The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,202

planned.”

Dalinar’s expression grew dark. “I will speak to the runner myself.”

Reluctantly, Niter waved the spindly fellow forward. He approached and dropped to one knee before Dalinar. “Brightlord.”

This time, Dalinar didn’t ask for Adolin to take the lead. “Deliver your message.”

“Brightlord Thanadal regrets that he is unable to attend you this day.”

“And did he offer another time to meet?”

“He regrets to say that he has grown too busy. But he would be happy to speak with you at the king’s feast one evening.”

In public, Adolin thought, where half the men nearby will be eavesdropping while the other half—likely including Thanadal himself—will probably be drunk.

“I see,” Dalinar said. “And did he give any indication of when he’d no longer be so busy?”

“Brightlord,” the messenger said, growing uncomfortable. “He said that if you pressed, I should explain that he has spoken with several of the other highprinces, and feels he knows the nature of your inquiry. He said to tell you he does not wish to form an alliance, nor does he have any intention of going on a joint plateau assault with you.”

Dalinar’s expression grew darker. He dismissed the messenger with a wave, then turned to Adolin. The Cobalt Guard still kept a space open around them so they could talk.

“Thanadal was the last of them,” Dalinar said. Each highprince had turned him down in his own way. Hatham with exceeding politeness, Bethab by letting his wife give the explanation, Thanadal with hostile civility. “All of them but Sadeas, at least.”

“I doubt it would be wise to approach him with this, Father.”

“You’re probably right.” Dalinar’s voice was cold. He was angry. Furious, even. “They’re sending me a message. They’ve never liked the influence I have over the king, and they’re eager to see me fall. They don’t want to do something I ask them to, just in case it might help me regain my footing.”

“Father, I’m sorry.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best. The important point is that I have failed. I can’t get them to work together. Elhokar was right.” He looked to Adolin. “I would like you to continue inspections for me, son. There’s something I want to do.”

“What?”

“Just some work I see needs to be done.”

Adolin wanted to object, but he couldn’t think of the words to say. Finally, he sighed and gave a nod. “You’ll tell me what this is about, though?”

“Soon,” Dalinar promised. “Very soon.”

Dalinar watched his son leave, striding purposefully away. He would make a good highprince. Dalinar’s decision was a simple one.

Was it time to step aside, and let his son take his place?

If he took this step, Dalinar would be expected to stay out of politics, retiring to his lands and leaving Adolin to rule. It was a painful decision to contemplate, and he had to be careful not to make it hastily. But if he really was going mad, as everyone in the camp seemed to believe, then he had to step down. And soon, before his condition progressed to the point that he no longer had the presence of mind to let go.

A monarch is control, he thought, remembering a passage from The Way of Kings. He provides stability. It is his service and his trade good. If he cannot control himself, then how can he control the lives of men? What merchant worth his Stormlight won’t partake of the very fruit he sells?

Odd, that those quotes still came to him, even as he was wondering if they had—in part—driven him to madness. “Niter,” he said. “Fetch my warhammer. Have it waiting for me at the staging field.”

Dalinar wanted to be moving, working, as he thought. His guards hastened to keep up as he strode down the pathway between the barracks of Battalions Six and Seven. Niter sent several men to fetch the weapon. His voice sounded strangely excited, as if he thought Dalinar was going to do something impressive.

Dalinar doubted he would think it so. He eventually strode out onto the staging field, cape fluttering behind him, plated boots clanking against the stones. He didn’t have to wait long for the hammer; it came pulled by two men on a small cart. Sweating, the soldiers heaved it from the cart, the haft as thick as a man’s wrist and the front of the head larger than an outspread palm. Two men together could barely lift it.

Dalinar grabbed the hammer with one gauntleted hand, swinging it up to rest on his shoulder. He ignored the soldiers performing exercises on the field, walking to where