I have been fascinated to discover how much you’ve accomplished on Scadrial without me noticing your presence. How is it that you hide from Shards so well?

Choosing an outfit for the day was a lot like fighting a duel. In both, instincts—rather than conscious decisions—were the key to victory. Adolin didn’t often fret about what to wear; nor did he plan each strike of the sword. He went with what felt right.

The real trick in both cases was making the effort to build your instincts. You couldn’t parry a thrust with muscle memory if you hadn’t spent years practicing those maneuvers. And you couldn’t rely on your gut in fashion choices if you hadn’t already spent hours studying the folios.

That said, once in a while your instincts locked up. Even he sometimes hesitated in a duel, uncertain. And similarly, some days he simply couldn’t decide upon the right jacket.

Adolin stood in his underclothing as he held up the first jacket. Traditional: Kholin blue with white cuffs. Bold white embroidery, with his glyphs—the tall tower and a stylized version of his Blade—on the back. It made him easy to see in battle. It was also boring.

He glanced at the trendy yellow jacket on his bed. He’d ordered that tailored after the fashions he’d seen in Kholinar. It didn’t fully button closed, and it had silver embroidery up the sides and covering the pocket and cuffs. Storms, it was bold. Daring. A bright yellow outfit? Most men couldn’t ever have pulled it off.

Adolin could. Walk into a feast wearing something like this, and you would own everyone’s attention. Look confident, and at the next feast half the men would be trying to imitate you.

He wasn’t going to a feast though. He was starting out on an important mission into Shadesmar. He began rifling through his bureau again.

Shallan strolled in as he tossed three more jackets onto the bed. She wore Veil’s clothing—trousers, long loose jacket, a buttoned shirt. At his suggestion she’d replaced the white trousers and jacket with a more practical tan and blue ensemble. White wouldn’t travel well; she wanted something more rugged, something that wouldn’t show the dirt. Blue and tan matched her white hat, though he’d added a leather band around the base of the crown.

Clothing notwithstanding, she wasn’t Veil today—not with the red hair. Plus, he could usually tell by the way she looked at him. It had been three days since she’d chosen her members for the team, but it was only today that they were finally ready to leave.

Shallan leaned against the door, folding her arms and surveying his work. “You know,” she said, “a girl could get jealous over how much attention you give a choice like this.”

“Jealous?” Adolin said. “Of jackets?”

“Of the one you’re wearing them for.”

“I doubt you have anything to worry about from a group of stuffy old honorspren.”

“I don’t have anything to worry about regardless,” Shallan said. “But you’re not fussing today because of the honorspren. We won’t meet them for a few weeks at best.”

“I’m not fussing. I’m strategizing.” He tossed another jacket onto the bed. No. Too outdated. “Don’t give me that look. Are we ready?”

“Pattern’s run off to say goodbye to Wit for some reason,” she said. “Said it was very important—but I suspect that he’s misunderstood some joke Wit made. Other than waiting on him, everything is ready. We just need you.”

Supplies were gathered, transportation secured, and traveling companions chosen. Adolin had packed for the trip quickly and efficiently, and his trunks were already loaded. Those choices had been easy. But today’s jacket …

“So…” Shallan said. “Shall I tell them two more hours or three?”

“I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,” he promised, checking the fabrial clock set in the leather bracer Aunt Navani had given him. Then he eyed Shallan. “Maybe thirty.”

“I’ll tell them an hour,” Shallan said, with a grin. She trailed out, tossing her satchel over her shoulder.

Adolin put his hands on his hips and surveyed his options. None of them were right. What was he looking for?

Wait. Of course.

He emerged from his room a few minutes later wearing a uniform he hadn’t put on in years. It was Kholin blue, still a military outfit, but cut for a more relaxed fit. Though not specifically trendy, it had a more stylized set of glyphs on the back and thicker cuffs and collar than a standard uniform.

Many would have simply assumed it to be an ordinary Kholin uniform. Adolin had designed it himself four years earlier. He’d wanted to create something that would look sharp while satisfying his father’s requirements to be in uniform. The project had excited him for weeks; it had been his first—and only—real attempt at clothing design.

