Dalinar froze. What?
“Obviously your own stench overpowered mine, Wit,” a warm feminine voice said. “Has no one done my son a service and assassinated you yet?”
“No, no assassins yet,” Wit said, amused. “I guess I’ve already got too much ass sass of my own.”
Dalinar turned with shock. Navani, the king’s mother, was a stately woman with intricately woven black hair. And she was not supposed to be here.
“Oh really, Wit,” she said. “I thought that kind of humor was beneath you.”
“So are you, technically,” Wit said, smiling, from atop his high-legged stool.
She rolled her eyes.
“Unfortunately, Brightness,” Wit replied with a sigh, “I’ve taken to framing my insults in terms this lot will understand. If it will please you, I shall attempt to improve my diction to more elevated terms.” He paused. “I say, do you know any words that rhyme with bescumber?”
Navani just turned her head and looked at Dalinar with a pair of light violet eyes. She wore an elegant dress, its shimmering red surface unbroken by embroidery. The gems in her hair – which was streaked with a few lines of grey – were red as well. The king’s mother was known as one of the most beautiful women in Alethkar, though Dalinar had always found that description inadequate, for surely there wasn’t a woman on all of Roshar to match her beauty.
Fool, he thought, tearing his eyes away from her. Your brother’s widow. With Gavilar dead, Navani was now to be treated as Dalinar’s sister. Besides, what of his own wife? Dead these ten years, wiped by his foolishness from his mind. Even if he couldn’t remember her, he should honor her.
Why had Navani returned? As women called out greetings to her, Dalinar hurriedly made his way over to the king’s table. He sat down; a servant arrived in moments with a plate for him – they knew his preferences.
It was steaming peppered chicken, cut in medallions and laid atop fried round slices of tenem, a soft, light orange vegetable. Dalinar grabbed a piece of flatbread and slipped his dining knife from the sheath on his right calf. So long as he was eating, it would be a breach of etiquette for Navani to approach him.
The food was good. It always was at these feasts of Elhokar’s – in that, the son was like the father. Elhokar nodded to Dalinar from the end of the table, then continued his conversation with Sadeas. Highprince Roion sat a few seats down from him. Dalinar had an appointment with him in a few days, the first of the highprinces he’d approach and try to convince to work with him on a joint plateau assault.
No other highprinces came to sit near Dalinar. Only they – and people with specific invitations – could sit at the king’s table. One man lucky enough to receive such an invitation sat on Elhokar’s left, obviously uncertain if he should join in the conversation or not.
Water gurgled in the stream behind Dalinar. Before him, the festivities continued. It was a time for relaxation, but the Alethi were a reserved people, at least when compared with more passionate folk like the Horneaters or the Reshi. Still, his people seemed to have grown more opulent and self-indulgent since his childhood. Wine flowed freely and foods sizzled fragrantly. On the first island, several young men had stepped into a sparring ring for a friendly duel. Young men at a feast often found reason to remove their coats and show off their swordsmanship.
The women were more modest with their displays, but they engaged in them as well. On Dalinar’s own island, several women had set up easels where they were sketching, painting, or doing calligraphy. As always, they kept their left hands shrouded in their sleeves, delicately creating art with the right. They sat on high stools, the kind that Wit had been using – in fact, Wit had probably stolen one for his little performance. A few of them attracted creationspren, the tiny shapes rolling across the tops of their easels or tables.
Navani had gathered a group of important lighteyed women to a table. A servant passed by in front of Dalinar, bringing the women some food. It appeared to also have been made with the exotic chicken, but had been mixed with steamed methi fruit and covered in a reddish-brown sauce. As a boy, Dalinar had secretly tried women’s food out of curiosity. He’d found it distastefully sweet.
Navani placed something on her table, a device of polished brass about the size of a fist, with a large, infused ruby at its center. The red Stormlight lit the entire table, throwing shadows down the white tablecloth. Navani picked up the device, rotating it to show her dinner companions its leglike protrusions. Turned that way, it looked vaguely crustacean.
I’ve never seen a fabrial like that before. Dalinar looked up at her face, admiring the contours of her cheek. Navani was a renowned artifabrian. Perhaps this device was–
Navani glanced at him, and Dalinar froze. She flashed the briefest of smiles at him, covert and knowing, then turned away before he could react. Storming woman! he thought, pointedly turning his attention to his meal.
He was hungry, and got so involved in his food that he almost didn’t notice Adolin approaching. The blond youth saluted Elhokar, then hurried to take one of the vacant seats beside Dalinar. “Father,” Adolin said in a hushed tone, “have you heard what they’re saying?”
“About what?”
“About you! I’ve fought three duels so far against men who described you – and our house – as cowards. They’re saying you asked the king to abandon the Vengeance Pact!”
Dalinar gripped the table and nearly rose to his feet. But he stopped himself. “Let them speak if they wish,” he said, turning back to his meal, stabbing a chunk of peppered chicken with his knife and raising it to his lips.
“Did you really do it?” Adolin asked. “Is that what you talked about at the meeting with the king two days back?”
“It is,” Dalinar admitted.
That elicited a groan from Adolin. “I was worried already. When I–”
“Adolin,” Dalinar interjected. “Do you trust me?”
Adolin looked at him, the youth’s eyes wide, honest, but pained. “I want to. Storms, Father. I really want to.”
“What I am doing is important. It must be done.”
Adolin leaned in, speaking softly. “And what if they are delusions? What if you’re just… getting old.”
It was the first time someone had confronted him with it so directly. “I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I’d considered it, but there was no sense in second-guessing myself. I believe they’re real. I feel they’re real.”
“But–”
“This is not the place for this discussion, son,” Dalinar said. “We can talk of it later, and I will listen to – and consider – your objections. I promise.”
Adolin drew his lips to a line. “Very well.”
“You are right to be worried for our reputation,” Dalinar said, resting an elbow on the table. “I had assumed that Elhokar would have the tact to keep our conversation quiet, but I should have asked him to do so directly. You were right about his reaction, by the way. I realized during the conversation he would never retreat, so I changed to another tactic.”
“Which is?”
“Winning the war,” Dalinar said firmly. “No more scuffling over gemhearts. No more patient, indefinite siege. We find a way to lure a large number of Parshendi onto the Plains, then execute an ambush. If we can kill a large enough number of them, we destroy their capacity to wage war. Failing that, we find a way to strike at their center and kill or capture their leaders. Even a chasmfiend stops fighting when it’s been decapitated. The Vengeance Pact would be fulfilled, and we could go home.”
Adolin took a long moment considering, then he nodded sharply. “All right.”
“No objections?” Dalinar asked. Normally, his elder son had plenty.