Dalinar grabbed the hammer with one gauntleted hand, swinging it up to rest on his shoulder. He ignored the soldiers performing exercises on the field, walking to where the group of dirty workers chipped at the latrine ditch. They looked up at him, horrified to see the highprince himself looming over them in full Shardplate.

“Who’s in charge here?” Dalinar asked.

A scruffy civilian in brown trousers raised a nervous hand. “Brightlord, how may we serve you?”

“By relaxing for a little while,” Dalinar said. “Out with you.”

The worried workers scrambled out. Lighteyed officers gathered behind, confused by Dalinar’s actions.

Dalinar gripped the haft of his warhammer in a gauntleted hand; the metal shaft was wrapped tightly with leather. Taking a deep breath, he leaped down into the half-finished ditch, lifted the hammer, then swung, slamming the weapon down against the rock.

A powerful crack rang across the practice field, and a wave of shock ran up Dalinar’s arms. The Shardplate absorbed most of the recoil, and he left a large crack in the stones. He hefted and swung again, this time breaking free a large section of rock. Though it would have been difficult for two or three regular men to lift, Dalinar grabbed it with one hand and tossed it aside. It clattered across the stones.

Where were the Shards for regular men? Why hadn’t the ancients, who were so wise, created anything to help them? As Dalinar continued to work, beats of his hammer throwing chips and dust into the air, he easily did the work of twenty men. Shardplate could be used for so many things to ease the lives of workers and darkeyes across Roshar.

It felt good to be working. To be doing something useful. Lately, he felt as if his efforts had been akin to running about in circles. The work helped him think.

He was losing his thirst for battle. That worried him, as the Thrill—the enjoyment and longing for war—was part of what drove the Alethi as a people. The grandest of masculine arts was to become a great warrior, and the most important Calling was to fight. The Almighty himself depended on the Alethi to train themselves in honorable battle so that when they died, they could join the Heralds’ army and win back the Tranquiline Halls.

And yet, thinking about killing was starting to sicken him. It had grown worse since that last bridge assault. What would happen next time he went into battle? He could not lead this way. That was a major reason that abdicating in favor of Adolin looked right.

He continued to swing. Again and again, beating against the stones. Soldiers gathered above and—despite his orders—the workers did not leave to relax. They watched, dumbfounded, as a Shardbearer did their work. Occasionally, he summoned his Blade and used it to cut the rock, slicing out sections before returning to the hammer to break them apart.

He probably looked ridiculous. He couldn’t do the work of all of the laborers in camp, and he had important tasks to fill his time. There was no reason for him to get down in a trench and toil. And yet it felt so good. So wonderful to pitch in directly with the needs of the camp. The results of what he did to protect Elhokar were often difficult to gauge; it was fulfilling to be able to do something where his progress was obvious.

But even in this, he was acting according to the ideals that had infected him. The book spoke of a king carrying the burdens of his people. It said that those who led were the lowest of men, for they were required to serve everyone. It all swirled around in him. The Codes, the teachings of the book, the things the visions—or delusions—showed.

Never fight other men except when forced to in war.

Bang!

Let your actions defend you, not your words.

Bang!

Expect honor from those you meet, and give them the chance to live up to it.

Bang!

Rule as you would be ruled.

Bang!

He stood waist-deep in what would eventually be a latrine, his ears filled with the groans of breaking stone. He was coming to believe those ideals. No, he’d already come to believe them. Now he was living them. What would the world be like if all men lived as the book proclaimed?

Someone had to start. Someone had to be the model. In this, he had a reason not to abdicate. Whether or not he was mad, the way he now did things was better than the way Sadeas or the others did them. One needed only look at the lives of his soldiers and his people to see that was true.

Bang!

Stone could not be changed without pounding. Was it the same with a man like him? Was that why everything was so hard for him suddenly? But why him? Dalinar wasn’t a philosopher or idealist. He was a soldier. And—if he admitted the truth—in earlier years, he’d been a tyrant and a warmonger. Could twilight years spent pretending to follow the precepts of better men erase a lifetime of butchery?

He had begun to sweat. The swath he had cut through the ground was as wide as a man was tall, as deep as his chest, and some thirty yards long. The longer he worked, the more people gathered to watch and whisper.

Shardplate was sacred. Was the highprince really digging a latrine with it? Had the stress affected him that profoundly? Frightened of highstorms. Growing cowardly. Refusing to duel or defend himself from slurs. Afraid of fighting, wishing to give up the war.

Suspected of trying to kill the king.

Eventually, Teleb decided that letting all the people stare down at Dalinar wasn’t respectful, and he ordered the men back to their separate duties. He cleared away the workers, taking Dalinar’s order to heart and commanding them to sit in the shade and “converse in a lighthearted manner.” From someone else, that command might have been said with a smile, but Teleb was as literal as the rocks themselves.

Still Dalinar worked. He knew where the latrine was supposed to end; he’d approved the work order. A long, sloping trough was to be cut, then covered with oiled and tarred boards to seal in the scent. A latrine house would be set at the high end, and the contents could be Soulcast to smoke once every few months.

The work felt even better once he was alone. One man, breaking rocks, pounding beat after beat. Like the drums the Parshendi had played on that day so long past. Dalinar could feel those beats still, could hear them in his mind, shaking him.

I’m sorry, brother.

He had spoken to the ardents about his visions. They felt that the visions were most likely a product of an overtaxed mind.

He had no reason to believe the truth of anything the visions showed him. In following them, he had done more than just ignore Sadeas’s maneuvers; he’d depleted his resources precariously. His reputation was on the brink of ruin. He was in danger of dragging down the entire Kholin house.

And that was the most important point in favor of him abdicating. If he continued, his actions could very well lead to the deaths of Adolin, Renarin, and Elhokar. He would risk his own life for his ideals, but could he risk the lives of his sons?

Chips sprayed, bouncing off his Plate. He was beginning to feel worn and tired. The Plate didn’t do the work for him—it enhanced his strength, so each strike of the hammer was his own. His fingers were growing numb from the repeated vibration of the hammer’s haft. He was close to a decision. His mind was calm, clear.

He swung the hammer again.

“Wouldn’t the Blade be more efficient?” asked a dry, feminine voice.

Dalinar froze, the hammer’s head resting on broken stone. He turned to see Navani standing beside the trough, wearing a gown of blue and soft red, her grey-sprinkled hair reflecting light from a sun that was unexpectedly close to setting. She was attended by two young women—not her own wards, but ones she had “borrowed” from other lighteyed women in the camp.