"I can save her," Kal said, pulling off his shirt.
The child was only five. She'd fallen far.
"I can save her." He was mumbling. A crowd had gathered. It had been two months since Brightlord Wistiow's death; they still didn't have a replacement citylord. He had barely seen Laral at all in that time.
Kal was only thirteen, but he'd been trained well. The first danger was blood loss; the child's leg had broken, a compound fracture, and it was spurting red where bone had split the skin. Kal found his hands trembling as he pressed his fingers against the wound. The broken bone was slick, even the jagged end, wetted by blood. Which arteries had been torn?
"What are you doing to my daughter?" Thick-shouldered Harl pushed through the onlookers. "You cremling, you storm's leavings! Don't touch Miasal! Don't-"
Harl broke off as several of the other men pulled him back. They knew that Kal-who had been passing by chance-was the girl's best hope. Alim had already been sent to fetch Kal's father.
"I can save her," Kal said. Her face was pale, and she didn't move. That head wound, maybe it…
Can't think about that. One of the lower leg arteries was severed. He used his shirt to tie a tourniquet to stop the blood, but it kept slipping. Fingers still pressed against the cut, he called, "Fire! I need fire! Hurry! And someone give me your shirt!"
Several men rushed off as Kal elevated the leg. One of the men hurriedly handed over his shirt. Kal knew where to pinch to cut off the artery; the tourniquet slipped, but his fingers did not. He held that artery closed, pressing the shirt on the rest of the wound until Valama came back with a candle's flame.
They'd already begun heating a knife. Good. Kal took the knife, burning it into the wound, releasing the sharply pungent smell of scorched flesh. A cool wind blew across them, carrying it away.
Kal's hands stopped shaking. He knew what to do. He moved with skill that surprised even him, perfectly cauterizing, as his training took control. He still needed to tie off the artery-a cauterization might not hold on an artery this large-but the two together should work.
When he was done, the bleeding had stopped. He sat back, smiling. And then he noticed that Miasal's head wound wasn't bleeding either. Her chest wasn't moving.
"No!" Harl fell to his knees. "No! Do something!"
"I…" Kal said. He'd stopped the bleeding. He'd…
He'd lost her.
He didn't know what to say, how to respond. A deep, terrible, sickness washed over him. Harl shoved him aside, wailing, Kal fell backward. He found himself shaking again as Harl clutched the corpse.
Around them, the crowd was silent. An hour later, Kal sat on the steps in front of the surgery room, crying. It was a soft thing, his grief. A shake here. A few persistent tears, slipping down his cheeks.
He sat with knees up, arms wrapped around his legs, trying to figure out how to stop hurting. Was there a salve to take away this pain? A bandage to stop the flow from his eyes? He should have been able to save her.
Footsteps approached, and a shadow fell on him. Lirin knelt down beside him. "I inspected your work, son. You did well. I'm proud."
"I failed," Kal whispered. His clothing was stained red. Before he'd washed the blood free of his hands, it had been scarlet. But soaked into his clothing, it was a duller reddish brown.
"I've known men who practiced for hours and hours, yet still froze when confronted by a wounded person. It's harder when it takes you by surprise. You didn't freeze, you went to her, administered help. And you did it well."
"I don't want to be a surgeon," Kal said. "I'm terrible at it."
Lirin sighed, rounding the steps, sitting down beside his son. "Kal, this happens. It's unfortunate, but you couldn't have done more. That little body lost blood too quickly."
Kal didn't reply.
"You have to learn when to care, son," Lirin said softly. "And when to let go. You'll see. I had similar problems when I was younger. You'll grow calluses."
And this is a good thing? Kal thought, another tear trickling down his cheek. You have to learn when to care…and when to let go…
In the distance, Harl continued to wail. One need only look at the aftermath of his brief visit to Sel to see proof of what I say. Kaladin didn't want to open his eyes. If he opened his eyes, he'd be awake. And if he were awake, that pain-the burning in his side, the aching of his legs, the dull throb in his arms and shoulders-wouldn't be just a nightmare. It would be real. And it would be his.
He stifled a groan, rolling onto his side. It all ached. Every length of muscle, every inch of skin. His head pounded. It seemed that his very bones were sore. He wanted to lie motionless and throbbing until Gaz was forced to come and tow him out by his ankles. That would be easy. Didn't he deserve to do what was easy, for once?
But he couldn't. To stop moving, to give up, would be the same as dying, and he could not let that happen. He'd made his decision already. He would help the bridgemen.
Curse you, Hav, he thought. You can boot me out of my bunk even now. Kaladin threw off his blanket, forcing himself to stand. The door to the barrack was cracked open to let in fresh air.
He felt worse standing up, but the life of a bridgeman wouldn't wait for him to recover. You either kept up or you got crushed. Kaladin steadied himself, hand against the unnaturally smooth, Soulcast rock of the barrack wall. Then he took a deep breath and crossed the room. Oddly, more than a few of the men were awake and sitting up. They watched Kaladin in silence.
They were waiting, Kaladin realized. They wanted to see if I'd get up.
He found the three wounded where he'd left them at the front of the barrack. He held his breath as he checked on Leyten. Amazingly, he was still alive. His breathing was still shallow, his pulse weak and his wounds dire, but he was alive.
He wouldn't stay that way long without antiseptic. None of the wounds looked infected with rotspren yet, but it would only be a matter of time in these dirty confines. He needed some of the apothecary's salves. But how?
He checked the other two. Hobber was smiling openly. He was round-faced and lean, with a gap between his teeth and short, black hair. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you for saving me."
Kaladin grunted, inspecting the man's leg. "You'll be fine, but you won't be able to walk for a few weeks. I'll bring food from the mess hall for you."
"Thank you," Hobber whispered, taking Kaladin's hand, clutching it. He actually seemed to be tearing up.
That smile forced back the gloom, made the aches and soreness fade. Kaladin's father had described that kind of smile. Those smiles weren't why Lirin had become a surgeon, but they were why he'd remained one.
"Rest," Kaladin said, "and keep that wound clean. We don't want to attract any rotspren. Let me know if you see any. They are small and red, like tiny insects."
Hobber nodded eagerly and Kaladin moved to Dabbid. The youthful bridgeman looked just as he had the day before, staring forward, eyes unfocused.
"He was sitting like that when I fell asleep too, sir," Hobber said. "It's like he hasn't moved all night. Gives me the chills, it does."
Kaladin snapped his fingers in front of Dabbid's eyes. The man jumped at the sound, focusing on the fingers, following them as Kaladin moved his hand.
"He's been hit in the head, I think," Hobber said.
"No," Kaladin said. "It's battle shock. It will wear off." I hope.
"If you say so, sir," Hobber said, scratching at the side of his head.
Kaladin stood and pushed the door open all the way, lighting the room. It was a clear day, the sun just barely over the horizon. Already, sounds drifted from the warcamp, a blacksmith working early, hammer on metal. Chulls trumpeting in the stables. The air was cool, chilly, clinging to the vestiges of night. It smelled clean and fresh. Spring weather.
You got up, Kaladin told himself. Might as well get on with it. He forced himself to go out and do his stretches, body complaining at each motion. Then he checked his own wound. It wasn't too bad, though infection could make it worse.
Stormwinds take that apothecary! he thought, fetching a ladle full of water from the bridgeman barrel, using it to wash his wound.
He immediately regretted the bitter thought against the elderly apothecary. What was the man to do? Give Kaladin the antiseptic for free? It was Highprince Sadeas he should be cursing. Sadeas was responsible for the wound, and was also the one who had forbidden the surgeon's hall to give supplies to bridgemen, slaves, and servants of the lesser nahns.
By the time he finished stretching, a handful of bridgemen had risen to get something to drink. They stood around the barrel, regarding Kaladin.
There was only one thing to do. Setting his jaw, Kaladin crossed the lumber grounds and located the plank he'd carried the day before. The carpenters hadn't yet added it to their bridge, so Kaladin picked it up and walked back to the barracks. Then he began practicing the same way he had yesterday.
He couldn't go as fast. In fact, much of the time, he could only walk. But as he worked, his aches soothed. His headache faded. His feet and shoulders still hurt, and he had a deep, latent exhaustion. But he didn't embarrass himself by falling over.
In his practice, he passed the other bridgeman barracks. The men in front of them were barely distinguishable from those in Bridge Four. The same dark, sweat-stained leather vests over bare chests or loosely tied shirts. There was the occasional foreigner, Thaylens or Vedens most often. But they were unified in their scraggly appearances, unshaven faces, and haunted eyes. Several groups watched Kaladin with outright hostility. Were they worried that his practice would encourage their own bridgeleaders to work them?
He had hoped that some members of Bridge Four might join his work-out. They'd obeyed him during the battle, after all, even going so far as to help him with the wounded. His hope was in vain. While some bridgemen watched, others ignored him. None took part.
Eventually, Syl flitted down and landed on the end of his plank, riding like a queen on her palanquin. "They're talking about you," she said as he passed the Bridge Four barrack again.
"Not surprising," Kaladin said between puffs.
"Some think you've gone mad," she said. "Like that man who just sits and stares at the floor. They say the battle stress broke your mind."
"Maybe they're right. I didn't consider that."
"What is madness?" she asked, sitting with one leg up against her chest, vaporous skirt flickering around her calves and vanishing into mist.
"It's when men don't think right," Kaladin said, glad for the conversation to distract him.
"Men never seem to think right."
"Madness is worse than normal," Kaladin said with a smile. "It really just depends on the people around you. How different are you from them? The person that stands out is mad, I guess."
"So you all just…vote on it?" she asked, screwing up her face.
"Well, not so actively. But it's the right idea."
She sat thoughtfully for a time longer. "Kaladin," she finally said. "Why do men lie? I can see what lies are, but I don't know why people do it."
"Lots of reasons," Kaladin said, wiping the sweat from his brow with his free hand, then using it to steady the plank.
"Is it madness?"
"I don't know if I'd say that. Everyone does it."
"So maybe you're all a little mad."
He chuckled. "Yes, perhaps."
"But if everyone does it," she said, leaning her head on her knee, "then the one who doesn't would be the one who is mad, right? Isn't that what you said earlier?"
"Well, I guess. But I don't think there's a person out there who hasn't ever lied."
"Dalinar."
"Who?"
"The king's uncle," Syl said. "Everyone says he never lies. Your bridgemen even talk about it sometimes."
That's right. The Blackthorn. Kaladin had heard of him, even in his youth. "He's a lighteyes. That means he lies."
"But-"
"They're all the same, Syl. The more noble they look, the more corrupt they are inside. It's all an act." He fell quiet, surprised at the vehemence of his bitterness. Storm you, Amaram. You did this to me. He'd been burned too often to trust the flame.
"I don't think men were always this way," she said absently, getting a far-off look in her face. "I…"
Kaladin waited for her to continue, but she didn't. He passed Bridge Four again; many of the men relaxed, backs to the barrack wall, waiting for the afternoon shade to cover them. They rarely waited inside. Perhaps staying inside all day was too gloomy, even for bridgemen.
"Syl?" he finally prompted. "Were you going to say something?"
"It seems I've heard men talk about times when there were no lies."
"There are stories," Kaladin said, "about the times of the Heraldic Epochs, when men were bound by honor. But you'll always find people telling stories about supposedly better days. You watch. A man joins a new team of soldiers, and the first thing he'll do is talk about how wonderful his old team was. We remember the good times and the bad ones, forgetting that most times are neither good nor bad. They just are."
He broke into a jog. The sun was growing warm overhead, but he wanted to move.
"The stories," he continued between puffs, "they prove it. What happened to the Heralds? They abandoned us. What happened to the Knights Radiant? They fell and became tarnished. What happened to the Epoch Kingdoms? They crashed when the church tried to seize power. You can't trust anyone with power, Syl."
"What do you do, then? Have no leaders?"
"No. You give the power to the lighteyes and leave it to corrupt them. Then try to stay as far from them as possible." His words felt hollow. How good a job had he done staying away from lighteyes? He always seemed to be in the thick of them, caught in the muddy mire they created with their plots, schemes, and greed.
Syl fell silent, and after that last jog, he decided to stop his practicing. He couldn't afford to strain himself again. He returned the plank. The carpenters scratched their heads, but didn't complain. He made his way back to the bridgemen, noticing that a small group of them-including Rock and Teft-were chatting and glancing at Kaladin.
