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In the afternoon stillness of his sitting room Dalinar stands at his maps with Renarin quiet at his elbow and his scribe Litima at the lectern reading aloud from Gavilar's own copy of The Way of Kings. The selection is the passage of the Darkened Monastery. The narrator sits in pitch black thinking of a dozen candles he cannot see, of his own invisible breath that could end any one of them with a single stir of air, of walls and tapestries and shelves that he believes are there but cannot prove are there until light returns. *When all was hidden, what could a man rely upon as True?*

Dalinar twists his sapphire Kholin signet ring as Litima reads. He has been asked some version of this question by everyone he loves in the past seven days. By Adolin in the Gallery of Maps yesterday. By the king across the high table at the Feast Basin the night before that. By his own uncertainty in the back of the barrack on the long ride home from the last vision. He cannot prove what he has seen. He cannot prove that the voice telling him to unite the highprinces and trust Sadeas is the Almighty's and not some sickness of his own grieving brain. He can only listen, act with honor, and watch what comes of it.

Litima finishes the passage and closes the book softly. The afternoon light has shifted across the rugs while she read. Dalinar thanks her, dismisses her gently, and stays at the maps with Renarin until the candles are needed. Renarin says nothing the whole time, which is, in its way, the kindest thing anyone has said to him all day.