"It ain't right, what they do," the woman's voice said. "You ain't supposed to cut into folks, peering in to see what the Almighty placed hidden for good reason."
Kal froze, standing in an alleyway between two houses in Hearthstone. The sky was wan overhead; winter had come for a time. The Weeping was near, and highstorms were infrequent. For now, it was too cold for plants to enjoy the respite; rockbuds spent winter weeks curled up inside their shells. Most creatures hibernated, waiting for warmth to return. Fortunately, seasons generally lasted only a few weeks. Unpredictability. That was the way of the world. Only after death was there stability. So the ardents taught, at least.
Kal wore a thick, padded coat of breachtree cotton. The material was scratchy but warm, and had been dyed a deep brown. He kept the hood up, his hands in his pockets. To his right sat the baker's place-the family slept in the triangular crawlspace in back, and the front was their store. To Kal's left was one of Hearthstone's taverns, where lavis ale and mudbeer flowed in abundance during winter weeks.
He could hear two women, unseen but chatting a short distance way.
"You know that he stole from the old citylord," one woman's voice said, keeping her voice down. "An entire goblet full of spheres. The surgeon says they were a gift, but he was the only one there when the citylord died."
"There is a document, I hear," the first voice said.
"A few glyphs. Not a proper will. And whose hand wrote those glyphs? The surgeon himself. It ain't right, the citylord not having a woman there to be scribe. I'm telling you. It ain't right what they do."
Kal gritted his teeth, tempted to step out and let the women see that he'd heard them. His father wouldn't approve, though. Lirin wouldn't want to cause strife or embarrassment.
But that was his father. So Kal marched right out of the alleyway, passing Nanha Terith and Nanha Relina standing and gossiping in front of the bakery. Terith was the baker's wife, a fat woman with curly dark hair. She was in the middle of another calumny. Kal gave her a sharp look, and her brown eyes showed a satisfying moment of discomfiture.
Kal crossed the square carefully, wary of patches of ice. The door to the bakery slammed shut behind him, the two women fleeing inside.
His satisfaction didn't last long. Why did people always say such things about his father? They called him morbid and unnatural, but would scurry out to buy glyphwards and charms from a passing apothecary or luck-merch. The Almighty pity a man who actually did something useful to help!
Still stewing, Kal turned a few corners, walking to where his mother stood on a stepladder at the side of the town hall, carefully chipping at the eaves of the building. Hesina was a tall woman, and she usually kept her hair pulled back into a tail, then wrapped a kerchief around her head. Today, she wore a knit hat over that. She had a long brown coat that matched Kal's, and the blue hem of her skirt just barely peeked out at the bottom.
The objects of her attention were a set of icicle-like pendants of rock that had formed on the edges of the roof. Highstorms dropped stormwater, and stormwater carried crem. If left alone, crem eventually hardened into stone. Buildings grew stalactites, formed by stormwater slowly dripping from the eaves. You had to clean them off regularly, or risk weighing down the roof so much that it collapsed.
She noticed him and smiled, her cheeks flushed from the cold. With a narrow face, a bold chin, and full lips, she was a pretty woman. At least Kal thought so. Prettier than the baker's wife, for sure.
"Your father dismissed you from your lessons already?" she asked.
"Everyone hates Father," Kal blurted out.
His mother turned back to her work. "Kaladin, you're thirteen. You're old enough to know not to say foolish things like that."
"It's true," he said stubbornly. "I heard some women talking, just now. They said that Father stole the spheres from Brightlord Wistiow. They say that Father enjoys slicing people open and doing things that ain't natural."
"Aren't natural."
"Why can't I speak like everyone else?"
"Because it isn't proper."
"It's proper enough for Nanha Terith."
"And what do you think of her?"
Kal hesitated. "She's ignorant. And she likes to gossip about things she doesn't know anything about."
"Well, then. If you wish to emulate her, I can obviously find no objection to the practice."
Kal grimaced. You had to watch yourself when speaking with Hesina; she liked to twist words about. He leaned back against the wall of the town hall, watching his breath puff out in front of him. Perhaps a different tactic would work. "Mother, why do people hate Father?"
"They don't hate him," she said. However, his calmly asked question got her to continue. "But he does make them uncomfortable."
"Why?"
"Because some people are frightened of knowledge. Your father is a learned man; he knows things the others can't understand. So those things must be dark and mysterious."
"They aren't afraid of luckmerches and glyphwards."
"Those you can understand," his mother said calmly. "You burn a glyphward out in front of your house, and it will turn away evil. It's easy. Your father won't give someone a ward to heal them. He'll insist that they stay in bed, drinking water, taking some foul medicine, and washing their wound each day. It's hard. They'd rather leave it all to fate."
Kal considered that. "I think they hate him because he fails too often."
"There is that. If a glyphward fails, you can blame it on the will of the Almighty. If your father fails, then it's his fault. Or such is the perception." His mother continued working, flakes of stone falling to the ground around her. "They'll never actually hate your father-he's too useful. But he'll never really be one of them. That's the price of being a surgeon. Having power over the lives of men is an uncomfortable responsibility."
"And if I don't want that responsibility? What if I just want to be something normal, like a baker, or a farmer, or…" Or a soldier, he added in his mind. He'd picked up a staff a few times in secret, and though he'd never been able to replicate that moment when he'd fought Jost, there was something invigorating about holding a weapon. Something that drew him and excited him.
"I think," his mother said, "that you'll find the lives of bakers and farmers are not so enviable."
"At least they have friends."
"And so do you. What of Tien?"
"Tien's not my friend, Mother. He's my brother."
"Oh, and he can't be both at once?"
Kal rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."
She climbed down from the stepladder, patting his shoulder. "Yes, I do, and I'm sorry to make light of it. But you put yourself in a difficult position. You want friends, but do you really want to act like the other boys? Give up your studies so you can slave in the fields? Grow old before your time, weathered and furrowed by the sun?"
Kal didn't reply.
"The things that others have always seem better than what you have," his mother said. "Bring the stepladder."
Kal followed dutifully, rounding the town hall to the other side, then putting down the ladder so his mother could climb up to begin work again.
"The others think Father stole those spheres." Kal shoved his hands in his pockets. "They think he wrote out that order from Brightlord Wistiow and had the old man sign it when he didn't know what he was doing."
His mother was silent.
"I hate their lies and gossip," Kal said. "I hate them for making up things about us."
"Don't hate them, Kal. They're good people. In this case, they're just repeating what they've heard." She glanced at the citylord's manor, distant upon a hill above the town. Every time Kal saw it, he felt like he should go up and talk to Laral. But the last few times he'd tried, he hadn't been allowed to see her. Now that her father was dead, her nurse oversaw her time, and the woman didn't think mingling with boys from the town was appropriate.
The nurse's husband, Miliv, had been Brightlord Wistiow's head steward. If there was a source of bad rumors about Kal's family, it probably came from him. He never had liked Kal's father. Well, Miliv wouldn't matter soon. A new citylord was expected to arrive any day.
"Mother," Kal said, "those spheres are just sitting there doing nothing but glowing. Can't we spend some to keep you from having to come out here and work?"
"I like working," she said, scraping away again. "It clears the head."
"Didn't you just tell me that I wouldn't like having to labor? My face furrowed before its time, or something poetic like that?"
She hesitated, then laughed. "Clever boy."
"Cold boy," he grumbled, shivering.
"I work because I want to. We can't spend those spheres-they're for your education-and so my working is better than forcing your father to charge for his healings."
"Maybe they'd respect us more if we did charge."
"Oh, they respect us. No, I don't think that is the problem." She looked down at Kal. "You know that we're second nahn."
"Sure," Kal said, shrugging.
"An accomplished young surgeon of the right rank could draw the attention of a poorer noble family, one who wished money and acclaim. It happens in the larger cities."
Kal glanced up at the mansion again. "That's why you encouraged me to play with Laral so much. You wanted to marry me off to her, didn't you?"
"It was a possibility," his mother said, returning to her work.
He honestly wasn't certain how he felt about that. The last few months had been strange for Kal. His father had forced him into his studies, but in secret he'd spent his time with the staff. Two possible paths. Both enticing. Kal did like learning, and he longed for the ability to help people, bind their wounds, make them better. He saw true nobility in what his father did.
But it seemed to Kal that if he could fight, he could do something even more noble. Protect their lands, like the great lighteyed heroes of the stories. And there was the way he felt when holding a weapon.
Two paths. Opposites, in many ways. He could only choose one.
His mother kept chipping away at the eaves, and-with a sigh-Kal fetched a second stepladder and set of tools from the workroom, then joined her. He was tall for his age, but he still had to stand high on the ladder. He caught his mother smiling as he worked, no doubt pleased at having raised such a helpful young man. In reality, Kal just wanted the chance to pound on something.
How would he feel, marrying someone like Laral? He'd never be her equal. Their children would have a chance of being lighteyed or darkeyed, so even his children might outrank him. He knew he'd feel terribly out of place. That was another aspect of becoming a surgeon. If he chose that path, he would be choosing the life of his father. Choosing to set himself apart, to be isolated.
If he went to war, however, he would have a place. Maybe he could even do the nearly unthinkable, win a Shardblade and become a true lighteyes. Then he could marry Laral and not have to be her inferior. Was that why she'd always encouraged him to become a soldier? Had she been thinking about these kinds of things, even back then? Back then, these kinds of decisions-marriage, his future-had seemed impossibly far-off to Kal.
He felt so young. Did he really have to consider these questions? It would still be another few years before the surgeons of Kharbranth would let him take their tests. But if he were going to become a soldier instead, he'd have to join the army before that happened. How would his father react if Kal just up and went with the recruiters? Kal wasn't certain he'd be able to face Lirin's disappointed eyes.
As if in response to his thoughts, Lirin's voice called from nearby. "Hesina!"
Kal's mother turned, smiling and tucking a stray lock of dark hair back into her kerchief. Kal's father rushed down the street, his face anxious. Kal felt a sudden jolt of worry. Who was wounded? Why hadn't Lirin sent for him?
"What is it?" Kal's mother asked, climbing down.
"He's here, Hesina," Kal's father said.
"About time."
"Who?" Kal asked, jumping down from the stepladder. "Who's here?"
"The new citylord, son," Lirin said, his breath puffing in the cold air. "His name is Brightlord Roshone. No time to change, I'm afraid. Not if we want to catch his first speech. Come on!"
The three of them hurried away, Kal's thoughts and worries banished in the face of the chance to meet a new lighteyes.
"He didn't send word ahead," Lirin said under his breath.
"That could be a good sign," Hesina replied. "Maybe he doesn't feel he needs everyone to dote on him."
"That, or he's inconsiderate. Stormfather, I hate getting a new Landed. Always makes me feel like I'm throwing a handful of stones into a game of breakneck. Will we throw the queen or the tower?"
"We shall see soon enough," Hesina said, glancing at Kal. "Don't let your father's words unnerve you. He always gets pessimistic at times like this."
"I do not," Lirin said.
She gave him a look.
"Name one other time."
"Meeting my parents."
Kal's father pulled up short, blinking. "Stormwinds," he muttered, "let's hope this doesn't go half as poorly as that."
Kal listened with curiosity. He'd never met his mother's parents; they weren't often spoken of. Soon, the three of them reached the south side of town. A crowd was gathered, and Tien was already there, waiting. He waved in his excitable way, jumping up and down.
"Wish I had half that boy's energy," Lirin said.
"I've got a place for us picked out!" Tien called eagerly, pointing. "By the rain barrels! Come on! We're going to miss it!"
Tien scurried over, climbing atop the barrels. Several of the town's other boys noticed him, and they nudged one another, one making some comment Kal couldn't hear. It set the others laughing at Tien, and that immediately made Kal furious. Tien didn't deserve mockery just because he was a little small for his age.
This wasn't a good time to confront the other boys, though, so Kal sullenly joined his parents beside the barrels. Tien smiled at him, standing atop his barrel. He'd piled a few of his favorite rocks near him, stones of different colors and shapes. There were rocks all around them, and yet Tien was the only person he knew who found wonder in them. After a moment's consideration, Kal climbed atop a barrel-careful not to disturb any of Tien's rocks-so he too could get a better view of the citylord's procession.
It was enormous. There must have been a dozen wagons in that line, following a fine black carriage pulled by four sleek black horses. Kal gawked despite himself. Wistiow had only owned one horse, and it had seemed as old as he was.
