strode across the plateau. Surgeons saw to the wounded while the hale sat around in groups, drinking water and grousing about their failure.
A rare mood hovered over the armies of Roion and Ruthar this day. Usually when the Alethi lost a plateau run it was because the Parshendi pushed them back in a wild scrambling retreat across bridges. It wasn’t often that a run ended with the Alethi controlling the plateau, but with no gemheart to show for it.
He released one gauntlet, the straps undoing themselves automatically at his will, then hooked it at his waist. He used a sweaty hand to push back sweatier hair. Now where had Renarin gotten to?
There, on the staging plateau, sitting on a rock surrounded by guards. Adolin tromped across one of the bridges, raising a hand to Jakamav, who was removing his Plate nearby. He’d want to ride back in comfort.
Adolin jogged up to his brother, who sat on a boulder with his helm off, staring at the ground in front of him.
“Hey,” Adolin said. “Ready to head back?”
Renarin nodded.
“What happened?” Adolin asked.
Renarin continued staring at the ground. Finally, one of the bridgeman guards—a compact man with silvering hair—nodded his head to the side. Adolin walked with him a short distance away.
“A group of shellheads tried to seize one of the bridges, Brightlord,” the bridgeman said softly. “Brightlord Renarin insisted on going to help. Sir, we tried hard to dissuade him. Then, when he got near and summoned his Blade, he just kind of . . . stood there. We got him away, sir, but he’s been sitting on that rock ever since.”
One of Renarin’s fits. “Thank you, soldier,” Adolin said. He walked back over and laid his ungauntleted hand on Renarin’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Renarin. It happens.”
Renarin shrugged again. Well, if he was in one of his moods, there was nothing to do but let him stew. The younger man would talk about it when he was ready.
Adolin organized his two hundred troops, then paid his respects to the highprinces. Neither seemed very grateful. In fact, Ruthar seemed convinced that Adolin and Jakamav’s stunt had driven the Parshendi off with the gemheart. As if they wouldn’t have withdrawn the moment they had it anyway. Idiot.
Adolin smiled affably, regardless. Hopefully Father was right, and the extended hand of fellowship would help. Personally, Adolin just wanted a chance at each of them in the dueling ring, where he could teach them a little respect.
On his way back to his army, he searched out Jakamav, who sat under a small pavilion, having a cup of wine as he watched the rest of his army trudge back across the bridges. There were a lot of slumped shoulders and long faces.
Jakamav gestured for his steward to get Adolin a cup of sparkling yellow wine. Adolin took it in his unarmored hand, though he didn’t drink.
“That was quite nearly awesome,” Jakamav said, staring out at the battle plateau. From this lower vantage, it looked truly imposing, with those three tiers.
Almost looks man-made, Adolin thought idly, considering the shape. “Nearly,” Adolin agreed. “Can you imagine what an assault would look like if we had twenty or thirty Shardbearers on the battlefield at once? What chance would the Parshendi have?”
Jakamav grunted. “Your father and the king are seriously committed to this course, aren’t they?”
“As am I.”
“I can see what you and your father are doing here, Adolin. But if you keep dueling, you’re going to lose your Shards. Even you can’t always win. Eventually you’ll hit an off day. Then it will all be gone.”
“I might lose at some point,” Adolin agreed. “Of course by then I’ll have won half the Shards in the kingdom, so I should be able to arrange a replacement.”
Jakamav sipped his wine, smiling. “You are a cocky bastard, I’ll give you that.”
Adolin smiled, then settled down in a squat beside Jakamav’s chair—he couldn’t sit in one himself, not in Shardplate—so he could meet his friend’s eyes. “The truth is, Jakamav, I’m not really worried about losing my Shards—I’m more worried about finding duels in the first place. I can’t seem to get any Shardbearers to agree to a bout, at least not for Shards.”
“There have been certain . . . inducements going around,” Jakamav admitted. “Promises made to Shardbearers if they refused you.”
“Sadeas.”
Jakamav inspected his wine. “Try Eranniv. He’s been boasting that he’s better than the standings give him credit for. Knowing him, he’ll see everyone else refusing, and see it as an opportunity