The first day he’d worn it, Dalinar had chewed him out. So it had gone into the trunk, tucked away. Forgotten.

Father probably still wouldn’t approve, but these days Dalinar didn’t approve of Adolin in general. So what was the harm? He replaced his arm bracer, strapped on his side sword, and entered the hallway. Then he hesitated.

Shallan had given him an hour, and there was something else Adolin wanted to check off his list before leaving. So he turned the other direction and climbed the steps toward the sixth floor.

*   *   *

Adolin was surprised to find a line at the clinic. The sixth floor wasn’t particularly well populated, but news had apparently spread. None of the waiting patients seemed too unfortunate—children cradling scrapes, with hovering parents nearby. A line of women with coughs or aches. Anything serious would warrant the attention of an Edgedancer or a Truthwatcher.

Some bowed to Adolin as he slipped into the front room, where Kaladin’s mother was greeting each patient and recording their symptoms. She smiled at Adolin, holding up two fingers, and waved him down the hallway beyond.

Adolin went that direction. The first room he passed had the door cracked, revealing Kaladin’s father seeing a young man. A town girl stood next to him, reading aloud the notes Lirin’s wife had taken.

The second room along the hallway was a similar—but empty—exam room. Adolin slipped in, and Kaladin entered a few minutes later, drying his hands on a cloth. It was odd to see him in simple brown trousers and a white buttoned shirt—in fact, had Adolin ever seen Kaladin out of uniform? Honestly … Adolin had assumed the man slept in the thing. Yet here he was, with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his shoulder-length hair pulled back into a tail.

Kaladin stopped when he saw Adolin. “You can go to your brother for healing, Adolin. I have real patients that need help.”

Adolin ignored the comment and glanced out into the hallway, looking toward the waiting room. “You’re a popular fellow, bridgeboy.”

“I’m convinced half of them are here to get a peek at me,” Kaladin said, with a sigh. He tied on a white surgeon’s apron. “I fear my notoriety could overshadow the clinic’s purpose.”

Adolin chuckled. “Be careful. Now that I’ve vacated the position, you’re Alethkar’s most eligible bachelor. Shardbearer, Radiant, Landed, and single? I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that half the young ladies in the kingdom are suddenly coming down with headaches.…” He trailed off as he noticed Kaladin’s frown.

“It’s already happened, hasn’t it!” Adolin said, pointing.

“I … had wondered why so many lighteyed women suddenly needed medication,” he said. “I’d thought that maybe their personal surgeons had been recruited into the war.…” He glanced at Adolin, then blushed.

“You can be deliciously naive sometimes, Kal,” Adolin said. “You need to use this angle. Work it.”

“That would betray the ethics of the surgeon-patient relationship,” Kaladin said, closing the door—preventing Adolin from counting the suspiciously well-dressed young women in the waiting room. “Have you come to torment me, or is there an actual purpose behind this visit?”

“I just wanted to check on you,” Adolin said. “See how retirement is going.”

Kaladin shrugged. He walked over to begin arranging the medications and bandages on the shelf, where sphere lanterns glowed with a pure white light.

Syl winked into existence beside Adolin’s head, forming from luminous mist, as if she were a Shardblade. “This is good for him,” she said, leaning in. “He’s actually relaxing for once.”

“There aren’t many serious cases,” Kaladin said, his back to them. “It can be grueling with so many people in line, but … it isn’t as tense as I worried it would be.”

“It’s working,” Syl continued, landing on Adolin’s shoulder. “His parents are always around, so he’s almost never alone. He still has nightmares, but I think he’s getting more sleep.”

Adolin watched Kaladin fold bandages, then noticed how Kaladin glanced at the surgery knives laid out in a row. He shouldn’t keep them out like that, should he?

Adolin made a sudden motion, standing up straight from where he’d been leaning against the door, his feet scraping the stone. Kaladin immediately reached for the knives, then glanced back, and—seeing nothing was wrong—relaxed.

