The Way of Kings (162 page)

That Shardplate,
Dalinar thought, looking at the kneeling Parshendi.
A Shardblade… I could fulfill my promise to Renarin. I could…

The Shardbearer groaned, holding his leg with a gauntleted hand. Dalinar itched to finish the kill. He took a step forward, dragging his unresponsive foot. Around them, the Parshendi troops watched silently. Why didn’t they attack?

The tall spearman ran up to Dalinar, pulling Gallant’s reins. “On your horse, lighteyes.”

“We should finish him. We could—”

“On your horse!” the youth commanded, tossing the reins at him as the Parshendi troops turned to engage a contingent of approaching Alethi soldiers.

“You’re supposed to be an honorable one,” the spearman snarled. Dalinar had rarely been spoken to in such a way, particularly by a darkeyed man. “Well, your men won’t leave without
you
, and
my
men won’t leave without
them
. So you
will
get on your horse and we
will
escape this death-trap. Do you understand?”

Dalinar met the young man’s eyes. Then nodded. Of course. He was right; they had to leave the enemy Shardbearer. How would they get the armor out, anyway? Tow the corpse all the way?

“Retreat!” Dalinar bellowed to his soldiers, pulling himself into Gallant’s saddle. He barely made it, his armor had so little Stormlight left.

Steady, loyal Gallant sprang into a gallop down the corridor of escape his men had bought for him with their blood. The nameless spearman dashed behind him, and the Cobalt Guard fell in around them. A larger force of his troops was ahead, on the escape plateau. The bridge still stood, Adolin waiting anxiously at its head, holding it for Dalinar’s retreat.

With a rush of relief, Dalinar galloped across the wooden deck, reaching the adjoining plateau. Adolin and last of his troops filed along behind him.

He turned Gallant, looking eastward. The Parshendi crowded up to the chasm, but did not give chase. A group of them worked on the chrysalis atop the plateau. It had been forgotten by all sides in the fervor. They had never followed before, but if they changed their mind now, they could harry Dalinar’s force all the way back to the permanent bridges.

But they didn’t. They formed ranks and began to chant another of their songs, the same one they sang every time the Alethi forces retreated. As Dalinar watched, a figure in cracked, silvery Shardplate and a red cape stumbled to their forefront. The helm had been removed, but it was too distant to make out any features on the black and red marbled skin. Dalinar’s erstwhile foe raised his Shardblade in a motion that was unmistakable. A salute, a gesture of respect. Instinctively, Dalinar summoned his Blade, and ten heartbeats later raised it to salute in return.

The bridgemen pulled the bridge across the chasm, separating the armies.

“Set up triage,” Dalinar bellowed. “We don’t leave anyone behind who has a chance at living. The Parshendi will not attack us here!”

His men let out a shout. Somehow, escaping felt like more of a victory than any gemheart they’d won. The tired Alethi troops divided into battalions. Eight had marched to battle, and they became eight again—though several had only a few hundred members remaining. Those men trained for field surgery looked through the ranks while the remaining officers got survivor counts. The men began to sit down among the painspren and exhaustionspren, bloodied, some weaponless, many with torn uniforms.

On the other plateau, the Parshendi continued their odd song.

Dalinar found himself focusing on the bridge crew. The youth who had saved him was apparently their leader. Had he fought down a
Shardbearer
? Dalinar hazily remembered a quick, sharp encounter, a spear to the leg. Clearly the young man was both skilled and lucky.

The bridgeman’s team acted with far more coordination and discipline than Dalinar would have expected of such lowly men. He could wait no longer. Dalinar nudged Gallant forward, crossing the stones and passing wounded, exhausted soldiers. That reminded him of his own fatigue, but now that he had a chance to sit, he was recovering, his head no longer ringing.

The leader of the bridge crew was seeing to a man’s wound, and his fingers worked with expertise. A man trained in field medicine, among
bridgemen
?

Well, why not?
Dalinar thought.
It’s no odder than their being able to fight so well.
Sadeas had been holding out on him.

The young man looked up. And, for the first time, Dalinar noticed the slave brands on the youth’s forehead, hidden by the long hair. The youth stood, posture hostile, folding his arms.

“You are to be commended,” Dalinar said. “All of you. Why did your highprince retreat, only to send you back for us?”

Several of the bridgemen chuckled.

“He didn’t send us back,” their leader said. “We came on our own. Against his wishes.”

Dalinar found himself nodding, and he realized that this was the only answer that made sense. “Why?” Dalinar asked. “Why come for us?”

The youth shrugged. “You allowed yourself to get trapped in there quite spectacularly.”

Dalinar nodded tiredly. Perhaps he should have been annoyed at the young man’s tone, but it was only the truth. “Yes, but
why
did you come? And how did you learn to fight so well?”

“By accident,” the young man said. He turned back to his wounded.

“What can I do to repay you?” Dalinar asked.

The bridgeman looked back at him. “I don’t know. We were going to flee from Sadeas, disappear in the confusion. We might still, but he’ll certainly hunt us down and kill us.”

“I could take your men to my camp, make Sadeas free you from your bondage.”

“I worry that he wouldn’t let us go,” the bridgeman said, eyes haunted. “And I worry that your camp would offer no safety at all. This move today by Sadeas. It will mean war between you two, will it not?”

