EIGHTEEN AND A HALF YEARS AGO

Dalinar plodded back into camp, so tired he suspected only the energy of his Plate was keeping him upright. Each muggy breath inside his helm fogged the metal, which—as always—went somewhat transparent from the inside when you engaged the visor.

He’d crushed the Herdazians—sending them back to start a civil war, securing the Alethi lands to the north and claiming the island of Akak. Now he’d moved southward, to engage the Vedens at the border. Herdaz had taken far longer than Dalinar had expected. He’d been out on campaign a total of four years now.

Four glorious years.

Dalinar walked straight to his armorers’ tent, picking up attendants and messengers along the way. When he ignored their questions, they trailed after him like cremlings eyeing a greatshell’s kill, waiting for their moment to snatch a tidbit.

Inside the tent, he extended his arms to the sides and let the armorers start the disassembly. Helm, then arms, revealing the gambeson he wore for padding. The helm’s removal exposed sweaty, clammy skin that made the air feel too cold. The breastplate was cracked along the left side, and the armorers buzzed, discussing the repair. As if they had to do something other than merely give the Plate Stormlight and let it regrow itself.

Eventually, all that remained were his boots, which he stepped out of, maintaining a martial posture by pure force of will. The support of his Plate removed, exhaustionspren began to shoot up around him like jets of dust. He stepped over to a set of travel cushions and sat down, reclining against them, sighing, and closing his eyes.

“Brightlord?” one of the armorers asked. “Um … that’s where we set—”

“This is now my audience tent,” Dalinar said, not opening his eyes. “Take what is absolutely essential and leave me.”

The clanking of armor stopped as the workers digested what he’d said. They left in a whispering rush, and nobody else bothered him for a blissful five minutes—until footfalls sounded nearby. Tent flaps rustled, then leather scrunched as someone knelt beside him.

“The final battle report is here, Brightlord.” Kadash’s voice. Of course it would be one of his storming officers. Dalinar had trained them far too well.

“Speak,” Dalinar said, opening his eyes.

Kadash had reached middle age, maybe two or three years older than Dalinar. He now had a twisting scar across his face and head from where a spear had hit him.

“We completely routed them, Brightlord,” Kadash said. “Our archers and light infantry followed with an extended harry. We slew, by best count, two thousand—nearly half. We could have gotten more if we’d boxed them in to the south.”

“Never box in an enemy, Kadash,” Dalinar said. “You want them to be able to retreat, or they’ll fight you worse for it. A rout will serve us better than an extermination. How many people did we lose?”

“Barely two hundred.”

Dalinar nodded. Minimal losses, while delivering a devastating blow.

“Sir,” Kadash said. “I’d say this raiding group is done for.”

“We’ve still got many more to dig out. This will last years yet.”

“Unless the Vedens send in an entire army and engage us in force.”

“They won’t,” Dalinar said, rubbing his forehead. “Their king is too shrewd. It isn’t full-on war he wants; he only wanted to see if any contested land had suddenly become uncontested.”

“Yes, Brightlord.”

“Thank you for the report. Now get out of here and post some storming guards at the front so I can rest. Don’t let anyone in, not even the Nightwatcher herself.”

“Yes, sir.” Kadash crossed the tent to the flaps. “Um … sir, you were incredible out there. Like a tempest.”

Dalinar just closed his eyes and leaned back, fully determined to fall asleep in his clothing.

Sleep, unfortunately, refused to come. The report set his mind to considering implications.

His army had only one Soulcaster, for emergencies, which meant supply trains. These borderlands were expansive, hilly, and the Vedens had better generals than the Herdazians. Defeating a mobile enemy was going to be hard in such circumstances, as this first battle proved. It would take planning, maneuvering, and skirmish after skirmish to pin the various groups of Vedens down and bring them into proper battle.

He yearned for those early days, when their fights had been more rowdy, less coordinated. Well, he wasn’t a youth anymore, and he’d learned in Herdaz that he no longer had Gavilar to do the hard parts of this job. Dalinar had camps to supply, men to feed, and logistics to work out. This was almost as bad as being back in the city, listening to scribes talk about sewage disposal.

Save for one difference: Out here, he had a reward. At the end of all the planning, the strategy, and the debates with generals, came the Thrill.