"You know," Kaladin said to Syl, "talking to you probably doesn't do anything for my reputation of being insane."
"I'll do my best to stop being so interesting," Syl said, alighting on his shoulder. She put her hands on her hips, then plopped down to a sitting position, smiling, obviously pleased with her comment.
Before Kaladin could get back to the barrack, he noticed Gaz hustling across the lumberyard toward him. "You!" Gaz said, pointing at Kaladin. "Hold a season."
Kaladin stopped, waiting with folded arms.
"I've news for you," Gaz said, squinting with his good eye. "Brightlord Lamaril heard what you did with the wounded."
"How?"
"Storms, boy!" Gaz said. "You think people wouldn't talk? What were you going to do? Hide three men in the middle of us all?"
Kaladin took a deep breath, but backed down. Gaz was right. "All right. What does it matter? We didn't slow the army."
"Yeah," Gaz said, "but Lamaril isn't too polished on the idea of paying and feeding bridgemen who can't work. He took the matter to Highprince Sadeas, intending to have you strung up."
Kaladin felt a chill. Strung up would mean hung out during a highstorm for the Stormfather to judge. It was essentially a death sentence. "And?"
"Brightlord Sadeas refused to let him do it," Gaz said.
What? Had he misjudged Sadeas? But no. This was part of the act.
"Brightlord Sadeas," Gaz said grimly, "told Lamaril to let you keep the soldiers-but to forbid them food or pay while they're unable to work. Said it would show why he's forced to leave bridgemen behind."
"That cremling," Kaladin muttered.
Gaz paled. "Hush. That's the highprince himself you're talking about, boy!" He glanced about to see if anyone had heard.
"He's trying to make an example of my men. He wants the other bridgemen to see the wounded suffer and starve. He wants it to seem like he's doing a mercy by leaving the wounded behind."
"Well, maybe he's right."
"It's heartless," Kaladin said. "He brings back wounded soldiers. He leaves the bridgemen because it's cheaper to find new slaves than it is to care for wounded ones."
Gaz fell silent.
"Thank you for bringing me this news."
"News?" Gaz snapped. "I was sent to give you orders, lordling. Don't try to get extra food from the mess hall for your wounded; you'll be refused." With that, he rushed away, muttering to himself.
Kaladin made his way back to the barrack. Stormfather! Where was he going to get food enough to feed three men? He could split his own meals with them, but while bridgemen were kept fed, they weren't given an excess. Even feeding one man beyond himself would be a stretch. Trying to split the meals four ways would leave the wounded too weak to recover and Kaladin too weak to run bridges. And he still needed antiseptic! Rotspren and disease killed far more men in war than the enemy did.
Kaladin stepped up to the men lounging by the barrack. Most were going about the usual bridgeman activities-sprawled on the ground and despondently staring into the air, sitting and despondently staring at the ground, standing and despondently staring into the distance. Bridge Four wasn't on bridge duty at all this day, and they didn't have work detail until third afternoon bell.
"Gaz says our wounded are to be refused food or pay until they are well," Kaladin said to the collected men.
Some of them-Sigzil, Peet, Koolf-nodded, as if this was what they'd expected.
"Highprince Sadeas wants to make an example of us," Kaladin said. "He wants to prove that bridgemen aren't worth healing, and he's going to do it by making Hobber, Leyten, and Dabbid die slow, painful deaths." He took a deep breath. "I want to pool our resources to buy medicine and get food for the wounded. We can keep those three alive if a few of you will split your meals with them. We'll need about two dozen or so clearmarks to buy the right medicine and supplies. Who has something they can spare?"
The men stared at him, then Moash started laughing. Others joined him. They waved dismissive hands and broke up, walking away, leaving Kaladin with his hand out. "Next time it could be you!" he called. "What will you do if you're the one that needs healing?"
"I'll die," Moash said, not even bothering to look back. "Out on the field, quickly, rather than back here over a week's time."
Kaladin lowered his hand. He sighed, turning, and almost ran into Rock. The beefy, towerlike Horneater stood with arms folded, like a tan-skinned statue. Kaladin looked up at him, hopeful.
"Don't have any spheres," Rock said with a grunt. "Is all spent already."
Kaladin sighed. "It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Two of us couldn't afford to buy the medicine. Not alone."
"I will give some food," Rock grumbled.
Kaladin glanced back at him, surprised.
"But only for this man with arrow in his leg," Rock said, arms still folded.
"Hobber?"
"Whatever," Rock said. "He looks like he could get better. Other one, he will die. Is certain. And I have no pity for man who sits there, not doing anything. But for the other one, you may have my food. Some of it."
Kaladin smiled, raising a hand and gripping the larger man's arm. "Thank you."
Rock shrugged. "You took my place. Without this thing, I would be dead."
Kaladin smirked at that logic. "I'm not dead, Rock. You'd be fine."
Rock shook his head. "I'd be dead. Is something strange about you. All men can see it, even if they don't want to speak of this thing. I looked at bridge where you were. Arrows hit all around you-beside your head, next to your hands. But they weren't hitting you."
"Luck."
"Is no such thing." Rock glanced at Kaladin's shoulder. "Besides, there is mafah'liki who always follows you." The large Horneater bowed his head reverently to Syl, then made a strange gesture with his hand touching his shoulders and then his forehead.
Kaladin started. "You can see her?" He glanced at Syl. As a windspren, she could appear to those she wanted to-and that generally only meant Kaladin.
Syl seemed shocked. No, she hadn't appeared to Rock specifically.
"I am alaii'iku," Rock said, shrugging.
"Which means…"
Rock scowled. "Airsick lowlanders. Is there nothing proper you know? Anyway, you are special man. Bridge Four, it lost eight runners yesterday counting the three wounded."
"I know," Kaladin said. "I broke my first promise. I said I wasn't going to lose a single one."
Rock snorted. "We are bridgemen. We die. Is how this thing works. You might as well promise to make the moons catch each other!" The large man turned, pointing toward one of the other barracks. "Of the bridges that were fired upon, most lost many men. Five bridges fell. They lost over twenty men each and needed soldiers to help get bridges back. Bridge Two lost eleven men, and it wasn't even a focus of firing."
He turned back to Kaladin. "Bridge Four lost eight. Eight men, during one of the worst runs of the season. And, perhaps, you will save two of those. Bridge Four lost fewest men of any bridge that the Parshendi tried to drop. Bridge Four never loses fewest men. Everyone knows how it is."
"Luck-"
Rock pointed a fat finger at him, cutting him off. "Airsick lowlander."
It was just luck. But, well, Kaladin would take it for the small blessing it was. No use arguing when someone had finally decided to start listening to him.
But one man wasn't enough. Even if both he and Rock went on half rations, one of the sick men would starve. He needed spheres. He needed them desperately. But he was a slave; it was illegal for him to earn money in most ways. If only he had something he could sell. But he owned nothing. He…
A thought occurred to him.
"Come on," he said, striding away from the barrack. Rock followed curiously. Kaladin searched through the lumberyard until he found Gaz speaking with a bridgeleader in front of Bridge Three's barrack. As was growing more common, Gaz grew pale when Kaladin approached, and made as if to scurry away.
"Gaz, wait!" Kaladin said, holding out his hand. "I have an offer for you."
The bridge sergeant froze. Beside Gaz, Bridge Three's leader shot Kaladin a scowl. The way the other bridgemen had been treating him suddenly made sense. They were perturbed to see Bridge Four come out of a battle in such good shape. Bridge Four was supposed to be unlucky. Everyone needed someone else to look down on-and the other bridge crews could be consoled by the small mercy that they weren't in Bridge Four. Kaladin had upset that.
The dark-bearded bridgeleader retreated, leaving Kaladin and Rock alone with Gaz.
"What are you offering this time?" Gaz said. "More dun spheres?"
"No," Kaladin said, thinking quickly. This would have to be handled very carefully. "I'm out of spheres. But we can't continue like this, you avoiding me, the other bridge crews hating me."
"Don't see what we can do about it."
"I tell you what," Kaladin said, as if suddenly having a thought. "Is anyone on stone-gathering detail today?"
"Yeah," Gaz said, gesturing over his shoulder. "Bridge Three. Bussik there was just trying to convince me that his team is too weak to go. Storms blast me, but I believe him. Lost two-thirds of his men yesterday, and I'll be the one who gets chewed out when they don't gather enough stones to meet quota."
Kaladin nodded sympathetically. Stone gathering was one of the least desirable work details; it involved traveling outside of the camp and filling wagons with large rocks. Soulcasters fed the army by turning rocks into grain, and it was easier for them-for reasons only they knew-if they had distinct, separate stones. So men gathered rocks. It was menial, sweaty, tiring, mindless work. Perfect for bridgemen.
"Why don't you send a different bridge team?" Kaladin asked.
"Bah," Gaz said. "You know the kind of trouble that makes. If I'm seen playing favorites, I never hear an end of the complaining."
"Nobody will complain if you make Bridge Four do it."
Gaz glanced at him, single eye narrowed. "I didn't think you'd react well to being treated differently."
"I'll do it," Kaladin said, grimacing. "Just this once. Look, Gaz, I don't want to spend the rest of my time here fighting against you."
Gaz hesitated. "Your men are going to be angry. I won't let them think it was me who did this to them."
"I'll tell them that it was my idea."
"All right, then. Third bell, meet at the western checkpoint. Bridge Three can clean pots." He walked away quickly, as if to escape before Kaladin changed his mind.
Rock stepped up beside Kaladin, watching Gaz. "The little man is right, you know. The men will hate you for this thing. They were looking forward to easy day."
"They'll get over it."
"But why change for harder work? Is true-you are crazy, aren't you?"
"Maybe. But that craziness will get us outside of the warcamp."
"What good is that?"
"It means everything," Kaladin said, glancing back at the barrack. "It means life and death. But we're going to need more help."
"Another bridge crew?"
"No, I mean that we-you and I-will need help. One more man, at least." He scanned the lumberyard, and noted someone sitting in the shadow of Bridge Four's barrack. Teft. The grizzled bridgeman hadn't been among the group that had laughed at Kaladin earlier, but he had been quick to help yesterday, going with Rock to carry Leyten.
Kaladin took a deep breath and strode out across the grounds, Rock trailing behind. Syl left his shoulder and zipped into the air, dancing on a sudden gust of wind. Teft looked up as Kaladin and Rock approached. The older man had fetched breakfast, and he was eating alone, a piece of flatbread peeking out beneath his bowl.
His beard was stained by the curry, and he regarded Kaladin with wary eyes before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I like my food, son," he said. "Hardly think they feed me enough for one man. Let alone two."
Kaladin squatted in front of him. Rock leaned up against the wall and folded his arms, watching quietly.
"I need you, Teft," Kaladin said.
"I said-"
"Not your food. You. Your loyalty. Your allegiance."
The older man continued to eat. He didn't have a slave brand, and neither did Rock. Kaladin didn't know their stories. All he knew was that these two had helped when others hadn't. They weren't completely beaten down.
"Teft-" Kaladin began.
"I've given my loyalty before," the man said. "Too many times now. Always works out the same."
"Your trust gets betrayed?" Kaladin asked softly.
Teft snorted. "Storms, no. I betray it. You can't depend on me, son. I belong here, as a bridgeman."
"I depended on you yesterday, and you impressed me."
"Fluke."
"I'll judge that," Kaladin said. "Teft, we're all broken, in one way or another. Otherwise we wouldn't be bridgemen. I've failed. My own brother died because of me."
"So why keep caring?"
"It's either that or give up and die."
"And if death is better?"
It came back to this problem. This was why the bridgemen didn't care if he helped the wounded or not.
"Death isn't better," Kaladin said, looking Teft in the eyes. "Oh, it's easy to say that now. But when you stand on the ledge and look down into that dark, endless pit, you change your mind. Just like Hobber did. Just like I've done." He hesitated, seeing something in the older man's eyes. "I think you've seen it too."
"Aye," Teft said softly. "Aye, I have."
"So, are you with us in this thing?" Rock said, squatting down.
Us? Kaladin thought, smiling faintly.
Teft looked back and forth between the two of them. "I get to keep my food?"
"Yes," Kaladin said.
