The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,199

siege bridges to be narrower, maybe?”

“That could be very costly, Brightlord,” Teleb said.

“If it helps us win one extra gemheart, the effort would be paid for several times over.”

“Yes,” Teleb said, nodding. “I will speak with Lady Kalana. Perhaps she can devise a new design.”

“Good,” Dalinar said. He stared at the bridge for an extended moment. Then, oddly, he turned to look toward the other side of the staging area, where the workers had been cutting the latrine ditch.

“Father?” Adolin asked.

“Why do you suppose,” Dalinar said, “there are no Shardplate-like suits for workmen?”

“What?”

“Shardplate gives awesome strength, but we rarely use it for anything other than war and slaughter. Why did the Radiants fashion only weapons? Why didn’t they make productive tools for use by ordinary men?”

“I don’t know,” Adolin said. “Perhaps because war was the most important thing around.”

“Perhaps,” Dalinar said, voice growing softer. “And perhaps that’s a final condemnation of them and their ideals. For all of their lofty claims, they never gave their Plate or its secrets to the common people.”

“I…I don’t understand why that’s important, Father.”

Dalinar shook himself slightly. “We should get on with our inspections. Where’s Ladent?”

“Here, Brightlord.” A short man stepped up to Dalinar. Bald and bearded, the ardent wore thick, blue-grey layered robes from which his hands barely extended. The effect was of a crab who was too small for his shell. It looked terribly hot, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Send a messenger to the Fifth Battalion,” Dalinar told him. “We’ll be visiting them next.”

“Yes, Brightlord.”

Adolin and Dalinar began to walk. They’d chosen to wear their Shardplate for this day’s inspections. That wasn’t uncommon; many Shardbearers found any excuse they could to wear Plate. Plus, it was good for the men to see their highprince and his heir in their strength.

They drew attention as they left the staging area and entered the warcamp proper. Like Adolin, Dalinar went about unhelmed, though the gorget of his armor was tall and thick, rising like a metal collar up to his chin. He nodded to soldiers who saluted.

“Adolin,” Dalinar said. “In combat, do you feel the Thrill?”

Adolin started. He knew immediately what his father meant, but he was shocked to hear the words. This wasn’t often discussed. “I…Well, of course. Who doesn’t?”

Dalinar didn’t reply. He had been so reserved lately. Was that pain in his eyes? The way he was before, Adolin thought, deluded but confident. That was actually better.

Dalinar said nothing more, and the two of them continued through the camp. Six years had let the soldiers settle in thoroughly. Barracks were painted with company and squad symbols, and the space between them was outfitted with firepits, stools, and canvas-shaded dining areas. Adolin’s father had forbidden none of this, though he had set guidelines to discourage sloppiness.

Dalinar had also approved most requests for families to be brought to the Shattered Plains. The officers already had their wives, of course—a good lighteyes officer was really a team, the man to command and fight, the woman to read, write, engineer, and manage camp. Adolin smiled, thinking of Malasha. Would she prove to be the one for him? She’d been a little cold to him lately. Of course, there was Danlan. He’d only just met her, but he was intrigued.

Regardless, Dalinar had also approved requests by darkeyed common soldiers to bring their families. He even paid half of the cost. When Adolin had asked why, Dalinar had replied that he didn’t feel right forbidding them. The warcamps were never attacked anymore, so there was no danger. Adolin suspected his father felt that since he was living in a luxurious near-palace, his men might as well have the comfort of their families.

And so it was that children played and ran through the camp. Women hung wash and painted glyphwards as men sharpened spears and polished breastplates. Barrack interiors had been partitioned to create rooms.

“I think you were right,” Adolin said as they walked, trying to draw his father out of his contemplations. “To let so many bring their families here, I mean.”

“Yes, but how many will leave when this is over?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m not certain. The Shattered Plains are now a de facto Alethi province. How will this place appear in a hundred years? Will those rings of barracks become neighborhoods? The outer shops become markets? The hills to the west become fields for planting?” He shook his head. “The gemhearts will always be here, it seems. And so long as they are, there will be people here as