The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,147

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