Adolin’s duel hadn’t started yet, and the men who fought right now were lighteyes, but not Shardbearers. Their dull-edged dueling swords were crusted with a white, chalklike substance. When one achieved a hit on the other’s padded armor, it would leave a visible mark.
“So, wait,” Sadeas said to him. “This man who wrote the book…”
“Nohadon is his holy name. Others call him Bajerden, though we’re not certain whether that was actually his real name or not.”
“He decided to walk from where to where?”
“Abamabar to Urithiru,” Dalinar said. “I think it must have been a great distance, from the way the story is told.”
“Wasn’t he a king?”
“Yes.”
“But why—”
“It’s confusing,” Dalinar said. “But listen. You’ll see.” He cleared his throat and continued. “‘I strode this insightful distance on my own, and forbade attendants. I had no steed beyond my well-worn sandals, no companion beside a stout staff to offer conversation with its beats against the stone. My mouth was to be my purse; I stuffed it not with gems, but with song. When singing for sustenance failed me, my arms worked well for cleaning a floor or hogpen, and often earned me a satisfactory reward.
“‘Those dear to me took fright for my safety and, perhaps, my sanity. Kings, they explained, do not walk like beggars for hundreds of miles. My response was that if a beggar could manage the feat, then why not a king? Did they think me less capable than a beggar?
“‘Sometimes I think that I am. The beggar knows much that the king can only guess. And yet who draws up the codes for begging ordinances? Often I wonder what my experience in life—my easy life following the Desolation, and my current level of comfort—has given me of any true experience to use in making laws. If we had to rely on what we knew, kings would only be of use in creating laws regarding the proper heating of tea and cushioning of thrones.’”
Sadeas frowned at this. In front of them, the two swordsmen continued their duel; Elhokar watched keenly. He loved duels. Bringing in sand to coat the floor of this arena had been one of his first acts at the Shattered Plains.
“‘Regardless,’” Dalinar said, still quoting from The Way of Kings, “‘I made the trip and—as the astute reader has already concluded—survived it. The stories of its excitements will stain a different page in this narrative, for first I must explain my purpose in walking this strange path. Though I was quite willing to let my family think me insane, I would not leave the same as my cognomen upon the winds of history.
“‘My family traveled to Urithiru via the direct method, and had been awaiting me for weeks when I arrived. I was not recognized at the gate, for my mane had grown quite robust without a razor to tame it. Once I revealed myself, I was carried away, primped, fed, worried over, and scolded in precisely that order. Only after all of this was through was I finally asked the purpose of my excursion. Couldn’t I have just taken the simple, easy, and common route to the holy city?’”
“Exactly,” Sadeas interjected. “He could at the very least have ridden a horse!”
“‘For my answer,’” Dalinar quoted, “‘I removed my sandals and proffered my callused feet. They were comfortable upon the table beside my half-consumed tray of grapes. At this point, the expressions of my companions proclaimed that they thought me daft, and so I explained by relating the stories of my trip. One after another, like stacked sacks of tallew, stored for the winter season. I would make flatbread of them soon, then stuff it between these pages.
“‘Yes, I could have traveled quickly. But all men have the same ultimate destination. Whether we find our end in a hallowed sepulcher or a pauper’s ditch, all save the Heralds themselves must dine with the Nightwatcher.
“‘And so, does the destination matter? Or is it the path we take? I declare that no accomplishment has substance nearly as great as the road used to achieve it. We are not creatures of destinations. It is the journey that shapes us. Our callused feet, our backs strong from carrying the weight of our travels, our eyes open with the fresh delight of experiences lived.
“‘In the end, I must proclaim that no good can be achieved of false means. For the substance of our existence is not in the achievement, but in the method. The Monarch must understand this; he must not become so focused on what he wishes to accomplish that he diverts his gaze from the path he must take to arrive there.’”
Dalinar sat back. The rock beneath them had been cushioned and augmented with wooden armrests and back supports. The duel ended with one of the lighteyes—wearing green, as he was subject to Sadeas—scoring a hit on the breastplate of the other, leaving a long white mark. Elhokar clapped his approval, gauntleted hands clanking, and both duelists bowed. The winner’s victory would be recorded by the women sitting in the judging seats. They also held the books of dueling code, and would adjudicate disputes or infractions.
“That is the end of your story, I presume,” Sadeas said, as the next two duelists walked out onto the sand.
“It is,” Dalinar said.
“And you have that entire passage memorized?”
“I likely got a few of the words wrong.”
“Knowing you, that means you might have forgotten a single ‘an’ or ‘the.’”
Dalinar frowned.
“Oh, don’t be so stiff, old friend,” Sadeas said. “That was a compliment. Of sorts.”
“What did you think of the story?” Dalinar asked as the dueling resumed.