Could one man, even a lighteyes, own that much furniture? Where would he put it all? And there were people too. Dozens of them, riding in the wagons, walking in groups. There were also a dozen soldiers in gleaming breastplates and leather skirts. This lighteyes even had his own honor guard.
Eventually the procession reached the turn-off to Hearthstone. A man riding a horse led the carriage and its soldiers forward to the town while most of the wagons continued up to the manor. Kal grew increasingly excited as the carriage rolled slowly into place. Would he finally get to see a real, lighteyed hero? The word around town claimed it was likely that the new citylord would be someone King Gavilar or Highprince Sadeas had promoted because he'd distinguished himself in the wars to unite Alethkar.
The carriage turned sideways so that the door faced the crowd. The horses snorted and stomped the ground, and the carriage driver hopped down and quickly opened the door. A middle-aged man with a short, grey-streaked beard stepped out. He wore a ruffled violet coat, tailored so that it was short at the front-reaching only to his waist-but long at the back. Beneath it, he wore a golden takama, a long, straight skirt that went down to his calves.
A takama. Few wore them anymore, but old soldiers in town spoke of the days when they'd been popular as warrior's garb. Kal hadn't expected the takama to look so much like a woman's skirt, but still, it was a good sign. Roshone himself seemed a little too old, a little too flabby, to be a true soldier. But he wore a sword.
The lighteyed man scanned the crowd, a distasteful look on his face, as if he'd swallowed something bitter. Behind the man, two people peeked out. A younger man with a narrow face and an older woman with braided hair. Roshone studied the crowd, then shook his head and turned around to climb back in the carriage.
Kal frowned. Wasn't he going to say anything? The crowd seemed to share Kal's shock; a few of them began whispering in anxiety.
"Brightlord Roshone!" Kal's father called.
The crowd hushed. The lighteyed man glanced back. People shied away, and Kal found himself shrinking down beneath that harsh gaze. "Who spoke?" Roshone demanded, his voice a low baritone.
Lirin stepped forward, raising a hand. "Brightlord. Was your trip pleasant? Please, can we show you the town?"
"What is your name?"
"Lirin, Brightlord. Hearthstone's surgeon."
"Ah," Roshone said. "You're the one who let old Wistiow die." The brightlord's expression darkened. "In a way, it's your fault I'm in this pitiful, miserable quarter of the kingdom." He grunted, then climbed back in the carriage and slammed the door. Within seconds, the carriage driver had replaced the stairs, climbed into his place, and started turning the vehicle around.
Kal's father slowly let his arm fall to his side. The townspeople began to chatter immediately, gossiping about the soldiers, the carriage, the horses.
Kal sat down on his barrel. Well, he thought. I guess we could expect a warrior to be curt, right? The heroes from the legends weren't necessarily the polite types. Killing people and fancy talking didn't always go together, old Jarel had once told him.
Lirin walked back, his expression troubled.
"Well?" Hesina said, trying to sound cheerful. "What do you think? Did we throw the queen or the tower?"
"Neither."
"Oh? And what did we throw instead?"
"I'm not sure," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "A pair and a trio, maybe. Let's get back home."
Tien scratched his head in confusion, but the words weighed on Kal. The tower was three pairs in a game of breakneck. The queen was two trios. The first was an outright loss, the other an outright win.
But a pair and a trio, that was called the butcher. Whether you won or not would depend on the other throws you made.
And, more importantly, on the throws of everyone else. I am being chased. Your friends of the Seventeenth Shard, I suspect. I believe they're still lost, following a false trail I left for them. They'll be happier that way. I doubt they have any inkling what to do with me should they actually catch me. "I stood in the darkened monastery chamber,'" Litima read, standing at the lectern with the tome open before her, "'its far reaches painted with pools of black where light did not wander. I sat on the floor, thinking of that dark, that Unseen. I could not know, for certain, what was hidden in that night. I suspected there were walls, sturdy and thick, but could I know without seeing? When all was hidden, what could a man rely upon as True?'"
Litima-one of Dalinar's scribes-was tall and plump and wore a violet silk gown with yellow trim. She read to Dalinar as he stood, regarding the maps on the wall of his sitting room. That room was fitted with handsome wood furnishings and fine woven rugs imported up from Marat. A crystal carafe of afternoon wine-orange, not intoxicating-sat on a high-legged serving table in the corner, sparkling with the light of the diamond spheres hanging in chandeliers above.
"'Candle flames,'" Litima continued. The selection was from The Way of Kings, read from the very copy that Gavilar had once owned. "'A dozen candles burned themselves to death on the shelf before me. Each of my breaths made them tremble. To them, I was a behemoth, to frighten and destroy. And yet, if I strayed too close, they could destroy me. My invisible breath, the pulses of life that flowed in and out, could end them freely, while my fingers could not do the same without being repaid in pain.'"
Dalinar idly twisted his signet ring in thought; it was sapphire with his Kholin glyphpair on it. Renarin stood next to him, wearing a coat of blue and silver, golden knots on the shoulders marking him as a prince. Adolin wasn't there. Dalinar and he had been stepping gingerly around one another since their argument in the Gallery.
"'I understood in a moment of stillness,'" Litima read. "'Those candle flames were like the lives of men. So fragile. So deadly. Left alone, they lit and warmed. Let run rampant, they would destroy the very things they were meant to illuminate. Embryonic bonfires, each bearing a seed of destruction so potent it could tumble cities and dash kings to their knees. In later years, my mind would return to that calm, silent evening, when I had stared at rows of living lights. And I would understand. To be given loyalty is to be infused like a gemstone, to be granted the frightful license to destroy not only one's self, but all within one's care.'"
Litima fell still. It was the end of the sequence.
"Thank you, Brightness Litima," Dalinar said. "That will do."
The woman bowed her head respectfully. She gathered her youthful ward from the side of the room and they withdrew, leaving the book on the lectern.
That sequence had become one of Dalinar's favorites. Listening to it often comforted him. Someone else had known, someone else had understood, how he felt. But today, it didn't bring the solace it usually did. It only reminded him of Adolin's arguments. None had been things Dalinar hadn't considered himself, but being confronted with them by someone he trusted had shaken everything. He found himself staring at his maps, smaller copies of those that hung in the Gallery. They had been recreated for him by the royal cartographer, Isasik Shulin.
What if Dalinar's visions really were just phantasms? He'd often longed for the glory days of Alethkar's past. Were the visions his mind's answer to that, a subconscious way of letting himself be a hero, of giving himself justification for doggedly seeking his goals?
A disturbing thought. Looked at another way, those phantom commands to "unify" sounded a great deal like what the Hierocracy had said when it had tried to conquer the world five centuries before.
Dalinar turned from his maps and walked across the room, his booted feet falling on a soft rug. Too nice a rug. He'd spent the better part of his life in one warcamp or another; he'd slept in wagons, stone barracks, and tents pulled tight against the leeward side of stone formations. Compared with that, his present dwelling was practically a mansion. He felt as if he should cast out all of this finery. But what would that accomplish?
He stopped at the lectern and ran his fingers along the thick pages filled with lines in violet ink. He couldn't read the words, but he could almost feel them, emanating from the page like Stormlight from a sphere. Were the words of this book the cause of his problems? The visions had started several months after he'd first listened to readings from it.
He rested his hand on the cold, ink-filled pages. Their homeland was stressed nearly to breaking, the war was stalled, and suddenly he found himself captivated by the very ideals and myths that had led to his brother's downfall. This was a time the Alethi needed the Blackthorn, not an old, tired soldier who fancied himself a philosopher.
Blast it all, he thought. I thought I'd figured this out! He closed the leather-bound volume, the spine crackling. He carried it to the bookshelf and returned it to its place.
"Father?" Renarin asked. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"I wish there were, son." Dalinar tapped the spine of the book lightly. "It's ironic. This book was once considered one of the great masterpieces of political philosophy. Did you know that? Jasnah told me that kings around the world used to study it daily. Now, it is considered borderline blasphemous."
Renarin gave no reply.
"Regardless," Dalinar said, walking back to the wall map. "Highprince Aladar refused my offer of an alliance, just as Roion did. Do you have a thought on whom should I approach next?"
"Adolin says we should be far more worried about Sadeas's ploy to destroy us than we are."
The room fell silent. Renarin had a habit of doing that, felling conversations like an enemy archer hunting officers on the battlefield.
"Your brother is right to worry," Dalinar said. "But moving against Sadeas would undermine Alethkar as a kingdom. For the same reason, Sadeas won't risk acting against us. He'll see."
I hope.
Horns suddenly sounded outside, their deep, resounding calls echoing. Dalinar and Renarin froze. Parshendi spotted on the Plains. A second set came. Twenty-third plateau of the second quadrant. Dalinar's scouts thought the contested plateau close enough for their forces to reach first.
Dalinar dashed across the room, all other thoughts discarded for the moment, his booted feet thumping on the thick rug. He threw open the door and charged down the Stormlight-illuminated hallway.
The war room door was open, and Teleb-highofficer on duty-saluted as Dalinar entered. Teleb was a straight-backed man with light green eyes. He kept his long hair in a braid and had a blue tattoo on his cheek, marking him as an Oldblood. At the side of the room, his wife, Kalami, sat behind a long-legged desk on a high stool. She wore her dark hair with only two small side braids pinned up, the rest hanging down the back of her violet dress to brush the top of the stool. She was a historian of note, and had requested permission to record meetings like this one; she planned to scribe a history of the war.
"Sir," Teleb said. "A chasmfiend crawled atop the plateau here less than a quarter hour ago." He pointed to the battle map, which had glyphs marking each plateau. Dalinar stepped up to it, a group of his officers gathering around him.
"How far would you say that is?" Dalinar asked, rubbing his chin.
"Perhaps two hours," Teleb said, indicating a route one of his men had drawn on the map. "Sir, I think we have a good chance at this one. Brightlord Aladar will have to traverse six unclaimed plateaus to reach the contested area, while we have a nearly direct line. Brightlord Sadeas would have trouble, as he'd have to work his way around several large chasms too wide to cross with bridges. I'll bet he won't even try for it."
Dalinar did, indeed, have the most direct line. He hesitated, though. It had been months since he'd last gone on a plateau run. His attention had been diverted, his troops needed for protecting roadways and patrolling the large markets that had grown up outside the warcamps. And now, Adolin's questions weighed upon him, pressing him down. It seemed like a terrible time to go out to battle.
No, he thought. No, I need to do this. Winning a plateau skirmish would do much for his troops' morale, and would help discredit the rumors in camp.
"We march!" Dalinar declared.
A few of the officers whooped in excitement, an extreme show of emotion for the normally reserved Alethi.
"And your son, Brightlord?" Teleb asked. He'd heard of the confrontation between them. Dalinar doubted there was a person in all ten warcamps who hadn't heard of it.
"Send for him," Dalinar said firmly. Adolin probably needed this as much as, or more than, Dalinar did.
The officers scattered. Dalinar's armor bearers entered a moment later. It had only been a few minutes since the horns had sounded, but after six years of fighting, the machine of war ran smoothly when battle called. From outside, he heard the horns' third set begin, calling his forces to battle.
The armor bearers inspected his boots-checking to be certain the laces were tight-then brought a long padded vest to throw over his uniform. Next, they set the sabatons-armor for his boots-on the floor before him. They encased his boots entirely and had a rough surface on the bottoms that seemed to cling to rock. The interiors glowed with the light of the sapphires in their indented pockets.
Dalinar was reminded of his most recent vision. The Radiant, his armor glowing with glyphs. Modern Shardplate didn't glow like that. Could his mind have fabricated that detail? Would it have?
No time to consider that now, he thought. He discarded his uncertainties and worries, something he'd learned to do during his first battles as a youth. A warrior needed to be focused. Adolin's questions would still be waiting for him when he got back. For now, he couldn't afford self-doubt or uncertainty. It was time to be the Blackthorn.
He stepped into the sabatons, and the straps tightened of their own accord, fitting around his boots. The greaves came next, going over his legs and knees, locking on to the sabatons. Shardplate wasn't like ordinary armor; there was no mesh of steel mail and no leather straps at the joints. Shardplate seams were made of smaller plates, interlocking, overlapping, incredibly intricate, leaving no vulnerable gaps. There was very little rubbing or chafing; each piece fit together perfectly, as if it had been crafted specifically for Dalinar.
