The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,368

to wait until later, but if Dalinar is going to be so insistent…”

“I am,” Dalinar said.

“Oh, go ahead, Sadeas,” the king said. “You have me curious now.” The king waved to a servant, who rushed to quiet the flutist while another servant tapped the chimes to call for silence. In moments, the people on the island stilled.

Sadeas gave Dalinar a grimace that somehow conveyed the message, “You demanded this, old friend.”

Dalinar folded his arms, keeping his gaze fixed on Sadeas. His six Cobalt Guardsmen stepped up behind him, and Dalinar noticed that a group of similar lighteyed officers from Sadeas’s warcamp were listening nearby.

“Well, I wasn’t planning to have such an audience,” Sadeas said. “Mostly, this was planned for Your Majesty only.”

Unlikely, Dalinar thought, trying to suppress his anxiety. What would he do if Adolin was right and Sadeas charged him with trying to assassinate Elhokar?

It would, indeed, be the end of Alethkar. Dalinar would not go quietly, and the warcamps would turn against one another. The nervous peace that had held them together for the last decade would come to an end. Elhokar would never be able to hold them together.

Also, if it turned to battle, Dalinar would not fare well. The others were alienated from him; he’d have enough trouble facing Sadeas—if several of the others joined against him, he would fall, horribly outnumbered. He could see now Adolin thought it an incredible act of foolishness to have listened to the visions. And yet, in a powerfully surreal moment, Dalinar felt that he’d done the correct thing. He’d never felt it as strongly as at that moment, preparing to be condemned.

“Sadeas, don’t weary me with your sense of drama,” Elhokar said. “They’re listening. I’m listening. Dalinar looks like he’s ready to burst a vein in his forehead. Speak.”

“Very well,” Sadeas said, giving his wine to a servant. “My very first task as Highprince of Information was to discover the true nature of the attempt on His Majesty’s life during the greatshell hunt.” He waved a hand, motioning to one of his men, who hurried away. Another stepped forward, handing Sadeas the broken leather strap.

“I took this strap to three separate leatherworkers in three different warcamps. Each came to the same conclusion. It was cut. The leather is relatively new, and has been well cared for, as proven by the lack of cracking and flaking in other areas. The tear is too even. Someone slit it.”

Dalinar felt a sense of dread. That was near what he had discovered, but it was presented in the worst possible light. “For what purpose—” Dalinar began.

Sadeas held up a hand. “Please, Highprince. First you demand I report, then you interrupt me?”

Dalinar fell still. Around them, more and more of the important light-eyes were gathering. He could sense their tension.

“But when was it cut?” Sadeas said, turning to address the crowd. He did have a flair for the dramatic. “That was pivotal, you see. I took leave to interview numerous men who were on that hunt. None reported seeing anything specific, though all remembered that there was one odd event. The time when Brightlord Dalinar and His Majesty raced to a rock formation. A time when Dalinar and the king were alone.”

There were whispers from behind.

“There was a problem, however,” Sadeas said. “One Dalinar himself raised. Why cut the strap on a Shardbearer’s saddle? A foolish move. A horseback fall wouldn’t be of much danger to a man wearing Shardplate.” To the side, the servant Sadeas had sent away returned, leading a youth with sandy hair bearing only a few hints of black.

Sadeas fished something out of a pouch at his waist, holding it up. A large sapphire. It wasn’t infused. In fact, looking closely, Dalinar could see that it was cracked—it wouldn’t hold Stormlight now. “The question drove me to investigate the king’s Shardplate,” Sadeas said. “Eight of the ten sapphires used to infuse his Plate were cracked following the battle.”

“It happens,” Adolin said, stepping up beside Dalinar, hand on his side sword. “You lose a few in every battle.”

“But eight?” Sadeas asked. “One or two is normal. But have you ever lost eight in one battle before, young Kholin?”

Adolin’s only reply was a glare.

Sadeas tucked away the gemstone, nodding to the youth his men had brought. “This is one of the grooms in the king’s employ. Fin, isn’t it?”

“Y…Yes, brightlord,” the boy stammered. He couldn’t be older than twelve.

“What is it you told me earlier, Fin? Please, say it again so that