In fact, through his exhaustion, he was surprised to find that he could sense it still. Deep down, like the warmth of a rock that had known a recent fire. He was glad that the fighting had dragged on all these years. He was glad that the Herdazians had tried to seize that land, and that now the Vedens wanted to test him. He was glad that other highprinces weren’t sending aid, but waiting to see what he could accomplish on his own.

Most of all, he was glad that—despite today’s important battle—the conflict was not over. Storms, he loved this feeling. Today, hundreds had tried to bring him down, and he’d left them ashen and broken.

Outside his tent, people demanding his attention were turned away one after another. He tried not to feel pleasure each time. He would answer their questions eventually. Just … not now.

Thoughts finally released their grip on his brain, and he dipped toward slumber. Until one unexpected voice jerked him out of it and sent him bolting upright.

That was Evi.

He leapt to his feet. The Thrill surged again within him, drawn out of its own slumber. Dalinar ripped open the tent’s front flaps and gaped at the blonde-haired woman standing outside, wearing a Vorin havah—but with sturdy walking boots sticking out below.

“Ah,” Evi said. “Husband.” She looked him up and down, and her expression soured, lips puckering. “Has no person seen fit to order him a bath? Where are his grooms, to see him undressed properly?”

“Why are you here?” Dalinar demanded. He hadn’t intended to roar it, but he was so tired, so shocked …

Evi leaned backward before the outburst, eyes opening wide.

He briefly felt a spike of shame. But why should he? This was his warcamp—here he was the Blackthorn. This was the place where his domestic life should have no purchase on him! By coming here, she invaded that.

“I…” Evi said. “I … Other women are at the camp. Other wives. It is common, for women to go to war.…”

“Alethi women,” Dalinar snapped, “trained to it from childhood and acquainted with the ways of warfare. We spoke of this, Evi. We—” He halted, looking at the guards. They shuffled uncomfortably.

“Come inside, Evi,” Dalinar said. “Let’s discuss this in private.”

“Very well. And the children?”

“You brought our children to the battlefront?” Storms, she didn’t even have the sense to leave them at the town the army was using as a long-term command post?

“I—”

“In,” Dalinar said, pointing at the tent.

Evi wilted, then scuttled to obey, cringing as she passed him. Why had she come? Hadn’t he just been back to Kholinar to visit? That had been … recent, he was sure.…

Or maybe not so recent. He did have several letters from Evi that Teleb’s wife had read to him, with several more waiting to be read. He dropped the flaps back into position and turned toward Evi, determined not to let his frayed patience rule him.

“Navani said I should come,” Evi said. “She said it was shameful that you have waited so long between visits. Adolin has gone over a year without seeing you, Dalinar. And little Renarin has never even met his father.”

“Renarin?” Dalinar said, trying to work out the name. He hadn’t picked that. “Rekher … no, Re…”

“Re,” Evi said. “From my language. Nar, after his father. In, to be born unto.”

Stormfather, that was a butchering of the language. Dalinar fumbled, trying to work through it. Nar meant “like unto.”

“What does ‘Re’ mean in your language?” Dalinar asked, scratching his face.

“It has no meaning,” Evi said. “It is simply the name. It means our son’s name, or him.”

Dalinar groaned softly. So the child’s name was “Like one who was born unto himself.” Delightful.

“You didn’t answer,” Evi pointed out, “when I asked after a name via spanreed.”

How had Navani and Ialai allowed this travesty of a name? Storms … knowing those two, they’d probably encouraged it. They were always trying to get Evi to be more forceful. He moved to get something to drink, but then remembered that this wasn’t actually his tent. There wasn’t anything in here to drink but armor oil.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Dalinar said. “It is dangerous out here.”

“I wish to be a more Alethi wife. I want you to want me to be with you.”

He winced. “Well, you still should not have brought the children.” Dalinar slumped down into the cushions. “They are heirs to the princedom, assuming this plan of Gavilar’s with the Crownlands and his own throne works out. They need to remain safe in Kholinar.”

“I thought you’d want to see them,” Evi said, stepping up to him. Despite his harsh words, she unbuckled the top of his gambeson to get her hands under it, and began rubbing his shoulders.

It felt wonderful. He let his anger melt away. It would be good to have a wife with him, to scribe as was proper. He just wished that he didn’t feel so guilty at seeing her. He was not the man she wanted him to be.

