It was just a good luck charm. It didn’t mean anything. He started sweating anyway as Renarin scrambled to send a runner off to search. They wouldn’t get back in time. Already he could hear the crowd outside, the growing roar that came before a duel. Adolin reluctantly allowed his armorers to begin putting on his Plate.
By the time they gave him his helm, he had recovered most of his rhythm—the anticipation that was an odd blend of anxiety in his stomach and relaxation in his muscles. You couldn’t fight while tense. You could fight while nervous, but not while tense.
He nodded to the servants, and they pushed open the doors, letting him stride out onto the sand. He could tell from their cheering where the darkeyes sat. In contrast, the lighteyes grew softer, instead of louder, when he emerged. It was good that Elhokar reserved space for the darkeyes. Adolin liked the noise. It reminded him of a battlefield.
There was a time, he thought, when I didn’t like the battlefield because it wasn’t quiet, like a duel. Despite his original reluctance, he had become a soldier.
He strode out into the center of the arena. The others hadn’t left their preparation room yet. Take Relis first, Adolin told himself. You know his dueling style. The man preferred Vinestance, slow and steady, but with sudden, quick lunges. Adolin wasn’t sure whom he’d bring along to fight with him, though he’d borrowed a full set of the King’s Blade and Plate. Perhaps his cousin wanted to try again, for vengeance?
Shallan was there, on the opposite side of the arena, her red hair standing out like blood on stone. She had two bridgeman guards. Adolin found himself nodding in appreciation of that, and raised a fist to her. She waved back.
Adolin danced from one foot to the other, letting the power of the Plate flow through him. He could win, even without Mother’s chain. The problem was, he intended to challenge Sadeas after this. So he had to retain enough strength for that duel.
He checked, anxious. Was Sadeas there? Yes; he sat only a little ways from Father and the king. Adolin narrowed his eyes, remembering the crushing moment of realization when he’d seen Sadeas’s armies retreating from the Tower.
That steadied him. He’d stewed long about that betrayal. It was time, finally, to do something.
The doors across from him opened.
Four men in Shardplate strode out.
* * *
“Four?” Dalinar said, leaping to his feet.
Kaladin took a step downward toward the arena floor. Yes, those were all Shardbearers, entering the sands of the dueling arena below. One wore a set of the King’s Plate; the other three wore their own, ornamented and painted.
Down below, the highjudge for the bout turned and cocked her head toward the king.
“What is this?” Dalinar bellowed toward Sadeas, who sat only a short distance away. The lighteyes on the benchlike rows of seats between them hunched down or fled, leaving a direct line of sight between the highprinces.
Sadeas and his wife turned about, lazily. “Why do you ask me?” Sadeas called back. “None of those men are mine. I’m just an observer today.”
“Oh, don’t be tiresome, Sadeas,” Elhokar called. “You know full well what is happening. Why are there four? Is Adolin supposed to pick the two he wants to duel?”
“Two?” Sadeas asked. “When was it said that he would fight two?”
“That’s what he said when he set up the duel!” Dalinar shouted. “Paired disadvantaged duel, two against one, as per the dueling conventions!”
“Actually,” Sadeas replied, “that is not what young Adolin agreed to. Why, I have it on very good authority that he told Prince Relis: ‘I’ll fight you and whomever you bring.’ I don’t hear a specification of a number in there—which subjects Adolin to a full disadvantaged duel, not a paired duel. Relis may bring as many as he wishes. I know several scribes who recorded Adolin’s precise words, and I hear the highjudge asked him specifically if he understood what he was doing, and he said that he did.”
Dalinar growled softly. It was a sound Kaladin had never heard from him, the growl of a beast on a chain. It surprised him. The highprince contained himself, however, sitting down with a curt motion.
“He outthought us,” Dalinar said softly to the king. “Again. We’ll need to retreat and consider our next move. Someone tell Adolin to pull out of the contest.”
“Are you certain?” the king said. “Pulling out would require that Adolin forfeit, Uncle. That’s six Shards, I believe. Everything you own.”
Kaladin could read the conflict in Dalinar’s features—the scrunched-up brow, the red fury rising on his cheeks, the indecision in his eyes. Give up? Without a fight? It was probably the right thing to do.
Kaladin doubted he could have done it.
Below, after an extended pause—frozen on the sand—Adolin raised his hand in a sign of agreement. The judge began the duel.
* * *
I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot. I’m a storm-cursed idiot!
Adolin jogged backward across the sand-covered circle of the arena. He’d need to put his back to the wall to avoid being completely surrounded. That meant he’d start the duel with no place to retreat, locked in a box. Cornered.
Why hadn’t he been more specific? He could see the holes in his challenge—he’d agreed to a full disadvantaged duel without realizing it. He should have stated, specifically, that Relis could bring one other. But no, doing so would have been smart. And Adolin was a storming idiot!
He recognized Relis from his Plate and Blade, colored completely a deep black, breakaway cloak bearing his father’s glyphpair. The man in King’s Plate—judging by his height and the way he walked—would indeed be Elit, Relis’s cousin, returned for a rematch. He carried an enormous hammer, rather than a Blade. The two moved across the field carefully, and their two companions took the flanks. One in orange, the other in green.
Adolin recognized the Plate. That would be Abrobadar, a full Shardbearer from Aladar’s camp and… and Jakamav, bearing the King’s Blade that Relis had borrowed.
Jakamav. Adolin’s friend.
Adolin cursed. Those two were among the best duelists in the camp. Jakamav would have won his own Blade years ago if he’d been allowed to risk his Plate. That had apparently changed. Had he, and his house, been bought with a promise of a share in the spoils?
Blade forming in his hand, Adolin backed into the cool shade of the wall around the arena grounds. Just above him, darkeyes roared on their benches. Whether they were thrilled or horrified by what he faced, Adolin could not tell. He’d come here intending to give a spectacular show. They’d get the opposite instead. A quick slaughter.
Well, he’d made this pyre himself. If he was going to burn on it, he’d at least put up a fight first.
Relis and Elit prowled closer—one in slate grey, the other in black—as their allies worked around the sides. Those would hang back to try to make Adolin focus on the two in front of him. Then the others could attack him from the sides.
“One at a time, lad!” One shout from the stands seemed to separate from the others. Was that Zahel’s voice? “You’re not cornered!”
Relis stepped forward in a quick motion, testing Adolin. Adolin danced away in Windstance—certainly the best against so many foes—with both hands holding the Blade in front of him, positioned sideways with one foot forward.