“They come from the pit, two dead men, a heart in their hands, and I know that I have seen true glory.”

—Kakashah 1173, 13 seconds pre-death. A rickshaw puller.

I couldn’t decide if you were interested or not,” Navani said softly to Dalinar as they slowly walked around the grounds of Elhokar’s raised field palace. “Half the time, you seemed like a flirt—offering hints at courtship, then backing away. The other half of the time, I was certain I had misread you. And Gavilar was so direct. He always did prefer to seize what he wished.”

Dalinar nodded thoughtfully. He wore his blue uniform, while Navani was in a subdued maroon dress with a thick hem. Elhokar’s gardeners had begun to cultivate the plant life here. To their right, a twisting length of yellow shalebark rose to waist height, like a railing. The stonelike plant was overgrown by small bunches of haspers with pearly shells slowly opening and closing as they breathed. They looked like tiny mouths, silently speaking in rhythm with one another.

Dalinar and Navani’s pathway took a leisurely course up the hillside. Dalinar strolled with hands clasped behind his back. His honor guard and Navani’s clerks followed behind. A few of them looked perplexed at the amount of time Dalinar and Navani were spending with one another. How many of them suspected the truth? All? Part? None? Did it matter?

“I didn’t mean to confuse you, all those years ago,” he said, voice soft to keep it from prying ears. “I had intended to court you, but Gavilar expressed a preference for you. So I eventually felt I had to step aside.”

“Just like that?” Navani asked. She sounded offended.

“He didn’t realize that I was interested. He thought that by introducing you to him, I was indicating that he should court you. That was often how our relationship worked; I would discover people Gavilar should know, then bring them to him. I didn’t realize until too late what I had done in giving you to him.”

“ ‘Giving’ me? Is there a slave’s brand on my forehead of which I’ve been unaware?”

“I did not mean—”

“Oh hush,” Navani said, her voice suddenly fond. Dalinar stifled a sigh; though Navani had matured since their youth, her moods always had changed as quickly as the seasons. In truth, that was part of her allure.

“Did you often step aside for him?” Navani asked.

“Always.”

“Didn’t that grow tiresome?”

“I didn’t think about it much,” Dalinar said. “When I did … yes, I was frustrated. But it was Gavilar. You know how he was. That force of will, that air of natural entitlement. It always seemed to surprise him when someone denied him or when the world itself didn’t do as he wished. He didn’t force me to defer—it was simply how life was.”

Navani nodded in understanding.

“Regardless,” Dalinar said, “I apologize for confusing you. I … well, I had difficulty letting go. I fear that—on occasion—I let too much of my true feelings slip out.”

“Well, I suppose I can forgive that,” she said. “Though you did spend the next two decades making certain I thought you hated me.”

“I did nothing of the sort!”

“Oh? And how else was I to interpret your coldness? The way you would often leave the room when I arrived?”

“Containing myself,” Dalinar said. “I had made my decision.”

“Well, it looked a lot like hatred,” Navani said. “Though I did wonder several times what you were hiding behind those stony eyes of yours. Of course, then Shshshsh came along.”

As always, when the name of his wife was spoken, it came to him as the sound of softly rushing air, then slipped from his mind immediately. He could not hear, or remember, the name.

“She changed everything,” Navani said. “You truly seemed to love her.”

“I did,” Dalinar said. Surely he had loved her. Hadn’t he? He could remember nothing. “What was she like?” He quickly added, “I mean, in your opinion. How did you see her?”

“Everyone loved Shshshsh,” Navani said. “I tried hard to hate her, but in the end, I could only be mildly jealous.”

“You? Jealous of her? Whatever for?”

“Because,” Navani said. “She fit you so well, never making inappropriate comments, never bullying those around her, always so calm.” Navani smiled. “Thinking back, I really should have been able to hate her. But she was just so nice. Though she wasn’t very … well …”

“What?” Dalinar asked.

“Clever,” Navani said. She blushed, which was rare for her. “I’m sorry, Dalinar, but she just wasn’t. She wasn’t a fool, but … well … not everyone can be cunning. Perhaps that was part of her charm.”

