himself nodding.

“Every pasture needs three things,” the woman said, voice changing, as if she were quoting from memory. “Flocks to grow, herdsmen to tend, and watchers at the rim. We of Alethela are those watchers—the warriors who protect and fight. We maintain the terrible arts of killing, then pass them on to others when the Desolation comes.”

“The Desolation,” he said. “That means the Voidbringers, right? Those are what we fought this night?”

The knight sniffed dismissively. “Voidbringers? These? No, this was Midnight Essence, though who released it is still a mystery.” She looked to the side, expression growing distant. “Harkaylain says the Desolation is close, and he is not often wrong. He—”

A sudden screaming sounded in the night. The knight cursed, looking toward it. “Wait here. Call out if the Essence returns. I will hear.” She dashed off into the darkness.

Dalinar raised a hand, torn between following and staying to watch over Taffa and her daughter. Stormfather! he thought, realizing they’d been left in darkness, now that the knight’s glowing armor was gone.

He turned back to Taffa. She stood on the trail beside him, eyes looking oddly distracted.

“Taffa?” he asked.

“I miss these times,” Taffa said.

Dalinar jumped. That voice wasn’t hers. It was a man’s voice, deep and powerful. It was the voice that spoke to him during every vision.

“Who are you?” Dalinar asked.

“They were one, once,” Taffa—or whatever it was—said. “The orders. Men. Not without problems or strife, of course. But focused.”

Dalinar felt a chill. Something about that voice always seemed faintly familiar to him. It had even in the first vision. “Please. You have to tell me what this is, why you are showing me these things. Who are you? Some servant of the Almighty?”

“I wish I could help you,” Taffa said, looking at Dalinar but ignoring his questions. “You have to unite them.”

“As you’ve said before! But I need help. The things the knight said about Alethkar. Are they true? Can we really be that way again?”

“To speak of what might be is forbidden,” the voice said. “To speak of what was depends on perspective. But I will try to help.”

“Then give me more than vague answers!”

Taffa regarded him, somber. Somehow, by starlight alone, he could make out her brown eyes. There was something deep, something daunting, hiding behind them.

“At least tell me this,” Dalinar said, grasping for a specific question to ask. “I have trusted Highprince Sadeas, but my son—Adolin—thinks I am a fool to do so. Should I continue to trust Sadeas?”

“Yes,” the being said. “This is important. Do not let strife consume you. Be strong. Act with honor, and honor will aid you.”

Finally, Dalinar thought. Something concrete.

He heard voices. The dark landscape around Dalinar grew vague. “No!” He reached for the woman. “Don’t send me back yet. What should I do about Elhokar, and the war?”

“I will give you what I can.” The voice was growing indistinct. “I am sorry for not giving more.”

“What kind of answer is that?” Dalinar bellowed. He shook himself, struggling. Hands held him. Where had they come from? He cursed, batting them away, twisting, trying to break free.

Then he froze. He was in the barrack at the Shattered Plains, soft rain rattling on the roof. The bulk of the storm had passed. A group of soldiers held Dalinar down while Renarin watched with concern.

Dalinar grew still, mouth open. He had been yelling. The soldiers looked uncomfortable, glancing at each other, not meeting his gaze. If it was like before, he’d have acted out his role in the vision, speaking in gibberish, flailing around.

“My mind is clear now,” Dalinar said. “It’s all right. You can all let me go.”

Renarin nodded to the others, and they hesitantly released him. Renarin tried to make some stuttering excuses, telling them that his father was simply eager for combat. It didn’t sound very convincing.

Dalinar retreated to the back of the barrack, sitting down on the floor between two rolled up bedrolls, just breathing in and out and thinking. He trusted the visions, yet his life in the warcamps had been difficult enough lately without people presuming him mad.

Act with honor, and honor will aid you.

The vision had told him to trust Sadeas. But he’d never be able to explain that to Adolin—who not only hated Sadeas, but thought the visions were delusions from Dalinar’s mind. The only thing to do was keep going as he had.

And find a way, somehow, to get the highprinces to work together.

SEVEN YEARS AGO

“I can save her,” Kal said, pulling off his shirt.

The child was only five. She’d fallen far.

“I can save her.” He was mumbling. A crowd had gathered. It had been two months since Brightlord Wistiow’s death; they still didn’t have a replacement citylord. He had barely seen Laral at all in that time.

Kal was only thirteen, but he’d been trained well. The first danger was blood loss; the child’s leg had broken, a compound fracture, and it was spurting red where bone had split the skin. Kal found his hands trembling as he pressed his fingers against the wound. The broken bone was slick, even the jagged end, wetted by blood. Which arteries had been torn?

“What are you doing to my daughter?” Thick-shouldered Harl pushed through the onlookers. “You cremling, you storm’s leavings! Don’t touch Miasal! Don’t—”

Harl broke off as several of the other men pulled him back. They knew that Kal—who had been passing by chance—was the girl’s best hope. Alim had already been sent to fetch Kal’s father.