“I’m offering it here, before witnesses,” Adolin said. “You win this bout, you take every Shard my family owns. What’s stronger? Your fear or your greed?”

“My pride,” Relis said. “No contest, Adolin.”

Adolin ground his teeth. He’d hoped the duel with Eranniv would make others underestimate him, make them more likely to duel him. It wasn’t working. Relis barked out a laugh. He held out his arm to Melali, and tugged her away, his attendants following.

Elit hesitated.

Well, it’s better than nothing, Adolin thought, a plan forming. “What about you?” Adolin asked the cousin.

Elit looked him up and down. Adolin didn’t know the man well. He was said to be a passable duelist, though he was often in his cousin’s shadow.

But that hunger—Elit wanted to be a full Shardbearer.

“Elit?” Relis said.

“Same offer?” Elit said, meeting Adolin’s gaze. “Your five to my one?”

What a terrible deal.

“Same offer,” Adolin said.

“I’m in,” Elit said.

Behind him, Ruthar’s son groaned. He grabbed Elit by the shoulder, towing him to the side with a growl.

“You told me to fight up through the brackets,” Adolin said to Relis. “I’m doing that.”

“Not my cousin.”

“Too late,” Adolin said. “You heard it. The ladies heard it. When do we fight, Elit?”

“Seven days,” Elit said. “On Chachel.”

Seven days—a long wait, considering a challenge like this. So, he wanted time to train, did he? “How about tomorrow instead?”

Relis snarled at Adolin, a very un-Alethi display, and shoved his cousin farther away. “I can’t see why you’re so eager, Adolin. Shouldn’t you focus on protecting that father of yours? It’s always sad when a soldier lives long enough to see his wits go. Has he started wetting himself in public yet?”

Steady, Adolin told himself. Relis was trying to goad him, maybe get Adolin to take a hasty swing. That would let him petition to the king for redress and a voiding of all contracts with his house—including the dueling agreement with Elit. But the insult went too far. His companions gasped slightly, pulling away at the very un-Alethi bluntness.

Adolin didn’t give in to the desperate goading. He had what he wanted. He wasn’t certain what he could do about the assassin—but this, this was a way to help. Elit wasn’t ranked highly, but he served Ruthar, who was—more and more—acting as Sadeas’s right-hand man. Beating him would take Adolin one step closer to the real goal. A duel with Sadeas himself.

He turned to leave, and stopped short. Someone stood behind him—a stout man with a bulbous face and black curly hair. His complexion was ruddy, the nose too red, fine veins visible in his cheeks. The man had the arms of a soldier, despite his frivolous outfit—which was, Adolin admitted grudgingly, quite fashionable. Dark slacks that were trimmed with forest green silk, a short open coat over a stiff matching shirt. Scarf at the neck.

Torol Sadeas, highprince, Shardbearer, and the very man Adolin had been thinking of—the single person he hated most in the world.

“Another duel, young Adolin,” Sadeas said, taking a sip of wine. “You really are determined to embarrass yourself out there. I still find it strange your father abandoned his prohibition of you dueling—indeed, I thought it a matter of honor to him.”

Adolin pushed past Sadeas, not trusting himself to speak so much as a single word to this eel of a man. Sight of the man brought memories of stark panic as he watched Sadeas retreat from the field of battle to leave Adolin and his father alone and surrounded.

Havar, Perethom, and Ilamar—good soldiers, good friends—had died that day. They and six thousand more.

Sadeas grabbed Adolin’s shoulder as he passed. “Think what you will, son,” the man whispered, “but what I did was intended as a kindness to your father. A tip of the sword to an old ally.”

“Let. Go.”

“If you lose your mind as you age, pray to the Almighty there are people like myself willing to give you a good death. People who care enough not to snicker, but instead hold the sword for you as you fall on it.”

“I’ll have your throat in my hands, Sadeas,” Adolin hissed. “I’ll squeeze and squeeze, then I’ll sink my dagger into your gut and twist. A quick death is too good for you.”

“Tsk,” Sadeas said, smiling. “Careful. It’s a full room. What if someone heard you threatening a highprince?”

The Alethi way. You could abandon an ally on the battlefield, and everyone could know it—but an offense in person, well, that just wouldn’t do. Society would frown on that. Nalan’s hand! His father was right about them all.

Adolin turned in a quick motion, reversing out of Sadeas’s grip. His next moves were by instinct, his fingers balling, stepping in preparation to plant a fist in that smiling, self-satisfied face.

A hand fell on Adolin’s shoulder, causing him to hesitate.

“I don’t think that would be wise, Brightlord Adolin,” said a soft but stern voice. It reminded Adolin of his father, though the timbre was off. He glanced at Amaram, who had stepped up beside him.

Tall, with a face like chipped stone, Brightlord Meridas Amaram was one of the only lighteyed men in the room who wore a proper uniform. As much as Adolin wished he himself could wear something more fashionable, he had come to realize the importance of the uniform as a symbol.