Teft shrugged. "All right then, I guess. Can't be any harder than sitting here and having a staring contest with mortality."
Kaladin held out a hand. Teft hesitated, then took it.
Rock held out a hand. "Rock."
Teft looked at him, finished shaking Kaladin's hand, then took Rock's. "I'm Teft."
Stormfather, Kaladin thought. I'd forgotten that most of them don't even bother to learn each other's names.
"What kind of name is Rock?" Teft asked, releasing the hand.
"Is a stupid one," Rock said with an even face. "But at least it has meaning. Does your name mean anything?"
"I guess not," Teft said, rubbing his bearded chin.
"Rock, this is not my real name," the Horneater admitted. "Is just what lowlanders can pronounce."
"What's your real name, then?" Teft asked.
"You won't be able to say it."
Teft raised an eyebrow.
"Numuhukumakiaki'aialunamor," Rock said.
Teft hesitated, then smiled. "Well, I guess in that case, Rock will do just fine."
Rock laughed, settling down. "Our bridgeleader has a plan. Something glorious and daring. Has something to do with spending our afternoon moving stones in the heat."
Kaladin smiled, leaning forward. "We need to gather a certain kind of plant. A reed that grows in small patches outside the camp…" In case you have turned a blind eye to that disaster, know that Aona and Skai are both dead, and that which they held has been Splintered. Presumably to prevent anyone from rising up to challenge Rayse. Two days after the incident with the highstorm, Dalinar walked with his sons, crossing the rocky ground toward the king's feasting basin.
Dalinar's stormwardens projected another few weeks of spring, followed by a return to summer. Hopefully it wouldn't turn to winter instead.
"I've been to three more leatherworkers," Adolin said softly. "They have different opinions. It seems that even before the strap was cut-if it was cut-it was worn, so that's interfering with things. The best consensus has been that the strap was sliced, but not necessarily by a knife. It could have just been natural wear-and-tear."
Dalinar nodded. "That's the only evidence that even hints there might be something odd about the girth breaking."
"So we admit that this was just a result of the king's paranoia."
"I'll talk to Elhokar," Dalinar decided. "Let him know we've run into a wall and see if there are any other avenues he'd like us to pursue."
"That'll do." Adolin seemed to grow hesitant about something. "Father. Do you want to talk about what happened during the storm?"
"It was nothing that hasn't happened before."
"But-"
"Enjoy the evening, Adolin," Dalinar said firmly. "I'm all right. Perhaps it's good for the men to see what is happening. Hiding it has only inspired rumors, some of them even worse than the truth."
Adolin sighed, but nodded.
The king's feasts were always outdoors, at the foot of Elhokar's palace hill. If the stormwardens warned of a highstorm-or if more mundane weather turned bad-then the feast was canceled. Dalinar was glad for the outdoor location. Even with ornamentation, Soulcast buildings felt like caverns.
The feast basin had been flooded, turning it into a shallow artificial lake. Circular dining platforms rose like small stone islands in the water. The elaborate miniature landscape had been fabricated by the king's Soulcasters, who had diverted the water from a nearby stream. It reminds me of Sela Tales, Dalinar thought as he crossed the first bridge. He'd visited that western region of Roshar during his youth. And the Purelake.
There were five islands, and the railings of the bridges connecting them were done in scrollwork so fine that after each feast, the railings had to be stowed away lest a highstorm ruin them. Tonight, flowers floated in the slow current. Periodically, a miniature boat-only a handspan wide-sailed past, bearing an infused gemstone.
Dalinar, Renarin, and Adolin stepped onto the first dining platform. "One cup of blue," Dalinar said to his sons. "After that, keep to the orange."
Adolin sighed audibly. "Couldn't we, just this once-"
"So long as you are of my house, you follow the Codes. My will is firm, Adolin."
"Fine," Adolin said. "Come on, Renarin." The two broke off from Dalinar to remain on the first platform, where the younger lighteyes congregated.
Dalinar crossed to the next island. This middle one was for the lesser lighteyes. To its left and right lay the segregated dining islands-men's island on the right, women's island on the left. On the three central ones, however, the genders mingled.
Around him, the favored invitees took advantage of their king's hospitality. Soulcast food was inherently bland, but the king's lavish feasts always served imported spices and exotic meats. Dalinar could smell roasting pork on the air, and even chickens. It had been a long time since he'd been served meat from one of the strange Shin flying creatures.
A darkeyed servant passed, wearing a gauzy red robe and carrying a tray of orange crab legs. Dalinar continued across the island, weaving around groups of revelers. Most drank violet wine, the most intoxicating and flavorful of the colors. Almost no one was in battle attire. A few men wore tight, waist-length jackets, but many had dropped all pretense, choosing instead loose silk shirts with ruffled cuffs worn with matching slippers. The rich material glistened in the lamplight.
These creatures of fashion shot glances at Dalinar, appraising him, weighing him. He could remember a time when he would have been swarmed by friends, acquaintances-and yes, even sycophants-at a feast like this. Now, none approached him, though they gave way before him. Elhokar might think his uncle was growing weak, but his reputation quelled most lesser lighteyes.
He soon approached the bridge to the final island-the king's island. Pole-mounted gem lamps ringed it, glowing with blue Stormlight, and a firepit dominated the center of the platform. Deep red coals simmered in its bowels, radiating warmth. Elhokar sat at his table just behind the firepit, and several highprinces ate with him. Tables along the sides of the platform were occupied by male or female diners-never both at the same.
Wit sat on a raised stool at the end of the bridge leading onto the island. Wit actually dressed as a lighteyes should-he wore a stiff black uniform, silver sword at his waist. Dalinar shook his head at the irony.
Wit was insulting each person as they stepped onto the island. "Brightness Marakal! What a disaster that hairstyle is; how brave of you to show it to the world. Brightlord Marakal, I wish you'd warned us you were going to attend; I'd have forgone supper. I do so hate being sick after a full meal. Brightlord Cadilar! How good it is to see you. Your face reminds me of someone dear to me."
"Really?" wizened Cadilar said, hesitating.
"Yes," Wit said, waving him on, "my horse. Ah, Brightlord Neteb, you smell unique today-did you attack a wet whitespine, or did one just sneeze on you? Lady Alami! No, please, don't speak-it's much easier to maintain my illusions regarding your intelligence that way. And Brightlord Dalinar." Wit nodded to Dalinar as he passed. "Ah, my dear Brightlord Taselin. Still engaged in your experiment to prove a maximum threshold of human idiocy? Good for you! Very empirical of you."
Dalinar hesitated beside Wit's chair as Taselin waddled by with a huff. "Wit," Dalinar said, "do you have to?"
"Two what, Dalinar?" Wit said, eyes twinkling. "Eyes, hands, or spheres? I'd lend you one of the first, but-by definition-a man can only have one I, and if it is given away, who would be Wit then? I'd lend you one of the second, but I fear my simple hands have been digging in the muck far too often to suit one such as you. And if I gave you one of my spheres, what would I spend the remaining one on? I'm quite attached to both of my spheres, you see." He hesitated. "Or, well, you can't see. Would you like to?" He stood up off his chair and reached for his belt.
"Wit," Dalinar said dryly.
Wit laughed, clapping Dalinar on the arm. "I'm sorry. This lot brings out the basest humor in me. Perhaps it's that muck I spoke of earlier. I do try so hard to be elevated in my loathing of them, but they make it difficult."
"Care for yourself, Wit," Dalinar said. "This lot won't suffer you forever. I wouldn't see you dead by their knives; I see a fine man within you."
"Yes," Wit said, scanning the platform. "He tasted quite delicious. Dalinar, I fear I'm not the one who needs that warning. Speak your fears at a mirror a few times when you get home tonight. There are rumors about."
"Rumors?"
"Yes. Terrible things. Grow on men like warts."
"Tumors?"
"Both. Look, there is talk about you."
"There is always talk about me."
"This is worse than most," Wit said, meeting his eyes. "Did you really speak of abandoning the Vengeance Pact?"
Dalinar took a deep breath. "That was between me and the king."
"Well, he must have spoken of it to others. This lot are cowards-and no doubt that makes them feel like experts on the subject, for they've certainly been calling you that a great deal lately."
"Stormfather!"
"No, I'm Wit. But I understand how easy a mistake that is to make."
"Because you blow so much air," Dalinar growled, "or because you make so much noise?"
A wide smile split Wit's face. "Why, Dalinar! I'm impressed! Maybe I should make you Wit! Then I could be a highprince instead." He stopped. "No, that would be bad. I'd go mad after a mere second of listening to them, then would likely slaughter the lot. Perhaps appoint cremlings in their places. The kingdom would undoubtedly fare better."
Dalinar turned to go. "Thank you for the warning."
Wit sat back down on his stool as Dalinar walked away. "You're welcome. Ah, Brightlord Habatab! How thoughtful of you to wear a red shirt with a sunburn like that! If you continue to make my job this easy, I fear my mind shall become as dull as Brightlord Tumul's! Oh, Brightlord Tumul! How unexpected it is to see you standing there! I didn't mean to insult your stupidity. Really, it's quite spectacular and worthy of much praise. Lord Yonatan and Lady Meirav, I'll forgo an insult for you this once on account of your recent wedding, though I do find your hat quite impressive, Yonatan. I trust it is convenient to wear on your head something that doubles as a tent at night. Ah, and is that Lady Navani behind you? How long have you been back at the Plains and how did I not notice the smell?"
Dalinar froze. What?
"Obviously your own stench overpowered mine, Wit," a warm feminine voice said. "Has no one done my son a service and assassinated you yet?"
"No, no assassins yet," Wit said, amused. "I guess I've already got too much ass sass of my own."
Dalinar turned with shock. Navani, the king's mother, was a stately woman with intricately woven black hair. And she was not supposed to be here.
"Oh really, Wit," she said. "I thought that kind of humor was beneath you."
"So are you, technically," Wit said, smiling, from atop his high-legged stool.
She rolled her eyes.
"Unfortunately, Brightness," Wit replied with a sigh, "I've taken to framing my insults in terms this lot will understand. If it will please you, I shall attempt to improve my diction to more elevated terms." He paused. "I say, do you know any words that rhyme with bescumber?"
Navani just turned her head and looked at Dalinar with a pair of light violet eyes. She wore an elegant dress, its shimmering red surface unbroken by embroidery. The gems in her hair-which was streaked with a few lines of grey-were red as well. The king's mother was known as one of the most beautiful women in Alethkar, though Dalinar had always found that description inadequate, for surely there wasn't a woman on all of Roshar to match her beauty.
Fool, he thought, tearing his eyes away from her. Your brother's widow. With Gavilar dead, Navani was now to be treated as Dalinar's sister. Besides, what of his own wife? Dead these ten years, wiped by his foolishness from his mind. Even if he couldn't remember her, he should honor her.
Why had Navani returned? As women called out greetings to her, Dalinar hurriedly made his way over to the king's table. He sat down; a servant arrived in moments with a plate for him-they knew his preferences.
It was steaming peppered chicken, cut in medallions and laid atop fried round slices of tenem, a soft, light orange vegetable. Dalinar grabbed a piece of flatbread and slipped his dining knife from the sheath on his right calf. So long as he was eating, it would be a breach of etiquette for Navani to approach him.
The food was good. It always was at these feasts of Elhokar's-in that, the son was like the father. Elhokar nodded to Dalinar from the end of the table, then continued his conversation with Sadeas. Highprince Roion sat a few seats down from him. Dalinar had an appointment with him in a few days, the first of the highprinces he'd approach and try to convince to work with him on a joint plateau assault.
No other highprinces came to sit near Dalinar. Only they-and people with specific invitations-could sit at the king's table. One man lucky enough to receive such an invitation sat on Elhokar's left, obviously uncertain if he should join in the conversation or not.
Water gurgled in the stream behind Dalinar. Before him, the festivities continued. It was a time for relaxation, but the Alethi were a reserved people, at least when compared with more passionate folk like the Horneaters or the Reshi. Still, his people seemed to have grown more opulent and self-indulgent since his childhood. Wine flowed freely and foods sizzled fragrantly. On the first island, several young men had stepped into a sparring ring for a friendly duel. Young men at a feast often found reason to remove their coats and show off their swordsmanship.