Would it? Dalinar had avoided thinking of Sadeas—survival had taken his focus—but his anger at the man was a seething pit deep within. He
would
exact revenge on Sadeas for this. But could he allow war between the princedoms? It would shatter Alethkar. More than that, it would destroy the Kholin house. Dalinar didn’t have the troops or the allies to stand against Sadeas, not after this disaster.

How would Sadeas respond when Dalinar returned? Would he try to finish the job, attacking?
No,
Dalinar thought.
No, he did it this way for a purpose.
Sadeas had not engaged him personally. He had abandoned Dalinar, but by Alethi standards, that was another thing entirely. He didn’t want to risk the kingdom either.

Sadeas wouldn’t want outright war, and Dalinar couldn’t
afford
outright war, despite his seething anger. He formed a fist, turning to look at the spearman. “It will not turn to war,” Dalinar said. “Not yet, at least.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” the spearman said, “then by taking us into your camp, you commit robbery. The king’s law, the Codes my men always claim you uphold, would demand that you return us to Sadeas. He
won’t
let us go easily.”

“I will take care of Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “Return with me. I vow that you will be safe. I promise it with every shred of honor I have.”

The young bridgeman met his eyes, searching for something. Such a hard man he was for one so young.

“All right,” the spearman said. “We’ll return. I can’t leave my men back at camp and—with so many men now wounded—we don’t have the proper supplies to run.”

The young man turned back to his work, and Dalinar rode Gallant in search of a casualty report. He forced himself to contain his rage at Sadeas. It was difficult. No, Dalinar could not let this turn to war—but neither could he let things go back to the way they had been.

Sadeas had upset the balance, and it could never be regained. Not in the same way.

“All is withdrawn for me. I stand against the one who saved my life. I protect the one who killed my promises. I raise my hand. The storm responds.”

—Tanatanev 1173, 18 seconds pre-death. A darkeyed mother of four in her sixty-second year.

Navani pushed her way past the guards, ignoring their protests and the calls of her attending ladies. She forced herself to remain calm. She
would
remain calm! What she had heard was just rumor. It
had
to be.

Unfortunately, the older she grew, the worse she became at maintaining a brightlady’s proper tranquility. She hastened her step through Sadeas’s warcamp. Soldiers raised hands toward her as she passed, either to offer her aid or to demand she halt. She ignored both; they’d never dare lay a finger on her. Being the king’s mother gained one a few privileges.

The camp was messy and poorly laid out. Pockets of merchants, whores, and workers made their homes in shanties built on the leeward sides of barracks. Drippings of hardened crem hung from most leeward eaves, like trails of wax left to pour over the side of a table. It was a distinct contrast to the neat lines and scrubbed buildings of Dalinar’s warcamp.

He will be fine,
she told herself.
He’d
better
be fine!

It was a testament to her disordered state that she barely considered constructing a new street pattern for Sadeas in her head. She made her way directly to the staging area, and arrived to find an army that hardly looked as if it had been to battle. Soldiers without any blood on their uniforms, men chatting and laughing, officers walking down lines and dismissing the men squad by squad.

That should have relieved her. This didn’t
look
like a force that had just suffered a disaster. Instead, it made her even more anxious.

Sadeas, in unmarred red Shardplate, was speaking with a group of officers in the shade of a nearby canopy. She stalked up to the canopy, but here a group of guards managed to bar her way, forming up shoulder to shoulder while one went to inform Sadeas of her arrival.

Navani folded her arms impatiently. Perhaps she should have taken a palanquin, as her attending ladies had suggested. Several of them, looking beleaguered, were just arriving at the staging area. A palanquin would be faster in the long run, they had explained, as it would leave time for messengers to be sent so Sadeas could receive her.

Once, she had obeyed such proprieties. She could remember being a young woman, playing the games expertly, delighting in ways to manipulate the system. What had that gotten her? A dead husband whom she’d never loved and a “privileged” position in court that amounted to being put out to pasture.

What would Sadeas do if she just started screaming? The king’s own mother, bellowing like an axehound whose antenna had been twisted? She considered it as the soldier waited for a chance to announce her to Sadeas.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed a youth in a blue uniform arriving in the staging area, accompanied by a small honor guard of three men. It was Renarin, for once bearing an expression other than calm curiosity. Wide-eyed and frantic, he hurried up to Navani.

“Mashala,” he pled in his quiet voice. “Please. What have you heard?”

“Sadeas’s army returned without your father’s army,” Navani said. “There is talk of a rout, though it doesn’t look as if these men have been through one.” She glared at Sadeas, giving serious contemplation to throwing a fit. Fortunately, he finally spoke with the soldier and then sent him back.

“You may approach, Brightness,” the man said, bowing to her.

“About time,” she growled, shoving past and passing underneath the canopy. Renarin joined her, walking more hesitantly.

“Brightness Navani,” Sadeas said, clasping his hands behind his back, imposing in his crimson Plate. “I had hoped to bring you the news at your son’s palace. I suppose that a disaster like this is too large to contain. I express my condolences at the loss of your brother.”

Renarin gasped softly.

Navani steeled herself, folding her arms, trying to quiet the screams of denial and pain that came from the back of her mind. This was a pattern. She often saw patterns in things. In this case, the pattern was that she could never possess anything of value for long. It was always snatched from her just when it began to look promising.