Adolin walked over and put his hand on Kaladin’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “It chases us all. Including me, Kal.” He fished in his pocket, then brought out a metal disc about an inch across. He held it toward Kaladin. “I dropped by to give you this.”

“What is it?” Kaladin asked, taking the disc. One side was engraved with a picture of a divine figure in robes, while the other side bore the same figure in battle gear. Both were surrounded by strange foreign glyphs. It had been coated with some colored enamel at one point, but that had mostly worn off.

“Zahel gave it to me when I finished my training with him,” Adolin said. “Says it’s from his homeland—they use these things as money. Weird, eh?”

“Why don’t they use spheres?”

“Maybe they don’t have enough gemstones? He’s from somewhere to the west. He doesn’t look like a foreigner though, so I’m guessing it must be Bavland.”

“This side might be a Herald,” Kaladin said, squinting at the strange glyphs. “What does it say?”

“‘War is the last option of the state that has failed,’” Adolin said, tapping the side with the divine robed figure. He pushed it to spin it in Kaladin’s fingers, showing the other side. “‘But it is better than having no options.’”

“Huh,” Kaladin said.

“Zahel told me,” Adolin said, “that he always considered himself a coward for training soldiers. He said that if he truly believed in stopping war, he’d walk away from the sword completely. Then he gave me the disc, and I knew he understood. In a perfect world, no one would have to train for battle. We don’t live in a perfect world.”

“How does this relate to me?” Kaladin asked.

“Well, there’s no shame in you taking time away from the sword. Maybe permanently. All the same, I know you enjoy it.”

“I shouldn’t enjoy killing,” Kaladin said softly. “I shouldn’t even enjoy the fight. I should hate it like my father does.”

“You can hate killing and enjoy the contest,” Adolin said. “Plus there are practical reasons to keep your skills up. Take these months to relax. When I return though, let’s find a chance to spar together again, all right? I want you to see what I see in duels. It’s not about hurting others. It’s about being your best.”

“I … don’t know if I can ever think like you do,” Kaladin said. He wrapped his fist around the metal disc. “But thank you. I’ll keep the offer in mind.”

Adolin clapped him on the shoulder, then glanced toward Syl. “I need to be off into Shadesmar. Any last tips for me?”

“Be careful, Adolin,” she said, flitting up into the air. “My kind aren’t like highspren—we don’t look to laws, but to morality, as our guide.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Adolin said.

“It is … unless you happen to disagree with their interpretation of morality. My kind can be very difficult to persuade with logic, because for us … well, what we feel can often be more important to us than what we think. We’re spren of honor, but remember, honor is—even to us—what humans and spren define it to be. Particularly with our god dead.”

Adolin nodded. “Right, then. Kal, don’t let anyone burn the tower down while I’m away.”

“You should have been the surgeon, Adolin,” Kaladin said. “Not me. You care about people.”

“Don’t be silly,” Adolin said, pulling open the door as he gestured at Kaladin’s work clothing. “I could never dress like that.” He left Kaladin with a wink.

*   *   *

Adolin strode out the front gate of Urithiru’s imposing tower and entered the chill air of the plateau. He was a full six minutes early. Handy, the way Aunt Navani’s device let him time himself—if everyone had clocks, he’d spend way less time waiting around at winehouses for his friends to arrive.

The broad plain in front of him—too smooth to be natural—stretched like a roadway toward the mountain peaks in the distance. Ten perfectly circular platforms rose from the sides of the plateau, with ramps leading up to each. These Oathgates were portals to places around the world. Currently only four functioned: the ones to the Shattered Plains, Thaylenah, Jah Keved, and Azir.

A group had gathered on the platform leading to the Shattered Plains, but they wouldn’t travel to that destination. This was just the gate where Adolin’s team would enter Shadesmar. His breath puffing before him, Adolin jogged over to the ramp, where his armorers were packing his Shardplate in its traveling chest, cushioned with straw. Though the stuff was as hard as stone, they always took the utmost care with it. There was a certain reverence due to a Shard.