The women were more modest with their displays, but they engaged in them as well. On Dalinar's own island, several women had set up easels where they were sketching, painting, or doing calligraphy. As always, they kept their left hands shrouded in their sleeves, delicately creating art with the right. They sat on high stools, the kind that Wit had been using-in fact, Wit had probably stolen one for his little performance. A few of them attracted creationspren, the tiny shapes rolling across the tops of their easels or tables.
Navani had gathered a group of important lighteyed women to a table. A servant passed by in front of Dalinar, bringing the women some food. It appeared to also have been made with the exotic chicken, but had been mixed with steamed methi fruit and covered in a reddish-brown sauce. As a boy, Dalinar had secretly tried women's food out of curiosity. He'd found it distastefully sweet.
Navani placed something on her table, a device of polished brass about the size of a fist, with a large, infused ruby at its center. The red Stormlight lit the entire table, throwing shadows down the white tablecloth. Navani picked up the device, rotating it to show her dinner companions its leglike protrusions. Turned that way, it looked vaguely crustacean.
I've never seen a fabrial like that before. Dalinar looked up at her face, admiring the contours of her cheek. Navani was a renowned artifabrian. Perhaps this device was Navani glanced at him, and Dalinar froze. She flashed the briefest of smiles at him, covert and knowing, then turned away before he could react. Storming woman! he thought, pointedly turning his attention to his meal.
He was hungry, and got so involved in his food that he almost didn't notice Adolin approaching. The blond youth saluted Elhokar, then hurried to take one of the vacant seats beside Dalinar. "Father," Adolin said in a hushed tone, "have you heard what they're saying?"
"About what?"
"About you! I've fought three duels so far against men who described you-and our house-as cowards. They're saying you asked the king to abandon the Vengeance Pact!"
Dalinar gripped the table and nearly rose to his feet. But he stopped himself. "Let them speak if they wish," he said, turning back to his meal, stabbing a chunk of peppered chicken with his knife and raising it to his lips.
"Did you really do it?" Adolin asked. "Is that what you talked about at the meeting with the king two days back?"
"It is," Dalinar admitted.
That elicited a groan from Adolin. "I was worried already. When I-"
"Adolin," Dalinar interjected. "Do you trust me?"
Adolin looked at him, the youth's eyes wide, honest, but pained. "I want to. Storms, Father. I really want to."
"What I am doing is important. It must be done."
Adolin leaned in, speaking softly. "And what if they are delusions? What if you're just…getting old."
It was the first time someone had confronted him with it so directly. "I would be lying if I didn't admit that I'd considered it, but there was no sense in second-guessing myself. I believe they're real. I feel they're real."
"But-"
"This is not the place for this discussion, son," Dalinar said. "We can talk of it later, and I will listen to-and consider-your objections. I promise."
Adolin drew his lips to a line. "Very well."
"You are right to be worried for our reputation," Dalinar said, resting an elbow on the table. "I had assumed that Elhokar would have the tact to keep our conversation quiet, but I should have asked him to do so directly. You were right about his reaction, by the way. I realized during the conversation he would never retreat, so I changed to another tactic."
"Which is?"
"Winning the war," Dalinar said firmly. "No more scuffling over gemhearts. No more patient, indefinite siege. We find a way to lure a large number of Parshendi onto the Plains, then execute an ambush. If we can kill a large enough number of them, we destroy their capacity to wage war. Failing that, we find a way to strike at their center and kill or capture their leaders. Even a chasmfiend stops fighting when it's been decapitated. The Vengeance Pact would be fulfilled, and we could go home."
Adolin took a long moment considering, then he nodded sharply. "All right."
"No objections?" Dalinar asked. Normally, his elder son had plenty.
"You just asked me to trust you," Adolin said. "Besides, striking harder at the Parshendi? That's a tactic I can get behind. We'll need a good plan, though-a way to counter the very objections you yourself raised six years ago."
Dalinar nodded, tapping the table with his finger. "Back then, even I thought of us as separate princedoms. If we had attacked the center individually, each army alone, we'd have been surrounded and destroyed. But if all ten armies went together? With our Soulcasters to provide food, with the soldiers carrying portable shelters to set up for highstorms? Over a hundred and fifty thousand troops? Let the Parshendi try to surround us then. With the Soulcasters, we could even create wood for bridges if we had to."
"That would take a lot of trust," Adolin said hesitantly. He glanced down the high table, toward Sadeas. His expression darkened. "We'd be stuck out there, together and isolated, for days. If the highprinces started squabbling midmarch, it could be disastrous."
"We'll get them to work together first," Dalinar said. "We're close, closer than we've ever been. Six years, and not a single highprince has allowed his soldiers to skirmish against those of another."
Except back in Alethkar. There, they still fought meaningless battles over land rights or old offenses. It was ridiculous, but stopping the Alethi from warring was like trying to stop the winds from blowing.
Adolin was nodding. "It's a good plan, Father. Far better than talk of retreating. They won't like giving up the plateau skirmishes, though. They like the game of it."
"I know. But if I can get one or two of them to start pooling soldiers and resources for plateau assaults, it might be a step toward what we'll need for the future. I'd still rather find a way to lure a large force of Parshendi out onto the Plains and meet them on one of the larger plateaus, but I haven't yet been able to figure out how to do that. Either way, our separate armies will need to learn to work together."
"And what do we do about what people are saying about you?"
"I'll release an official refutation," Dalinar said. "I'll have to be careful not to make it sound like the king was in error, while also explaining the truth."
Adolin sighed. "An official refutation, Father?"
"Yes."
"Why not fight a duel?" Adolin asked, leaning in, sounding eager. "Some stuffy pronouncement may explain your ideas, but it won't make people feel them. Pick someone who is naming you coward, challenge them, and remind everyone what a mistake it is to insult the Blackthorn!"
"I cannot," Dalinar said. "The Codes forbid it for one of my stature." Adolin probably shouldn't be dueling either, but Dalinar had not forced a complete prohibition on him. Dueling was his life. Well, that and the women he courted.
"Then charge me with the honor of our house," Adolin said. "I'll duel them! I'll face them with Plate and Blade and show them what your honor means."
"That would be the same thing as me doing it, son."
Adolin shook his head, staring at Dalinar. He seemed to be searching for something.
"What?" Dalinar asked.
"I'm trying to decide," Adolin said. "Which one has changed you most. The visions, the Codes, or that book. If there's any difference between them."
"The Codes are separate from the other two," Dalinar said. "They are a tradition of old Alethkar."
"No. They're related, Father. All three. They're tied together in you, somehow."
Dalinar thought on that for a moment. Could the lad have a point? "Have I told you the story of the king carrying the boulder?"
"Yes," Adolin said.
"I have?"
"Twice. And you made me listen to the passage being read another time."
"Oh. Well, in that same section, there's a passage about the nature of forcing people to follow you as opposed to letting them follow you. We do too much forcing in Alethkar. Dueling someone because they claim I'm a coward doesn't change their beliefs. It might stop them from making the claims, but it doesn't change hearts. I know I'm right about this. You'll just have to trust me on this as well."
Adolin sighed, standing. "Well, an official refutation is better than nothing, I guess. At least you haven't given up on defending our honor entirely."
"I never will," Dalinar said. "I just need to be careful. I cannot afford to divide us any further." He turned back to his meal, stabbing his last piece of chicken with his knife and shoving it in his mouth.
"I'll get back to the other island, then," Adolin said. "I…Wait, is that Aunt Navani?"
Dalinar looked up, surprised to see Navani walking toward them. Dalinar glanced at his plate. His food was gone; he'd eaten the last bit without realizing it.
He sighed, steeling himself, and rose to greet her. "Mathana," Dalinar said, bowing and using the formal term for an older sister. Navani was only three months his senior, but it was still applicable.
"Dalinar," she said, a faint smile on her lips. "And dear Adolin."
Adolin smiled broadly; he rounded the table and hugged his aunt. She rested her clothed safehand on his shoulder, a gesture reserved only for family.
"When did you return?" Adolin asked, releasing her.
"Just this afternoon."
"And why did you return?" Dalinar asked stiffly. "I was under the impression that you were going to aid the queen in protecting the king's interests in Alethkar."
"Oh, Dalinar," Navani said, voice fond. "So stiff, as always. Adolin, dear, how goes courtship?"
Dalinar snorted. "He continues to change partners like he's in a dance that involves particularly quick music."
"Father!" Adolin objected.
"Well, good for you, Adolin," Navani said. "You're too young to get tied down. The purpose of youth is to experience variety while it is still interesting." She glanced at Dalinar. "It isn't until we get older that we should be forced to be boring."
"Thank you, Aunt," Adolin said with a grin. "Excuse me. I need to go tell Renarin that you've returned." He hurried away, leaving Dalinar standing awkwardly across the table from Navani.
"Am I that much of a threat, Dalinar?" Navani asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
Dalinar glanced down, realizing that he was still gripping his dining knife-a wide, serrated blade that could double as a weapon in a pinch. He let it clatter to the table, then winced at the noise. All of the confidence he'd felt speaking with Adolin seemed gone in a heartbeat.
Compose yourself! he thought. She's just family. Every time he spoke with Navani, he felt as if he were facing a predator of the most dangerous breed.
"Mathana," Dalinar said, realizing they were still standing on opposite sides of the narrow table. "Perhaps we should move to…"
He trailed off as Navani waved to an attending girl who was barely old enough to wear a woman's sleeve. The child rushed forward, bearing a low stool. Navani pointed to the spot beside her, a spot only a few feet from the table. The child hesitated, but Navani pointed more insistently and the child set the stool down.
Navani sat gracefully, not sitting at the king's table-which was a masculine dining place-but certainly sitting near enough to be challenging protocol. The serving girl withdrew. At the end of the table, Elhokar noticed his mother's actions, but said nothing. One did not reprove Navani Kholin, not even if one were king.
"Oh, sit down, Dalinar," she said, voice growing testy. "We have matters of some moment to discuss."
Dalinar sighed, but sat. The seats around them were still empty, and both the music and the hum of conversation on the island were loud enough to keep people from overhearing them. Some women had taken to playing flutes, musicspren spinning around them in the air.
"You ask why I returned," Navani said, voice soft. "Well, I have three reasons. First, I wanted to bring word that the Vedens have perfected their 'half-shards' as they call them. They're claiming the shields can stop blows from a Shardblade."
Dalinar folded his arms before him on the table. He'd heard rumors of this, though he'd discounted them. Men were always claiming to be close to creating new Shards, yet the promises were never fulfilled. "Have you seen one?"
"No. But I have confirmation from someone I trust. She says they can only take the shape of a shield and don't lend any of Plate's other enhancements. But they can block a Shardblade."
It was a step-a very small step-toward Shardplate. That was disturbing. He wouldn't believe it himself until he'd seen what these "half-shards" could do. "You could have sent this news via spanreed, Navani."
"Well, I realized soon after reaching Kholinar that leaving here had been a political mistake. More and more, these warcamps are the true center of our kingdom."
"Yes," Dalinar said quietly. "Our absence from our homeland is dangerous." Hadn't that been the very argument that had convinced Navani to go home in the first place?
The stately woman waved a dismissive hand. "I have determined that the queen is sufficiently endowed with the requisite skills needed to hold Alethkar. There are schemes and plots-there will always be schemes and plots-but the truly important players inevitably make their way here."
"Your son continues to see assassins around every corner," Dalinar said softly.
"And shouldn't he? After what happened to his father…"
"True, but I fear he carries it to extremes. He mistrusts even his allies."
Navani folded her hands in her lap, freehand lying atop safehand. "He's not very good at this, is he?"
Dalinar blinked in shock. "What? Elhokar is a good man! He has more integrity than any other lighteyes in this army."
"But his rule is weak," Navani said. "You must admit that."
"He is king," Dalinar said firmly, "and my nephew. He has both my sword and my heart, Navani, and I will not hear ill spoken of him, even by his own mother."
She eyed him. Was she testing his loyalty? Much like her daughter, Navani was a political creature. Intrigue made her blossom like a rockbud in calm wet air. However, unlike Jasnah, Navani was hard to trust. At least with Jasnah one knew where one stood-once again, Dalinar found himself wishing she'd put aside her projects and return to the Shattered Plains.
"I'm not speaking ill of my son, Dalinar," Navani said. "We both know I am as loyal to him as you are. But I like to know what I'm working with, and that requires a definition. He is seen as weak, and I intend to see him protected. Despite himself, if necessary."