One always put the armor on from the feet upward. Shardplate was extremely heavy; without the enhanced strength it provided, no man would be able to fight in it. Dalinar stood still as the armor bearers affixed the cuisses over his thighs and locked them to the culet and faulds across his waist and lower back. A skirt made of small, interlocking plates came next, reaching down to just above the knees.
"Brightlord," Teleb said, stepping up to him. "Have you given thought to my suggestion about the bridges?"
"You know how I feel about man-carried bridges, Teleb," Dalinar said as the armor bearers locked his breastplate into place, then worked on the rerebraces and vambraces for his arms. Already, he could feel the strength of the Plate surging through him.
"We wouldn't have to use the smaller bridges for the assault," Teleb said. "Just for getting to the contested plateau."
"We'd still have to bring the chull-pulled bridges to get across that last chasm," Dalinar said. "I'm not convinced that bridge crews would move us any more quickly. Not when we have to wait for those animals."
Teleb sighed.
Dalinar reconsidered. A good officer was one who accepted orders and fulfilled them, even when he disagreed. But the mark of a great officer was that he also tried to innovate and offer appropriate suggestions.
"You may recruit and train a single bridge crew," Dalinar said. "We shall see. In these races, even a few minutes can be meaningful."
Teleb smiled. "Thank you, sir."
Dalinar waved with his left hand as the armor bearers locked the gauntlet onto his right. He made a fist, tiny plates curving perfectly. The left gauntlet followed. Then the gorget went over his head, covering his neck, the pauldrons on his shoulders, and the helm on his head. Finally, the armor bearers affixed his cape to the pauldrons.
Dalinar took a deep breath, feeling the Thrill build for the approaching battle. He strode from the war room, footfalls firm and solid. Attendants and servants scattered before him, making way. Wearing Shardplate again after a long period without was like waking up after a night of feeling groggy or disoriented. The spring of the step, the impetus the armor seemed to lend him, made him want to race down the hallway and And why not?
He broke into a sprint. Teleb and the others cried out in surprise, rushing to keep up. Dalinar outpaced them easily, reaching the front gates of the complex and leaping through, throwing himself off the long steps leading down from his enclave. He exulted, grinning as he hung in the air, then slammed to the ground. The force cracked the stone beneath him, and he crouched into the impact.
Before him, neat rows of barracks ran through his warcamp, formed in radials with a meeting ground and mess hall at the center of each battalion. His officers reached the top of the stairs, looking down with amazement. Renarin was with them, wearing his uniform that had never seen battle, his hand raised against the sunlight.
Dalinar felt foolish. Was he a youth just given his first taste of Shardplate? Back to work. Stop playing.
Perethom, his infantrylord, saluted as Dalinar strode up. "Second and Third Battalions are on duty today, Brightlord. Forming ranks to march."
"First Bridge Squad is gathered, Brightlord," Havarah-the bridgelord-said, striding up. He was a short man, with some Herdazian blood in him as evidenced by his dark, crystalline fingernails, though he didn't wear a spark-flicker. "I have word from Ashelem that the archery company is ready."
"Cavalry?" Dalinar asked. "And where is my son?"
"Here, Father," called a familiar voice. Adolin-his Shardplate painted a deep Kholin blue-made his way through the gathering crowd. His visor was up, and he looked eager, though when he met Dalinar's eyes, he glanced away immediately.
Dalinar held up a hand, quieting several officers who were trying to give him reports. He strode to Adolin, and the youth looked up, meeting his gaze.
"You said what you felt you must," Dalinar said.
"And I'm not sorry I did," Adolin replied. "But I am sorry for how, and where, I said it. That won't happen again."
Dalinar nodded, and that was enough. Adolin seemed to relax, a weight coming off his shoulders, and Dalinar turned back to his officers. In moments, he and Adolin were leading a hurried group to the staging area. As they did, Dalinar did note Adolin waving to a young woman who stood beside the way, wearing a red dress, her hair up in a very nice braiding.
"Is that-er-"
"Malasha?" Adolin said. "Yes."
"She looks nice."
"Most of the time she is, though she's somewhat annoyed that I wouldn't let her come with me today."
"She wanted to come into battle?"
Adolin shrugged. "Says she's curious."
Dalinar said nothing. Battle was a masculine art. A woman wanting to come to the battlefield was like…well, like a man wanting to read. Unnatural.
Ahead, in the staging area, the battalions were forming ranks, and a squat lighteyed officer hurried up to Dalinar. He had patches of red hair on his otherwise dark Alethi head and a long, red mustache. Ilamar, the cavalrylord.
"Brightlord," he said, "my apologies for the delay. Cavalry is mounted and ready."
"We march, then," Dalinar said. "All ranks-"
"Brightlord!" a voice said.
Dalinar turned as one of his messengers approached. The darkeyed man wore leathers marked with blue bands on the arms. He saluted, saying, "Highprince Sadeas has demanded admittance to the warcamp!"
Dalinar glanced at Adolin. His son's expression darkened.
"He claims the king's writ of investigation grants him the right," the messenger said.
"Admit him," Dalinar said.
"Yes, Brightlord," the messenger said, turning back. One of the lesser officers, Moratel, went with him so that Sadeas could be welcomed and escorted by a lighteyes as befitted his station. Moratel was least among those in attendance; everyone understood he was the one Dalinar would send.
"What do you think Sadeas wants this time?" Dalinar said quietly to Adolin.
"Our blood. Preferably warm, perhaps sweetened with a shot of tallew brandy."
Dalinar grimaced, and the two of them hurried past the ranks of soldiers. The men had an air of anticipation, spears held high, darkeyed citizen officers standing at the sides with axes on their shoulders. At the front of the force, a group of chulls snorted and rummaged at the rocks by their feet; harnessed to them were several enormous mobile bridges.
Gallant and Adolin's white stallion Sureblood were waiting, their reins held at the ready by grooms. Ryshadium hardly needed handlers. Once, Gallant had kicked open his stall and made his way to the staging grounds on his own when a groom had been too slow. Dalinar patted the midnight destrier on the neck, then swung into the saddle.
He scanned the staging field, then raised his arm to give the command to move. However, he noticed a group of mounted men riding up to the staging field, led by a figure in dark red Shardplate. Sadeas.
Dalinar stifled a sigh and gave the command to move out, though he himself waited for the Highprince of Information. Adolin came over on Sureblood, and he gave Dalinar a glance that seemed to say, "Don't worry, I'll behave."
As always, Sadeas was a model of fashion, his armor painted, his helm ornamented with a completely different metallic pattern than he had worn last time. This one was shaped like a stylized sunburst. It looked almost like a crown.
"Brightlord Sadeas," Dalinar said. "This is an inconvenient time for your investigation."
"Unfortunately," Sadeas said, reining in. "His Majesty is very eager to have answers, and I cannot stop my investigation, even for a plateau assault. I need to interview some of your soldiers. I'll do it on the way out."
"You want to come with us?"
"Why not? I won't delay you." He glanced at the chulls, who lurched into motion, pulling the bulky bridges. "I doubt that even were I to decide to crawl, I could slow you any further."
"Our soldiers need to concentrate on the upcoming battle, Brightlord," Adolin said. "They should not be distracted."
"The king's will must be done," Sadeas said, shrugging, not even bothering to look at Adolin. "Need I present the writ? Surely you don't intend to forbid me."
Dalinar studied his former friend, looking into those eyes, trying to see into the man's soul. Sadeas lacked his characteristic smirk; he usually wore one of those when he was pleased with how a plot was going. Did he realize that Dalinar knew how to read his expressions, and so masked his emotions? "No need to present anything, Sadeas. My men are at your disposal. If you have need of anything, simply ask. Adolin, with me."
Dalinar turned Gallant and galloped down the line toward the front of the marching army. Adolin followed reluctantly, and Sadeas remained behind with his attendants.
The long ride began. The permanent bridges here were Dalinar's, maintained and guarded by his soldiers and scouts, connecting plateaus that he controlled. Sadeas spent the trip riding near the middle of the column of two thousand. He periodically sent an attendant to pull certain soldiers out of line.
Dalinar spent the ride mentally preparing himself for the battle ahead. He spoke with his officers about the layout of the plateau, got a report on where specifically the chasmfiend had chosen to make its chrysalis, and sent scouts ahead to watch for Parshendi. Those scouts carried their long poles to get them from plateau to plateau without bridges.
Dalinar's force eventually reached the end of the permanent bridges, and had to start waiting for the chull bridges to be lowered across the chasms. The big machines were built like siege towers, with enormous wheels and armored sections at the side where soldiers could push. At a chasm, they unhooked the chulls, pushed the machine forward by hand, and ratcheted a crank at the back to lower the bridge. Once the bridge was set down, the machinery was unlocked and pulled across. The bridge was built so they could lock the machine onto the other side, pull the bridge up, then turn and hook the chulls up again.
It was a slow process. Dalinar watched from horseback, fingers tapping the side of his hogshide saddle as the first chasm was spanned. Perhaps Teleb was right. Could they use lighter, more portable bridges to get across these early chasms, then resort to the siege bridges only for the final assault?
A clatter of hooves on rock announced someone riding up the side of the column. Dalinar turned, expecting Adolin, and instead found Sadeas.
Why had Sadeas asked to be Highprince of Information, and why was he so dogged in pursuing this matter of the broken girth? If he did decide to create some kind of false implication of Dalinar's guilt…
The visions told me to trust him, Dalinar told himself firmly. But he was growing less certain about them. How much dared he risk on what they'd said?
"Your soldiers are quite loyal to you," Sadeas noted as he arrived.
"Loyalty is the first lesson of a soldier's life," Dalinar said. "I would be worried if these men hadn't yet mastered it."
Sadeas sighed. "Really, Dalinar. Must you always be so sanctimonious?"
Dalinar didn't reply.
"It's odd, how a leader's influence can affect his men," Sadeas said. "So many of these are like smaller versions of you. Bundles of emotion, wrapped up and tied until they become stiff from the pressure. They're so sure in some ways, yet so insecure in others."
Dalinar kept his jaw clenched. What is your game, Sadeas?
Sadeas smiled, leaning in, speaking softly. "You want so badly to snap at me, don't you? Even in the old days, you hated it when someone implied that you were insecure. Back then, your displeasure often ended with a head or two rolling across the stones."
"I killed many who did not deserve death," Dalinar said. "A man should not fear losing his head because he took one too many sips of wine."
"Perhaps," Sadeas said lightly. "But don't you ever want to let it out, as you used to? Doesn't it pound on you inside, like someone trapped within a large drum? Beating, banging, trying to claw free?"
"Yes," Dalinar said.
The admission seemed to surprise Sadeas. "And the Thrill, Dalinar. Do you still feel the Thrill?"
Men didn't often speak of the Thrill, the joy and lust for battle. It was a private thing. "I feel each of the things you mention, Sadeas," Dalinar said, eyes forward. "But I don't always let them out. A man's emotions are what define him, and control is the hallmark of true strength. To lack feeling is to be dead, but to act on every feeling is to be a child."
"That has the stink of a quote about it, Dalinar. From Gavilar's little book of virtues, I assume?"
"Yes."
"Doesn't it bother you at all that the Radiants betrayed us?"
"Legends. The Recreance is an event so old, it might as well be in the shadowdays. What did the Radiants really do? Why did they do it? We don't know."
"We know enough. They used elaborate tricks to imitate great powers and pretend a holy calling. When their deceptions were discovered, they fled."
"Their powers were not lies. They were real."
"Oh?" Sadeas said, amused. "You know this? Didn't you just say the event was so old, it might as well have been in the shadowdays? If the Radiants had such marvelous powers, why can nobody reproduce them? Where did those incredible skills go?"
"I don't know," Dalinar said softly. "Perhaps we're just not worthy of them any longer."
Sadeas snorted, and Dalinar wished he'd bitten his tongue. His only evidence for what he said was his visions. And yet, if Sadeas belittled something, he instinctively wanted to stand up for it.
I can't afford this. I need to be focused on the battle ahead.
"Sadeas," he said, determined to change the topic. "We need to work harder to unify the warcamps. I want your help, now that you're Highprince of Information."
"To do what?"
"To do what needs to be done. For the good of Alethkar."