“It’s not going to make the transfer, Brightlord,” one armorer warned him. “When you go to Shadesmar, it will be left behind on the platform. It’s been tested on several suits already.”

“My armor might act differently,” Adolin said. “I want to be sure. If it does fail to make the trip, send it along with Father and his expeditionary force. He’ll lend it to Fisk, to complement his Blade.”

The armorers saluted. Nearby, a few other stragglers were hurrying up the slope to the Oathgate—including Shallan’s newest agent, a tall Alethi woman with excellent taste in dresses. She carried a pack over her shoulder, but … she wasn’t going on the trip, was she?

“Beryl?” Adolin called to her as she passed. “Wasn’t Stargyle chosen to make this journey?”

“Oh, Brightlord!” the darkeyed woman said. “Stargyle’s wife has come down with a sickness. He wants to stay with her, so we decided I should go instead.”

Huh. He nodded absently as the woman hurried up the slope. Shallan had seemed very particular about whom she wanted to bring. Hopefully this hadn’t upset her plans.

Well, nothing to do about it. He stepped over to a tall black horse standing at the ready. Gallant was surrounded by Adolin’s grooms, who were preparing to strap equipment to the horse’s back—including Adolin’s weapons and his trunk of clothing. The horse should have been loaded already. Adolin stepped up to the Ryshadium and stared into his watery blue eyes—which, if he looked closely, had a faint swirl of rainbow colors to them.

The horse glanced at the pack straps the porters were affixing onto his back; they required stools to get high enough.

“What?” Adolin asked.

The horse blew out, then glared at the straps again.

“You think because we’re royalty, we’re above doing a little labor?” Adolin pointed at the horse, meeting his eyes. “It’s like Father always says. Never be unwilling to do something you might ask another to do for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a palafruit. “Here.”

The horse turned away.

“Fine,” Adolin said. “I’ll have them saddle up one of the common horses instead. Leave you behind.”

Gallant turned back to him, glaring. Then, reluctantly, the horse ate the palafruit and spat out the pit. Adolin rubbed him on the muzzle, then patted his neck. Nearby one of the grooms watched, baffled, until one of the others nudged him.

“I talk to my sword too,” Adolin told them. “Funny thing is, she eventually talked back. Never be afraid to show a little respect to those you depend upon, friends.”

The two grooms scuttled away as two workmen hitched Adolin’s armor boxes into place on one side of the horse.

“Thank you,” Adolin said to Gallant. “For being with me. I know you’d rather be with Father.”

The horse blew out, then reached his muzzle into Adolin’s hand. Ryshadium chose their riders; they were not broken or trained. They accepted you, or they did not—and it was very rare for one to allow two riders.

Father loved his horse, he really did. But he was so busy with meetings these days, and Gallant seemed so forlorn. Abandoned, just a little. And well … Adolin had his own loss he was dealing with. So it had seemed a natural pairing, one that over the months had become more and more strong.

The grooms finished with the armor trunks, and then hooked Adolin’s clothing trunk on the other side. That wasn’t nearly as heavy as the Plate, so to weight that side roughly equal, a worker approached with a long box. Adolin stopped him, wanting to do one last check. He knelt to undo the latches and peeked inside.

“Storms,” a voice said. “Pardon, Brightlord, but how many swords do you need?”

Adolin grinned up at Godeke the Edgedancer, who was leading his horse nearby. The slender man wore his hair cropped short, though he wasn’t technically an ardent any longer, and so didn’t need to shave it. Beyond him, Zu—the team’s Stoneward—was lifting her pack onto her back. The golden-haired woman continually complained about the cold, and huddled in a coat several sizes too large.

“Well,” Adolin said to Godeke, “you can never have too many swords. Besides, no Shardblades can enter Shadesmar, so a man must be prepared.”

“You’re wearing a sword.”

“This?” Adolin said, patting his side sword. “Oh sure, this is better than nothing, but I’d hate to be caught with just it and no buckler. Besides, I’ve trained to duel mostly on longswords and greatswords.” He pulled his greatsword out of his arms box; the long weapon was intended to be used two-handed. It wasn’t as long as some Shardblades, of course, nor as wide.