"Then we work for the same goals. But if protecting him was the second reason you returned, what was the third?"
She smiled a violet-eyed, red-lipped smile at him. A meaningful smile.
Blood of my ancestors… Dalinar thought. Stormwinds, but she's beautiful. Beautiful and deadly. It seemed a particular irony to him that his wife's face had been erased from his mind, and yet he could remember in complete and intricate detail the months this woman had spent toying with him and Gavilar. She'd played them off one another, fanning their desire before finally choosing the elder son.
They'd all known the entire time that she would choose Gavilar. It had hurt anyway.
"We need to talk sometime in private," Navani said. "I want to hear your opinion on some of the things being said in camp."
That probably meant the rumors about him. "I-I'm very busy."
She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure you are. We're meeting anyway, once I've had time to settle here and put out feelers. How about one week from today? I'll come read to you from that book of my husband's, and afterward we can chat. We'll do it in a public place. All right?"
He sighed. "Very well. But-"
"Highprinces and lighteyes," Elhokar's suddenly proclaimed. Dalinar and Navani turned toward the end of the table, where the king stood wearing his uniform complete with royal cape and crown. He raised a hand toward the island. The people hushed, and soon the only sound was that of the water burbling through the streams.
"I'm sure many of you have heard the rumors regarding the attempt on my life during the hunt three days ago," Elhokar announced. "When my saddle girth was cut."
Dalinar glanced at Navani. She raised her freehand toward him and rocked it back and forth, indicating that she didn't find the rumors to be persuasive. She knew about the rumors, of course. Give Navani five minutes in a city and she'd know anything and everything of significance being gossiped about.
"I assure you, I was never in real danger," Elhokar said. "Thanks, in part, to the protection of the King's Guard and the vigilance of my uncle. However, I believe it wise to treat all threats with due prudence and seriousness. Therefore, I am appointing Brightlord Torol Sadeas to be Highprince of Information, charging him to unearth the truth regarding this attempt on my life."
Dalinar blinked in shock. Then he closed his eyes and let out a soft groan.
"Unearth the truth," Navani said skeptically. "Sadeas?"
"Blood of my…He thinks I'm ignoring the threats to him, so he's looking to Sadeas instead."
"Well, I suppose that's all right," she said. "I kind of trust Sadeas."
"Navani," Dalinar said, opening his eyes. "The incident happened on a hunt I planned, under the protection of my guard and my soldiers. The king's horse was prepared by my grooms. He publicly asked me to look into this strap business, and now he's just taken the investigation away from me."
"Oh dear." She understood. This was nearly the same thing as Elhokar proclaiming that he suspected Dalinar. Any information Sadeas unearthed regarding this "assassination attempt" could only reflect unfavorably on Dalinar.
When Sadeas's hatred of Dalinar and his love of Gavilar conflicted, which would win? But the vision. It said to trust him.
Elhokar sat back down, and the buzz of conversation resumed across the island at a higher pitch. The king seemed oblivious of what he had just done. Sadeas was smiling broadly. He rose from his place, bidding farewell to the king, then began mingling.
"You still argue he isn't a bad king?" Navani whispered. "My poor, distracted, oblivious boy."
Dalinar stood up, then walked down the table to where the king continued to eat.
Elhokar looked up. "Ah, Dalinar. I suspect you'll want to give Sadeas your aid."
Dalinar sat down. Sadeas's half-eaten meal still sat on the table, brass plate scattered with chunks of meat and torn flatbread. "Elhokar," Dalinar forced out, "I just spoke to you a few days ago. I asked to be Highprince of War, and you said it was too dangerous!"
"It is," Elhokar said. "I spoke to Sadeas about it, and he agreed. The highprinces will never stand for someone being put over them in war. Sadeas mentioned that if I started with something less threatening, like appointing someone to Highprince of Information, it might prepare the others for what you want to do."
"Sadeas suggested this," Dalinar said flatly.
"Of course," Elhokar said. "It is time we had a Highprince of Information, and he specifically noted the cut girth as something he wanted to look into. He knows you've always said you aren't suited to these sorts of things."
Blood of my fathers, Dalinar thought, looking out at the center of the island, where a group of lighteyes gathered around Sadeas. I've just been outmaneuvered. Brilliantly.
The Highprince of Information had authority over criminal investigations, particularly those of interest to the Crown. In a way, it was nearly as threatening as a Highprince of War, but it wouldn't seem so to Elhokar. All he saw was that he would finally have someone willing to listen to his paranoid fears.
Sadeas was a clever, clever man.
"Don't look so morose, Uncle," Elhokar said. "I had no idea you'd want the position, and Sadeas just seemed so excited at the idea. Perhaps he'll find nothing at all, and the leather was simply worn out. You'll be vindicated in always telling me that I'm not in as much danger as I think I am."
"Vindicated?" Dalinar asked softly, still watching Sadeas. Somehow, I doubt that is likely. You have accused me of arrogance in my quest. You have accused me of perpetuating my grudge against Rayse and Bavadin. Both accusations are true. Kaladin stood up in the wagon bed, scanning the landscape outside the camp as Rock and Teft put his plan-such as it was-into action.
Back home, the air had been drier. If you went about on the day before a highstorm, everything seemed desolate. After storms, plants soon pulled back into their shells, trunks, and hiding places to conserve water. But here in the moister climate, they lingered. Many rockbuds never quite pulled into their shells completely. Patches of grass were common. The trees Sadeas harvested were concentrated in a forest to the north of the warcamps, but a few strays grew on this plain. They were enormous, broad-trunked things that grew with a westward slant, their thick, finger like roots clawing into the stone and-over the years-cracking and breaking the ground around them.
Kaladin hopped down from the cart. His job was to hoist up stones and place them on the bed of the vehicle. The other bridgemen brought them to him, laying them in heaps nearby.
Bridgemen worked across the broad plain, moving among rockbuds, patches of grass, and bunches of weeds that poked out from beneath boulders. Those grew most heavily on the west side, ready to pull back into their boulder's shadow if a highstorm approached. It was a curious effect, as if each boulder were the head of an aged man with tufts of green and brown hair growing out from behind his ears.
Those tufts were extremely important, for hidden among them were thin reeds known as knobweed. Their rigid stalks were topped with delicate fronds that could retract into the stem. The stems themselves were immobile, but they were fairly safe growing behind boulders. Some would be pulled free in each storm-perhaps to attach themselves in a new location once the winds abated.
Kaladin hoisted a rock, setting it on the bed of the wagon and rolling it beside some others. The rock's bottom was wet with lichen and crem.
Knobweed wasn't rare, but neither was it as common as other weeds. A quick description had been enough to send Rock and Teft searching with some success. The breakthrough, however, had happened when Syl had joined the hunt. Kaladin glanced to the side as he stepped down for another stone. She zipped around, a faint, nearly invisible form leading Rock from one stand of reeds to another. Teft didn't understand how the large Horn eater could consistently find so many more than he did, but Kaladin didn't feel inclined to explain. He still didn't understand why Rock could see Syl in the first place. The Horneater said it was something he'd been born with.
A pair of bridgemen approached, youthful Dunny and Earless Jaks towing a wooden sled bearing a large stone. Sweat trickled down the sides of their faces. As they reached the wagon, Kaladin dusted off his hands and helped them lift the boulder. Earless Jaks scowled at him, muttering under his breath.
"That's a nice one," Kaladin said, nodding to the stone. "Good work."
Jaks glared at him and stalked off. Dunny gave Kaladin a shrug, then hurried after the older man. As Rock had guessed, getting the crew assigned to stone-gathering duty had not helped Kaladin's popularity. But it had to be done. It was the only way to help Leyten and the other wounded.
Once Jaks and Dunny left, Kaladin nonchalantly climbed into the wagon bed and knelt down, pushing aside a tarp and uncovering a large pile of knobweed stems. They were about as long as a man's forearm. He made as if he were moving stones around in the bed, but instead tied a large double handful of the reeds into a bundle using thin rockbud vines.
He dropped the bundle over the side of the wagon. The wagon driver had gone to chat with his counterpart on the other wagon. That left Kaladin alone, save for the chull that sat hunkered down in its rock shell, watching the sun with beady crustacean eyes.
Kaladin hopped down from the wagon and placed another rock in the bed. Then, he knelt as if to pull a large stone out from under the wagon. With deft hands, however, he tied the reeds into place underneath the bed right beside two other bundles. The wagon had a large open space to the side of the axle, and a wood dowel there provided an excellent place for mounting the bundles.
Jezerezeh send that nobody thinks to check the bottom as we roll back into camp.
The apothecary said one drop came per stem. How many reeds would Kaladin need? He felt he knew the answer to that question without even giving it much thought.
He'd need every drop he could get.
He climbed out and lifted another stone into the wagon. Rock was approaching; the large, tan-skinned Horneater carried an oblong stone that would have been too large for most of the bridgemen to handle alone. Rock shuffled forward slowly, Syl zipping around his head and occasionally landing on the rock to watch him.
Kaladin climbed down and trotted across the uneven ground to help. Rock nodded in thanks. Together they hauled the stone to the wagon and set it down on the bed. Rock wiped his brow, turning his back to Kaladin. Sprouting from his pocket was a handful of reeds. Kaladin swiped them and tucked them beneath the tarp.
"What do we do if someone notices this thing we are doing?" Rock asked casually.
"Explain that I'm a weaver," Kaladin said, "and that I thought I'd weave myself a hat to keep off the sun."
Rock snorted.
"I might do just that," Kaladin said. He wiped his brow. "It would be nice in this heat. But best nobody sees. The mere fact that we want the reeds would probably be enough to make them deny them to us."
"This thing is true," Rock said, stretching and glancing upward as Syl zipped over in front of him. "I miss the Peaks."
Syl pointed, and Rock bowed his head in reverence before following after her. Once she had him going in the right direction, however, she flitted back to Kaladin, bobbing up into the air as a ribbon, then falling down to the side of the wagon and reforming her womanly shape, her dress fluttering around her.
"I," she declared, raising a finger, "like him very much."
"Who? Rock?"
"Yes," she said, folding her arms. "He is respectful. Unlike others."
"Fine," Kaladin said, lifting another stone into the wagon. "You can follow him around instead of bothering me." He tried not to show worry as he said it. He had grown accustomed to her company.
She sniffed. "I can't follow him. He's too respectful."
"You just said you liked that."
"I do. Also, I detest it." She said that with unaffected frankness, as if oblivious of the contradiction. She sighed, sitting down on the side of the wagon. "I led him to a patch of chull dung as a prank. He didn't even yell at me! He just looked at it, as if trying to figure out some hidden meaning." She grimaced. "That's not normal."
"I think the Horneaters must worship spren or something," Kaladin said, wiping his brow.
"That's silly."
"People believe much sillier things. In some ways, I guess it makes sense to revere the spren. You are kind of odd and magical."
"I'm not odd!" she said, standing up. "I'm beautiful and articulate." She planted her hands on her hips, but he could see in her expression that she wasn't really mad. She seemed to be changing by the hour, growing more and more…
More and more what? Not exactly humanlike. More individual. Smarter.
Syl fell silent as another bridgeman-Natam-approached. The long-faced man was carrying a smaller stone, obviously trying not to strain himself.
"Ho, Natam," Kaladin said, reaching down to take the stone. "How goes the work?"
Natam shrugged.
"Didn't you say you were once a farmer?"
Natam rested beside the wagon, ignoring Kaladin.
Kaladin set down the rock, moving it into place. "I'm sorry to make us work like this, but we need the good will of Gaz and the other bridge crews."
Natam didn't respond.
"It will help keep us alive," Kaladin said. "Trust me."
Natam just shrugged yet again, then wandered away.
Kaladin sighed. "This would be a lot easier if I could pin the duty change on Gaz."
"That wouldn't be very honest," Syl said, affronted.
"Why do you care so much about honesty?"
"I just do."
"Oh?" Kaladin said, grunting as he moved back to his work. "And leading men to piles of dung? How honest is that?"
"That's different. It was a joke."
"I fail to see how…"
He trailed off as another bridgeman approached. Kaladin doubted anyone else had Rock's strange ability to see Syl, and didn't want to be seen talking to himself.