"That's exactly what I'm doing, old friend," Sadeas said. "Killing Parshendi. Winning glory and wealth for our kingdom. Seeking vengeance. It would be best for Alethkar if you'd stop wasting so much time in camp-and stop talking of fleeing like cowards. It would be best for Alethkar if you'd start acting like a man again."
"Enough, Sadeas!" Dalinar said, more loudly than he'd intended. "I gave you leave to come along for your investigation, not to taunt me!"
Sadeas sniffed. "That book ruined Gavilar. Now it's doing the same to you. You've listened to those stories so much they've got your head full of false ideals. Nobody ever really lived the way the Codes claim."
"Bah!" Dalinar said, waving a hand and turning Gallant. "I don't have time for your snideness today, Sadeas." He trotted his horse away, furious at Sadeas, then even more furious at himself for losing his temper.
He crossed the bridge, stewing, thinking of Sadeas's words. He found himself remembering a day when he stood with his brother beside the Impossible Falls of Kholinar.
Things are different now, Dalinar, Gavilar had said. I see now, in ways I never did before. I wish I could show you what I mean.
It had been three days before his death. Ten heartbeats.
Dalinar closed his eyes, breathing in and out-slowly, calmingly-as they prepared themselves behind the siege bridge. Forget Sadeas. Forget the visions. Forget his worries and fears. Just focus on the heartbeats.
Nearby, chulls scraped the rock with their hard, carapaced feet. The wind blew across his face, smelling wet. It always smelled wet out here, in these humid stormlands.
Soldiers clanked, leather creaked. Dalinar raised his head toward the sky, his heart thumping deep within him. The brilliant white sun stained his eyelids red.
Men shifted, called, cursed, loosened swords in their sheaths, tested bowstrings. He could feel their tension, their anxiety mixed with excitement. Among them, anticipationspren began to spring from the ground, streamers connected by one side to the stone, the others whipping in the air. Some fearspren boiled up among them.
"Are you ready?" Dalinar asked softly. The Thrill was rising within him.
"Yes." Adolin's voice was eager.
"You never complain about the way we attack," Dalinar said, eyes still closed. "You never challenge me on this."
"This is the best way. They're my men too. What is the point of being a Shardbearer if we cannot lead the charge?"
The tenth heartbeat sounded in Dalinar's chest; he could always hear the beats when he was summoning his Blade, no matter how loud the world around him was. The faster they passed, the sooner the blade arrived. So the more urgent you felt, the sooner you were armed. Was that intentional, or just some quirk of the Shardblade's nature?
Oathbringer's familiar weight settled into his hand.
"Go," Dalinar said, snapping his eyes open. He slammed his visor down as Adolin did the same, Stormlight rising from the sides as the helms sealed shut and became translucent. The two of them burst out from behind the massive bridge-one Shardbearer on each side, a figure of blue and another of slate grey.
The energy of the armor pulsed through Dalinar as he dashed across the stone ground, arms pumping in rhythm with his steps. The wave of arrows came immediately, loosed from the Parshendi kneeling on the other side of the chasm. Dalinar flung his arm up in front of his eye slit as arrows sprayed across him, scraping metal, some shafts snapping. It felt like running against a hailstorm.
Adolin bellowed a war cry from the right, voice muffled by his helm. As they approached the chasm lip, Dalinar lowered his arm despite the arrows. He needed to be able to judge his approach. The gulf was mere feet away. His Plate gave him a surge of strength as he reached the edge of the chasm.
Then leaped.
For a moment, he soared above the inky chasm, cape flapping, arrows filling the air around him. He was reminded of the flying Radiant from his vision. But this was nothing so mystical, just a standard Shardplate-assisted jump. Dalinar cleared the chasm and crashed back to the ground on the other side, sweeping his Blade down and across to slay three Parshendi with a single blow.
Their eyes burned black and smoke rose as they collapsed. He swung again. Bits of armor and weapons sprayed into the air where arrows had once flown, sheared free by his Blade. As always, it sliced apart anything inanimate, but blurred when it touched flesh, as if turning to mist.
The way it reacted to flesh and cut steel so easily, it sometimes felt to Dalinar like he was swinging a weapon of pure smoke. As long as he kept the Blade in motion, it could not get caught in chinks or stopped by the weight of what it was cutting.
Dalinar spun, sweeping out with his Blade in a line of death. He sheared through souls themselves, leaving Parshendi to drop dead to the ground. Then he kicked, tossing a corpse into the faces of the Parshendi nearby. A few more kicks sent corpses flying-a Plate-driven kick could easily send a body tumbling thirty feet-clearing the ground around him for better footing.
Adolin hit the plateau not far away, spinning and falling into Windstance. Adolin shoved his shoulder into a group of archers, tossing them backward and throwing several into the chasm. Gripping his Shardblade with both hands, he did an initial sweep as Dalinar had, cutting down six enemies.
The Parshendi were singing, many of them wearing beards that glowed with small uncut gemstones. Parshendi always sang as they fought; that song changed as they abandoned their bows-pulling out axes, swords, or maces-and threw themselves at the two Shardbearers.
Dalinar put himself at the optimal distance from Adolin, allowing his son to protect his blind spots, but not getting too close. The two Shardbearers fought, still near the lip of the chasm, cutting down the Parshendi who tried desperately to push them backward by sheer force of numbers. This was their best chance to defeat the Shardbearers. Dalinar and Adolin were alone, without their honor guard. A fall from this height would certainly kill even a man in Plate.
The Thrill rose within him, so sweet. Dalinar kicked away another corpse, though he didn't need the extra room. They'd noticed that the Parshendi grew enraged when you moved their dead. He kicked another body, taunting them, drawing them toward him to fight in pairs as they often did.
He cut down a group that came, singing in voices angry at what he'd done to their dead. Nearby, Adolin began to lay about him with punches as the Parshendi got too close; he was fond of the tactic, switching between using his sword in two hands or one. Parshendi corpses flew this way and that, bones and armor shattered by the blows, orange Parshendi blood spraying across the ground. Adolin moved back to his Blade a moment later, kicking away a corpse.
The Thrill consumed Dalinar, giving him strength, focus, and power. The glory of the battle grew grand. He'd stayed away from this too long. He saw with clarity now. They did need to push harder, assault more plateaus, win the gemhearts.
Dalinar was the Blackthorn. He was a natural force, never to be halted. He was death itself. He He felt a sudden stab of powerful revulsion, a sickness so strong that it made him gasp. He slipped, partially on a patch of blood, but partially because his knees grew suddenly weak.
The corpses before him suddenly seemed a horrifying sight. Eyes burned out like spent coals. Bodies limp and broken, bones shattered where Adolin had punched them. Heads cracked open, blood and brains and entrails spilled around them. Such butchery, such death. The Thrill vanished.
How could a man enjoy this?
The Parshendi surged toward him. Adolin was there in a heartbeat, attacking with more skill than any other man Dalinar had known. The lad was a genius with the Blade, an artist with paint of only one shade. He struck expertly, forcing the Parshendi back. Dalinar shook his head, recovering his stance.
He forced himself to resume fighting, and as the Thrill began to rise again, Dalinar hesitantly embraced it. The odd sickness faded, and his battle reflexes took control. He spun into the Parshendi advance, sweeping out with his Blade in broad, aggressive strokes.
He needed this victory. For himself, for Adolin, and for his men. Why had he been so horrified? The Parshendi had murdered Gavilar. It was right to kill them.
He was a soldier. Fighting was what he did. And he did it well.
The Parshendi advance unit broke before his assault, scattering back toward a larger mass of their troops, who were forming ranks in haste. Dalinar stepped back and found himself looking down at the corpses around him, with their blackened eyes. Smoke still curled from a few.
The sick feeling returned.
Life ended so quickly. The Shardbearer was destruction incarnate, the most powerful force on a battlefield. Once these weapons meant protecting, a voice inside of him whispered.
The three bridges crashed to the ground a few feet away, and the cavalry charged across a moment later, led by compact Ilamar. A few windspren danced past in the air, nearly invisible. Adolin called for his horse, but Dalinar just stood, looking down at the dead. Parshendi blood was orange, and it smelled like mold. Yet their faces-marbled black or white and red-looked so human. A parshman nurse had practically raised Dalinar.
Life before death.
What was that voice?
He glanced back across the chasm, toward where Sadeas-well outside of bow range-sat with his attendants. Dalinar could sense the disapproval in his ex-friend's posture. Dalinar and Adolin risked themselves, taking a dangerous leap across the chasm. An assault of the type Sadeas had pioneered would cost more lives. But how many lives would Dalinar's army lose if one of its Shardbearers was pushed into the chasm?
Gallant charged across the bridge alongside a line of soldiers, who cheered for the Ryshadium. He slowed near Dalinar, who grabbed the reins. Right now, he was needed. His men were fighting and dying, and this was not a time for regret or second-guessing.
A Plate-enhanced jump put him in the saddle. Then, Shardblade raised high, he charged into battle to kill for his men. That was not what the Radiants had fought for. But at least it was something. They won the battle.
Dalinar stepped back, feeling fatigued as Adolin did the honors of harvesting the gemheart. The chrysalis itself sat like an enormous, oblong rockbud, fifteen feet tall and attached to the uneven stone ground by something that looked like crem. There were bodies all around it, some human, others Parshendi. The Parshendi had tried to get into it quickly and flee, but they'd only managed to get a few cracks into the shell.
The fighting had been most furious here, around the chrysalis. Dalinar rested back against a shelf of rock and pulled his helm off, exposing a sweaty head to the cool breeze. The sun was high overhead; the battle had lasted two hours or so.
Adolin worked efficiently, using his Shardblade with care to shave off a section of the outside of the chrysalis. Then he expertly plunged it in, killing the pupating creature but avoiding the region with the gemheart.
Just like that, the creature was dead. Now the Shardblade could cut it, and Adolin carved away sections of flesh. Purple ichor spurted out as he reached in, questing for the gemheart. The soldiers cheered as he pulled it free, gloryspren hovering above the entire army like hundreds of spheres of light.
Dalinar found himself walking away, helm held in his left hand. He crossed the battlefield, passing surgeons tending the wounded and teams who were carrying his dead back to the bridges. There were sleds behind the chull carts for them, so they could be burned properly back at camp.
There were a lot of Parshendi corpses. Looking at them now, he was neither disgusted nor excited. Just exhausted.
He'd gone to battle dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. Never before had he felt as he had this day. That revulsion had distracted him, and that could have gotten him killed. Battle was no time for reflection; you had to keep your mind on what you were doing.
The Thrill had seemed subdued the entire battle, and he hadn't fought nearly as well as he once had. This battle should have brought him clarity. Instead, his troubles seemed magnified. Blood of my fathers, he thought, stepping up to the top of a small rock hill. What is happening to me?
His weakness today seemed the latest, and most potent, argument to fuel what Adolin-and, indeed, what many others-said about him. He stood atop the hill, looking eastward, toward the Origin. His eyes went that direction so often. Why? What was He froze, noticing a group of Parshendi on a nearby plateau. His scouts watched them warily; it was the army that Dalinar's people had driven off. Though they'd killed a lot of Parshendi today, the vast majority had still escaped, retreating when they realized the battle was lost to them. That was one of the reasons the war was lasting so long. The Parshendi understood strategic retreat.
This army stood in ranks, grouped in warpairs. A commanding figure stood at their head, a large Parshendi in glittering armor. Shardplate. Even at a distance, it was easy to tell the difference between it and something more mundane.
That Shardbearer hadn't been here during the battle itself. Why come now? Had he arrived too late?
The armored figure and the rest of the Parshendi turned and left, leaping across the chasm behind them and fleeing back toward their unseen haven at the center of the Plains. If anything I have said makes a glimmer of sense to you, I trust that you'll call them off. Or maybe you could astound me and ask them to do something productive for once. Kaladin pushed his way into the apothecary's shop, the door banging shut behind him. As before, the aged man pretended to be feeble, feeling his way with a cane until he recognized Kaladin. Then he stood up straighter. "Oh. It's you."
It had been two more long days. Daytime spent working and training-Teft and Rock now practiced with him-evenings spent at the first chasm, retrieving the reeds from their hiding place in a crevice and then milking for hours. Gaz had seen them go down last night, and the bridge sergeant was undoubtedly suspicious. There was no helping that.