“I don’t … know how much dueling you’ll be doing, Brightlord.”

“Obviously,” Adolin said. “That’s why I need these others.” He handed it to the groom. “Fix its scabbard to Gallant’s left shoulder, its guard in line with the saddle.” To Godeke, he continued, “See here, a hand-and-a-half sword for use with or without my shield. A nice swordstaff for horseback—I can screw in this piece to make it longer…”

“I see.”

“Here, this is an Emuli kusu,” Adolin said, holding up the long curved sword. “Great for slicing and cutting, especially when doing ride-by charges. Easier to withdraw the blade and better against someone unarmored. And here, I need this Veden house sword if we end up fighting against mail.…”

“I should be—”

“Don’t forget Shardbearers,” Adolin said, hefting a warhammer. It looked small, almost like a workman’s hammer with a longer handle—so tiny compared to the massive Shardbearers’ hammers wielded by men in Plate. He didn’t want to make Gallant haul one of those on their trip. “Need this if I end up being forced to crack some Plate—the swords will simply break, except maybe the house sword. Might be able to get that through a crack, once the armor is weakened.”

“I really—”

“And here, see this one?” He pulled out a unique triangular weapon, gripped at the base with a kind of handle instead of a true hilt. “Thaylen gtet. I’ve always wanted to train with one of these. Figured I might get some practice in.”

Godeke waved to someone farther up the ramp, then hastily said farewell before hiking off, tugging his horse after him. Adolin grinned, then had the workers hang a few more weapons from the horse’s saddle. Gallant tapped his hooves with what seemed to be satisfaction, happier to be outfitted with proper weapons and not just luggage. The workers affixed the box with the rest in place.

“You seem almost pleased,” Zu said, strolling over in her oversized coat. “To not be able to use Shardblades, I mean.”

Adolin hadn’t spoken to the woman much; he hadn’t realized how good her Alethi was. Apparently her people had turned her out when her powers had first manifested several years ago—they hadn’t realized she was a Radiant, and had thought her cursed by some strange god whose name Adolin hadn’t recognized.

The Iriali fought for the enemy now, but Dalinar didn’t turn away anyone who came asking for asylum—particularly if they’d said Radiant oaths.

“Well,” Adolin said, “I wouldn’t say happy. A Shardblade is the superior weapon. No amount of specialization for the situation can make up for the ability to slice through your opponent’s weapons, armor, even body as if they were water. I love wielding mine in duels; there’s just a part of me that regrets that it makes other weapons obsolete.”

“I disagree,” Zu said, summoning her Blade. “Why would you ever regret the existence of one of these?” It appeared in her hand upon her command, forming from mist. She preferred a slender Blade, even longer than his father’s, with a wicked curve to it.

Adolin stood up, breathing heat into his hands as Merit began leading the pack animals up the ramp onto the Oathgate platform. Adolin glanced at Gallant; the horse clopped off to follow, needing no bridle or rope to guide him.

Zu waved her sword overhead slowly in a kind of kata that caught the sun. It transformed in her hands, becoming smaller and shorter—like his side sword—then became straight, with a tip for thrusting. The fact that living Shardblades could change shapes explained a lot to Adolin.

The ancient Shardblades—the dead ones that most Shardbearers used—were locked, apparently into the last shape they’d held. Most were massive things, not clunky—a Shardblade could never be clunky—but also not particularly well suited to most battlefield actions. They were light, yes, but the size could be unwieldy nonetheless.

Modern Radiants preferred functional weapons when actually fighting. However, when they wanted to show off, they created something majestic and otherworldly—something that was less about practicality and more about awe. That indicated most Shardblades, his own included, had practical forms—but had been abandoned in their more showy styles.

“I didn’t mean to imply there’s not art to a Shardblade,” Adolin told Zu. “I truly love Shardblade duels. I just love finding the best weapon for the job. And when that answer isn’t always the same sword, it’s more satisfying.”

“You should become a Radiant,” she said. “Then your sword would always be the right weapon for the job.”

