a reserve up until now. With them on the field, they’d committed almost every soldier they had.
Dalinar hiked back toward the command tent, passing Shallan, Inadara, some bridgemen, and a squad of soldiers—Renarin included—crossing the plateau at a trot, heading out on their mission. They’d have to skirt across the southern plateau, near the fighting, to get where they were going. Kelek speed their way.
Dalinar himself pushed through the rain, soaked to the very bones, reading the battle through what he could see of the flanks. His force had the size advantage, as anticipated. But now, this red lightning, this wind . . . The Parshendi moved through the darkness and the gusts of wind with ease while the humans slipped, squinted, and were battered.
Still, the Alethi were holding their own. The problem was that this was only half of the Parshendi. If the other half attacked, his people would be in serious trouble—but they didn’t attack, so they must consider that singing to be important. They saw the wind they were creating as more damaging, more deadly to the humans, than simply joining the battle.
That terrified him. What was coming would be worse.
“I am sorry that you have to die this way.”
Dalinar stood still. Rain streamed down. He looked to the flock of messengers, aides, bodyguards, and officers who attended him. “Who spoke?”
They looked at one another.
Wait . . . He recognized that voice, didn’t he? It was familiar to him.
Yes. He’d heard it many times. In his visions.
It was the voice of the Almighty.
There is one you will watch. Though all of them have some relevance to precognition, Moelach is one of the most powerful in this regard. His touch seeps into a soul as it breaks apart from the body, creating manifestations powered by the spark of death itself. But no, this is a distraction. Deviation. Kingship. We must discuss the nature of kingship.
—From the Diagram, Book of the 2nd Desk Drawer: paragraph 15
Kaladin limped up the switchbacks to the palace, his leg a knotted mass of pain. Almost falling as he reached the doors, he slumped against them, gasping, his crutch under one arm, spear in the other hand. As if he could do anything with that.
Have . . . to get . . . to the king. . . .
How would he get Elhokar away? Moash would be watching. Storms. The assassination could happen any day . . . any hour now. Surely Dalinar was already far enough from the warcamps.
Keep. Moving.
Kaladin stumbled into the entryway. No guards at the doors. Bad sign. Should he have raised the alarm? There weren’t any soldiers in camp to help, and if he’d come in force, Graves and his men would know something was wrong. Alone, Kaladin might be able to see the king. His best hope was to get Elhokar to safety quietly.
Fool, Kaladin thought to himself. You change your mind now? After all of this? What are you doing?
But storm it . . . the king tried. He actually tried. The man was arrogant, perhaps incapable, but he tried. He was sincere.
Kaladin stopped, exhausted, leg screaming, and leaned against the wall. Shouldn’t this be easier? Now that he’d made the decision, shouldn’t he be focused, confident, energized? He felt none of that. He felt wrung out, confused, and uncertain.
He pushed himself forward. Keep going. Almighty send that he wasn’t too late.
Was he back to praying now?
He picked through darkened corridors. Shouldn’t there be more light? With some difficulty, he reached the king’s upper rooms, with the conference chamber and its balcony to the side. Two men in Bridge Four uniforms guarded the door, but Kaladin didn’t recognize either of them. They weren’t Bridge Four—they weren’t even members of the old King’s Guard. Storms.
Kaladin hobbled up to them, knowing he must look a sight, soaked through and through, limping on a leg that—he noticed—was trailing blood. He’d split the sutures on his wounds.
“Stop,” said one of the men. The fellow had a chin so cleft, it looked like he’d taken an axe to the face as a baby. He looked Kaladin up and down. “You’re the one they call Stormblessed.”
“You’re Graves’s men.”
The two looked at each other.
“It’s all right,” Kaladin said. “I’m with you. Is Moash here?”
“He’s off for the moment,” the soldier said. “Getting some sleep. It’s an important day.”
I’m not too late, Kaladin thought. Luck was with him. “I want to be part of what you’re doing.”
“It’s taken care of, bridgeman,” the guard said. “Go