Bridge Four had been called out on a bridge run today. Thankfully, they'd arrived before the Parshendi, and none of the bridge crews had lost any men. Things hadn't gone so well for the regular Alethi troops. The Alethi line had eventually buckled before the Parshendi assault, and the bridge crews had been forced to lead a tired, angry, and defeated troop of soldiers back to the camp.
Kaladin was bleary-eyed with fatigue from staying up late working on the reeds. His stomach growled perpetually from being given a fraction of the food it needed, as he shared his meals with two wounded. That all ended today. The apothecary walked back behind his counter, and Kaladin stepped up to it. Syl darted into the room, her small ribbon of light turning into a woman midtwist. She flipped like an acrobat, landing on the table in a smooth motion.
"What do you need?" the apothecary asked. "More bandages? Well, I might just-"
He cut off as Kaladin slapped a medium-sized liquor bottle down on the table. It had a cracked top, but would still hold a cork. He pulled this free, revealing the milky white knobweed sap inside. He'd used the first of what they'd harvested to treat Leyten, Dabbid, and Hobber.
"What's this?" the elderly apothecary asked, adjusting his spectacles and leaning down. "Offering me a drink? I don't take the stuff these days. Unsettles the stomach, you know."
"It's not liquor. It's knobweed sap. You said it was expensive. Well, how much will you give me for this?"
The apothecary blinked, then leaned in closer, giving the contents a whiff. "Where'd you get this?"
"I harvested it from the reeds growing outside of camp."
The apothecary's expression darkened. He shrugged. "Worthless, I'm afraid."
"What?"
"The wild weeds aren't potent enough." The apothecary replaced the cork. A strong wind buffeted the building, blowing under the door, stirring the scents of the many powders and tonics he sold. "This is practically useless. I'll give you two clearmarks for it, which is being generous. I'll have to distill it, and will be lucky to get a couple of spoonfuls."
Two marks! Kaladin thought with despair. After three days of work, three of us pushing ourselves, getting only a few hours of sleep each night? All for something worth only a couple days' wage?
But no. The sap had worked on Leyten's wound, making the rotspren flee and the infection retreat. Kaladin narrowed his eyes as the apothecary fished two marks out of his money pouch, setting them on the table. Like many spheres, these were flattened slightly on one side to keep them from rolling away.
"Actually," the apothecary said, rubbing his chin. "I'll give you three." He took out one more mark. "Hate to see all of your effort go to waste."
"Kaladin," Syl said, studying the apothecary. "He's nervous about something. I think he's lying!"
"I know," Kaladin said.
"What's that?" the apothecary said. "Well, if you knew it was worthless, why did you spend so much effort on it?" He reached for the bottle.
Kaladin caught his hand. "We got two or more drops from each reed, you know."
The apothecary frowned.
"Last time," Kaladin said, "you told me I'd be lucky to get one drop per reed. You said that was why knobweed sap was so expensive. You said nothing about 'wild' plants being weaker."
"Well, I didn't think you'd go and try gathering them, and…" He trailed off as Kaladin locked eyes with him.
"The army doesn't know, do they?" Kaladin asked. "They aren't aware how valuable those plants outside are. You harvest them, you sell the sap, and you make a killing, since the military needs a lot of antiseptic."
The old apothecary cursed, pulling his hand back. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Kaladin took his jar. "And if I go to the healing tent and tell them where I got this?"
"They'd take it from you!" the man said urgently. "Don't be a fool. You've a slave brand, boy. They'll think you stole it."
Kaladin moved to walk away.
"I'll give a skymark," the apothecary said. "That's half what I'd charge the military for this much."
Kaladin turned. "You charge them two skymarks for something that only takes a couple of days to gather?"
"It's not just me," the apothecary said, scowling. "Each of the apothecaries charges the same. We got together, decided on a fair price."
"How is that a fair price?"
"We have to make a living here, in this Almighty-forsaken land! It costs us money to set up shop, to maintain ourselves, to hire guards."
He fished in his pouch, pulling out a sphere that glowed deep blue. A sapphire sphere was worth about twenty-five times a diamond one. As Kaladin made one diamond mark a day, a skymark was worth as much as Kaladin made in half a month. Of course, a common darkeyed soldier earned five clearmarks a day, which would make this a week's wages to them.
Once, this wouldn't have seemed like much money to Kaladin. Now it was a fortune. Still, he hesitated. "I should expose you. Men die because of you."
"No they don't," the apothecary said. "The highprinces have more than enough to pay this, considering what they make on the plateaus. We supply them with bottles of sap as often as they need them. All you'd do by exposing us is let monsters like Sadeas keep a few more spheres in their pockets!"
The apothecary was sweating. Kaladin was threatening to topple his entire business on the Shattered Plains. And so much money was being earned on the sap that this could grow very dangerous. Men killed to keep such secrets.
"Line my pocket or line the brightlords'," Kaladin said. "I guess I can't argue with that logic." He set the bottle back on the counter. "I'll take the deal, provided you throw in some more bandages."
"Very well," the apothecary said, relaxing. "But stay away from those reeds. I'm surprised you found any nearby that hadn't already been harvested. My workers are having an increasingly difficult time."
They don't have a windspren guiding them, Kaladin thought. "Then why would you want to discourage me? I could get more of this for you."
"Well, yes," the apothecary said. "But-"
"It's cheaper if you do it yourself," Kaladin said, leaning down. "But this way you have a clean trail. I provide the sap, charging one skymark. If the lighteyes ever discover what the apothecaries have been doing, you can claim ignorance-all you know is that some bridgeman was selling you sap, and you resold it to the army at a reasonable markup."
That seemed to appeal to the old man. "Well, perhaps I won't ask too many questions about how you harvested this. Your business, young man. Your business indeed…" He shuffled to the back of his store, returning with a box of bandages. Kaladin accepted it and left the shop without a word.
"Aren't you worried?" Syl said, floating up beside his head as he entered the afternoon sunlight. "If Gaz discovers what you're doing, you could get into trouble."
"What more could they do to me?" Kaladin asked. "I doubt they'd consider this a crime worth stringing me up for."
Syl looked backward, forming into little more than a cloud with the faint suggestion of a female form. "I can't decide if it's dishonest or not."
"It's not dishonest; it's business." He grimaced. "Lavis grain is sold the same way. Grown by the farmers and sold at a pittance to merchants, who carry it to the cities and sell it to other merchants, who sell it to people for four or five times what it was originally bought for."
"So why did it bother you?" Syl asked, frowning as they avoided a troop of soldiers, one of whom tossed the pit of a palafruit at Kaladin's head. The soldiers laughed.
Kaladin rubbed his temple. "I've still got some strange scruples about charging for medical care because of my father."
"He sounds like he's a very generous man."
"For all the good it did him."
Of course, in a way, Kaladin was just as bad. During his early days as a slave, he'd have done almost anything for a chance to walk around unsupervised like this. The army perimeter was guarded, but if he could sneak the knobweed in, he could probably find a way to sneak himself out.
With that sapphire mark, he even had money to aid him. Yes, he had the slave brand, but some quick if painful work with a knife could turn that into a "battle scar" instead. He could talk and fight like a soldier, so it would be plausible. He'd be taken for a deserter, but he could live with that.
That had been his plan for most of the later months of his enslavement, but he'd never had the means. It took money to travel, to get far enough away from the area where his description would be in circulation. Money to buy lodging in a seedy section of town, a place where nobody asked questions, while he healed from his self-inflicted wound.
In addition, there had always been the others. So he'd stayed, trying to get as many out as he could. Failing every time. And he was doing it again.
"Kaladin?" Syl asked from his shoulder. "You look very serious. What are you thinking?"
"I'm wondering if I should run. Escape this storm-cursed camp and find myself a new life."
Syl fell silent. "Life is hard here," she finally said. "I don't know if anyone would blame you."
Rock would, he thought. And Teft. They'd worked for that knobweed sap. They didn't know what it was worth; they thought it was only for healing the sick. If he ran, he'd be betraying them. He'd be abandoning the bridgemen.
Shove over, you fool, Kaladin thought to himself. You won't save these bridgemen. Just like you didn't save Tien. You should run.
"And then what?" he whispered.
Syl turned to him. "What?"
If he ran, what good would it do? A life working for chips in the underbelly of some rotting city? No.
He couldn't leave them. Just like he'd never been able to leave anyone who he'd thought needed him. He had to protect them. He had to.
For Tien. And for his own sanity. "Chasm duty," Gaz said, spitting to the side. The spittle was colored black from the yamma plant he chewed.
"What?" Kaladin had returned from selling the knobweed to discover that Gaz had changed Bridge Four's work detail. They weren't scheduled to be on duty for any bridge runs-their run the day before exempted them. Instead, they were supposed to be assigned to Sadeas's smithy to help lift ingots and other supplies.
That sounded like difficult work, but it was actually among the easiest jobs bridgemen got. The blacksmiths felt they didn't need the extra hands. That, or they presumed that clumsy bridgemen would just get in the way. On smithy duty, you usually only worked a few hours of the shift and could spend the rest lounging.
Gaz stood with Kaladin in the early afternoon sunlight. "You see," Gaz said, "you got me thinking the other day. Nobody cares if Bridge Four is given unfair work details. Everyone hates chasm duty. I figured you wouldn't care."
"How much did they pay you?" Kaladin asked, stepping forward.
"Storm off," Gaz said, spitting again. "The others resent you. It'll do your crew good to be seen paying for what you did."
"Surviving?"
Gaz shrugged. "Everyone knows you broke the rules in bringing back those men. If the others do what you did, we'd have each barrack filled with the dying before the leeward side of a month was over!"
"They're people, Gaz. If we don't 'fill the barracks' with wounded, it's because we're leaving them out there to die."
"They'll die here anyway."
"We'll see."
Gaz watched him, eyes narrow. It seemed like he suspected that Kaladin had somehow tricked him in taking the stone-gathering duty. Earlier, Gaz had apparently gone down to the chasm, probably trying to figure out what Kaladin and the other two had been doing.
Damnation, Kaladin thought. He'd thought he had Gaz cowed enough to stay in line. "We'll go," Kaladin snapped, turning away. "But I'm not taking the blame among my men for this one. They'll know you did it."
"Fine," Gaz called after him. Then, to himself, he continued, "Maybe I'll get lucky and a chasmfiend will eat the lot of you." Chasm duty. Most bridgemen would rather spend all day hauling stones than get assigned to the chasms.
With an unlit oil-soaked torch tied to his back, Kaladin climbed down the precarious rope ladder. The chasm was shallow here, only about fifty feet down, but that was enough to take him into a different world. A world where the only natural light came from the rift high in the sky. A world that stayed damp on even the hottest days, a drowned landscape of moss, fungus, and hardy plants that survived in even dim light.
The chasms were wider at the bottom, perhaps a result of highstorms. They caused enormous floods to crash through the chasms; to be caught in a chasm during a highstorm was death. A sediment of hardened crem smoothed the pathway on the floor of the chasms, though it rose and fell with the varying erosion of the underlying rock. In some few places, the distance from the chasm floor to the edge of the plateau above was only about forty feet. In most places, however, it was closer to a hundred or more.
Kaladin jumped off the ladder, falling a few feet and landing with a splash in a puddle of rainwater. After lighting the torch, he held it high, peering along the caliginous rift. The sides were slick with a dark green moss, and several thin vines he didn't recognize trailed down from intermediate ledges above. Bits of bone, wood, and torn cloth lay strewn about or wedged into clefts.
Someone splashed to the ground beside him. Teft cursed, looking down at his soaked legs and trousers as he stepped out of the large puddle. "Storms take that cremling Gaz," the aging bridgeman muttered. "Sending us down here when it isn't our turn. I'll have his beans for this."
"I am certain that he is very scared of you," Rock said, stepping down off the ladder onto a dry spot. "Is probably back in camp crying in fear."
"Storm off," Teft said, shaking the water from his left leg. The two of them carried unlit torches. Kaladin lit his with a flint and steel, but the others did not. They needed to ration the torches.
The other men of Bridge Four began to gather near the bottom of the ladder, staying in a clump. Every fourth man lit his torch, but the light didn't do much to dispel the gloom; it just allowed Kaladin to see more of the unnatural landscape. Strange, tube-shaped fungi grew in cracks. They were a wan yellow, like the skin of a child with jaundice. Scuttling cremlings moved away from the light. The tiny crustaceans were a translucent reddish color; as one scrambled past on the wall, he realized that he could see its internal organs through its shell.
