No one dared to again raise a whip against the parshman crew the rest of the march.
49. Born unto Light
Dalinar pressed his fingers together, then rubbed them, scraping the dry, red-brown moss against itself. The scratchy sound was unpleasantly similar to that of a knife along bone.
He felt the warmth immediately, like an ember. A thin plume of smoke rose from his callused fingers and struck below his nose, then parted around his face.
Everything faded: the raucous sound of too many men in one room, the musky smell of their bodies pressed together. Euphoria spread through him like sudden sunlight on a cloudy day. He released a protracted sigh. He didn’t even mind when Bashin accidentally elbowed him.
Most places, being highprince would have won him a bubble of space, but at the stained wooden table in this poorly lit den, social standing was irrelevant. Here, with a good drink and a little help pressed between his fingers, he could finally relax. Here nobody cared how presentable he was, or if he drank too much.
Here, he didn’t have to listen to reports of rebellion and imagine himself out on those fields, solving problems the direct way. Sword in hand, Thrill in his heart …
He rubbed the moss more vigorously. Don’t think about war. Just live in the moment, as Evi always said.
Havar returned with drinks. The lean, bearded man studied the overcrowded bench, then set the drinks down and hauled a slumped drunk out of his spot. He squeezed in beside Bashin. Havar was lighteyed, good family too. He’d been one of Dalinar’s elites back when that had meant something, though now he had his own land and a high commission. He was one of the few who didn’t salute Dalinar so hard you could hear it.
Bashin though … well, Bashin was an odd one. Darkeyed of the first nahn, the portly man had traveled half the world, and encouraged Dalinar to go with him to see the other half. He still wore that stupid, wide-brimmed floppy hat.
Havar grunted, passing down the drinks. “Squeezing in beside you, Bashin, would be far easier if you didn’t have a gut that stretched to next week.”
“Just trying to do my duty, Brightlord.”
“Your duty?”
“Lighteyes need folks to obey them, right? I’m making certain that you got lots to serve you, at least by weight.”
Dalinar took his mug, but didn’t drink. For now, the firemoss was doing its job. His wasn’t the only plume rising in the dim stone chamber.
Gavilar hated the stuff. But then, Gavilar liked his life now.
In the center of the dim room, a pair of parshmen pushed tables aside, then started setting diamond chips on the floor. Men backed away, making space for a large ring of light. A couple of shirtless men pushed their way through the crowd. The room’s general air of clumsy conversation turned to one of roaring excitement.
“Are we going to bet?” Havar asked.
“Sure,” Bashin replied. “I’ll put three garnet marks on the shorter one.”
“I’ll take that bet,” Havar said, “but not for the money. If I win, I want your hat.”
“Deal! Ha! So you’re finally going to admit how dashing it is?”
“Dashing? Storms, Bashin. I’m going to do you a favor and burn the thing.”
Dalinar sat back, mind dulled by the firemoss.
“Burn my hat?” Bashin said. “Storms, Havar. That’s harsh. Just because you envy my dashing profile.”
“The only thing dashing about that hat is how it makes women run the other way.”
“It’s exotic. From the west. Everyone knows fashion comes from the west.”
“Yeah, from Liafor and Yezier. Where did you get that hat again?”
“The Purelake.”
“Ah, that bastion of culture and fashion! Are you going shopping in Bavland next?”
“Barmaids don’t know the difference,” Bashin grumbled. “Anyway, can we just watch the match? I’m looking forward to winning those marks off you.” He took a drink, but fingered his hat anxiously.
Dalinar closed his eyes. He felt as if he could drift off, maybe get some sleep without worrying about Evi, or dreaming of war.…
In the ring, bodies smacked against each other.
That sound—the grunts of exertion as the wrestlers tried to push each other from the ring—reminded him of the battle. Dalinar opened his eyes, dropped the moss, and leaned forward.
The shorter wrestler danced out of the other’s grip. They revolved around one another, crouched, hands at the ready. When they locked again, the shorter man pushed his opponent off balance. Better stance, Dalinar thought. Kept himself low. That taller fellow has gotten by too long on his strength and size. He’s got terrible form.
The two strained, backing toward the edge of the ring, before the taller man managed to trip them both. Dalinar stood up as others, ahead of him, raised their hands and cheered.
The contest. The fight.
That led me to almost kill Gavilar.
Dalinar sat back down.
The shorter man won. Havar sighed, but rolled a few glowing spheres to Bashin. “Double or nothing on the next bout?”
“Nah,” Bashin said, hefting the marks. “This should be enough.”
“For what?”
“To bribe a few influential young dandies into trying hats like mine,” Bashin said. “I tell you, once word gets out, everyone is going to be wearing them.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“So long as I’m a fashionable one.”
Dalinar reached to the floor and picked up the firemoss. He tossed it onto the table and stared at it, then took a pull from his mug of wine. The next wrestling match started, and he winced as the two competitors collided. Storms. Why did he keep putting himself into situations like this?
“Dalinar,” Havar said. “Any word yet on when we’re going to the Rift?”
“The Rift?” Bashin asked. “What about it?”
“Are you dense?” Havar said.
“No,” Bashin said, “but I might be drunk. What’s up with the Rift?”
“Rumor is they want to set up their own highprince,” Havar said. “Son of the old one, what was his name…”
“Tanalan,” Dalinar said. “But we are not going to be visiting the Rift, Havar.”
“Surely the king can’t—”
“We won’t be going,” Dalinar said. “You’ve got men to train. And I…” Dalinar drank more wine. “I’m going to be a father. My brother can handle the Rift with diplomacy.”
Havar leaned back, flippantly dropping his mug to the table. “The king can’t politic his way past open rebellion, Dalinar.”
Dalinar closed his fist around the firemoss, but didn’t rub it. How much of his interest in the Rift was his duty to protect Gavilar’s kingdom, and how much was his craving to feel the Thrill again?
Damnation. He felt like half a man these days.
One of the wrestlers had shoved the other from the ring, disturbing the line of lights. The loser was declared, and a parshman carefully reset the ring. As he did so, a master-servant stepped up to Dalinar’s table.
“Pardon, Brightlord,” he whispered. “But you should know. The feature match will have to be canceled.”