“As if it were that easy,” Adolin said. “Just become a Radiant.”

His equipment seen to, Adolin did a quick head count. Six of his soldiers were coming as guards and workers—darkeyed men specifically chosen because they had good heads on their shoulders. Adolin didn’t pick the best duelists; he chose men who could cook and do laundry in the field. Most importantly, he needed men who wouldn’t balk at oddities.

Felt was the best of them, an older foreign man, one of Dalinar’s friends from the early days. He was steady and reliable, and had training as a scout. Merit was a groom, and Urad was an excellent hunter, should they need to forage. Adolin wasn’t certain how useful that would be in Shadesmar, but best to be prepared.

Felt’s wife, Malli, worked in the quartermaster’s office, and was along to act as a scribe. No actual servants, though Shallan’s three Lightweavers did odd jobs for her.

That left the three full Radiants. Godeke and Zu he’d already checked on. Asking around, Adolin found that their final Radiant—a Tashikki woman—had returned to the tower to check on something. So he idled near the ramp, waiting until he saw her crossing the plateau.

The woman had to be in her seventies, with dark brown furrowed skin and silver hair. She was slender, but not frail. Adolin suspected from her firm step that she relied on Stormlight to strengthen her. Though he’d seen her wearing a Tashikki wrap in the tower before, today she wore rugged traveling clothing and a shawl over her hair, with a pack slung over one shoulder. As she approached, Adolin reached to help her carry it, but she tightened her fingers.

She didn’t speak much Alethi, but most of the spren were able to speak several human languages. He wasn’t certain if it was an aspect of their nature, or if they simply lived so long that they ended up picking up multiple languages.

Either way, the spren could translate if necessary, and Adolin really did want to bring a Truthwatcher. They had once been well-regarded by the honorspren. Though the woman’s name was Arshqqam, everyone called her the Stump—a nickname that Lift had spread, he believed. Arshqqam had mentioned she was fond of the name, and the way she strode—unbowed by age, insisting on carrying her own things—gave him an inkling of where the moniker had come from.

With her arrival, the entire expedition was accounted for. A half dozen pack animals weren’t many for fifteen people. Normally he’d have expected that many animals for just the food, plus some wagons carrying stormbarrels that could be chained down to catch rainwater. Fortunately, this group had Shallan’s Lightweavers to provide food and water through Soulcasting.

As Adolin crossed the platform, he passed the queen standing—as always—with Wit at her shoulder. She, Dalinar, and Taravangian were the only monarchs at the tower today, and they’d all come to see off the expedition. Jasnah was supervising Ishnah and Vathah, two of Shallan’s agents, determining for herself if they were capable.

Adolin lingered as Vathah knelt beside a large block of obsidian. The glassy stone had been mined in Shadesmar and brought through for the test. Vathah’s hand sank into the block, and then the structure of the obsidian changed—in the blink of an eye, the rock transformed into grain. Kind of. What Vathah made was a large square lump of hardened lavis pulp, not individual seeds like some advanced Soulcasters could make. They could cut off chunks, cook it to mush. It wasn’t tasty, but it was hearty and healthy.

Do they know? Adolin wondered. How much Jasnah sees them as tools? For centuries the Alethi Soulcasting devices—limited though they were—had given his kingdom an unparalleled edge in battle. Now, Lightweavers were Soulcasting and didn’t seem to suffer the same ill effects as users of the devices.

Adolin could see deeper motives in the months Jasnah had spent training Shallan and her agents. Though Shallan wanted her team to become spies, Jasnah seemed to see their powers of illusion as a distant second to their ability to feed armies.

Hopefully the cache of Soulcasting devices found in Aimia would relieve some of that pressure. Shallan watched from the near distance, sitting on a supply box, her expression unreadable. Though by far the most talented at illusions among her people, Shallan’s own abilities in Soulcasting had proven … erratic. Adolin had peeked in on her sessions to see only occasional lumps of grain. Other times, she accidentally created twisted things: flames, sometimes pools of blood, once a translucent crystal.

