fog appeared—manifesting as little vines sprouting in the air—before snapping into the form of a Shardblade, which suddenly weighed down his hand.
He stood in the sitting room, those foreboding markings staring up at him, as if in silent challenge. The closed door kept the bridgemen out so only he, Dalinar, and Navani would be privy to the discussion. Adolin wanted to use the Blade to cut those cursed glyphs away. Dalinar had proven that he was sane. Aunt Navani almost had an entire document of the Dawnchant translated, using the words of Father’s visions as a guide!
The visions were from the Almighty. It all made sense.
Now this.
“They were made with a knife,” Navani said, kneeling beside the glyphs. The sitting room was a large open area, used for receiving callers or holding meetings. Doors beyond led to the study and the bedrooms.
“This knife,” Dalinar replied, holding up a side knife of the style most lighteyes wore. “My knife.”
The edge was blunted and still bore flecks of stone from the gouges. The scratches matched the size of the blade. They’d found it just in front of the door to Dalinar’s study, where he’d spent the highstorm. Alone. Navani’s carriage had been delayed, and she’d been forced to return to the palace or risk being caught in the storm.
“Someone else could have taken it and done this,” Adolin snapped. “They could have sneaked into your study, grabbed it while you were consumed by the visions, and come out here . . .”
The other two looked at him.
“Often,” Navani said, “the simplest answer is the right one.”
Adolin sighed, dismissing his Blade and slumping down in a chair beside the offending glyphs. His father stood tall. In fact, Dalinar Kholin never seemed to have stood as tall as he did now, hands clasped behind his back, eyes away from the glyphs, toward the wall—eastward.
Dalinar was a rock, a boulder too big for even storms to move. He seemed so sure. It was something to cling to.
“You don’t remember anything?” Navani asked Dalinar, rising.
“No.” He turned to Adolin. “I think it’s obvious now that I was behind each of these. Why does that bother you so, son?”
“It’s the idea of you scribbling on the ground,” Adolin said, shivering. “Lost in one of those visions, not in control of yourself.”
“The Almighty’s path for me is a strange one,” Dalinar said. “Why do I need to get the information this way? Scratches on the ground or the wall? Why not say it to me plainly in the visions?”
“It’s foretelling, you realize,” Adolin said softly. “Seeing the future. A thing of the Voidbringers.”
“Yes.” Dalinar narrowed his eyes. “Seek the center. What do you think, Navani? The center of the Shattered Plains? What truths hide there?”
“The Parshendi, obviously.”
They talked about the center of the Shattered Plains as if they knew of the place. But no man had been there, only Parshendi. To the Alethi, the word “center” just referred to the vast open expanse of unexplored plateaus beyond the scouted rims.
“Yes,” Adolin’s father said. “But where? Maybe they move around? Maybe there is no Parshendi city in the center.”
“They would only be able to move if they had Soulcasters,” Navani said, “which I personally doubt. They’ll have entrenched somewhere. They aren’t a nomadic people, and there’s no reason for them to move.”
“If we can make peace,” Dalinar mused, “reaching the center would be a lot easier. . . .” He looked to Adolin. “Have the bridgemen fill those scratches with crem, then have them pull the rug over that section of floor.”
“I’ll see it done.”
“Good,” Dalinar said, seeming distant. “After that, get some sleep, son. Tomorrow is a big day.”
Adolin nodded. “Father. Were you aware that there is a parshman among the bridgemen?”
“Yes,” Dalinar said. “There has been one among their numbers from the beginning, but they didn’t arm him until I gave them permission.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“Out of curiosity,” Dalinar said. He turned and nodded toward the glyphs on the floor. “Tell me, Navani. Assuming these numbers are counting toward a date, is it a day when a highstorm will come?”
“Thirty-two days?” Navani asked. “That will be in the middle of the Weeping. Thirty-two days won’t even be the exact end of the year, but two days ahead of it. I can’t fathom the significance.”
“Ah, it was too convenient an answer anyway. Very well. Let’s allow the guards back in and swear them to secrecy. Wouldn’t want to inspire a panic.”
In short, if any presume