Kadash looked disturbed. “This is dangerous territory, bright one. What you are asking me about risks tempting me to violate my oaths. I am an ardent, owned by and loyal to your father.”
“But he is not your religious superior.”
“No. But he is the Almighty’s guardian of this people, set to watch me and make certain I don’t rise above my station.” Kadash pursed his lips. “It is a delicate balance we walk, bright one. Do you know much of the Hierocracy, the War of Loss?”
“The church tried to seize control,” Adolin said, shrugging. “The priests tried to conquer the world – for its own good, they claimed.”
“That was part of it,” Kadash said. “The part we speak of most often. But the problem goes much deeper. The church back then, it clung to knowledge. Men were not in command of their own religious paths; the priests controlled the doctrine, and few members of the Church were allowed to know theology. They were taught to follow the priests. Not the Almighty or the Heralds, but the priests.”
He began walking, leading Adolin around the back rim of the temple chamber. They passed statues of the Heralds, five male, five female. In truth, Adolin knew very little of what Kadash was saying. He’d never had much of a mind for history that didn’t relate directly to the command of armies.
“The problem, bright one,” Kadash said, “was mysticism. The priests claimed that common men could not understand religion or the Almighty. Where there should have been openness, there was smoke and whispers. The priests began to claim visions and prophecies, though such things had been denounced by the Heralds themselves. Voidbinding is a dark and evil thing, and the soul of it was to try to divine the future.”
Adolin froze. “Wait, you’re saying–”
“Don’t get ahead of me please, bright one,” Kadash assured, turning back toward him. “When the priests of the Hierocracy were cast down, the Sunmaker made a point of interrogating them and going through their correspondences with one another. It was discovered that there had been no prophecies. No mystical promises from the Almighty. That had all been an excuse, fabricated by the priests to placate and control the people.”
Adolin frowned. “Where are you going with this, Kadash?”
“As close as I dare to the truth, bright one,” the ardent said. “As I cannot be as blunt as you.”
“You think my father’s visions are fabrications, then.”
“I would never accuse my highprince of lying,” Kadash said. “Or even of feebleness. But neither can I condone mysticism or prophecy in any form. To do so would be to deny Vorinism. The days of the priests are gone. The days of lying to the people, of keeping them in darkness, are gone. Now, each man chooses his own path, and the ardents help him achieve closeness to the Almighty through it. Instead of shadowed prophecies and pretend powers held by a few, we have a population who understand their beliefs and their relationship with their God.”
He stepped closer, speaking very softly. “Your father is not to be mocked or diminished. If his visions are true, then it is between him and the Almighty. All I can say is this: I know something of what it is to be haunted by the death and destruction of war. I see in your father’s eyes much of what I have felt, but worse. My personal opinion is that the things he sees are likely more a reflection of his past than any mystical experience.”
“So he is going mad,” Adolin whispered.
“I did not say that.”
“You implied that the Almighty probably wouldn’t send visions like these.”
“I did.”
“And that his visions are a product of his own mind.”
“Likely so,” the ardent said, raising his finger. “A delicate balance, you see. One that is particularly difficult to keep when speaking to my highprince’s own son.” He reached out, taking Adolin’s arm. “If any are to help him, it must be you. It would not be the place of any other, even myself.”
Adolin nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
“You should likely go see to that young woman now.”
“Yes,” Adolin said with a sigh. “I fear that even with the right gift, she and I are not long for courting. Renarin will mock me again.”
Kadash smiled. “Best not to give up so easily, bright one. Go now. But do return sometime so we can speak of your goals in regard to your Calling. It has been too long since you’ve Elevated.”
Adolin nodded and hurried from the chamber.
After hours going over the ledgers with Teshav, Dalinar and Renarin reached the hallway before the king’s chambers. They walked in silence, the soles of their boots clapping the marble flooring, the sound echoing against stone walls.
The corridors of the king’s war palace were growing richer by the week. Once, this hallway had been just another Soulcast stone tunnel. As Elhokar settled in, he had ordered improvements. Windows were cut into the leeward side. Marble tiling was set into the floor. The walls were carved with reliefs, with mosaic trim at the corners. Dalinar and Renarin passed a group of stonemasons carefully cutting a scene of Nalan’Elin, emitting sunlight, the sword of retribution held over his head.
They reached the king’s antechamber, a large, open room guarded by ten members of the King’s Guard, dressed in blue and gold. Dalinar recognized each face; he had personally organized the unit, handpicking its members.
Highprince Ruthar waited to see the king. He had brawny arms folded in front of him, and wore a short black beard that surrounded his mouth. The red silk coat was cut short and did not button; almost more of a sleeved vest, it was a mere token nod to traditional Alethi uniform. The shirt underneath was ruffled and white, and his blue trousers were loose, with wide cuffs.
Ruthar glanced Dalinar’s way and nodded to him – a minor token of respect – then turned to chat with one of his attendants. He cut off, however, as the guards at the doorway stepped aside to let Dalinar enter. Ruthar sniffed in annoyance. Dalinar’s easy access to the king galled the other highprinces.
The king wasn’t in his wardroom, but the wide doors to his balcony were open. Dalinar’s guardsmen waited behind as he stepped out onto the balcony, Renarin hesitantly following. The light outside was dimming as sunset neared. Setting the war palace up high like this was tactically sound, but it meant the place was mercilessly buffeted by storms. That was an old campaign conundrum. Did one choose the best position to weather storms, or did one seize the high ground?
Most would have chosen the former; their warcamps on the edge of the Shattered Plains were unlikely to be attacked, making the advantage of the high ground less important. But kings tended to prefer height. In this instance, Dalinar had encouraged Elhokar, just in case.
The balcony itself was a thick platform of rock cut onto the top of the small peak, edged with an iron railing. The king’s rooms were a Soulcast dome sitting atop the natural formation, with covered ramps and stairways leading to tiers lower on the hillside. Those housed the king’s various attendants: guards, stormwardens, ardents, and distant family members. Dalinar had his own bunker at his warcamp. He refused to call it a palace.
The king leaned against the railing, two guards watching from a distance. Dalinar motioned for Renarin to join them, so that he could speak with the king in private.
The air was cool – spring having come for a time – and it was sweet with the scents of evening: blooming rockbuds and wet stone. Below, the warcamps were starting to come alight, ten sparkling circles filled with watch – fires, cook fires, lamps, and the steady glow of infused gems. Elhokar stared over the camps and toward the Shattered Plains. They were utterly dark, save for the occasional twinkle of a watchpost.
“Do they watch us, from out there?” Elhokar asked as Dalinar joined him.