“It was ridiculous,” Sadeas said frankly, waving for a servant to bring him some wine. Yellow, as it was yet morning. “He walked all that distance just to make the point that kings should consider the consequences of their commands?”
“It wasn’t just to prove the point,” Dalinar said. “I thought that myself, but I’ve begun to see. He walked because he wanted to experience the things his people did. He used it as a metaphor, but I think he really wanted to know what it was like to walk that far.”
Sadeas took a sip of his wine, then squinted up at the sun. “Couldn’t we get an awning or something set up out here?”
“I like the sun,” Elhokar said. “I spend too much time locked away in those caves we call buildings.”
Sadeas glanced at Dalinar, rolling his eyes.
“Much of The Way of Kings is organized like that passage I quoted you,” Dalinar said. “A metaphor from Nohadon’s life—a real event turned into an example. He calls them the forty parables.”
“Are they all so ridiculous?”
“I think this one is beautiful,” Dalinar said softly.
“I don’t doubt that you do. You always have loved sentimental stories.” He raised a hand. “That was also intended to be a compliment.”
“Of sorts?”
“Exactly. Dalinar, my friend, you always have been emotional. It makes you genuine. It can also get in the way of levelheaded thinking—but so long as it continues to prompt you to save my life, I think I can live with it.” He scratched his chin. “I suppose, by definition, I would have to, wouldn’t I?”
“I guess.”
“The other highprinces think you are self-righteous. Surely you can see why.”
“I…” What could he say? “I don’t mean to be.”
“Well, you do provoke them. Take, for example, the way you refuse to rise to their arguments or insults.”
“Protesting simply draws attention to the issue,” Dalinar said. “The finest defense of character is correct action. Acquaint yourself with virtue, and you can expect proper treatment from those around you.”
“You see, there,” Sadeas said. “Who talks like that?”
“Dalinar does,” Elhokar said, though he was still watching the dueling. “My father used to.”
“Precisely,” Sadeas said. “Dalinar, friend, the others simply cannot accept that the things you say are serious. They assume it must be an act.”
“And you? What do you think of me?”
“I can see the truth.”
“Which is?”
“That you are a self-righteous prude,” Sadeas said lightly. “But you come by it honestly.”
“I’m certain you mean that to be a compliment too.”
“Actually, this time I’m just trying to annoy you.” Sadeas raised his cup of wine to Dalinar.
To the side, Elhokar grinned. “Sadeas. That was quite nearly clever. Shall I have to name you the new Wit?”
“What happened to the old one?” Sadeas’s voice was curious, even eager, as if hoping to hear that tragedy had befallen Wit.
Elhokar’s grin became a scowl. “He vanished.”
“Is that so? How disappointing.”
“Bah.” Elhokar waved a gauntleted hand. “He does this on occasion. He’ll return eventually. Unreliable as Damnation itself, that one. If he didn’t make me laugh so, I’d have replaced him seasons ago.”
They fell silent, and the dueling continued. A few other lighteyes—both women and men—watched, seated on the benchlike ridges. Dalinar noted with discomfort that Navani had arrived, and was chatting with a group of women, including Adolin’s latest infatuation, the auburn-haired scribe.
Dalinar’s eyes lingered on Navani, drinking in her violet dress, her mature beauty. She’d recorded his most recent visions without complaint, and seemed to have forgiven him for throwing her out of his rooms so sharply. She never mocked him, never acted skeptical. He appreciated that. Should he thank her, or would she see that as an invitation?
He averted his gaze from her, but found that he couldn’t watch the dueling swordsmen without catching sight of her in the corner of his eye. So, instead, he glanced up into the sky, squinting against the afternoon sun. The sounds of metal hitting metal came from below. Behind him, several large snails clung to the rock, waiting for highstorm water.
He had so many questions, so many uncertainties. He listened to The Way of Kings and worked to discover what Gavilar’s last words had meant. As if, somehow, they held the key to both his madness and the nature of the visions. But the truth was that he didn’t know anything, and he couldn’t rely on his own decisions. That was unhinging him, bit by bit, point by point.
Clouds seemed less frequent here, in these windswept plains. Just the blazing sun broken by the furious highstorms. The rest of Roshar was influenced by the storms—but here in the East, the feral, untamed highstorms ruled supreme. Could any mortal king hope to claim these lands? There were legends of them being inhabited, of there being more than just unclaimed hills, desolate plains, and overgrown forests. Natanatan, the Granite Kingdom.
“Ah,” Sadeas said, sounding as if he’d tasted something bitter. “Did he have to come?”
Dalinar lowered his head and followed Sadeas’s gaze. Highprince Vamah had arrived to watch the dueling, retinue in tow. Though most of them wore his traditional brown and grey colorings, the highprince himself wore a long grey coat that had slashes cut across it to reveal the bright red and orange silk underneath, matched by the ruffles peeking out of the cuffs and collar.