She seemed to think that Dalinar would be offended. “It’s all right,” he said. “Were you surprised that I married her?”

“Who could be surprised? As I said, she was perfect for you.”

“Because we were matched intellectually?” Dalinar said dryly.

“Hardly. But you were matched in temperament. For a time, after I got over trying to hate her, I thought that the four of us could be quite close. But you were so stiff toward me.”

“I could not allow any further … lapses to make you think that I was still interested.” He said the last part awkwardly. After all, wasn’t that what he was doing now? Lapsing?

Navani eyed him. “There you go again.”

“What?”

“Feeling guilty. Dalinar, you are a wonderful, honorable man—but you really are quite prone to self-indulgence.”

Guilt? As self-indulgence? “I never considered it that way before.”

She smiled deeply.

“What?” he asked.

“You really are genuine, aren’t you, Dalinar?”

“I try to be,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder. “Though the nature of our relationship continues to perpetuate a kind of lie.”

“We’ve lied to nobody. Let them think, or guess, what they wish.”

“I suppose you are right.”

“I usually am.” She fell silent for a moment. “Do you regret what we have—”

“No,” Dalinar said sharply, the strength of his objection surprising him. Navani just smiled. “No,” Dalinar continued, more gently. “I do not regret this, Navani. I don’t know how to proceed, but I am not going to let go.”

Navani hesitated beside a growth of small, fist-size rockbuds with their vines out like long green tongues. They were grouped almost like a bouquet, growing on a large oval stone placed beside the pathway.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask for you to not feel guilty,” Navani said. “Can’t you let yourself bend, just a little?”

“I’m not certain if I can. Particularly not now. Explaining why would be difficult.”

“Could you try to? For me?”

“I … Well, I’m a man of extremes, Navani. I discovered that when I was a youth. I’ve learned, repeatedly, that the only way to control those extremes is to dedicate my life to something. First it was Gavilar. Now it’s the Codes and the teachings of Nohadon. They’re the means by which I bind myself. Like the enclosure of a fire, meant to contain and control it.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m a weak man, Navani. I really am. If I give myself a few feet of leeway, I burst through all of my prohibitions. The momentum of following the Codes these years after Gavilar’s death is what keeps me strong. If I let a few cracks into that armor, I might return to the man I once was. A man I never want to be again.”

A man who had contemplated murdering his own brother for the throne—and for the woman who had married that brother. But he couldn’t explain that, didn’t dare let Navani know what his desire for her had once almost driven him to do.

On that day, Dalinar had sworn that he would never hold the throne himself. That was one of his restraints. Could he explain how she, without trying, pried at those restraints? How it was difficult to reconcile his long-fermenting love for her with his guilt at finally taking for himself what he’d long ago given up for his brother?

“You are not a weak man, Dalinar,” Navani said.

“I am. But weakness can imitate strength if bound properly, just as cowardice can imitate heroism if given nowhere to flee.”

“But there’s nothing in Gavilar’s book that prohibits us. It’s just tradition that—”

“It feels wrong,” Dalinar said. “But please, don’t worry; I do enough worrying for both of us. I will find a way to make this work; I just ask your understanding. It will take time. When I display frustration, it is not with you, but with the situation.”

“I suppose I can accept that. Assuming you can live with the rumors. They’re starting already.”

“They won’t be the first rumors to plague me,” he said. “I’m starting to worry less about them and more about Elhokar. How will we explain to him?”

“I doubt he’ll notice,” Navani said, snorting softly, resuming her walk. He followed. “He’s so fixated on the Parshendi and, occasionally, the idea that someone in camp is trying to kill him.”

“This might feed into that,” Dalinar said. “He could read a number of conspiracies out of the two of us entering a relationship.”

“Well, he—”

Horns began sounding loudly from below. Dalinar and Navani stopped to listen and identify the call.

“Stormfather,” Dalinar said. “That’s the Tower itself where a chasmfiend has been seen. It’s one of the plateaus Sadeas has been watching.” Dalinar felt a surge of excitement. “Highprinces have failed every time to win a gemheart there. It will be a major victory if he and I can do it together.”

