The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,148

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.

“I can save her,” Kal said. Her face was pale, and she didn’t move. That head wound, maybe it…

Can’t think about that. One of the lower leg arteries was severed. He used his shirt to tie a tourniquet to stop the blood, but it kept slipping. Fingers still pressed against the cut, he called, “Fire! I