“Being washed, my lord,” said one of the midwives. “He will be returned shortly.”
“Torn buttons,” Evi whispered. “You’ve been fighting again, Dalinar?”
“Just a small diversion.”
“That’s what you say each time.”
Dalinar squeezed her hand through the envelope, too elated to prickle at the chastisement. “You and Toh came here to Alethkar because you wanted someone to protect you. You sought out a fighter, Evi.”
She squeezed his hand back. A nurse approached with a bundle in her arms and Dalinar looked up, stunned, unable to rise.
“Now,” the woman said, “many men are apprehensive at first when—”
She cut off as Dalinar found his strength and seized the child from her arms. He held the boy aloft in both hands, letting out a whooping laugh, gloryspren bursting around him as golden spheres.
“My son!” he said.
“My lord!” the nurse said. “Be careful!”
“He’s a Kholin,” Dalinar said, cradling the child. “He’s made of hardy stuff.” He looked down at the boy, who—red faced—wiggled and thrashed with his tiny fists. He had shockingly thick hair, black and blond mixed. Good coloring. Distinctive.
May you have your father’s strength, Dalinar thought, rubbing the child’s face with his finger, and at least some of your mother’s compassion, little one.
Looking into that face, swelling with joy, Dalinar finally understood. This was why Gavilar thought so much about the future, about Alethkar, about crafting a kingdom that would last. Dalinar’s life so far had stained him crimson and thrashed his soul. His heart was so crusted over with crem, it might as well have been a stone.
But this boy … he could rule the princedom, support his cousin the king, and live a life of honor.
“His name, Brightlord?” asked Ishal, an aged ardent from the Devotary of Purity. “I would burn the proper glyphwards, if it pleases you.”
“Name…” Dalinar said. “Adoda.” Light. He glanced toward Evi, who nodded in agreement.
“Without a suffix, my lord? Adodan? Adodal?”
“Lin,” Dalinar whispered. Born unto. “Adolin.” A good name, traditional, full of meaning.
With regret, Dalinar surrendered the child to the nurses, who returned him to his mother, explaining that it was important to train the baby to suckle as soon as possible. Most in the room began to file out to offer privacy, and as they did, Dalinar caught sight of a regal figure standing at the back. How had he missed Gavilar there?
Gavilar took him by the arm and gave him a good thump on the back as they left the chamber. Dalinar was so dazed he barely felt it. He needed to celebrate—buy drinks for every man in the army, declare a holiday, or just run through the city whooping for joy. He was a father!
“An excellent day,” Gavilar said. “A most excellent day.”
“How do you contain it?” Dalinar said. “This excitement?”
Gavilar grinned. “I let the emotion be my reward for the work I have done.”
Dalinar nodded, then studied his brother. “What?” Dalinar said. “Something is wrong.”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me, Brother.”
“I don’t want to ruin your wonderful day.”
“Wondering will ruin it more than anything you could say, Gavilar. Out with it.”
The king mulled, then nodded toward Dalinar’s den. They crossed the main chamber, passing furniture that was far too showy—colorful, with floral patterns and plush cushions. Evi’s taste was partially to blame, though it was also just … life, these days. His life was plush.
The den was more to his liking. A few chairs, a hearth, a simple rug. A cabinet with various exotic and potent wines, each in a distinctive bottle. They were the type it was almost a shame to drink, as it spoiled the display.
“It’s your daughter,” Dalinar guessed. “Her lunacy.”
“Jasnah is fine, and recovering. It’s not that.” Gavilar frowned, his expression dangerous. He’d agreed to a crown after much debate—Sunmaker hadn’t worn one, and the histories said Jezerezeh’Elin refused them as well. But people did love symbols, and most Western kings wore crowns. Gavilar had settled upon a black iron circlet. The more Gavilar’s hair greyed, the easier the crown was to see.
A servant had set a fire in the hearth, though it was burning low, only a single flamespren crawling along the embers.
“I am failing,” Gavilar said.
“What?”
“Rathalas. The Rift.”
“But I thought—”
“Propaganda,” Gavilar said. “Intended to quiet critical voices in Kholinar. Tanalan is raising an army and settling into his fortifications. Worse, I think the other highprinces are encouraging him. They want to see how I handle this.” He sneered. “There’s talk I’ve grown soft over the years.”
“They’re wrong.” Dalinar had seen it, these months living with Gavilar. His brother had not grown soft. He was still as eager for conquest as ever; he simply approached it differently. The clash of words, the maneuvering of princedoms into positions where they were forced to obey.
The fire’s embers seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. “Do you ever wonder about the time when this kingdom was truly great, Dalinar?” Gavilar asked. “When people looked to the Alethi. When kings sought their advice. When we were … Radiant.”
“Traitors,” Dalinar said.
“Does the act of a single generation negate many generations of domination? We revere the Sunmaker when his reign lasted but the blink of an eye—yet we ignore the centuries the Radiants led. How many Desolations did they defend mankind?”
“Um…” The ardents talked about this in prayers, didn’t they? He tried a guess. “Ten?”
“A meaningless number,” Gavilar said, waving his fingers. “The histories just say ‘ten’ because it sounds significant. Either way, I have failed in my diplomatic efforts.” He turned toward Dalinar. “It is time to show the kingdom that we are not soft, Brother.”
Oh no. Hours ago, he would have leaped in excitement. But after seeing that child …
You’ll be anxious again in a few days, Dalinar told himself. A man can’t change in a moment.
“Gavilar,” he whispered, “I’m worried.”
“You’re still the Blackthorn, Dalinar.”
“I’m not worried about whether I can win battles.” Dalinar stood, throwing back his chair in his haste. He found himself pacing. “I’m like an animal, Gavilar. Did you hear about the bar fight? Storms. I can’t be trusted around people.”
“You are what the Almighty made you.”
“I’m telling you, I’m dangerous. Sure, I can crush this little rebellion, bathe Oathbringer in some blood. Great. Wonderful. Then what? I come back here and lock myself in a cage again?”
“I … might have something that will help.”
“Bah. I’ve tried living a quiet life. I can’t live through endless politics, like you can. I need more than just words!”
“You’ve merely been trying to restrain yourself—you’ve tried casting out the bloodthirst, but you haven’t replaced it with anything else. Go do what I command, then return and we can discuss further.”
Dalinar stopped near his brother, then took a single purposeful step into his shadow. Remember this. Remember you serve him. He would never return to that place that had almost led him to attack this man.