Navani looked troubled. “You’re right about him, Dalinar. We do need him for our cause. But keep him at arm’s length.”

“Wish me the wind’s favor.” He reached toward her, but then stopped himself. What was he going to do? Embrace her here, in public? That would set off the rumors like fire across a pool of oil. He wasn’t ready for that yet. Instead, he bowed to her, then hastened off to answer the call and collect his Shardplate.

It wasn’t until he was halfway down the path that he paused to consider Navani’s choice of words. She had said “We need him” for “our cause.”

What was their cause? He doubted that Navani knew either. But she had already started to think of them as together in their efforts.

And, he realized, so did he.

The horns called, such a pure and beautiful sound to signify the imminence of battle. It caused a frenzy in the lumberyard. The orders had come down. The Tower was to be assaulted again—the very place where Bridge Four had failed, the place where Kaladin had caused a disaster.

Largest of the plateaus. Most coveted.

Bridgemen ran this way and that for their vests. Carpenters and apprentices rushed out of the way. Matal shouted orders; an actual run was the only time he did that without Hashal. Bridgeleaders, showing a modicum of leadership, bellowed for their teams to line up.

A wind whipped the air, blowing wood chips and bits of dried grass into the sky. Men yelled, bells rang. And into this chaos strode Bridge Four, Kaladin at their head. Despite the urgency, soldiers stopped, bridgemen gaped, carpenters and apprentices stilled.

Thirty-five men marched in rusty orange carapace armor, expertly crafted by Leyten to fit onto leather jerkins and caps. They’d cut off arm guards and shin guards to complement the breastplates. The helms were built from several different headpieces, and had been ornamented—at Leyten’s insistence—with ridges and cuts, like tiny horns or the edges of a crab’s shell. The breastplates and guards were ornamented as well, cut into toothlike patterns, each one reminiscent of a saw blade. Earless Jaks had bought blue and white paint and drawn designs across the orange armor.

Each member of Bridge Four carried a large wooden shield strapped—tightly now—with red Parshendi bones. Ribs, for the most part, shaped in spiral patterns. Some of the men had tied finger bones to the centers so they would rattle, and others had attached sharp protruding ribs to the sides of their helms, giving them the look of fangs or mandibles.

The onlookers watched with amazement. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen this armor, but this would be the first run where every man of Bridge Four had it. All together, it made an impressive sight.

Ten days, with six bridge runs, had allowed Kaladin and his team to perfect their method. Five men to be decoys with five more in the front holding shields and using only one arm to support the bridge. Their numbers were augmented by the wounded they’d saved from other crews, now strong enough to help carry.

So far—despite six bridge runs—there hadn’t been a single fatality. The other bridgemen were whispering about a miracle. Kaladin didn’t know about that. He just made certain to keep a full pouch of infused spheres with him at all times. Most of the Parshendi archers seemed to focus on him. Somehow, they could tell that he was the center of all this.

They reached their bridge and formed up, shields strapped to rods on the sides to await use. As they hefted their bridge, a spontaneous round of cheering rose up from the other crews.

“That’s new,” Teft said from Kaladin’s left.

“Guess they finally realized what we are,” Kaladin said.

“And what’s that?”

Kaladin settled the bridge onto his shoulders. “We’re their champions. Bridge forward!”

They broke into a trot, leading the way down from the staging yard, ushered by cheers.

My father is not insane, Adolin thought, alive with energy and excitement as his armorers strapped on his Shardplate.

Adolin had stewed over Navani’s revelation for days. He’d been wrong in such a horrible way. Dalinar Kholin wasn’t growing weak. He wasn’t getting senile. He wasn’t a coward. Dalinar had been right, and Adolin had been wrong. After much soul searching, Adolin had come to a decision.

He was glad that he’d been wrong.

He grinned, flexing the fingers of his Plated hand as the armorers moved to his other side. He didn’t know what the visions meant, or what the implications of those visions would be. His father was some kind of prophet, and that was daunting to consider.

