Dalinar forges bonds. What do you do?”
Renarin met Kaladin’s eyes across the room. “I see.”
“Four orders,” Dalinar said, squeezing Renarin’s shoulder with pride. Storms, the lad was trembling. What made him so worried? Dalinar turned to the others. “The other orders must be returning as well. We need to find those whom the spren have chosen. Quickly, for the Everstorm is upon us, and it is worse than we feared.”
“How?” Shallan asked.
“It will change the parshmen,” Dalinar said. “The Stormfather confirmed it to me. When that storm hits it will bring back the Voidbringers.”
“Damnation,” Kaladin said. “I need to get to Alethkar, to Hearthstone.” He strode toward the exit.
“Soldier?” Dalinar called. “I’ve done what I can to warn our people.”
“My parents are back there,” Kaladin said. “And the citylord of my town has parshmen. I’m going.”
“How?” Shallan asked. “You’ll fly the entire distance?”
“Fall,” Kaladin said. “But yes.” He paused at the doorway out.
“How much Light will that take, son?” Dalinar asked.
“I don’t know,” Kaladin admitted. “A lot, probably.”
Shallan looked to Dalinar. They didn’t have Stormlight to spare. Though those from the warcamps brought recharged spheres, activating the Oathgate took a great deal of Stormlight, depending on how many people were brought. Lighting the lamps in the room at the center of the Oathgate was merely the minimum amount needed to start the device—bringing many people partially drained the infused gemstones they carried as well.
“I will get you what I can, lad,” Dalinar said. “Go with my blessing. Perhaps you will have enough left over to get to the capital afterward and help the people there.”
Kaladin nodded. “I’ll put together a pack. I need to leave within the hour.” He ducked from the room into the stairwell down.
Dalinar sucked in more Stormlight, and felt the last of his wounds retreat. This seemed a thing a man could easily grow accustomed to having.
He sent Renarin with orders to speak with the king and requisition some emerald broams that Kaladin could borrow for his trip. Elhokar had finally arrived, in the company of a group of Herdazians, of all things. One claiming his name needed to be added to the lists of Alethi kings . . .
Renarin went eagerly to obey the order. He seemed to want something he could do.
He’s one of the Knights Radiant, Dalinar thought, watching him go. I’ll probably need to stop sending him on errands.
Storms. It was really happening.
Shallan had walked to the windows. Dalinar stepped up beside her. This was the eastern face of the tower, the flat edge that looked directly toward the Origin.
“Kaladin will only have time to save a few,” Shallan said. “If that many. There are four of us, Brightlord. Only four against a storm full of destruction . . .”
“It is what it is.”
“So many will die.”
“And we will save the ones we can,” Dalinar said. He turned to her. “Life before death, Radiant. It is the task to which we are now sworn.”
She pursed her lips, still looking eastward, but nodded. “Life before death, Radiant.”
“A blind man awaited the era of endings,” Wit said, “contemplating the beauty of nature.”
Silence.
“That man is me,” Wit noted. “I’m not physically blind, just spiritually. And that other statement was actually very clever, if you think about it.”
Silence.
“This is a lot more satisfying,” he said, “when I have intelligent life whom I can render awed, rapt with attention for my clever verbosity.”
The ugly lizard-crab-thing on the next rock over clicked its claw, an almost hesitant sound.
“You’re right, of course,” Wit said. “My usual audience isn’t particularly intelligent. That was also the obvious joke, however, so shame on you.”
The ugly lizard-crab-thing scuttled across its rock, moving onto the other side. Wit sighed. It was night, which was normally a good time for dramatic arrivals and meaningful philosophy. Unfortunately for him, there was nobody here upon which to philosophize or visit, dramatically or otherwise. A small river gurgled nearby, one of the few permanent waterways in this strange land. Extending in all directions were rolling hills, furrowed by passing water and grown over in the valleys with an odd kind of briar. Very few trees here, though farther west a true forest sprouted on the slopes down from the heights.
A couple of songlings made rattling sounds nearby, and he took out his pipes and tried to imitate them. He couldn’t, not exactly. The singing sounds were too like percussion, a zipping rattle—musical, but not flute-like.
Still, the creatures seemed to alternate with him, responding to his music. Who knew?