The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,87

and peace, a wall to resist the winds. Cease squabbling and unite. The Everstorm comes.

“Your Majesty,” Dalinar found himself saying. “I…” He trailed off as quickly as he began. What could he say? That he’d been seeing visions? That—in defiance of all doctrine and common sense—he thought those visions might be from the Almighty? That he thought they should withdraw from the battlefield and go back to Alethkar?

Pure foolishness.

“Uncle?” the king asked. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Come, let’s get back to the others.”

Adolin twisted one of his hogshide reins around his finger while he sat astride his horse, awaiting the next batch of scout reports. He’d managed to get his mind off his father and Sadeas, and was instead contemplating just how he was going to explain his falling out with Rilla in a way that would earn him some sympathy with Janala.

Janala loved ancient epic poems; could he phrase the falling out in dramatic terms? He smiled, thinking of her luxurious black hair and sly smile. She’d been daring, teasing at him while he was known to be courting someone else. He could use that too. Maybe Renarin was right, perhaps he should have invited her on the hunt. The prospect of fighting a greatshell would have been far more interesting to him if someone beautiful and long-haired were watching….

“New scout reports are in, Brightlord Adolin,” Tarilar said, jogging up.

Adolin turned his mind back to business. He’d taken up position with some members of the Cobalt Guard beside the base of the high rock formation where his father and the king were still conversing. Tarilar, scoutlord, was a gaunt-faced man with a thick chest and arms. From some angles, his head looked so relatively small on his body that it appeared to have been smashed.

“Proceed,” Adolin said.

“Advance runners have met with the lead huntmaster and have returned. There are no sightings of Parshendi on any nearby plateaus. Companies Eighteen and Twenty-one are in position, though there are still eight companies to go.”

Adolin nodded. “Have Company Twenty-one send some outriders to watch from plateaus fourteen and sixteen. And two each on plateaus six and eight.”

“Six and eight? Behind us?”

“If I were going to ambush the party,” Adolin said, “I’d round back this way and cut us off from fleeing. Do it.”

Tarilar saluted. “Yes, Brightlord.” He hurried away to pass the orders.

“You really think that’s necessary?” Renarin asked, riding up beside Adolin.

“No. But Father will want it done anyway. You know he will.”

There was motion up above. Adolin looked up just in time to see the king leap off the rock formation, cape streaming behind him as he fell some forty feet to the rock floor. Adolin’s father stood at the lip above, and Adolin could imagine him cursing to himself at what he saw as a foolhardy move. Shardplate could withstand a fall that far, but it was high enough to be dangerous.

Elhokar landed with an audible crack, throwing up chips of stone and a large puff of Stormlight. He managed to stay upright. Adolin’s father took a safer way down, descending to a lower ledge before jumping.

He seems to take the safer pathway more and more often lately, Adolin thought idly. And he often seems to find reasons to give me command as well. Thoughtful, Adolin trotted his horse out of the shadow of the rock formation. He needed to get a report from the rear guard—his father would want to hear it.

His path took him past a group of lighteyes from Sadeas’s party. The king, Sadeas, and Vamah each had a collection of attendants, aides, and sycophants accompanying them. Looking at them riding in their comfortable silks, open-fronted jackets, and shade-covered palanquins made Adolin aware of his sweaty, bulky armor. Shardplate was wonderful and empowering, but beneath a hot sun, it could still leave a man wishing for something less confining.

But, of course, he couldn’t have worn casual clothing like the others. Adolin was to be in uniform, even on a hunt. The Alethi War Codes commanded it. Never mind that nobody had followed those Codes in centuries. Or at least nobody but Dalinar Kholin—and, by extension, his sons.

Adolin passed a pair of lounging lighteyes, Vartian and Lomard, two of Sadeas’s recent hangers-on. They were talking loudly enough that Adolin could hear. Probably on purpose. “Chasing after the king again,” Vartian said, shaking his head. “Like pet axehounds nipping at their master’s heels.”

“Shameful,” Lomard said. “How long has it been since Dalinar won a gemheart? The only time