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This was twelve-year-old Gavilar's favorite time, three days after the last highstorm. The ground had dried, but the air had yet to lose its clean-washed clarity, and lifespren still twinkled in crevices and shaded hollows. The sun shone; a sweet breeze blew. Gavilar took the steps down from his geography lessons two at a time.
Teleb and Bashin were already outside with their horses, hopping with restlessness. “Go on ahead without me! I'll catch up!” Gavilar grinned. “I'm a better rider.”
The others rode off in a whirl of laughing protests, leaving Gavilar to jog toward the stable. He arrived just in time to hear a mighty thumping and splashing coming from the rainwater barrel outside.
Curious, Gavilar drew closer. One small hand flailed out and latched onto the rim, followed by a second. Gavilar's brother hauled himself out of the barrel, coughing water and crem.
“Dalinar!” Gavilar ducked into the stables and came out with the least smelly horse blanket he could find. “What were you doing?”
Dalinar wiped his nose with his hand, allowing Gavilar to wrap the blanket around him without complaint. “I was trying to see how bad he got me. If I can't hide it from Mother when I go inside, she'll make me stay in her study and grind inks for a month...”
Gavilar, past his initial surprise, looked more closely. Dalinar's face was starting to bruise and swell, and the water trickling from his mussed black hair was tinged with pink. His shirt was stained from more than crem, a single painspren crawling under his right cuff. “Storms, Brother. Who did this to you?”
Dalinar looked crestfallen. “It looks that bad? Mother will never let me out of the study—”
“Brother,” Gavilar said. “Who did this to you.”
Dalinar looked away. “Betelem Ruthar.”
Gavilar gritted his teeth. Betelem was Highprince Ruthar's son, accompanying his father on the visit to Kholinar. He was twelve, built like a mountain, and viciously good with a sword. Gavilar's wrist still ached from their sparring match the previous day. It had taken all he had to grit his teeth and smile and ensure that he at least lost gracefully in front of the gathered parents and retinues. “I didn't like him, but I hadn't thought him a coward and a bully. What right has he to fight a ten-year-old! I swear to you, Dalinar, I won't let him get away with it—”
“Uh,” Dalinar said quietly.
“—damn the negotiations. He's on our land. We have ways to get back at him without upsetting Mother's plans for the trade agreement—”
“Brother—”
Gavilar's mind sharpened like a well-trained unit stepping into attack formation. “The hunt. Father will invite them to a hunt, to seal the deal. Humiliation is easy enough, but I find myself wanting something more—”
“Brother! He didn't fight me. I fought him.” Dalinar scowled. “He's neither bully nor coward, though he may be a dirty liar.”
“What do you mean?” Gavilar asked, his anger replaced by a sinking sensation.
“He was telling everyone at swords practice that he beat you in a bout in front of Mother and Father! He called you weak and an embarrassment!” Dalinar looked at him, eyes wide and imploring. “I know I shouldn't have risked Mother's plans, but I couldn't let a lie like that go unchallenged.”
“I...” Storms, Gavilar couldn't get the words out of his mouth. What would Dalinar think of him? “I... Brother, he wasn't lying.”
“Oh.” Dalinar was quiet for a moment. Then he stuck out his jaw defiantly. “Well, he shouldn't have bragged about it. He's our guest. That's a real insult.”
Guilt mingled uneasily with relief inside Gavilar. “So you went up to him?”
“I tried using my words first, like Mother would want. But I'm not very good at that. Betelem just laughed and said I only thought you weren't weak because I was weaker. But then I figured out the right words to use! I punched him in the face and told him to fight me.”
Gavilar groaned. “Mother wouldn't consider that using your words.”
“No, it is! I mean, he dodged and I missed.”
“...Ah,” Gavilar said.
“I suppose Mother will still be angry, though. Father wouldn't care about diplomacy as long as I won, but Mother really wants the other highprinces to like us. And I punched him a lot after that. Not during the part with swords, of course, but after that. He was such a sore loser! He wanted a rematch, when he hadn't given one to you! So instead I just—”
“You... won,” Gavilar said slowly.
“I wouldn't let him win! I suppose he's strong and fast, but once you throw him out of his rhythm—” Here, Dalinar made a painful-looking gesture with both hands, flinging scatters of water out of his sleeves. “—and keep your rhythm and hit him like this—” Violent chopping gestures with his hands. “—and don't let him do this until you're—”
“Storms.” Gavilar hoped he didn't sound too delighted.
“You could have done the same,” Dalinar assured him. “You just had a bad day, and Betelem got lucky. It's disgraceful that he'd brag about a fluke like that. You should ask for a rematch. You'll crush him for sure.”
“Mother would never forgive me,” Gavilar said, while he tried to will away the tear in his eye.
Dalinar only drooped at the reminder. “I know she'd have wanted me to keep my temper. She wants me to be more like you. I want to be more like you, but I'm not very good at it. And now I think I ruined things for our whole house, and Mother is going to be so angry, an— mmph,” he said, as Gavilar gave up and hugged him.
“You're wonderful,” Gavilar said fiercely. “I wish I could have seen the fight. I'd have cheered you the whole time.”
Gavilar could feel, if not see, the heat of Dalinar's blush. “I'm getting you wet,” he said, sounding pleased.
“I'd happily chafe all the way to Axehound Rock. But speaking of which,” Gavilar said, as his mind began to turn again. He went to the barrel and splashed more water on his clothes, until he judged it to look right. “Hide here in one of the stalls. I'll go back and say I tripped and fell into a puddle. I can get salve and dry clothes for you too while I'm at it. I'll tell Mother that we're bringing you on the hunting trip, and swear on all the Heralds that I'll take good care of you, so that when you come back covered in cuts and bruises she'll yell at me.”
“Are you sure?” Dalinar asked, even as Gavilar saw excitement and relief dawn in his eyes. “But—Betelem might tell, right?”
“I know his type. He has too much pride to admit a ten-year-old beat him black and blue. I just hope he can come up with a good excuse for the state he's in.” Gavilar couldn't resist a grin at the thought. “Storms, Mother could make me grind inks for ten months and it would be worth it. You're wonderful, Dalinar.”
Dalinar grinned back. “Take me hunting more often, then! I hear Teleb saw a whitespine the other day!”
“I'll save it for you!” Gavilar ran, laughing.