Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,183

he said with a grunt. “Never had one of those before.”

“I knew it,” she said softly.

“What? That I was lonely?”

“No,” she said solemnly, “that you were the child of a couple of particularly ugly rocks.”

He glared at her.

“You know,” she said, “since you have no family. Must be rocks. It makes sense.”

“Really? We were having a moment.”

She smiled, putting her hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Vathah. I appreciate your sediment.” She got up to go.

“Hey,” Vathah said as she walked away.

She glanced back at him.

“Thanks for smiling.”

She nodded before continuing on her way.

What you said applies to us too, Radiant thought. That what we did in the past doesn’t matter.

I suppose, Shallan thought.

You don’t mean that, Veil accused her. You think what you did was worse. You’re always willing to give others more charity than you extend yourself.

Shallan didn’t respond.

I’m figuring it out, Shallan, Veil said. Why you keep working with Mraize. Why you won’t tell Adolin. What this is all about. It has to do with what you said earlier. When—

“Not now,” Shallan said.

But—

In response, Shallan retreated and Radiant found herself in control. And no amount of prodding would bring Shallan back.

That said, the most worrying thing I discovered in this was the wound upon the Spiritual Realm where Ambition, Mercy, and Odium clashed—and Ambition was destroyed. The effects on the planet Threnody have been … disturbing.

Navani had always found war banners to be curious things. The wind was crisp and cold on Urithiru’s outer platform today, and it made the banners—brilliant Kholin blue, with Dalinar’s glyphpair emblazoned on them—crack with the sound of breaking sticks. They seemed alive up there on their poles, writhing like captive skyeels among the windspren.

Today, the banners waved above waiting battalions. A thousand men at a time stood for their turn at the Oathgate, where Radiants transferred them to Azir. With a flash—a ring of light rising around the plateau—both men and banners were off, sent hundreds of miles in a heartbeat.

Navani appreciated the aesthetic nature of banners—the way they marked divisions, battalions, companies. At the same time, there was a strange incongruity to them. It was essential to keep your men organized and engaged on the battlefield. Dalinar said far more battles were lost by improper discipline than by lack of bravery.

But the banners also acted like enormous arrows, pointing the way to the most important men on the field. Banners were targets. Bold proclamations that here was where you’d find someone to kill. They were symbols of an organized army, helmed by men and women who knew the best way to end you—if only you’d do them the favor of wandering in their direction.

“You look preoccupied,” Dalinar said as he stepped over, trailed by an honor guard of ten men.

“I’m thinking about symbols and why we use them,” Navani said. “Trying not to think about you leaving again.”

He reached down to cup her cheek. Who had known those hands could be so tender? She placed her hand alongside his face. His skin always felt rough. She swore she’d touched his cheek right after he’d shaved, and still found it ragged like sandpaper.

The honor guard stood tall and tried to ignore Dalinar and Navani. Even this little sign of affection wasn’t particularly Alethi. That was what they told themselves, anyway. The stoic warriors. Not ruined by emotion. That was their banner, never mind that for centuries one of the Unmade had driven their lust for battle to a frenzy. Never mind that they were human like any others. They had emotions; they displayed them. They merely pretended to ignore them. In the same way you might tactfully ignore a man who accidentally went about with his trousers undone.

“Watch him, Dalinar,” Navani whispered. “He will try something.”

“I know,” Dalinar said. Taravangian was walking up the slope onto the platform for the next transfer. Through some careful finagling, his honor guard was Alethi—and Dalinar planned to station the man’s armies away from the command post on another part of the Azish front, with extra soldiers in between to protect his flank from a potential double cross.

It was an unfortunately obvious move. Taravangian would realize he was being kept hostage, after a fashion, to ensure the loyalty of his troops.

As an extra protection, a singular secret weapon hid among Dalinar’s servants. Szeth, wearing the face of a common soldier, had been assigned to guard Dalinar. Navani couldn’t spot him, so the disguise—maintained by one of Shallan’s Lightweavers—was working. Though the sheath to his strange