mountains and valleys in exacting topographical detail, all to scale.
The Mink’s eyes went wide, and awespren burst above him like a ring of smoke. Navani understood that emotion. Watching the Radiants work was like experiencing the intensity of the sun or the majesty of a mountain. Yes, it was becoming commonplace to her, but she doubted it would ever become common.
The Mink shut the door with a click, then stepped over to reach a hand into the illusion. A small portion of it wavered and swirled into misty Stormlight. He cocked his head, then walked into the center of the map, which distorted around him, then snapped back into focus after he stilled.
“By Kalak’s mighty breath,” the Mink said, leaning over to inspect a miniature mountain. “This is incredible.”
“The combined powers of a Lightweaver and a Bondsmith,” Dalinar said. “It is not a picture of the world as it exists at this moment, unfortunately. We update the map every few days when the highstorm blows through. This limits our ability to count enemy troop numbers, since they tend to move inside for the storm.”
“The map gets that detailed?” the Mink asked. “You can see individuals?”
Dalinar waved, and a portion of the map expanded. The far perimeters vanished as this specific section became more and more detailed, focusing in on Azimir. The Azish capital expanded from a dot to a full-sized city, then stopped at its best magnification: a scale where buildings were the size of spheres and people were specks.
Dalinar zoomed the map back out to full size and glanced to Shallan. She nodded, and numbers began to hover in the air above portions of the map—swirling and made from Stormlight, marked by glyphs that men could read.
“These are our best estimates of troop numbers,” Dalinar said. “Singer counts in gold, our troop counts—which of course are more accurate—in the color of the appropriate army. Divided by glyph, you’ll find foot soldiers, heavy infantry, archers, and what few cavalry we can likely field in each area.”
The Mink walked through the map and Navani tracked him with her eyes, more interested in him than the numbers. The Mink took his time, inspecting each region of Roshar and its troop concentrations.
As he was thus surveying, the door opened. Navani’s daughter—Her Majesty Queen Jasnah Kholin of Alethkar—had arrived. She had four guards; Jasnah never went about alone, though she was more capable with her powers than any other Radiant. She deposited the guards outside the door and entered with only one man shadowing her: the Queen’s Wit, tall and lanky, with jet-black hair and an angular face.
It was the same Wit who had served Elhokar, so Navani had known this man for a few years. Yet he was … different now. Navani often noted him and Jasnah whispering in conspiratorial tones during meetings. He treated Navani—and, well, everyone—as if he knew them intimately. There was a mystery about this Wit that Navani had never noticed during Elhokar’s reign. Perhaps he molded himself to the monarch he served.
He stayed in step right behind Jasnah, silvery-sheathed sword on his hip, his lips drawn ever so slightly to a smile. The type that made you think he must be considering a joke about you that no one had the decency to say to your face.
“I see we have our map,” Jasnah said. “And our new general.”
“Indeed,” said the Mink, who was reading the troop numbers over Azir.
“Thoughts?” Jasnah asked, ever practical.
The Mink continued his inspection. Navani tried to guess what conclusions he’d draw. The war was happening on two main fronts. In Makabak—the region encompassing Azir and the many small kingdoms surrounding it—coalition forces continued to battle the singers over a specific region, the kingdom of Emul. The drawn-out conflicts were only the newest in a series of wars that had left the kingdom—once proud—war-torn and broken.
So far, neither side had an advantage. Azish armies, with the help of Alethi strategists, had recaptured some ground in northern Emul. However, they didn’t dare advance too far, as the wildcard of the region might come into play if they reached the south. Nestled behind Odium’s forces was the army of Tezim, the god-priest. A man they now knew was Ishar, the ancient Herald gone mad.
Tezim had been quiet lately, unfortunately. Dalinar had hoped he would rage against the rear lines of the singers, forcing them to fight pressed between two armies. As it stood, the brutal fighting in Emul continued at a standstill. The coalition could easily resupply