The light also revealed a twisted, broken figure at the base of the chasm wall a short distance away. Kaladin raised his torch and stepped up to it. It was beginning to stink already. He raised a hand, unconsciously covering his nose and mouth as he knelt down.
It was a bridgeman, or had been, from one of the other crews. He was fresh. If he'd been here longer than a few days, the highstorm would have washed him away to some distant place. Bridge Four gathered behind Kaladin, looking silently at the one who had chosen to throw himself into the chasm.
"May you someday find a place of honor in the Tranquiline Halls, fallen brother," Kaladin said, his voice echoing. "And may we find a better end than you." He stood, holding his torch high, and led the way past the dead sentry. His crew followed nervously.
Kaladin had quickly understood the basic tactics of fighting on the Shattered Plains. You wanted to advance forcefully, pressing your enemy to the plateau's edge. That was why the battles often turned bloody for the Alethi, who usually arrived after the Parshendi.
The Alethi had bridges, while these odd Eastern parshmen could leap most chasms, given a running start. But both had trouble when squeezed toward the cliffs, and that generally resulted in soldiers losing their footing and tumbling into the void. The numbers were significant enough for the Alethi to want to recover lost equipment. And so bridgemen were sent on chasm duty. It was like barrow robbing, only without the barrows.
They carried sacks, and would spend hours walking around, looking for the corpses of the fallen, searching for anything of value. Spheres, breastplates, caps, weapons. Some days, when a plateau run was recent, they could try to make their way all the way out to where it had happened and scavenge from those bodies. But highstorms generally made that futile. Wait even a few days, and the bodies would be washed someplace else.
Beyond that, the chasms were a bewildering maze, and getting to a specific contested plateau and then returning in a reasonable time was near impossible. General wisdom was to wait for a highstorm to push the bodies toward the Alethi side of the Plains-highstorms always came east to west, after all-and then send bridgemen down to search them out.
That meant a lot of random wandering. But over the years, enough bodies had fallen that it wasn't too difficult to find places to harvest. The crew was required to bring up a specific amount of salvage or face docked pay for the week, but the quota wasn't onerous. Enough to keep the bridgemen working, but not enough to force them to fully exert themselves. Like most bridgeman work, this was meant to keep them occupied as much as anything else.
As they walked down the first chasm, some of his men got out their sacks and picked up pieces of salvage they passed. A helmet here, a shield there. They kept a keen watch for spheres. Finding a valuable fallen sphere would result in a small reward for the whole crew. They weren't allowed to bring their own spheres or possessions into the chasm, of course. And on their way out, they were searched thoroughly. The humiliation of that search-which included any place a sphere might be hidden-was part of the reason chasm duty was so loathed.
But only a part. As they walked, the chasm floor widened to about fifteen feet. Here, marks scarred the walls, gashes where the moss had been scraped away, the stone itself scored. The bridgemen tried not to look at those marks. Occasionally, chasmfiends stalked these pathways, searching for either carrion or a suitable plateau to pupate upon. Encountering one of them was uncommon, but possible.
"Kelek, but I hate this place," Teft said, walking beside Kaladin. "I heard that once an entire bridge crew got eaten by a chasmfiend, one at a time, after it backed them into a dead end. It just sat there, picking them off as they tried to run past."
Rock chuckled. "If they were all eaten, then who was returning to tell this story?"
Teft rubbed his chin. "I dunno. Maybe they just never returned."
"Then perhaps they fled. Deserting."
"No," Teft said. "You can't get out of these chasms without a ladder." He glanced upward, toward the narrow rift of blue seventy feet above, following the curve of the plateau.
Kaladin glanced up as well. That blue sky seemed so distant. Unreachable. Like the light of the Halls themselves. And even if you could climb out at one of the shallower areas, you'd either be trapped on the Plains without a way to cross chasms, or you'd be close enough to the Alethi side that the scouts would spot you crossing the permanent bridges. You could try going eastward, toward where the plateaus were worn away to the point that they were just spires. But that would take weeks of walking, and would require surviving multiple highstorms.
"You ever been in a slot canyon when rains come, Rock?" Teft asked, perhaps thinking along the same lines.
"No," Rock replied. "On the Peaks, we have not these things. They only exist where foolish men choose to live."
"You live here, Rock," Kaladin noted.
"And I am foolish," the large Horneater said, chuckling. "Did you not notice this thing?" These last two days had changed him a great deal. He was more affable, returning in some measure to what Kaladin assumed was his normal personality.
"I was talking," Teft said, "about slot canyons. You want to guess what will happen if we get trapped down here in a highstorm?"
"Lots of water, I guess," Rock said.
"Lots of water, looking to go any place it can," Teft said. "It gathers into enormous waves and goes crashing through these confined spaces with enough force to toss boulders. In fact, an ordinary rain will feel like a highstorm down here. A highstorm…well, this would probably be the worst place in Roshar to be when one hits."
Rock frowned at that, glancing upward. "Best not to be caught in the storm, then."
"Yeah," Teft said.
"Though, Teft," Rock added, "it would give you bath, which you very much need."
"Hey," Teft grumbled. "Is that a comment on how I smell?"
"No," Rock said. "Is comment on what I have to smell. Sometimes, I am thinking that a Parshendi arrow in the eye would be better than smelling entire bridge crew enclosed in barrack at night!"
Teft chuckled. "I'd take offense at that if it weren't true." He sniffed at the damp, moldy chasm air. "This place ain't much better. It smells worse than a Horneater's boots in winter down here." He hesitated. "Er, no offense. I mean personally."
Kaladin smiled, then glanced back. The thirty or so other bridgemen followed like ghosts. A few seemed to be edging close to Kaladin's group, as if trying to listen in without being obvious.
"Teft," Kaladin said. "'Smells worse than a Horneater's boots'? How in the Halls isn't he supposed to take offense at that phrase?"
"It's just an expression," Teft said, scowling. "It was out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying."
"Alas," Rock said, pulling a tuft of moss off the wall, inspecting it as they walked. "Your insult has offended me. If we were at the Peaks, we would have to duel in the traditional alil'tiki'i fashion."
"Which is what?" Teft asked. "With spears?"
Rock laughed. "No, no. We upon the Peaks are not barbarians like you down here."
"How then?" Kaladin asked, genuinely curious.
"Well," Rock said, dropping the moss and dusting off his hands, "is involving much mudbeer and singing."
"How's that a duel?"
"He who can still sing after the most drinks is winner. Plus, soon, everyone is so drunk that they probably forget what argument was about."
Teft laughed. "Beats knives at dawn, I suppose."
"I guess that depends," Kaladin said.
"Upon what?" Teft asked.
"On whether or not you're a knife merchant. Eh, Dunny?"
The other two glanced to the side, where Dunny had moved up close to listen. The spindly youth jumped and blushed. "Er-I-"
Rock chuckled at Kaladin's words. "Dunny," he said to the youth. "Is odd name. What is meaning of it?"
"Meaning?" Dunny asked. "I don't know. Names don't always have a meaning."
Rock shook his head, displeased. "Lowlanders. How are you to know who you are if your name has no meaning?"
"So your name means something?" Teft asked. "Nu…ma…nu…"
"Numuhukumakiaki'aialunamor," Rock said, the native Horneater sounds flowing easily from his lips. "Of course. Is description of very special rock my father discovered the day before my birth."
"So your name is a whole sentence?" Dunny asked, uncertain-as if he wasn't sure he belonged.
"Is poem," Rock said. "On the Peaks, everyone's name is poem."
"Is that so?" Teft said, scratching at his beard. "Must make calling the family at mealtime a bit of a chore."
Rock laughed. "True, true. Is also making for some interesting arguments. Usually, the best insults on the Peaks are in the form of a poem, one which is similar in composition and rhyme to the person's name."
"Kelek," Teft muttered. "Sounds like a lot of work."
"Is why most arguments end in drinking, perhaps," Rock said.
Dunny smiled hesitantly. "Hey you big buffoon, you smell like a wet hog, so go out by the moon, and jump yourself in the bog."
Rock laughed riotously, his booming voice echoing down the chasm. "Is good, is good," he said, wiping his eyes. "Simple, but good."
"That almost had the sound of a song to it, Dunny," Kaladin said.
"Well, it was the first thing that came to mind. I put it to the tune of 'Mari's Two Lovers' to get the beat right."
"You can sing?" Rock asked. "I must be hearing."
"But-" Dunny said.
"Sing!" Rock commanded, pointing.
Dunny yelped, but obeyed, breaking into a song that wasn't familiar to Kaladin. It was an amusing tale involving a woman and twin brothers who she thought were the same person. Dunny's voice was a pure tenor, and he seemed to have more confidence when he sang than when he spoke.
He was good. Once he moved to the second verse, Rock began humming in a deep voice, providing a harmony. The Horneater was obviously very practiced at song. Kaladin glanced back at the other bridgemen, hoping to pull some more into the conversation or the song. He smiled at Skar, but got only a scowl in return. Moash and Sigzil-the dark-skinned Azish man-wouldn't even look at him. Peet looked only at his feet.
When the song was finished, Teft clapped appreciatively. "That's a better performance than I've heard at many an inn."
"Is good to meet a lowlander who can sing," Rock said, stooping down to pick up a helm and stuff it in his bag. This particular chasm didn't seem to have much in the way of salvage this time. "I had begun thinking you were all as tone deaf as my father's old axehound. Ha!"
Dunny blushed, but seemed to walk more confidently.
They continued, occasionally passing turns or rifts in the stone where the waters had deposited large clusters of salvage. Here, the work turned more gruesome, and they'd often have to pull out corpses or piles of bones to get what they wanted, gagging at the scent. Kaladin told them to leave the more sickening or rotted bodies for now. Rotspren tended to cluster around the dead. If they didn't find enough salvage later, they could get those on the way back.
At every intersection or branch, Kaladin made a white mark on the wall with a piece of chalk. That was the bridgeleader's duty, and he took it seriously. He wouldn't have his crew getting lost out in these rifts.
As they walked and worked, Kaladin kept the conversation going. He laughed-forced himself to laugh-with them. If that laugher felt hollow to him, the others didn't seem to notice. Perhaps they felt as he did, that even forced laughter was preferable to going back to the self-absorbed, mournful silence that cloaked most bridgemen.
Before long, Dunny was laughing and talking with Teft and Rock, his shyness faded. A few others hovered just behind-Yake, Maps, a couple of others-like wild creatures drawn to the light and warmth of a fire. Kaladin tried to draw them into the conversation, but it didn't work, so eventually he just let them be.
Eventually, they reached a place with a significant number of fresh corpses. Kaladin wasn't sure what combination of waterflow had made this section of chasm a good place for that-it looked the same as other stretches. A little narrower perhaps. Sometimes they could go to the same nooks and find good salvage there; other times, those were empty, but other places would have dozens of corpses.
These bodies looked like they'd floated in the wash of the highstorm flood, then been deposited as the water slowly receded. There were no Parshendi among them, and they were broken and torn from either their fall or the crush of the flood. Many were missing limbs.
The stink of blood and viscera hung in the humid air. Kaladin held his torch aloft as his companions fell silent. The dank chill kept the bodies from rotting too quickly, though the dampness counteracted some of that. The cremlings had begun chewing the skin off hands and gnawing out the eyes. Soon the stomachs would bloat with gas. Some rotspren-tiny, red, translucent-scrambled across the corpses.
Syl floated down and landed on his shoulder, making disgusted noises. As usual, she offered no explanation for her absence.
The men knew what to do. Even with the rotspren, this was too rich a place to pass up. They went to work, pulling the corpses into a line so they could be inspected. Kaladin waved for Rock and Teft to join him as he picked up some stray bits of salvage that lay on the ground around the corpses. Dunny tagged along.
"Those bodies wear the highprince's colors," Rock noted as Kaladin picked up a dented steel cap.
"I'll bet they're from that run a few days back," Kaladin said. "It went badly for Sadeas's forces."
"Brightlord Sadeas," Dunny said. Then he ducked his head in embarrassment. "Sorry, I didn't mean to correct you. I used to forget to say the title. My master beat me when I did."
"Master?" Teft asked, picking up a fallen spear and pulling some moss off its shaft.
"I was an apprentice. I mean, before…" Dunny trailed off, then looked away.