The short, wiry bridgeman had said his name was Skar, though Kaladin couldn't see any obvious scars on his face. He had short dark hair and angular features. Kaladin tried to engage him in conversation too, but got no response. The man even went so far as to give Kaladin a rude gesture before tromping back out.
"I'm doing something wrong," Kaladin said, shaking his head and hopping down from the sturdy wagon.
"Wrong?" Syl stepped up to the lip of the wagon, watching him.
"I thought that seeing me rescue those three might give them hope. But they're still indifferent."
"Some watched you run earlier," Syl said, "when you were practicing with the plank."
"They watched," Kaladin said. "But they don't care about helping the wounded. Nobody besides Rock, that is-and he's only doing it because he has a debt to me. Even Teft wasn't willing to share his food."
"They're selfish."
"No. I don't think that word can apply to them." He lifted a stone, struggling to explain how he felt. "When I was a slave…well, I'm still a slave. But during the worst parts, when my masters were trying to beat out of me the ability to resist, I was like these men. I didn't care enough to be selfish. I was like an animal. I just did what I did without thinking."
Syl frowned. Little wonder-Kaladin himself didn't understand what he was saying. Yet, as he spoke, he began to work out what he meant. "I've shown them that we can survive, but that doesn't mean anything. If those lives aren't worth living, then they aren't ever going to care. It's like I'm offering them piles of spheres, but not giving them anything to spend their wealth on."
"I guess," Syl said. "But what can you do?"
He looked back across the plain of rock, toward the warcamp. The smoke of the army's many cookfires rose from the craters. "I don't know. But I think we're going to need a lot more reeds." That night, Kaladin, Teft, and Rock walked the makeshift streets of Sadeas's warcamp. Nomon-the middle moon-shone with his pale, blue-white light. Oil lanterns hung in front of buildings, indicating taverns or brothels. Spheres could provide more consistent, renewable light, but you could buy a bundle of candles or a pouch of oil for a single sphere. In the short run, it was often cheaper to do that, particularly if you were hanging your lights in a place they could be stolen.
Sadeas didn't enforce a curfew, but Kaladin had learned that a lone bridgeman had best remain in the lumberyard at night. Half-drunken soldiers in stained uniforms sauntered past, whispering in the ears of whores or boasting to their friends. They called insults at the bridgemen, laughing riotously. The streets felt dark, even with the lanterns and the moonlight, and the haphazard nature of the camp-some stone structures, some wooden shanties, some tents-made it feel disorganized and dangerous.
Kaladin and his two companions stepped aside for a large group of soldiers. Their coats were unbuttoned, and they were only mildly drunk. A soldier eyed the bridgemen, but the three of them together-one of them being a brawny Horneater-were enough to dissuade the soldier from doing more than laughing and shoving Kaladin as he passed.
The man smelled of sweat and cheap ale. Kaladin kept his temper. Fight back, and he'd be docked pay for brawling.
"I don't like this," Teft said, glancing over his shoulder at the group of soldiers. "I'm going back to the camp."
"You will be staying," Rock growled.
Teft rolled his eyes. "You think I'm scared of a lumbering chull like you? I'll go if I want to, and-"
"Teft," Kaladin said softly. "We need you."
Need. That word had strange effects on men. Some ran when you used it. Others grew nervous. Teft seemed to long for it. He nodded, muttering to himself, but stayed with them as they went on.
They soon reached the wagonyard. The fenced-off square of rock was near the western side of the camp. It was deserted for the night, the wagons sitting in long lines. Chulls lay slumbering in the nearby pen, looking like small hills. Kaladin crept forward, wary of sentries, but apparently nobody worried about something as large as a wagon being stolen from the middle of the army.
Rock nudged him, then pointed to the shadowy chull pens. A lone boy sat upon a pen post, staring up at the moon. Chulls were valuable enough to watch over. Poor lad. How often was he required to wait up nights guarding the sluggish beasts?
Kaladin crouched down beside a wagon, the other two mimicking him. He pointed down one row, and Rock moved off. Kaladin pointed the other direction, and Teft rolled his eyes, but did as asked.
Kaladin sneaked down the middle row. There were about thirty wagons, ten per row, but checking was quick. A brush of the fingers against the back plank, looking for the mark he'd made there. After just a few minutes, a shadowed figure entered Kaladin's row. Rock. The Horneater gestured to the side and held up five fingers. Fifth wagon from the top. Kaladin nodded and moved off.
Just as he reached the indicated wagon, he heard a soft yelp from the direction Teft had gone. Kaladin flinched, then peeked up toward the sentry. The boy was still watching the moon, kicking his toes absently against the post next to him.
A moment later, Rock and a sheepish Teft scurried up to Kaladin. "Sorry," Teft whispered. "The walking mountain startled me."
"If I am being a mountain," Rock grumbled, "then why weren't you hearing me coming? Eh?"
Kaladin snorted, feeling the back of the indicated wagon, fingers brushing the X mark in the wood. He took a breath, then climbed under the wagon on his back.
The reeds were still there, tied in twenty bundles, each about as thick as a handspan. "Ishi, Herald of Luck be praised," he whispered, untying the first bundle.
"All there, eh?" Teft said, leaning down, scratching at his beard in the moonlight. "Can't believe we found so many. Must have pulled up every reed on the entire plain."
Kaladin handed him the first bundle. Without Syl, they wouldn't have found a third this many. She had the speed of an insect in flight, and she seemed to have a sense of where to find things. Kaladin untied the next bundle, handing it out. Teft tied it to the other, making a larger bundle.
As Kaladin worked, a flurry of small white leaves blew under the wagon and formed into Syl's figure. She slid to a stop beside his head. "No guards anywhere I could see. Just a boy in the chull pens." Her white-blue translucent figure was nearly invisible in the darkness.
"I hope these reeds are still good," Kaladin whispered. "If they dried out too much…"
"They'll be fine. You worry like a worrier. I found you some bottles."
"You did?" he asked, so eager that he nearly sat up. He caught himself before smacking his head.
Syl nodded. "I'll show you. I couldn't carry them. Too solid."
Kaladin quickly untied the rest of the bundles, handing them out to the nervous Teft. Kaladin scooted out, then took two of the larger, tied-together bundles of three. Teft took two of the others, and Rock managed three by tucking one under his arm. They'd need a place to work where they wouldn't be interrupted. Even if the knobweed seemed worthless, Gaz would find a way to ruin the work if he saw what was happening.
Bottle first, Kaladin thought. He nodded to Syl, who led them out of the wagonyard and to a tavern. It looked to have been hastily built from second-rate lumber, but that didn't stop the soldiers inside from enjoying themselves. Their rowdiness made Kaladin worry about the entire building collapsing.
Behind it, in a splintery half-crate, lay a pile of discarded liquor bottles. Glass was precious enough that whole bottles would be reused, but these had cracks or broken tops. Kaladin set down his bundles, then selected three nearly whole bottles. He washed them in a nearby water barrel before tucking them into a sack he'd brought for the purpose.
He picked up his bundles again, nodding to the others. "Try to look like you're doing something monotonous," he said. "Bow your heads." The other two nodded, and they walked out into a main road, carrying the bundles as if on some work detail. They drew far less attention than they had before.
They avoided the lumberyard proper, crossing the open field of rock used as the army's staging area before walking down the slope of rock leading to the Shattered Plains. A sentry saw them, and Kaladin held his breath, but he said nothing. He probably assumed from their postures that they had a reason to be doing what they were. If they tried to leave the warcamp, it would be a different story, but this section down near the first few chasms wasn't off limits.
Before long, they approached the place where Kaladin had nearly killed himself. What a difference a few days could make. He felt like a different person-a strange hybrid of the man he had once been, the slave he'd become, and the pitiful wretch he still had to fight off. He remembered standing on the edge of the chasm, looking down. That darkness still terrified him.
If I fail to save the bridgemen, that wretch will take control again. This time he'll get his way… That gave Kaladin a shiver. He set his bundles down beside the chasm ledge, then sat. The other two followed more hesitantly.
"We're going to toss them into the chasm?" Teft asked, scratching his beard. "After all that work?"
"Of course not," Kaladin said. He hesitated; Nomon was bright, but it was still night. "You don't have any spheres, do you?"
"Why?" Teft asked, suspicious.
"For light, Teft."
Teft grumbled, pulling out a handful of garnet chips. "Was going to spend these tonight…" he said. They glowed in his palm.
"All right," Kaladin said, slipping out a reed. What had his father said about these? Hesitantly, Kaladin broke off the furry top of the reed, exposing the hollow center. He took the reed by the other end and ran his fingers down its length, squeezing it tight. Two drops of milky white liquid dripped into the empty liquor bottle.
Kaladin smiled in satisfaction, then squeezed his fingers along the length again. Nothing came out this time, so he tossed the reed into the chasm. For all his talk of hats, he didn't want to leave evidence.
"I thought you said we aren't throwing them in!" Teft accused.
Kaladin held up the liquor bottle. "Only after we have this out."
"What is it?" Rock leaned closer, squinting.
"Knobweed sap. Or, rather, knobweed milk-I don't think it's really sap. Anyway, it's a powerful antiseptic."
"Anti…what?" Teft asked.
"It scares away rotspren," Kaladin said. "They cause infection. This milk is one of the best antiseptics there is. Spread it on a wound that's already infected, and it will still work." That was good, because Leyten's wounds had begun to turn an angry red, rotspren crawling all over.
Teft grunted, then glanced at the bundles. "There are a lot of reeds here."
"I know," Kaladin said, handing over the other two bottles. "That's why I'm glad I don't have to milk them all on my own."
Teft sighed, but sat down and untied a bundle. Rock did so without the complaining, sitting with his knees bent to the sides, feet pressed together to hold the bottle as he worked.
A faint breeze blew up, rattling some of the reeds. "Why do you care about them?" Teft finally asked.
"They're my men."
"That's not what being bridgeleader means."
"It means whatever we decide," Kaladin said, noting that Syl had come over to listen. "You, me, the others."
"You think they'll let you do that?" Teft asked. "The lighteyes and the captains?"
"You think they'll pay enough attention to even notice?"
Teft hesitated, then grunted, milking another reed.
"Perhaps they will," Rock said. There was a surprising level of delicacy to the large man's motions as he milked the reeds. Kaladin hadn't thought those thick fingers would be so careful, so precise. "Lighteyes, they are often noticing those things that you wish they would not."
Teft grunted again, agreeing.
"How did you come here, Rock?" Kaladin asked. "How does a Horneater end up leaving his mountains and coming to the lowlands?"
"You shouldn't ask those kinds of things, son," Teft said, wagging a finger at Kaladin. "We don't talk about our pasts."
"We don't talk about anything," Kaladin said. "You two didn't even know each other's names."
"Names are one thing," Teft grumbled. "Backgrounds, they're different. I-"
"Is all right," Rock said. "I will speak of this thing."
Teft muttered to himself, but he did lean forward to listen when Rock spoke.
"My people have no Shardblades," Rock said in his low, rumbling voice.
"That's not unusual," Kaladin said. "Other than Alethkar and Jah Keved, few kingdoms have many Blades." It was a matter of some pride among the armies.
"This thing is not true," Rock said. "Thaylenah has five Blades and three full suits of Plate, all held by the royal guards. The Selay have their share of both suits and Blades. Other kingdoms, such as Herdaz, have a single Blade and set of Plate-this is passed down through the royal line. But the Unkalaki, we have not a single Shard. Many of our nuatoma-this thing, it is the same as your lighteyes, only their eyes are not light-"
"How can you be a lighteyes without light eyes?" Teft said with a scowl.
"By having dark eyes," Rock said, as if it were obvious. "We do not pick our leaders this way. Is complicated. But do not interrupt story." He milked another reed, tossing the husk into a pile beside him. "The nuatoma, they see our lack of Shards as great shame. They want these weapons very badly. It is believed that the nuatoma who first obtains a Shardblade would become king, a thing we have not had for many years. No peak would fight another peak where a man held one of the blessed Blades."
"So you came to buy one?" Kaladin asked. No Shardbearer would sell his weapon. Each was a distinctive relic, taken from one of the Lost Radiants after their betrayal.
Rock laughed. "Ha! Buy? No, we are not so foolish as this. But my nuatoma, he knew of your tradition, eh? It says that if a man kills a Shardbearer, he may take the Blade and Plate as his own. And so my nuatoma and his house, we made a grand procession, coming down to find and kill one of your Shardbearers."
