POV: dalinar
Summary
Twenty-four years before the present day, a younger Dalinar sits before a fire in his rooms in the Kholinar palace, cursing at a smoking chimney flue until he wedges it open. The Weeping rains outside; his clothing is still damp from being out in them. Evi looks up from her needlework on the sofa and observes that they will need to have the chimney replaced — at least today they will not be scrubbing soot from the walls. Her Riran idioms still don't translate cleanly into Alethi. She rises and settles on the floor beside him, takes his arm, and watches two flamespren dance along a log like sparring miniatures. *Must everything be fighting to you?*
She has noticed how he perks up when Gavilar mentions even the smallest border conflict, how he has the scribes read him accounts of great battles, how he talks about the next duel. He grumbles that he will not have dueling much longer either — Gavilar has told him it is foolish to keep risking himself in a hall, that someone is bound to turn one of those duels into a ploy, and so Dalinar will have to put a champion in his place. He pours himself wine. Evi says, quietly, that he seems dead to her — that he comes alive only when he can fight or kill, like one of the dark figures in old stories who survives by feeding on others. He looks back at her, at the pale hair and golden skin, makes himself sit beside her again, and lets her ramble at him about gloryspren and emotion-spren while he watches a flamespren with what looks, to him, like a Shardblade in its hand.
Evi tells him to close his eyes and contemplate what *the One* has given him. He closes his eyes and asks whether a man can change as the spren change. She answers in her own theology: they are all aspects of the One, and one can certainly be Soulcast from crass to glorious; if he wishes to meet the One in person he must travel to *the Valley,* where the One — or his avatar — can be petitioned in person and a wish granted. *The Old Magic,* Dalinar hisses, opening his eyes. *The Nightwatcher. Evi, don't say things like that.* Her pagan upbringing has a way of popping up between bits of good Vorin doctrine. She lets the subject drop and hums softly to herself.
A knock comes at the outer door. Hathan, Dalinar's small room steward, answers and announces that it is Gavilar. Dalinar is on his feet at once. He finds his brother in the sitting room in one of those new stiff-jacketed suits with the buttons up the sides — dark hair to the shoulders, a fine beard. Dalinar privately hates beards (they catch in helms), but he cannot deny what it does for Gavilar: this is no longer a backwater warlord; this is a king. Gavilar slaps a set of papers against his palm. *Rathalas.*
Years since Dalinar last visited the Rift where he won his Shardblade — and now the city is in open rebellion, claiming that Tanalan's heir has returned and that the Shardblade should rightly be his because Dalinar never won it in a true contest. Gavilar watches him carefully and observes, almost mildly, that he knows the claim to be impossible because at the time Dalinar himself had said the heir was dealt with — *you did deal with the heir, did you not?* And Dalinar remembers darkening that doorway, the Thrill pulsing in him, a weeping child trying to lift a Shardblade in both hands, the father broken and dead behind, the soft voice pleading — and the Thrill vanishing in a single moment.
*He was a child, Gavilar,* he says, voice hoarse. *Damnation!* He's old enough to be a threat by now, Gavilar snaps; the entire Crownlands could break off if they don't act. Dalinar feels himself smile and quickly smothers it: surely someone will have to ride out and put this down. And then he sees Evi beaming at him. *You spared the child.* He explains awkwardly — the boy could barely lift the Blade; he gave him to his mother and told her to hide. Evi pulls him close. Pride wells up in him, and the ridiculousness of it: he had endangered the kingdom, and people would laugh if they knew the Blackthorn himself had broken before a crisis of conscience. In that moment he does not care. As long as he is a hero to this woman.
Gavilar, at the window, accepts the rebellion philosophically and tells Dalinar outright not to expect to ride. He knows what his brother wants and he is not sending an army; he will nip this with politics, because Alethkar cannot be held together forever by the sword or Elhokar will spend his whole life putting out fires. *Sounds good,* Dalinar says — and privately notes that it is not going to happen, not without the sword to make the point. For once, he is content not to be the one to say so.