“I hear you had a great victory today,” Evi said softly. “You do service to the king.”

“You’d have hated it, Evi. I killed hundreds of people. If you stay, you’ll have to listen to war reports. Accounts of deaths, many at my hand.”

She was silent for a time. “Could you not … let them surrender to you?”

“The Vedens aren’t here to surrender. They’re here to test us on the battlefield.”

“And the individual men? Do they care for such reasoning as they die?”

“What? Would you like me to stop and ask each man to surrender as I prepare to strike him down?”

“Would that—”

“No, Evi. That wouldn’t work.”

“Oh.”

He stood up, suddenly anxious. “Let’s see the boys, then.”

Leaving his tent and crossing the camp was a slog, his feet feeling like they’d been encased in blocks of crem. He didn’t dare slouch—he always tried to present a strong image for the men and women of the army—but he couldn’t help that his padded garb was wrinkled and stained with sweat.

The land here was lush compared to Kholinar. The thick grass was broken by sturdy stands of trees, and tangled vines draped the western cliff faces. There were places farther into Jah Keved where you couldn’t take a step without vines writhing under your feet.

The boys were by Evi’s wagons. Little Adolin was terrorizing one of the chulls, perched atop its shell and swinging a wooden sword about, showing off for several of the guards—who dutifully complimented his moves. He’d somehow assembled “armor” from strings and bits of broken rockbud shell.

Storms, he’s grown, Dalinar thought. When last he’d seen Adolin, the child had still looked like a toddler, stumbling through his words. Little over a year later, the boy spoke clearly—and dramatically—as he described his fallen enemies. They were, apparently, evil flying chulls.

He stopped when he saw Dalinar, then he glanced at Evi. She nodded, and the child scrambled down from the chull—Dalinar was certain he’d fall at three different points. He got down safely, walked over.

And saluted.

Evi beamed. “He asked the best way to talk to you,” she whispered. “I told him you were a general, the leader of all the soldiers. He came up with that on his own.”

Dalinar squatted down. Little Adolin immediately shied back, reaching for his mother’s skirts.

“Afraid of me?” Dalinar asked. “Not unwise. I’m a dangerous man.”

“Daddy?” the boy said, holding to the skirt with one white-knuckled hand—but not hiding.

“Yes. Don’t you remember me?”

Hesitantly, the motley-haired boy nodded. “I remember you. We talk about you every night when we burn prayers. So you will be safe. Fighting bad men.”

“I’d prefer to be safe from the good ones too,” Dalinar said. “Though I will take what I am offered.” He stood up, feeling … what? Shame to not have seen the boy as often as he should have? Pride at how the boy was growing? The Thrill, still squirming deep down. How had it not dissipated since the battle?

“Where is your brother, Adolin?” Dalinar asked.

The boy pointed toward a nurse who carried a little one. Dalinar had expected a baby, but this child could nearly walk, as evidenced by the nurse putting him down and watching fondly as he toddled a few steps, then sat, trying to grab blades of grass as they pulled away.

The child made no sounds. He just stared, solemn, as he tried to grip blade after blade. Dalinar waited for the excitement he’d felt before, upon meeting Adolin for the first time … but storms, he was just so tired.

“Can I see your sword?” Adolin asked.

Dalinar wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he summoned the Blade anyway, driving it into the ground with the edge pointed away from Adolin. The boy’s eyes grew wide.

“Mommy says I can’t have my Plate yet,” Adolin said.

“Teleb needs it. You can have it when you come of age.”

“Good. I’ll need it to win a Blade.”

Nearby, Evi clicked her tongue softly, shaking her head.

Dalinar smiled, kneeling beside his Blade and resting his hand on the small boy’s shoulder. “I’ll win you one in war, son.”

“No,” Adolin said, chin up. “I want to win my own. Like you did.”

“A worthy goal,” Dalinar said. “But a soldier needs to be willing to accept help. You mustn’t be hardheaded; pride doesn’t win battles.”

The boy cocked his head, frowning. “Your head isn’t hard?” He rapped his knuckles against his own.

Dalinar smiled, then stood up and dismissed Oathbringer. The last embers of the Thrill finally faded. “It’s been a long day,” he told Evi. “I need to rest. We’ll discuss your role here later.”

Evi led him to a bed within one of her stormwagons. Then, at last, Dalinar was able to sleep.