Jasnah had finally, after eight months of work, officially released Shallan from her wardship. And Shallan truly had earned that release. She’d gone to lessons, memorized the works of scholars, and acted as the perfect ward. Though mastery of Soulcasting eluded her, she had improved over the year.

Jasnah dismissed the two agents, who hastened to join the others. Adolin found himself growing anxious as everyone gathered around the small building at the center of the platform. Not that he had any reason. It was just that it had been months since he’d last visited Shadesmar.

Dalinar stepped up to the group and waited for everyone to quiet. He would want to speak, of course. Adolin’s father could turn anything into an excuse for an inspirational speech.

“I commend your bravery,” Dalinar said to the gathered people. “Know that you go representing not only me, but the entire coalition. With you go the hopes of millions.

“The realm you traverse will be alien and at times hostile. Do not forget that it once held allies, and their fortresses welcomed men with open arms. Your task is to rekindle those ancient alliances, as we have re-formed the ancient bond between nations. Know that you take with you my utmost confidence.”

Not bad, Adolin thought. At least it was short. Adolin’s six men cheered as expected. The Radiants applauded politely, which generally wasn’t the response that one of Dalinar’s rousing speeches received. He continued to treat them like soldiers, though most of the Radiants here today had never been in the military. Shallan was a country lighteyes and scholar turned spy; the Stump had run an orphanage; Godeke had been an ardent. So far as Adolin knew, Zu was the only one who had held anything resembling a weapon before saying her oaths.

Jasnah said a few words, and so did Taravangian. Adolin listened with half an ear, wondering if Taravangian found it odd that the expedition wasn’t taking any Dustbringers. No one had spoken the reason, but it was obvious to Adolin. The Dustbringers didn’t serve Dalinar, at least not loyally enough for his taste.

At the end of the speeches, the members of the expedition began squeezing into the small control building, leading the horses in as well. There might be some way to bring everyone on the platform into Shadesmar, but so far they’d been limited to people standing in the small control building.

Adolin waved for Shallan to go in first without him. Jasnah, Taravangian, and Wit began to retreat across the platform with their attendants. Soon, Adolin and Dalinar stood facing one another, alone outside the building.

A snort broke the air. Gallant had lingered, refusing the grooms who tried to coax him into the building with fruit. Dalinar broke his stern posture and patted the horse on the neck. “Thank you,” he said to Adolin, “for caring for him these last months. I don’t get much time for riding these days.”

“We both know how busy you are, Father.”

“That’s a new uniform,” Dalinar said to him. “Better than some you’ve been wearing lately.”

“That’s amusing,” Adolin said. “Four years ago when I last wore this, you called it disgraceful.”

Dalinar stiffened, lowering his hand from Gallant’s neck. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and stood tall. So storming tall. Sometimes Adolin’s father was more like a Soulcast statue than a person.

“I guess … we’ve both become more lax over the years,” Dalinar said.

“I think I’ve stayed the same person,” Adolin said. “I’m just more willing to let you be disappointed by that person.”

“Son,” Dalinar said, “I’m not disappointed in you.”

“Aren’t you? Can you say that truthfully, with an oath?”

Dalinar fell silent. “I merely want you to be the best man you can be,” he finally said. “A better man than I was at your age. I know that’s the person you really are. And I want you to represent me well. Is that such a terrible thing?”

“I don’t represent you anymore, Father. I’m a highprince. I represent myself. Is that such a terrible thing?”

Dalinar sighed. “Don’t go down this road, son. Do not let my failings drive you to rebel against what you know is right, merely because it’s what I wish of you.”

“I’m not—” Adolin made fists, trying to squeeze out his frustration. “I’m not simply rebelling, Father. I’m not fourteen anymore.”

“No. When you were fourteen you looked up to me for some reason.” Dalinar glanced after the departing figures, growing small on the platform. “You see Taravangian out there? Do you know how he sees the world? Any cost, any price, is worth paying if what you want to achieve is—in the end—worthy.