Kaladin almost laughed. "I assume it proved more difficult than that."
"My nuatoma was not a fool," Rock said, defensive. "He knew this thing would be difficult, but your tradition, it gives us hope, you see? Occasionally, a brave nuatoma will come down to duel a Shardbearer. Someday, one will win, and we will have Shards."
"Perhaps," Kaladin said, tossing an empty reed into the chasm. "Assuming they agree to duel you in a bout to the death."
"Oh, they always duel," Rock said, laughing. "The nuatoma brings many riches and promises all of his possessions to the victor. Your lighteyes, they cannot pass by a pond so warm! To kill an Unkalaki with no Shardblade, they do not see this thing as difficult. Many nuatoma have died. But is all right. Eventually, we will win."
"And have one set of Shards," Kaladin said. "Alethkar has dozens."
"One is a beginning," Rock said, shrugging. "But my nuatoma lost, so I am bridgeman."
"Wait," Teft said. "You came all of this way with your brightlord, and once he lost, you up and joined a bridge crew?"
"No, no, you do not see," Rock said. "My nuatoma, he challenged Highprince Sadeas. Is well known that there are many Shardbearers here on Shattered Plains. My nuatoma thought it easier to fight man with only Plate first, then win Blade next."
"And?" Teft said.
"Once my nuatoma lost to Brightlord Sadeas, all of us became his."
"So you're a slave?" Kaladin asked, reaching up and feeling the marks on his forehead.
"No, we do not have this thing," Rock said. "I was not a slave of my nuatoma. I was his family."
"His family?" Teft said. "Kelek! You're a lighteyes!"
Rock laughed again, loud and full-bellied. Kaladin smiled despite himself. It seemed like so long since he'd heard someone laugh like that. "No, no. I was only umarti'a-his cousin, you would say."
"Still, you were related to him."
"On the Peaks," Rock said, "the relatives of a brightlord are his servants."
"What kind of system is that?" Teft complained. "You have to be a servant to your own relatives? Storm me! I'd rather die, I think I would."
"It is not so bad," Rock said.
"You don't know my relatives," Teft said, shivering.
Rock laughed again. "You would rather serve someone you do not know? Like this Sadeas? A man who is no relation to you?" He shook his head. "Lowlanders. You have too much air here. Makes your minds sick."
"Too much air?" Kaladin asked.
"Yes," Rock said.
"How can you have too much air? It's all around."
"This thing, it is difficult to explain." Rock's Alethi was good, but he sometimes forget to add in common words. Other times, he remembered them, speaking his sentences precisely. The faster he spoke, the more words he forgot to put in.
"You have too much air," Rock said. "Come to the Peaks. You will see."
"I guess," Kaladin said, shooting a glance at Teft, who just shrugged. "But you're wrong about one thing. You said that we serve someone we don't know. Well, I do know Brightlord Sadeas. I know him well."
Rock raised an eyebrow.
"Arrogant," Kaladin said, "vengeful, greedy, corrupt to the core."
Rock smiled. "Yes, I think you are right. This man is not among the finest of lighteyes."
"There are no 'finest' among them, Rock. They're all the same."
"They have done much to you, then?"
Kaladin shrugged, the question uncovering wounds that weren't yet healed. "Anyway, your master was lucky."
"Lucky to be slain by a Shardbearer?"
"Lucky he didn't win," Kaladin said, "and discover how he'd been tricked. They wouldn't have let him walk away with Sadeas's Plate."
"Nonsense," Teft broke in. "Tradition-"
"Tradition is the blind witness they use to condemn us, Teft," Kaladin said. "It's the pretty box they use to wrap up their lies. It makes us serve them."
Teft set his jaw. "I've lived a lot longer than you, son. I know things. If a common man killed an enemy Shardbearer, he'd become a lighteyes. That's the way of it."
He let the argument lapse. If Teft's illusions made him feel better about his place in this mess of a war, then who was Kaladin to dissuade him? "So you were a servant," Kaladin said to Rock. "In a brightlord's retinue? What kind of servant?" He struggled for the right word, remembering back to the times he'd interacted with Wistiow or Roshone. "A footman? A butler?"
Rock laughed. "I was cook. My nuatoma would not come down to the lowlands without his own cook! Your food here, it has so many spices that you cannot taste anything else. Might as well be eating stones powdered with pepper!"
"You should talk about food," Teft said, scowling. "A Horneater?"
Kaladin frowned. "Why do they call your people that, anyway?"
"Because they eat the horns and shells of the things they catch," Teft said. "The outsides."
Rock smiled, with a look of longing. "Ah, but the taste is so good."
"You actually eat the shells?" Kaladin asked.
"We have very strong teeth," Rock said proudly. "But there. You now know my story. Brightlord Sadeas, he wasn't certain what he should do with most of us. Some were made soldiers, others serve in his house hold. I fixed him one meal and he sent me to bridge crews." Rock hesitated. "I may have, uh, enhanced the soup."
"Enhanced?" Kaladin asked, raising an eyebrow.
Rock seemed to grow embarrassed. "You see, I was quite angry about my nuatoma's death. And I thought, these lowlanders, their tongues are all scorched and burned by the food they eat. They have no taste, and…"
"And what?" Kaladin asked.
"Chull dung," Rock said. "It apparently has stronger taste than I assumed."
"Wait," Teft said. "You put chull dung in Highprince Sadeas's soup?"
"Er, yes," Rock said. "Actually, I put this thing in his bread too. And used it as a garnish on the pork steak. And made a chutney out of it for the buttered garams. Chull dung, it has many uses, I found."
Teft laughed, his voice echoing. He fell on his side, so amused that Kaladin was afraid he'd roll right into the chasm. "Horneater," Teft finally said, "I owe you a drink."
Rock smiled. Kaladin shook his head to himself, amazed. It suddenly made sense.
"What?" Rock said, apparently noticing his expression.
"This is what we need," Kaladin said. "This! It's the thing I've been missing."
Rock hesitated. "Chull dung? This is the thing you need?"
Teft burst into another round of laugher.
"No," Kaladin said. "It's…well, I'll show you. But first we need this knobweed sap." They'd barely made their way through one of the bundles, and already his fingers were aching from the milking.
"What of you, Kaladin?" Rock asked. "I have been telling you my story. You will tell me yours? How did you come to those marks on your forehead?"
"Yeah," Teft said, wiping his eyes. "Whose food did you trat in?"
"I thought you said it was taboo to ask about a bridgeman's past," Kaladin said.
"You made Rock share, son," Teft said. "It's only fair."
"So if I tell my story, that means you'll tell yours?"
Teft scowled immediately. "Now look, I ain't going to-"
"I killed a man," Kaladin said.
That quieted Teft. Rock perked up. Syl, Kaladin noticed, was still watching with interest. That was odd for her; normally, her attention wavered quickly.
"You killed a man?" Rock said. "And after this thing, they made you a slave? Is not the punishment for murder usually death?"
"It wasn't murder," Kaladin said softly, thinking of the scraggly bearded man in the slave wagon who had asked him these same questions. "In fact, I was thanked for it by someone very important."
He fell silent.
"And?" Teft finally asked.
"And…" Kaladin said, looking down at a reed. Nomon was setting in the west, and the small green disk of Mishim-the final moon-was rising in the east. "And it turns out that lighteyes don't react very well when you turn down their gifts."
The others waited for more, but Kaladin fell silent, working on his reeds. It shocked him, how painful it still was to remember those events back in Amaram's army.
Either the others sensed his mood, or they felt what he'd said was enough, for they each turned back to their work and prodded no further.
Neither point makes the things I have written to you here untrue. The king's Gallery of Maps balanced beauty and function. The expansive domed structure of Soulcast stone had smooth sides that melded seamlessly with the rocky ground. It was shaped like a long loaf of Thaylen bread, and had large skylights in the ceiling, allowing the sun to shine down on handsome formations of shalebark.
Dalinar passed one of these, pinks and vibrant greens and blues growing in a gnarled pattern as high as his shoulders. The crusty, hard plants had no true stalks or leaves, just waving tendrils like colorful hair. Except for those, shalebark seemed more rock than vegetation. And yet, scholars said it must be a plant for the way it grew and reached toward the light.
Men did that too, he thought. Once.
Highprince Roion stood in front of one of the maps, hands clasped behind his back, his numerous attendants clogging the other side of the gallery. Roion was a tall, light-skinned man with a dark, well-trimmed beard. He was thinning on top. Like most of the others, he wore a short, open-fronted jacket, exposing the shirt underneath. Its red fabric poked out above the jacket's collar.
So sloppy, Dalinar thought, though it was very fashionable. Dalinar just wished that current fashion weren't so, well, sloppy.
"Brightlord Dalinar," Roion said. "I have difficulty seeing the point of this meeting."
"Walk with me, Brightlord Roion," Dalinar said, nodding to the side.
The other man sighed, but joined Dalinar and walked the pathway between the clusters of plants and the wall of maps. Roion's attendants followed; they included both a cupbearer and a shieldbearer.
Each map was illuminated by diamonds, their enclosures made of mirror-polished steel. The maps were inked, in detail, onto unnaturally large, seamless sheets of parchment. Such parchment was obviously Soulcast. Near the center of the chamber they came to the Prime Map, an enormous, detailed map fixed in a frame on the wall. It showed the entirety of the Shattered Plains that had been explored. Permanent bridges were drawn in red, and plateaus close to the Alethi side had blue glyphpairs on them, indicating which highprince controlled them. The eastern section of the map grew less detailed until the lines vanished.
In the middle was the contested area, the section of plateaus where the chasmfiends most often came to make their chrysalises. Few came to the near side, where the permanent bridges were. If they did come, it was to hunt, not to pupate.
Controlling the nearby plateaus was still important, as a highprince-by agreement-could not cross a plateau maintained by one of the others unless he had permission. That determined who had the best pathways to the central plateaus, and it also determined who had to maintain the watch-posts and permanent bridges on that plateau. Those plateaus were bought and sold among the highprinces.
A second sheet of parchment to the side of the Prime Map listed each highprince and the number of gemhearts he had won. It was a very Alethi thing to do-maintain motivation by making it very clear who was winning and who lagged behind.
Roion's eyes immediately went to his own name on the list. Of all the highprinces, Roion had won the fewest gemhearts.
Dalinar reached his hand up to the Prime Map, brushing the parchment. The middle plateaus were named or numbered for ease of reference. Foremost of them was a large plateau that stood defiantly near the Parshendi side. The Tower, it was called. An unusually massive and oddly shaped plateau that the chasmfiends seemed particularly fond of using as a spot for pupating.
Looking at it gave him pause. The size of a contested plateau determined the number of troops you could field on it. The Parshendi usually brought a large force to the Tower, and they had rebuffed the Alethi assaults there twenty-seven times now. No Alethi had ever won a skirmish upon it. Dalinar had been turned back there twice himself.
It was just too close to the Parshendi; they could always get there first and form up, using the slope to give them excellent high ground. But if we could corner them there, he thought, with a large enough force of our own… It could mean trapping and killing a huge number of Parshendi troops. Maybe enough of them to break their ability to wage war on the Plains.
It was something to consider. Before that could happen, however, Dalinar would need alliances. He ran his fingers westward. "Highprince Sadeas has been doing very well lately." Dalinar tapped Sadeas's warcamp. "He's been buying plateaus from other highprinces, making it easier and easier for him to get to the battlefields first."
"Yes," Roion said, frowning. "One hardly needs to see a map to know that, Dalinar."
"Look at the scope of it," Dalinar said. "Six years of continuous fighting, and nobody has even seen the center of the Shattered Plains."
"That's never been the point. We hold them in, besiege them, starve them out, and force them to come to us. Wasn't that your plan?"
"Yes, but I never imagined it would take this long. I've been thinking that it might be time to change tactics."
"Why? This one works. Hardly a week goes by without a couple of clashes with the Parshendi. Though, might I point out that you have hardly been a model of inspiration in battle lately." He nodded to Dalinar's name on the smaller sheet.
There were a good number of scratches next to his name, noting gemhearts won. But very few of them were fresh.
