Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,313

sides, as if stepping out from behind curtains to face an adoring crowd. “I see you’re envious of those more skilled in the masculine arts than you, Ruthar,” Wit said. “I agree, you could use lessons on how to be a man—but those in this room would teach lessons far too advanced. Let me call in a eunuch to instruct you, and once you’ve reached his level, we’ll talk further.”

“Harsher,” Jasnah said.

“You speak of honor, Ruthar, though you’ve never known it,” Wit said, his voice rising. “You’ll never find it though. You see, I hid your honor in a place you could never find it: in the arms of someone who truly loves you.”

“Wit,” Jasnah said. “Harsher.”

“I’ve been speaking to your children, Ruthar,” Wit said. “No, this part isn’t a joke. Relis, Ivanar. Yes, I know them. I know a lot of things. Would you like to explain to the queen where Ivanar’s broken arm last month truly came from? Tell me, do you beat your children because you’re a sadist, or because you’re a coward and they are the only ones who won’t dare fight back? Or … oh, silly Wit. It’s both, isn’t it?”

“How dare you!” Ruthar roared, shoving away the attendant who tried to control him. Angerspren rose around his feet, like pools of bubbling blood. “I demand trial by swords! Me versus you, stupid fool. Or me against your champion, if you’re too much of a coward to face me!”

“Trial by combat accepted,” Wit said lightly, undoing his belt and sliding free his sheathed sword. “Shall we?”

“Fine!” Ruthar said, drawing his sword, causing many of the women and attendants to scatter to the sides of the large tent.

“This is idiocy,” Dalinar said, stepping between them. “Ruthar, you’ve been baited. Killing a Queen’s Wit is punishable by exile and forfeit of title. You know this.”

Ruthar grunted, the words sinking in.

“Besides,” Dalinar said, glancing over his shoulder, “that man is no simple Wit. I’m not sure if you can kill him.”

“You tell me I’d forfeit my title,” Ruthar growled. “What title? What lands do I hold? And exile? We are in exile, Blackthorn. Maybe I should challenge you. You’ve lost our kingdom, and now you expect me to waste my time in foreign lands? Protecting those we should have conquered? We would have, if your nephew had been half the man his father was.”

“Ruthar,” Wit said, “you don’t need to fight him. Or me. I accept your challenge, but I exercise my right to choose a champion. You won’t risk losing your lands by killing a Wit.”

“Excellent,” Ruthar said. “I accept. Stop trying to interfere, Blackthorn.”

Dalinar reluctantly stepped to the side. He felt a mounting dread, but there was nothing illegal here. And he doubted any action he could take would prevent this trap from springing.

“So,” Ruthar said, brandishing his sword. “Wit. You call me coward, then wiggle out of a challenge? So be it! Who do you want me to kill, then?”

“Your Majesty?” Wit said. “If you don’t mind?” He cocked his sheathed sword to the side, hilt out, as Jasnah brushed past and drew the weapon—a thin, silvery blade that Dalinar didn’t think he’d ever seen unsheathed.

Dalinar’s dread deepened as Jasnah stepped into striking range, batting aside Ruthar’s sword. He recovered from his shock and blocked her next strike. She was better than Dalinar might have expected, but her stance was uncertain, and she overreached. At best, she was equal to a promising student.

She had two distinct advantages though. She was Radiant. And Ruthar was an idiot.

“I refuse this,” he said, tossing his sword aside. “I will not face a woman in combat. It is demeaning.”

And so, Jasnah stabbed him straight through the throat.

This lunge was better than the previous one, but it was not her skill that won the fight—it was the fact that Ruthar underestimated how far she would go. Indeed, Ruthar’s eyes bulged as shockspren shattered around him as yellow glass. He stumbled back, gushing lifeblood across his beautiful doublet.

“Renarin!” Jasnah called.

Dalinar’s younger son scrambled into the tent from outside, and the full level of her preparation became manifest. The twisting feeling in Dalinar’s stomach began to release. He’d been preparing to lock down the tent, send guards for Ruthar’s next of kin, and institute martial law.

Renarin scurried forward and used his powers as a Truthwatcher to heal Ruthar, sealing up the wound in the man’s neck before he bled out. Still, Dalinar caught the eye of Fisk, the current captain of the