In a war that makes no sense, where ten armies fight separately against a single foe, he struggles to save his men and to fathom the leaders who consider them expendable.īrightlord Dalinar Kholin commands one of those other armies. There, Kaladin, who traded his medical apprenticeship for a spear to protect his little brother, has been reduced to slavery.
One such war rages on a ruined landscape called the Shattered Plains. Wars are fought for them, and won by them. It has been centuries since the fall of the ten consecrated orders known as the Knights Radiant, but their Shardblades and Shardplate remain: mystical swords and suits of armor that transform ordinary men into near-invincible warriors. Cities are built only where the topography offers shelter. Animals hide in shells, trees pull in branches, and grass retracts into the soilless ground. Uncanny tempests of incredible power sweep across the rocky terrain so frequently that they have shaped ecology and civilization alike. Now there are four whom we watch: the surgeon, forced to forsake healing and fight in the most brutal war of our time the assassin, who weeps as he kills the liar, who wears her scholar's mantle over a thief's heart and the prince, whose eyes open to the ancient past as his thirst for battle wanes. Did our foes see that the harder they fought, the fiercer our resistance? Fire and hammer forge a sword time and neglect rust it away. In the end, not war but victory proved the greater test. When there was still magic in the world and honor in the hearts of men. Before the Heralds abandoned us and the Knights Radiant turned against us. If a king is seen to assume the burden of the poorest of men, perhaps there will be those who will help him with his own load, so invisible, yet so daunting.I long for the days before the Last Desolation. Perhaps we should switch places more often. One can ignore a poor shirtless wretch doing such labor, but none ignore a king sharing the load. I left my carriage that day and took up the stone, lifting it for the man. They do not wish to attach themselves to the work, lest they condemn themselves to a life full of extra burdens. Many give way before him, but so few are willing to step in and help carry the stone. The monarch is like this man, stumbling along, the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. Not because they sympathized with him, but because they feared the momentum of his steps. He stumbled beneath the weight, shirtless under the sun, wearing only a loincloth. “I once saw a spindly man carrying a stone larger than his head upon his back.
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