"There are some who say the Blackthorn has lost his sting," Roion said. He was careful not to insult Dalinar outright, but he went further than he once would have. News of Dalinar's actions while trapped in the barrack had spread.
Dalinar forced himself to be calm. "Roion, we cannot continue to treat this war as a game."
"All wars are games. The greatest kind, with the pieces lost real lives, the prizes captured making for real wealth! This is the life for which men exist. To fight, to kill, to win." He was quoting the Sunmaker, the last Alethi king to unite the highprinces. Gavilar had once revered his name.
"Perhaps," Dalinar said. "Yet what is the point? We fight to get Shardblades, then use those Shardblades to fight to get more Shardblades. It's a circle, round and round we go, chasing our tails so we can be better at chasing our tails."
"We fight to prepare ourselves to reclaim heaven and take back what is ours."
"Men can train without going to war, and men can fight without it being meaningless. It wasn't always this way. There were times when our wars meant something."
Roion raised an eyebrow. "You're almost making me believe the rumors, Dalinar. They say you've lost your taste for combat, that you no longer have the will to fight." He eyed Dalinar again. "Some are saying that it is time to abdicate in favor of your son."
"The rumors are wrong," Dalinar snapped.
"That is-"
"They are wrong," Dalinar said firmly, "if they claim that I no longer care." He rested his fingers on the surface of the map again, running them across the smooth parchment. "I care, Roion. I care deeply. About this people. About my nephew. About the future of this war. And that is why I suggest we pursue an aggressive course from now on."
"Well, that is good to hear, I suppose."
Unite them…
"I want you to try a joint plateau assault with me," Dalinar said.
"What?"
"I want the two of us to try coordinating our efforts and attack at the same time, working together."
"Why would we want to do that?"
"We could increase our chances of winning gemhearts."
"If more troops increased my chances of winning," Roion said, "then I'd just bring more of my own. The plateaus are too small for fielding large armies, and mobility is more important than sheer numbers."
It was a valid point; on the Plains, more didn't necessarily mean better. Close confines and a requisite forced march to the battlefield changed warfare significantly. The exact number of troops used depended on the size of the plateau and the highprince's personal martial philosophy.
"Working together wouldn't just be about fielding more troops," Dalinar said. "Each highprince's army has different strengths. I'm known for my heavy infantry; you have the best archers. Sadeas's bridges are the fastest. Working together, we could try new tactics. We expend too much effort getting to the plateau in haste. If we weren't so rushed, competing against one another, maybe we could surround the plateau. We could try letting the Parshendi arrive first, then assault them on our terms, not theirs."
Roion hesitated. Dalinar had spent days deliberating with his generals about the possibility of a joint assault. It seemed that there would be distinct advantages, but they wouldn't know for certain until someone tried it with him.
He actually seemed to be considering. "Who would get the gemheart?"
"We split the wealth equally," Dalinar said.
"And if we capture a Shardblade?"
"The man who won it would get it, obviously."
"And that's most likely to be you," Roion said, frowning. "As you and your son already have Shards."
It was the great problem of Shardblades and Shardplate-winning either was highly unlikely unless you already had Shards yourself. In fact, having only one or the other often wasn't enough. Sadeas had faced Parshendi Shardbearers on the field, and had always been forced to retreat, lest he be slain himself.
"I'm certain we could arrange something more equitable," Dalinar finally said. If he won Shards, he'd been hoping to be able to give them to Renarin.
"I'm sure," Roion said skeptically.
Dalinar drew in a breath. He needed to be bolder. "What if I offer them to you?"
"Excuse me?"
"We try a joint attack. If I win a Shardblade or Plate, you get the first set. But I keep the second."
Roion's eyes narrowed. "You'd do that?"
"On my honor, Roion."
"Well, nobody would doubt that. But can you blame a man for being wary?"
"Of what?"
"I am a highprince, Dalinar," Roion said. "My princedom is the smallest, true, but I am my own man. I would not see myself subordinated to someone greater."
You've already become part of something greater, Dalinar thought with frustration. That happened the moment you swore fealty to Gavilar. Roion and the others refused to make good on their promises. "Our kingdom can be so much more than it is, Roion."
"Perhaps. But perhaps I'm satisfied with what I have. Either way, you make an interesting proposal. I shall have to think on it further."
"Very well," Dalinar said, but his instinct said that Roion would decline the offer. The man was too suspicious. The highprinces barely trusted one another enough to work together when there weren't Shardblades and gems at stake.
"Will I be seeing you at the feast this evening?" Roion asked.
"Why wouldn't you?" Dalinar asked with a sigh.
"Well, the stormwardens have been saying that there could be a highstorm tonight, you see-"
"I will be there," Dalinar said flatly.
"Yes, of course," Roion said, chuckling. "No reason why you wouldn't be." He smiled at Dalinar and withdrew, his attendants following.
Dalinar sighed, turning to study the Prime Map, thinking through the meeting and what it meant. He stood there for a long time. Looking down on the Plains, as if a god far above. The plateaus looked like close islands, or perhaps jagged pieces set in a massive stained-glass window. Not for the first time, he felt as if he should be able to make out a pattern to the plateaus. If he could see more of them, perhaps. What would it mean if there was an order to the chasms?
Everyone else was so concerned with looking strong, with proving themselves. Was he really the only one who saw how frivolous that was? Strength for strength's sake? What good was strength unless you did something with it?
Alethkar was a light, once, he thought. That's what Gavilar's book claims, that's what the visions are showing me. Nohadon was king of Alethkar, so long ago. In the time before the Heralds left.
Dalinar felt as if he could almost see it. The secret. The thing that had made Gavilar so excited in the months before his death. If Dalinar could just stretch a little farther, he'd make it out. See the pattern in the lives of men. And finally know.
But that was what he'd been doing for the last six years. Grasping, stretching, reaching just a little farther. The farther he reached, the more distant those answers seemed to become. Adolin stepped into the Gallery of Maps. His father was still there, standing alone. Two members of the Cobalt Guard watched over him from a distance. Roion was nowhere to be seen.
Adolin approached slowly. His father had that look in his eyes, the absent one he got so often lately. Even when he wasn't having an episode, he wasn't entirely here. Not in the way he once had been.
"Father?" Adolin said, stepping up to him.
"Hello, Adolin."
"How was the meeting with Roion?" Adolin asked, trying to sound cheerful.
"Disappointing. I'm proving far worse at diplomacy than I once was at war-making."
"There's no profit in peace."
"That's what everyone says. But we had peace once, and seemed to do just fine. Better, even."
"There hasn't been peace since the Tranquiline Halls," Adolin said immediately. "'Man's life on Roshar is conflict.'" It was a quotation from The Arguments.
Dalinar turned to Adolin, looking amused. "Quoting scripture at me? You?"
Adolin shrugged, feeling foolish. "Well, you see, Malasha is rather religious, and so earlier today I was listening to-"
"Wait," Dalinar said. "Malasha? Who's that?"
"Daughter of Brightlord Seveks."
"And that other girl, Janala?"
Adolin grimaced, thinking back to the disastrous walk they'd gone on the other day. Several nice gifts had yet to repair that. She didn't seem half as excited about him now that he wasn't courting someone else. "Things are rocky. Malasha seems like a better prospect." He moved on quickly. "I take it that Roion won't soon be going on any plateau assault with us."
Dalinar shook his head. "He's too afraid that I'm trying to maneuver him into a position where I can seize his lands. Perhaps it was wrong to approach the weakest highprince first. He'd rather hunker down and try to weather what comes at him, holding what he has, as opposed to making a risky play for something greater."
Dalinar stared at the map, looking distant again. "Gavilar dreamed of unifying Alethkar. Once I thought he'd achieved it, despite what he claimed. The longer I work with these men, the more I realize that Gavilar was right. We failed. We defeated these men, but we never unified them."
"So you still intend to approach the others?"
"I do. I only need one to say yes in order to start. Who do you think we should go to next?"
"I'm not sure," Adolin said. "But for now, I think you should know something. Sadeas has sent to us, asking permission to enter our warcamp. He wants to interview the grooms who cared for His Majesty's horse during the hunt."
"His new position gives him the right to make those kinds of demands."
"Father," Adolin said, stepping closer, speaking softly. "I think he's going to move against us."
Dalinar looked at him.
"I know you trust him," Adolin said quickly. "And I understand your reasons now. But listen to me. This move puts him in an ideal position to undermine us. The king has grown paranoid enough that he's suspicious even of you and me-I know you've seen it. All Sadeas needs to do is find imaginary 'evidence' linking us to an attempt to kill the king, and he'll be able be able to turn Elhokar against us."
"We may have to risk that."
Adolin frowned. "But-"
"I trust Sadeas, son," Dalinar said. "But even if I didn't, we couldn't forbid him entry or block his investigation. We'd not only look guilty in the king's eyes, but we'd be denying his authority as well." He shook his head. "If I ever want the other highprinces to accept me as their leader in war, I have to be willing to allow Sadeas his authority as Highprince of Information. I can't rely upon the old traditions for my authority yet deny Sadeas the same right."
"I suppose," Adolin admitted. "But we could still prepare. You can't tell me you're not a little worried."
Dalinar hesitated. "Perhaps. This maneuver of Sadeas's is aggressive. But I've been told what to do. 'Trust Sadeas. Be strong. Act with honor, and honor will aid you.' That is the advice I've been given."
"From where?"
Dalinar looked to him, and it became obvious to Adolin.
"So we're betting the future of our house on these visions now," Adolin said flatly.
"I wouldn't say that," Dalinar replied. "If Sadeas did move against us, I wouldn't simply let him shove us over. But I'm also not going to make the first move against him."
"Because of what you've seen," Adolin said, growing frustrated. "Father, you said you'd listen to what I had to say about the visions. Well, please listen now."
"This isn't the proper place."
"You always have an excuse," Adolin said. "I've tried to approach you about it five times now, and you always rebuff me!"
"Perhaps it's because I know what you'll say," Dalinar said. "And I know it won't do any good."
"Or perhaps it's because you don't want to be confronted by the truth."
"That's enough, Adolin."
"No, no it's not! We're mocked in every one of the warcamps, our authority and reputation diminishes by the day, and you refuse to do anything substantial about it!"
"Adolin. I will not take this from my son."
"But you'll take it from everyone else? Why is that, Father? When others say things about us, you let them. But when Renarin or I take the smallest step toward what you view as being inappropriate, we're immediately chastised! Everyone else can speak lies, but I can't speak the truth? Do your sons mean so little to you?"
Dalinar froze, looking as if he'd been slapped.
"You aren't well, Father," Adolin continued. Part of him realized that he had gone too far, that he was speaking too loudly, but it boiled out anyway. "We need to stop tiptoeing around it! You need to stop making up increasingly irrational explanations to reason away your lapses! I know it's hard to accept, but sometimes, people get old. Sometimes, the mind stops working right.
"I don't know what's wrong. Maybe it's your guilt over Gavilar's death. That book, the Codes, the visions-maybe they're all attempts to find escape, find redemption, something. What you see is not real. Your life now is a rationalization, a way of trying to pretend that what's happening isn't happening. But I'll go to Damnation itself before I'll let you drag the entire house down without speaking my mind on it!"
He practically shouted those last words. They echoed in the large chamber, and Adolin realized he was shaking. He had never, in all his years of life, spoken to his father in such a way.
"You think I haven't wondered these things?" Dalinar said, his voice cold, his eyes hard. "I've gone through each point you've made a dozen times over."
"Then maybe you should go over them a few more."
"I must trust myself. The visions are trying to show me something important. I cannot prove it or explain how I know. But it's true."
"Of course you think that," Adolin said, exasperated. "Don't you see? That's exactly what you would feel. Men are very good at seeing what they want to! Look at the king. He sees a killer in every shadow, and a worn strap becomes a convoluted plot to take his life."
Dalinar fell silent again.
"Sometimes, the simple answers are the right ones, Father!" Adolin said. "The king's strap just wore out. And you…you're seeing things that aren't there. I'm sorry."
They locked expressions. Adolin didn't look away. He wouldn't look away.
Dalinar finally turned from him. "Leave me, please."
"All right. Fine. But I want you to think about this. I want you to-"
"Adolin. Go."
Adolin gritted his teeth, but turned and stalked away. It needed to be said, he told himself as he left the gallery.
That didn't make him feel any less sick about having to be the one who said it.