Teft had been right; bridgemen didn't like talking about their pasts. Anyway, Dunny was probably right to correct him. Kaladin would be punished if he were heard omitting a lighteyes's honorific.
Kaladin put the cap in his sack, then rammed his torch into a gap between two moss-covered boulders and started helping the others get the bodies into a line. He didn't prod the men toward conversation. The fallen deserved some reverence-if that was possible while robbing them.
Next, the bridgemen stripped the fallen of their armor. Leather vests from the archers, steel breastplates from the foot soldiers. This group included a lighteyes in fine clothing beneath even finer armor. Sometimes the bodies of fallen lighteyes would be recovered from the chasms by special teams so the corpse could be Soulcast into a statue. Darkeyes, unless they were very wealthy, were burned. And most soldiers who fell into the chasms were ignored; the men in camp spoke of the chasms being hallowed resting places, but the truth was that the effort to get the bodies out wasn't worth the cost or the danger.
Regardless, to find a lighteyes here meant that his family hadn't been wealthy enough, or concerned enough, to send men out to recover him. His face was crushed beyond recognition, but his rank insignia identified him as seventh dahn. Landless, attached to a more powerful officer's retinue.
Once they had his armor, they pulled daggers and boots off everyone in line-boots were always in demand. They left the fallen their clothing, though they took off the belts and cut free many shirt buttons. As they worked, Kaladin sent Teft and Rock around the bend to see if there were any other bodies nearby.
Once the armor, weapons, and boots had been separated, the most grisly task began: searching pockets and pouches for spheres and jewelry. This pile was the smallest of the lot, but valuable. They didn't find any broams, which meant no pitiful reward for the bridgemen.
As the men performed their morbid task, Kaladin noticed the end of a spear poking out of a nearby pool. It had gone unnoticed in their initial sweep.
Lost in thought, he fetched it, shaking off the water, carrying it over to the weapons pile. He hesitated there, holding the spear over the pile with one hand, cold water dripping from it. He rubbed his finger along the smooth wood. He could tell from the heft, balance, and sanding that it was a good weapon. Sturdy, well made, well kept.
He closed his eyes, remembering days as a boy holding a quarterstaff.
Words spoken by Tukks years ago returned to him, words spoken on that bright summer day when he'd first held a weapon in Amaram's army. The first step is to care, Tukks's voice seemed to whisper. Some talk about being emotionless in battle. Well, I suppose it's important to keep your head. But I hate that feeling of killing while calm and cold. I've seen that those who care fight harder, longer, and better than those who don't. It's the difference between mercenaries and real soldiers. It's the difference between fighting to defend your homeland and fighting on foreign soil.
It's good to care when you fight, so long as you don't let it consume you. Don't try to stop yourself from feeling. You'll hate who you become.
The spear quivered in Kaladin's fingers, as if begging him to swing it, spin it, dance with it.
"What are you planning to do, lordling?" a voice called. "Going to ram that spear into your own gut?"
Kaladin glanced up at the speaker. Moash-still one of Kaladin's biggest detractors-stood near the line of corpses. How had he known to call Kaladin "lordling"? Had he been talking to Gaz?
"He claims he's a deserter," Moash said to Narm, the man working next to him. "Says he was some important soldier, a squadleader or the like. But Gaz says that's all stupid boasting. They wouldn't send a man to the bridges if he actually knew how to fight."
Kaladin lowered the spear.
Moash smirked, turning back to his work. Others, however, had now noticed Kaladin. "Look at him," Sigzil said. "Ho, bridgeleader! You think that you're grand? That you are better than us? You think pretending that we're your own personal troop of soldiers will change anything?"
"Leave him alone," Drehy said. He shoved Sigzil as he passed. "At least he tries."
Earless Jacks snorted, pulling a boot free from a dead foot. "He cares about looking important. Even if he was in the army, I'll bet he spent his days cleaning out latrines."
It appeared that there was something that would pull the bridgemen out of their silent stupors: loathing for Kaladin. Others began talking, calling gibes.
"…his fault we're down here…"
"…wants to run us ragged during our only free time, just so he can feel important…"
"…sent us to carry rocks to show us he could shove us around…"
"…bet he's never held a spear in his life."
Kaladin closed his eyes, listening to their scorn, rubbing his fingers on the wood.
Never held a spear in his life. Maybe if he'd never picked up that first spear, none of this would have happened.
He felt the smooth wood, slick with rainwater, memories jumbling in his head. Training to forget, training to get vengeance, training to learn and make sense of what had happened.
Without thinking about it, he snapped the spear up under his arm into a guard position, point down. Water droplets from its length sprayed across his back.
Moash cut off in the middle of another gibe. The bridgemen sputtered to a stop. The chasm became quiet.
And Kaladin was in another place.
He was listening to Tukks chide him.
He was listening to Tien laugh.
He was hearing his mother tease him in her clever, witty way.
He was on the battlefield, surrounded by enemies but ringed by friends.
He was listening to his father tell him with a sneer in his voice that spears were only for killing. You could not kill to protect.
He was alone in a chasm deep beneath the earth, holding the spear of a fallen man, fingers gripping the wet wood, a faint dripping coming from somewhere distant.
Strength surged through him as he spun the spear up into an advanced kata. His body moved of its own accord, going through the forms he'd trained in so frequently. The spear danced in his fingers, comfortable, an extension of himself. He spun with it, swinging it around and around, across his neck, over his arm, in and out of jabs and swings. Though it had been months since he'd even held a weapon, his muscles knew what to do. It was as if the spear itself knew what to do.
Tension melted away, frustration melted away, and his body sighed in contentment even as he worked it furiously. This was familiar. This was welcome. This was what it had been created to do.
Men had always told Kaladin that he fought like nobody else. He'd felt it on the first day he'd picked up a quarterstaff, though Tukks's advice had helped him refine and channel what he could do. Kaladin had cared when he fought. He'd never fought empty or cold. He fought to keep his men alive.
Of all the recruits in his cohort, he had learned the quickest. How to hold the spear, how to stand to spar. He'd done it almost without instruction. That had shocked Tukks. But why should it have? You were not shocked when a child knew how to breathe. You were not shocked when a skyeel took flight for the first time. You should not be shocked when you hand Kaladin Stormblessed a spear and he knows how to use it.
Kaladin spun through the last motions of the kata, chasm forgotten, bridgemen forgotten, fatigue forgotten. For a moment, it was just him. Him and the wind. He fought with her, and she laughed.
He snapped the spear back into place, holding the haft at the one-quarter position, spearhead down, bottom of the haft tucked underneath his arm, end rising back behind his head. He breathed in deeply, shivering.
Oh, how I've missed that.
He opened his eyes. Sputtering torchlight revealed a group of stunned bridgemen standing in a damp corridor of stone, the walls wet and reflecting the light. Moash dropped a handful of spheres in stunned silence, staring at Kaladin with mouth agape. Those spheres plopped into the puddle at his feet, causing it to glow, but none of the bridgemen noticed. They just stared at Kaladin, who was still in a battle stance, half crouched, trails of sweat running down the sides of his face.
He blinked, realizing what he'd done. If word got back to Gaz that he was playing around with spears…Kaladin stood up straight and dropped the spear into the pile of weapons. "Sorry," he whispered to it, though he didn't know why. Then, louder, he said, "Back to work! I don't want to be caught down here when night falls."
The bridgemen jumped into motion. Down the chasm corridor, he saw Rock and Teft. Had they seen the entire kata? Flushing, Kaladin hurried up to them. Syl landed on his shoulder, silent.
"Kaladin, lad," Teft said reverently. "That was-"
"It was meaningless," Kaladin said. "Just a kata. Meant to work the muscles and make you practice the basic jabs, thrusts, and sweeps. It's a lot showier than it is useful."
"But-"
"No, really," Kaladin said. "Can you imagine a man swinging a spear around his neck like that in combat? He'd be gutted in a second."
"Lad," Teft said. "I've seen katas before. But never one like that. The way you moved…The speed, the grace…And there was some sort of spren zipping around you, between your sweeps, glowing with a pale light. It was beautiful."
Rock started. "You could see that?"
"Sure," Teft said. "Never seen a spren like that. Ask the other men-I saw a few of them pointing."
Kaladin glanced at his shoulder, frowning at Syl. She sat primly, legs crossed and hands folded atop her knee, pointedly not looking at him.
"It was nothing," Kaladin repeated.
"No," Rock said. "That it certainly was not. Perhaps you should challenge Shardbearer. You could become brightlord!"
"I don't want to be a brightlord," Kaladin snapped, perhaps more harshly than he should have. The other two jumped. "Besides," he added, looking away from them. "I tried that once. Where's Dunny?"
"Wait," Teft said, "you-"
"Where is Dunny?" Kaladin said firmly, punctuating each word. Stormfather. I need to keep my mouth shut.
Teft and Rock shared a glance, then Teft pointed. "We found some dead Parshendi around the bend. Thought you'd want to know."
"Parshendi," Kaladin said. "Let's go look. Might have something valuable." He'd never looted Parshendi bodies before; fewer of them fell into the chasms than Alethi.
"Is true," Rock said, leading the way, carrying a lit torch. "Those weapons they have, yes, very nice. And gemstones in their beards."
"Not to mention the armor," Kaladin said.
Rock shook his head. "No armor."
"Rock, I've seen their armor. They always wear it."
"Well, yes, but we cannot use this thing."
"I don't understand," Kaladin said.
"Come," Rock said, gesturing. "Is easier than explaining."
Kaladin shrugged, and they rounded the corner, Rock scratching at his red-bearded chin. "Stupid hairs," he muttered. "Ah, to have it right again. A man is not proper man without proper beard."
Kaladin rubbed his own beard. One of these days, he'd save up and buy a razor and be rid of the blasted thing. Or, well, probably not. His spheres would be needed elsewhere.
They rounded the corner and found Dunny pulling the Parshendi bodies into a line. There were four of them, and they looked like they'd been swept in from another direction. There were a few more Alethi bodies here too.
Kaladin strode forward, waving Rock to bring the light, and knelt to inspect one of the Parshendi dead. They were like parshmen, with skin in marbled patterns of black and crimson. Their only clothing was knee-length black skirts. Three wore beards, which was unusual for parshmen, and those were woven with uncut gemstones.
Just as Kaladin had expected, they wore armor of a pale red color. Breastplates, helms on the heads, guards on the arms and legs. Extensive armor for regular foot soldiers. Some of it was cracked from the fall or the wash. It wasn't metal, then. Painted wood?
"I thought you said they weren't armored," Kaladin said. "What are you trying to tell me? That you don't dare take it off the dead?"
"Don't dare?" Rock said. "Kaladin, Master Brightlord, brilliant bridgeleader, spinner of spear, perhaps you will get it off them."
Kaladin shrugged. His father had instilled in him a familiarity with the dead and dying, and though it felt bad to rob the dead, he was not squeamish. He prodded the first Parshendi, noting the man's knife. He took it and looked for the strap that held the shoulder guard in place.
There was no strap. Kaladin frowned and peered underneath the guard, trying to pry it up. The skin lifted with it. "Stormfather!" he said. He inspected the helm. It was grown into the head. Or grown from the head. "What is this?"
"Do not know," Rock said, shrugging. "It is looking like they grow their own armor, eh?"
"That's ridiculous," Kaladin said. "They're just people. People-even parshmen-don't grow armor."
"Parshendi do," Teft said.
Kaladin and the other two turned to him.
"Don't look at me like that," the older man said with a scowl. "I worked in the camp for a few years before I ended up as a bridgeman-no, I'm not going to tell you how, so storm off. Anyway, the soldiers talk about it. The Parshendi grow carapaces."
"I've known parshmen," Kaladin said. "There were a couple of them in my hometown, serving the citylord. None of them grew armor."
"Well, these are a different kind of parshman," Teft said with a scowl. "Bigger, stronger. They can jump chasms, for Kelek's sake. And they grow armor. That's just how it is."
There was no disputing it, so they just moved on to gathering what they could. Many Parshendi used heavy weapons-axes, hammers-and those hadn't been carried along with the bodies like many of the spears and bows Alethi soldiers had. But they did find several knives and one ornate sword, still in a sheath at the Parshendi's side.
The skirts didn't have pockets, but the corpses did have pouches tied to their waists. These just carried flint and tinder, whetstones, or other basic supplies. So, they knelt to begin pulling the gemstones from the beards. Those gemstones had holes drilled through them to facilitate weaving, and Stormlight infused them, though they didn't glow as brightly as they would have if they'd been properly cut.