But for now, it was enough that Dalinar was not insane. It was time to trust him. Stormfather knew, Dalinar had earned that right from his sons.

The armorers finished with Adolin’s Shardplate. As they stepped away, Adolin hurried out of the armoring room into the sunlight, adjusting to the combined strength, speed, and weight of the Shardplate. Niter and five other members of the Cobalt Guard hastened up, one bringing Sureblood to him. Adolin took the reins, but led the Ryshadium at first, wanting more time to adapt to his Plate.

They soon entered the staging area. Dalinar, in his Shardplate, was conferring with Teleb and Ilamar. He seemed to tower over them as he pointed eastward. Already, companies of soldiers were moving out onto the lip of the Plains.

Adolin strode up to his father, eager. In the near distance, he noticed a figure riding down along the eastern rim of the warcamps. The figure wore gleaming red Shardplate.

“Father?” Adolin said, pointing. “What’s he doing here? Shouldn’t he be waiting for us to ride to his camp?”

Dalinar looked up. He waved for a groom to bring Gallant, and the two of them mounted. They rode down to intercept Sadeas, trailed by a dozen members of the Cobalt Guard. Did Sadeas want to call off the assault? Was he worried about failing against the Tower again?

Once they drew close, Dalinar pulled up. “You should be moving, Sadeas. Speed will be important, if we’re to get to the plateau before the Parshendi take the gemheart and go.”

The highprince nodded. “Agreed, in part. But we need to confer first. Dalinar, this is the Tower we’re assaulting!” He seemed eager.

“Yes, and?”

“Damnation, man!” Sadeas said. “You’re the one who told me we needed to find a way to trap a large force of Parshendi on a plateau. The Tower is perfect. They always bring a large force there, and two sides are inaccessible.”

Adolin found himself nodding. “Yes,” he said. “Father, he’s right. If we can box them in and hit them hard …” The Parshendi normally fled when they took large losses. That was one of the things extending the war so long.

“It could mean a turning point in the war,” Sadeas said, eyes alight. “My scribes estimate that they have no more than twenty or thirty thousand troops left. The Parshendi will commit ten thousand here—they always do. But if we can corner and kill all of them, we could nearly destroy their ability to wage war on these Plains.”

“It’ll work, Father,” Adolin said eagerly. “This could be what we’ve been waiting for—what you’ve been waiting for. A way to turn the war, a way to deal enough damage to the Parshendi that they can’t afford to keep fighting!”

“We need troops, Dalinar,” Sadeas said. “Lots of them. How many men could you field, at maximum?”

“On short notice?” Dalinar said. “Eight thousand, perhaps.”

“It will have to do,” Sadeas said. “I’ve managed to mobilize about seven thousand. We’ll bring them all. Get your eight thousand to my camp, and we’ll take every one of my bridge crews and march together. The Parshendi will get there first—it’s inevitable with a plateau that close to their side—but if we can be fast enough, we can corner them on the plateau. Then we’ll show them what a real Alethi army is capable of!”

“I won’t risk lives on your bridges, Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “I don’t know that I can agree to a completely joint assault.”

“Bah,” Sadeas said. “I’ve got a new way of using bridgemen, one that doesn’t cost nearly as many lives. Their casualties have dropped to almost nothing.”

“Really?” Dalinar said. “Is it because of those bridgemen with armor? What made you change?”

Sadeas shrugged. “Perhaps you’re getting through to me. Regardless, we need to go now. Together. With as many troops as they’ll have, I can’t risk engaging them and waiting for you to catch up. I want to go together and assault as closely together as we can manage. If you’re still worried about the bridgemen, I can attack first and gain a foothold, then let you cross without risking bridgeman lives.”

Dalinar looked thoughtful.

Come on, Father, Adolin thought. You’ve been waiting for a chance to hit the Parshendi hard. This is it!

“Very well,” Dalinar said. “Adolin, send messengers to mobilize the Fourth through Eighth Divisions. Prepare the men to march. Let’s end this war.”

Map of the Battle of the Tower, drawn and labeled by Navani Kholin, circa 1173.