“Follow him, and you’ll be able to justify anything. Lying to your soldiers? Necessary, to get them to do their work. Gathering wealth? You need it to further your important goals. Killing innocents? All to forge a stronger nation.” He eyed Adolin. “Murdering a man in a back alley, then lying about it? Well, the world is better off without him. In fact, there are a lot of people this world could do without. Let’s start removing them quietly.…”

Maybe I murdered Sadeas, Adolin thought. But at least I never killed anyone innocent. At least I didn’t burn my own wife to death.

There it was. The seething knot deep inside him, the one Adolin didn’t dare touch lest it burn him. He knew Dalinar had been a different man then. A man not in his right mind, betrayed, consumed by the power of one of the Unmade. Besides, Dalinar hadn’t killed Adolin’s mother on purpose.

One could know these things without feeling them. And this. Wasn’t. Something. You. Forgave.

Adolin shoved that furious knot down and didn’t let it rule him, ignoring the angerspren at his feet. He said nothing to his father. He didn’t trust the anger, the frustration, and—yes—the shame churning within. If he opened his mouth, one of the three might come out, but he couldn’t say which.

“You either believe as Taravangian does,” Dalinar said, “or you accept the better path: that your actions define you more than your intentions. That your goals and the journey used to attain them must align. I’m trying to stop you before you do some things you will truly, sincerely regret.”

“And if I think the actions I’ve taken are worthy?” Adolin said.

“Then perhaps we need to consider that my training of you in your youth was faulty. That is not surprising. I was not exactly the best of examples.”

It’s about you again, Adolin thought. I can’t have an opinion or make choices—I’m only acting like this because of your influence.

Kelek, Jezerezeh, and Heralds above! Adolin loved his father. Even now, with everything he’d learned about what Dalinar had done. Even with … that event. He loved his father. He loved that Dalinar tried so hard, and he had become someone far better than he’d once been.

But Damnation. This last year, Adolin had begun to realize how difficult it could be to live around the man.

“Maybe,” Adolin said, calming himself with effort. “Maybe—incredible though it may seem—there are more than two choices in life. I’m not you, but that doesn’t mean I’m Taravangian. Maybe I’m my own brand of wrong.”

Dalinar rested his hand on Adolin’s shoulder. It should have been comforting, but Adolin couldn’t help but see it as a way to control the conversation. To put himself in the position of father, and Adolin squarely into his role as whining child.

“Son,” Dalinar said, “I believe in you. Go, succeed on this mission. Convince the honorspren that we’re worthy of them. Prove to them that we have men waiting to take up the oaths and soar.”

Adolin glanced at his father’s hand on his shoulder, then met the man’s eyes. There was something in those words …

“You want me to become one of them, don’t you?” Adolin said. “Part of the purpose of this trip, in your eyes, is for me to become a Radiant!”

“Your brother is worthy,” Dalinar said, “and your father—against his best efforts—has proven worthy. I’m sure you will prove yourself too.”

As if I didn’t have enough burdens.

Complaints died on Adolin’s lips—complaints that there were likely thousands of worthy people in the world and not all of them would be chosen. Complaints that he was fine with his life and didn’t need to live up to some spren’s ideals.

Instead, Adolin simply bowed his head and nodded. Dalinar won the argument. The Blackthorn was unaccustomed to anything else. It wasn’t that Adolin agreed, but more that he didn’t know what to think, and that was the real problem. He couldn’t stand up to his father with maybes.

Dalinar clapped him on the shoulder with his other hand and wished him farewell. Adolin walked Gallant into the chamber—highprince, leader of the expedition, and somehow still a little boy.

It was crowded inside with the horses. These circular control buildings had a rotating inner wall, along with murals on the floor indicating various locations. Normally in order to initiate a swap, a Radiant used their Shardblade as a key to rotate the inner wall to the proper point.

Today, Shallan did something different. At a nod from him, she summoned her Shardblade and fit it into the keyhole on the wall. Then she kept pushing, her sword melting out like a silvery puddle on the wall, the hilt flowing like liquid around her hand.

She lifted her hand upward, moving the entire locking mechanism straight up. In a flash, they were thrown into Shadesmar.