The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,401

befallen Wit.

Elhokar’s grin became a scowl. “He vanished.”

“Is that so? How disappointing.”

“Bah.” Elhokar waved a gauntleted hand. “He does this on occasion. He’ll return eventually. Unreliable as Damnation itself, that one. If he didn’t make me laugh so, I’d have replaced him seasons ago.”

They fell silent, and the dueling continued. A few other lighteyes—both women and men—watched, seated on the benchlike ridges. Dalinar noted with discomfort that Navani had arrived, and was chatting with a group of women, including Adolin’s latest infatuation, the auburn-haired scribe.

Dalinar’s eyes lingered on Navani, drinking in her violet dress, her mature beauty. She’d recorded his most recent visions without complaint, and seemed to have forgiven him for throwing her out of his rooms so sharply. She never mocked him, never acted skeptical. He appreciated that. Should he thank her, or would she see that as an invitation?

He averted his gaze from her, but found that he couldn’t watch the dueling swordsmen without catching sight of her in the corner of his eye. So, instead, he glanced up into the sky, squinting against the afternoon sun. The sounds of metal hitting metal came from below. Behind him, several large snails clung to the rock, waiting for highstorm water.

He had so many questions, so many uncertainties. He listened to The Way of Kings and worked to discover what Gavilar’s last words had meant. As if, somehow, they held the key to both his madness and the nature of the visions. But the truth was that he didn’t know anything, and he couldn’t rely on his own decisions. That was unhinging him, bit by bit, point by point.

Clouds seemed less frequent here, in these windswept plains. Just the blazing sun broken by the furious highstorms. The rest of Roshar was influenced by the storms—but here in the East, the feral, untamed highstorms ruled supreme. Could any mortal king hope to claim these lands? There were legends of them being inhabited, of there being more than just unclaimed hills, desolate plains, and overgrown forests. Natanatan, the Granite Kingdom.

“Ah,” Sadeas said, sounding as if he’d tasted something bitter. “Did he have to come?”

Dalinar lowered his head and followed Sadeas’s gaze. Highprince Vamah had arrived to watch the dueling, retinue in tow. Though most of them wore his traditional brown and grey colorings, the highprince himself wore a long grey coat that had slashes cut across it to reveal the bright red and orange silk underneath, matched by the ruffles peeking out of the cuffs and collar.

“I thought you had a fondness for Vamah,” Elhokar said.

“I tolerate him,” Sadeas replied. “But his fashion sense is absolutely repulsive. Red and orange? Not even a burnt orange, but a blatant, eye-breaking orange. And the rent style hasn’t been fashionable for ages. Ah, wonderful, he’s sitting directly across from us. I shall be forced to stare at him for the rest of the session.”

“You shouldn’t judge people so harshly based on how they look,” Dalinar said.

“Dalinar,” Sadeas said flatly, “we are highprinces. We represent Alethkar. Many around the world view us as a center of culture and influence. Should I not, therefore, have the right to encourage a properpresentation to the world?”

“A proper presentation, yes,” Dalinar said. “It is right for us to be fit and neat.” It would be nice if your soldiers, for instance, kept their uniforms clean.

“Fit, neat, and fashionable,” Sadeas corrected.

“And me?” Dalinar asked, looking down at his simple uniform. “Would you have me dress in those ruffles and bright colors?”

“You?” Sadeas asked. “You’re completely hopeless.” He raised a hand to forestall objection. “No, I am unfair. That uniform has a certain… timeless quality to it. The military suit, by virtue of its utility, will never be completely out of fashion. It’s a safe choice—steady. In a way, you avoid the issue of fashion by not playing the game.” He nodded to Vamah. “Vamah tries to play, but does so very poorly. And that is unforgivable.”

“I still say you place too much importance on those silks and scarves,” Dalinar said. “We are soldiers at war, not courtiers at a ball.”

“The Shattered Plains are quickly becoming a destination for foreign dignitaries. It is important to present ourselves properly.” He raised a finger to Dalinar. “If I am to accept your moral superiority, my friend, then perhaps it is time for you to accept my sense of fashion. One might note that you judge people by their clothing even more than I do.”

Dalinar fell silent. That comment stung in its truthfulness. Still,