The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,351

had fallen in a matter of seconds. The last of the soldiers nervously moved in to protect his retreat.

Szeth had stopped crying. It seemed like he couldn’t cry any longer. He felt numb. His mind…it just couldn’t think. He hated the king. Hated him so badly. And it hurt, physically hurt him, how strong that irrational hatred was.

Stormlight rising from him, he Lashed himself toward the king.

He fell, feet just above the ground, as if he were floating. His clothing rippled. To those guards still alive, he would seem to be gliding across the ground.

He Lashed himself downward at a slight angle and began to swing his Blade as he reached the ranks of the soldiers. He ran through them as if he were moving down a steep slope. Swirling and spinning, he dropped a dozen men, graceful and terrible, drawing in more Stormlight from spheres that had been scattered on the floor.

Szeth reached the doorway, men with burning eyes falling to the ground behind him. Just outside, the king ran amid a final small group of guards. He turned and cried out as he saw Szeth, then threw up his half-shard shield.

Szeth wove through the guards, then hit the shield twice, shattering it and forcing the king backward. The man tripped, dropping his Blade. It puffed away to mist.

Szeth leaped up and Lashed himself downward with a double Basic Lashing. He hit atop the king, his increased weight breaking an arm and pinning the man to the ground. Szeth swept his blade through the surprised soldiers, who fell as their legs died beneath them.

Finally, Szeth raised his Blade over his head, looking down at the king.

“What are you?” the man whispered, eyes watering with pain.

“Death,” Szeth said, then drove his Blade point-first through the man’s face and into the rock below.

“I’m standing over the body of a brother. I’m weeping. Is that his blood or mine? What have we done?”

—Dated Vevanev, 1173, 107 seconds pre-death. Subject: an out-of-work Veden sailor.

“Father,” Adolin said, pacing in Dalinar’s sitting room. “This is insane.”

“That is appropriate,” Dalinar replied dryly. “As—it appears—I am as well.”

“I never claimed you were insane.”

“Actually,” Renarin noted, “I believe that you did.”

Adolin glanced at his brother. Renarin stood beside the hearth, inspecting the new fabrial that had been installed there just a few days ago. The infused ruby, encased in a metal enclosure, glowed softly and gave off a comfortable heat. It was convenient, though it felt wrong to Adolin that no fire lay crackling there.

The three were alone in Dalinar’s sitting room, awaiting the advent of the day’s highstorm. It had been one week since Dalinar had informed his sons of his intention to step down as highprince.

Adolin’s father sat in one of his large, high-backed chairs, hands laced before him, stoic. The warcamps didn’t know of his decision yet—bless the Heralds—but he intended to make the announcement soon. Perhaps at tonight’s feast.

“All right, fine,” Adolin said. “Perhaps I said it. But I didn’t mean it. Or at least I didn’t mean for it to have this effect on you.”

“We had this discussion a week ago, Adolin,” Dalinar said softly.

“Yes, and you promised to think over your decision!”

“I have. My resolve has not wavered.”

Adolin continued to pace; Renarin stood up straight, watching him as he stalked past. I’m a fool, Adolin thought. Of course this is what Father would do. I should have seen it.

“Look,” Adolin said, “just because you might have some problems doesn’t mean you have to abdicate.”

“Adolin, our enemies will use my weakness against us. In fact, you believe that they are already doing so. If I don’t give up the princedom now, matters could grow much worse than they are now.”

“But I don’t want to be highprince,” Adolin complained. “Not yet, at least.”

“Leadership is rarely about what we want, son. I think too few among the Alethi elite realize that fact.”

“And what will happen to you?” Adolin asked, pained. He stopped and looked toward his father.

Dalinar was so firm, even sitting there, contemplating his own madness. Hands clasped before him, wearing a stiff blue uniform with a coat of Kholin blue, silver hair dusting his temples. Those hands of his were thick and callused, his expression determined. Dalinar made a decision and stuck to it, not wavering or debating.

Mad or not, he was what Alethkar needed. And Adolin had—in his haste—done what no warrior on the battlefield had ever been able to do: chop Dalinar Kholin’s legs out from under him and send him