Adolin took a deep breath, lowering his fist. Amaram nodded to Sadeas, then turned Adolin by his shoulder and walked him away from the highprince.

“You mustn’t let him provoke you, Your Highness,” Amaram said softly. “He’ll use you to embarrass your father, if he can.”

They moved through the room full of chattering attendants. Drinks and finger food had been distributed. It had turned from a short break during the meeting into a full-blown party. Not surprising. With all the important lighteyes here, people would want to mingle and connive.

“Why do you remain with him, Amaram?” Adolin asked.

“He is my liege lord.”

“You’re of a rank that you could choose a new liege. Stormfather! You’re a Shardbearer now. Nobody would even question you. Come to our camp. Join with Father.”

“In doing that, I would create a divide,” Amaram said softly. “So long as I remain with Sadeas, I can help bridge gaps. He trusts me. So does your father. My friendship with both is a step toward keeping this kingdom together.”

“Sadeas will betray you.”

“No. Highprince Sadeas and I have an understanding.”

“We thought we had one. Then he set us up.”

Amaram’s expression grew distant. Even the way he walked was so full of decorum, straight back, nodding with respect to many they passed. The perfect lighteyed general—brilliantly capable, yet not lofty. A sword for his highprince to employ. He’d spent the majority of the war diligently training new troops and sending the best of them to Sadeas while guarding sections of Alethkar. Amaram was half the reason that Sadeas had been so effective out here on the Shattered Plains.

“Your father is a man who cannot bend,” Amaram said. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Adolin—but it does mean that the man he has become is not someone who can work with Highprince Sadeas.”

“And you’re different?”

“Yes.”

Adolin snorted. Amaram was one of the finest the kingdom had, a man with a sterling reputation. “I doubt that.”

“Sadeas and I agree that the means we choose to reach an honorable goal are allowed to be distasteful. Your father and I agree on what that goal should be—a better Alethkar, a place without all of this squabbling. It is a matter of perspective. . . .”

He continued talking, but Adolin found his mind drifting. He’d heard enough of this speech from his father. If Amaram started quoting The Way of Kings at him, he’d probably scream. At least—

Who was that?

Gorgeous red hair. There wasn’t a single lock of black in it. A slender build, so different from the curvaceous Alethi. A silken blue dress, simple yet elegant. Pale skin—it almost had a Shin look to it—matched by light blue eyes. A slight dusting of freckles under the eyes, giving her an exotic cast.

The young woman seemed to glide through the room. Adolin twisted about, watching her pass. She was so different.

“Ash’s eyes!” Amaram said, chuckling. “You’re still doing that, are you?”

Adolin pried his eyes away from the girl. “Doing what?”

“Letting your eyes be drawn by every flitting little thing that swishes by. You need to settle down, son. Pick one. Your mother would be mortified to find you still unwed.”

“Jasnah’s unwed too. She’s a decade older than me.” Assuming she was still alive, as Aunt Navani was convinced.

“Your cousin is hardly a role model in that regard.” His tone implied more. Or any regard.

“Look at her, Amaram,” Adolin said, craning to the side and watching the young woman approach his father. “That hair. Have you ever seen anything such a deep shade of red?”

“Veden, I’d warrant,” Amaram said. “Horneater blood. There are family lines that pride themselves on it.”

Veden. It couldn’t be . . . Could it?

“Excuse me,” Adolin said, breaking away from Amaram and shoving—politely—his way over to where the young woman was speaking to his father and his aunt.

“Brightlady Jasnah did go down with the ship, I’m afraid,” the woman was saying. “I’m sorry for your loss . . .”

Now, as the Windrunners were thus engaged, arose the event which has hitherto been referenced: namely, that discovery of some wicked thing of eminence, though whether it be some rogueries among the Radiants’ adherents or of some external origin, Avena would not suggest.

—From Words of Radiance, chapter 38, page 6

“. . . sorry for your loss,” Shallan said. “I have brought with me what things of Jasnah’s I was able to recover. My men have them outside.”

She found it surprisingly difficult to say the words with an even tone. She’d grieved for Jasnah during her weeks traveling, yet speaking of the death—remembering that terrible night—returned the emotions like surging waves, threatening to overwhelm again.

The image she’d drawn of herself came to her rescue. She could be that woman today—and that woman, while not emotionless, could push through the loss. She focused her attention on the moment, and the task at hand—specifically the two people in front of her. Dalinar and Navani Kholin.

The highprince was exactly what she’d expected him to be: a man with blunted features, short black hair silvering at the sides. His stiff uniform made him seem the only one in the room who knew anything about combat. She wondered if those bruises on his face were the result of the campaign against the Parshendi. Navani looked like a version of Jasnah twenty years older, still pretty, though with a motherly air. Shallan could never imagine Jasnah being motherly.