Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,149

Adolin said.

“It is … unless you happen to disagree with their interpretation of morality. My kind can be very difficult to persuade with logic, because for us … well, what we feel can often be more important to us than what we think. We’re spren of honor, but remember, honor is—even to us—what humans and spren define it to be. Particularly with our god dead.”

Adolin nodded. “Right, then. Kal, don’t let anyone burn the tower down while I’m away.”

“You should have been the surgeon, Adolin,” Kaladin said. “Not me. You care about people.”

“Don’t be silly,” Adolin said, pulling open the door as he gestured at Kaladin’s work clothing. “I could never dress like that.” He left Kaladin with a wink.

* * *

Adolin strode out the front gate of Urithiru’s imposing tower and entered the chill air of the plateau. He was a full six minutes early. Handy, the way Aunt Navani’s device let him time himself—if everyone had clocks, he’d spend way less time waiting around at winehouses for his friends to arrive.

The broad plain in front of him—too smooth to be natural—stretched like a roadway toward the mountain peaks in the distance. Ten perfectly circular platforms rose from the sides of the plateau, with ramps leading up to each. These Oathgates were portals to places around the world. Currently only four functioned: the ones to the Shattered Plains, Thaylenah, Jah Keved, and Azir.

A group had gathered on the platform leading to the Shattered Plains, but they wouldn’t travel to that destination. This was just the gate where Adolin’s team would enter Shadesmar. His breath puffing before him, Adolin jogged over to the ramp, where his armorers were packing his Shardplate in its traveling chest, cushioned with straw. Though the stuff was as hard as stone, they always took the utmost care with it. There was a certain reverence due to a Shard.

“It’s not going to make the transfer, Brightlord,” one armorer warned him. “When you go to Shadesmar, it will be left behind on the platform. It’s been tested on several suits already.”

“My armor might act differently,” Adolin said. “I want to be sure. If it does fail to make the trip, send it along with Father and his expeditionary force. He’ll lend it to Fisk, to complement his Blade.”

The armorers saluted. Nearby, a few other stragglers were hurrying up the slope to the Oathgate—including Shallan’s newest agent, a tall Alethi woman with excellent taste in dresses. She carried a pack over her shoulder, but … she wasn’t going on the trip, was she?

“Beryl?” Adolin called to her as she passed. “Wasn’t Stargyle chosen to make this journey?”

“Oh, Brightlord!” the darkeyed woman said. “Stargyle’s wife has come down with a sickness. He wants to stay with her, so we decided I should go instead.”

Huh. He nodded absently as the woman hurried up the slope. Shallan had seemed very particular about whom she wanted to bring. Hopefully this hadn’t upset her plans.

Well, nothing to do about it. He stepped over to a tall black horse standing at the ready. Gallant was surrounded by Adolin’s grooms, who were preparing to strap equipment to the horse’s back—including Adolin’s weapons and his trunk of clothing. The horse should have been loaded already. Adolin stepped up to the Ryshadium and stared into his watery blue eyes—which, if he looked closely, had a faint swirl of rainbow colors to them.

The horse glanced at the pack straps the porters were affixing onto his back; they required stools to get high enough.

“What?” Adolin asked.

The horse blew out, then glared at the straps again.

“You think because we’re royalty, we’re above doing a little labor?” Adolin pointed at the horse, meeting his eyes. “It’s like Father always says. Never be unwilling to do something you might ask another to do for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a palafruit. “Here.”

The horse turned away.

“Fine,” Adolin said. “I’ll have them saddle up one of the common horses instead. Leave you behind.”

Gallant turned back to him, glaring. Then, reluctantly, the horse ate the palafruit and spat out the pit. Adolin rubbed him on the muzzle, then patted his neck. Nearby one of the grooms watched, baffled, until one of the others nudged him.

“I talk to my sword too,” Adolin told them. “Funny thing is, she eventually talked back. Never be afraid to show a little respect to those you depend upon, friends.”

The two grooms scuttled away as two workmen hitched Adolin’s armor boxes into place on one side of