As Rock pulled the gemstones out of the final Parshendi's beard, Kaladin held one of the knives up near Dunny's torch, inspecting the detailed carving. "Those look like glyphs," he said, showing it to Teft.
"I can't read glyphs, boy."
Oh, right, Kaladin thought. Well, if they were glyphs, they weren't ones he was familiar with. Of course, you could draw most glyphs in complex ways that made it hard to read them, unless you knew exactly what to look for. There was a figure at the center of the hilt, nicely carved. It was a man in fine armor. Shardplate, certainly. A symbol was etched behind him, surrounding him, spreading out from his back like wings.
Kaladin showed it to Rock, who had walked up to see what he found so fascinating. "The Parshendi out here are supposed to be barbarians," Kaladin said. "Without culture. Where did they get knives like these? I'd swear this is a picture of one of the Heralds. Jezerezeh or Nalan."
Rock shrugged. Kaladin sighed and returned the knife to its sheath, then dropped it into his sack. Then they rounded the curve back to the others. The crew had gathered up sacks full of armor, belts, boots, and spheres. Each took up a spear to carry back to the ladder, holding them like walking sticks. They'd left one for Kaladin, but he tossed it to Rock. He didn't trust himself to hold one of them again, worried he'd be tempted to fall into another kata.
The walk back was uneventful, though with the darkening sky, the men began jumping at every sound. Kaladin engaged Rock, Teft, and Dunny in conversation again. He was able to get Drehy and Torfin to talk a little as well.
They safely reached the first chasm, much to the relief of his men. Kaladin sent the others up the ladder first, waiting to go up last. Rock waited with him, and as Dunny finally started up-leaving Rock and Kaladin alone-the tall Horneater put a hand on Kaladin's shoulder, speaking in a soft voice.
"You do good work here," Rock said. "I am thinking that in a few weeks, these men will be yours."
Kaladin shook his head. "We're bridgemen, Rock. We don't have a few weeks. If I take that long winning them over, half of us will be dead."
Rock frowned. "Is not a happy thought."
"That's why we have to win over the other men now."
"But how?"
Kaladin looked up at the dangling ladder, shaking as the men climbed up. Only four could go at a time, lest they overload it. "Meet me after we're searched. We're going to the camp market."
"Very well," Rock said, swinging onto the ladder as Earless Jaks reached the top. "What will be our purpose in this thing?"
"We're going to try out my secret weapon."
Rock laughed as Kaladin held the ladder steady for him. "And what weapon is this?"
Kaladin smiled. "Actually, it's you." Two hours later, at Salas's first violet light, Rock and Kaladin walked back into the lumberyard. It was just past sunset, and many of the bridgemen would soon be going to sleep.
Not much time, Kaladin thought, gesturing for Rock to carry his burden to a place near the front of Bridge Four's barrack. The large Horneater set his burden down next to Teft and Dunny, who had done as Kaladin had ordered, building a small ring of stones and setting up some stumps of wood from the lumberyard scrap pile. That wood was free for anyone to take. Even bridgemen were allowed; some liked to take chunks to whittle.
Kaladin got out a sphere for light. The thing Rock had been carrying was an old iron cauldron. Even though it was secondhand, it had cost Kaladin a fair chunk of the knobweed sap money. The Horneater began to unpack supplies from inside the cauldron as Kaladin arranged some wood scraps inside the ring of stones.
"Dunny, water, if you please," Kaladin said, getting out his flint. Dunny ran off to fetch a bucket from one of the rain barrels. Rock finished emptying the cauldron, laying out small packages that had cost another substantial portion of Kaladin's spheres. He had only a handful of clearchips left.
As they worked, Hobber limped out of the barrack. He was mending quickly, though the other two wounded that Kaladin had treated were still in bad shape.
"What are you up to, Kaladin?" Hobber asked just as Kaladin got a flame started.
Kaladin smiled, standing. "Have a seat."
Hobber did just that. He hadn't lost the near-devotion he'd shown Kaladin for saving his life. If anything, his loyalty had grown stronger.
Dunny returned with a bucket of water, which he poured into the cauldron. Then he and Teft ran off to get more. Kaladin built up the flames and Rock began to hum to himself as he diced tubers and unwrapped some seasonings. In under a half hour, they had a roaring flame and a simmering pot of stew.
Teft sat down on one of the stumps, warming his hands. "This is your secret weapon?"
Kaladin sat down next to the older man. "Have you known many soldiers in your life, Teft?"
"A few."
"You ever known any who could turn down a warm fire and some stew at the end of a hard day?"
"Well, no. But bridgemen ain't soldiers."
That was true. Kaladin turned to the barrack doorway. Rock and Dunny started up a song together and Teft began to clap along. Some of the men from other bridge crews were up late, and they gave Kaladin and the others nothing more than scowls.
Figures shifted inside the barrack, shadows moving. The door was open, and the scents of Rock's stew grew strong. Inviting.
Come on, Kaladin thought. Remember why we live. Remember warmth, remember good food. Remember friends, and song, and evenings spent around the hearth.
You aren't dead yet. Storm you! If you don't come out…
It all suddenly seemed so contrived to Kaladin. The singing was forced, the stew an act of desperation. It was all just an attempt to briefly distract from the pathetic life he had been forced into.
A figure moved in the doorway. Skar-short, square-bearded, and keen-eyed-stepped out into the firelight. Kaladin smiled at him. A forced smile. Sometimes that was all one could offer. Let it be enough, he prayed, standing up, dipping a wooden bowl into Rock's stew.
Kaladin held the bowl toward Skar. Steam curled from the surface of the brownish liquid. "Will you join us?" Kaladin asked. "Please."
Skar looked at him, then back down at the stew. He laughed, taking the stew. "I'd join the Nightwatcher herself around a fire if there was stew involved!"
"Be careful," Teft said. "That's Horneater stew. Might be snail shells or crab claws floating in it."
"There is not!" Rock barked. "Is unfortunate that you have unrefined lowlander tastes, but I prepare the food such as I am ordered by our dear bridgeleader."
Kaladin smiled, letting out a deep breath as Skar sat down. Others trailed out after him, taking bowls, sitting. Some stared into the fire, not saying much, but others began to laugh and sing. At one point, Gaz walked past, eyeing them with his single eye, as if trying to decide if they were breaking any camp regulations. They weren't. Kaladin had checked.
Kaladin dipped out a bowl of stew and held it toward Gaz. The bridge sergeant snorted in derision and stalked away.
Can't expect too many miracles in one night, Kaladin thought with a sigh, settling back down and trying the stew. It was quite good. He smiled, joining in the next verse of Dunny's song. The next morning, when Kaladin called for the bridgemen to rise, three-quarters of them piled out of the barrack-everyone but the loudest complainers: Moash, Sigzil, Narm, and a couple of others. The ones who came to his call looked surprisingly refreshed, despite the long evening spent singing and eating. When he ordered them to join him in practice carrying the bridge, almost all of those who had risen joined him.
Not everyone, but enough.
He had a feeling that Moash and the others would give in before too long. They'd eaten his stew. Nobody had turned that down. And now that he had so many, the others would feel foolish not joining in. Bridge Four was his.
Now he had to keep them alive long enough for that to mean something. For I have never been dedicated to a more important purpose, and the very pillars of the sky will shake with the results of our war here. I ask again. Support me. Do not stand aside and let disaster consume more lives. I've never begged you for something before, old friend. I do so now. Adolin was frightened.
He stood beside his father on the staging ground. Dalinar looked…weathered. Creases running back from his eyes, furrows in his skin. Black hair going white like bleached rock along the sides. How could a man standing in full Shardplate-a man who yet retained a warrior's frame despite his age-look fragile?
In front of them, two chulls followed their handler, stepping up onto the bridge. The wooden span linked two piles of cut stones, a mock chasm only a few feet deep. The chulls' whiplike antennae twitched, mandibles clacking, fist-size black eyes glancing about. They pulled a massive siege bridge, rolling on creaking wooden wheels.
"That's much wider than the bridges Sadeas uses," Dalinar said to Teleb, who stood beside them.
"It's necessary to accommodate the siege bridge, Brightlord."
Dalinar nodded absently. Adolin suspected that he was the only one who could see that his father was distressed. Dalinar maintained his usual confident front, his head high, his voice firm when he spoke.
Yet, those eyes. They were too red, too strained. And when Adolin's father felt strained, he grew cold and businesslike. When he spoke to Teleb, his tone was too controlled.
Dalinar Kholin was suddenly a man laboring beneath great weight. And Adolin had helped put him there.
The chulls advanced. Their boulderlike shells were painted blue and yellow, the colors and pattern indicating the island of their Reshi handlers. The bridge beneath them groaned ominously as the larger siege bridge rolled onto it. All around the staging area, soldiers turned to look. Even the workmen cutting a latrine into the stony ground on the eastern side stopped to watch.
The groans from the bridge grew louder. Then they became sharp cracks. The handlers halted the chulls, glancing toward Teleb.
"It's not going to hold, is it?" Adolin asked.
Teleb sighed. "Storm it, I was hoping…Bah, we made the smaller bridge too thin when we widened it. But if we make it thicker, it will get too heavy to carry." He glanced at Dalinar. "I apologize for wasting your time, Brightlord. You are correct; this is akin to the ten fools."
"Adolin, what do you think?" Dalinar asked.
Adolin frowned. "Well…I think perhaps we should keep working with it. This is only the first attempt, Teleb. Perhaps there's still a way. Design the siege bridges to be narrower, maybe?"
"That could be very costly, Brightlord," Teleb said.
"If it helps us win one extra gemheart, the effort would be paid for several times over."
"Yes," Teleb said, nodding. "I will speak with Lady Kalana. Perhaps she can devise a new design."
"Good," Dalinar said. He stared at the bridge for an extended moment. Then, oddly, he turned to look toward the other side of the staging area, where the workers had been cutting the latrine ditch.
"Father?" Adolin asked.
"Why do you suppose," Dalinar said, "there are no Shardplate-like suits for workmen?"
"What?"
"Shardplate gives awesome strength, but we rarely use it for anything other than war and slaughter. Why did the Radiants fashion only weapons? Why didn't they make productive tools for use by ordinary men?"
"I don't know," Adolin said. "Perhaps because war was the most important thing around."
"Perhaps," Dalinar said, voice growing softer. "And perhaps that's a final condemnation of them and their ideals. For all of their lofty claims, they never gave their Plate or its secrets to the common people."
"I…I don't understand why that's important, Father."
Dalinar shook himself slightly. "We should get on with our inspections. Where's Ladent?"
"Here, Brightlord." A short man stepped up to Dalinar. Bald and bearded, the ardent wore thick, blue-grey layered robes from which his hands barely extended. The effect was of a crab who was too small for his shell. It looked terribly hot, but he didn't seem to mind.
"Send a messenger to the Fifth Battalion," Dalinar told him. "We'll be visiting them next."
"Yes, Brightlord."
Adolin and Dalinar began to walk. They'd chosen to wear their Shardplate for this day's inspections. That wasn't uncommon; many Shardbearers found any excuse they could to wear Plate. Plus, it was good for the men to see their highprince and his heir in their strength.
They drew attention as they left the staging area and entered the warcamp proper. Like Adolin, Dalinar went about unhelmed, though the gorget of his armor was tall and thick, rising like a metal collar up to his chin. He nodded to soldiers who saluted.
"Adolin," Dalinar said. "In combat, do you feel the Thrill?"
Adolin started. He knew immediately what his father meant, but he was shocked to hear the words. This wasn't often discussed. "I…Well, of course. Who doesn't?"
Dalinar didn't reply. He had been so reserved lately. Was that pain in his eyes? The way he was before, Adolin thought, deluded but confident. That was actually better.
Dalinar said nothing more, and the two of them continued through the camp. Six years had let the soldiers settle in thoroughly. Barracks were painted with company and squad symbols, and the space between them was outfitted with firepits, stools, and canvas-shaded dining areas. Adolin's father had forbidden none of this, though he had set guidelines to discourage sloppiness.
Dalinar had also approved most requests for families to be brought to the Shattered Plains. The officers already had their wives, of course-a good lighteyes officer was really a team, the man to command and fight, the woman to read, write, engineer, and manage camp. Adolin smiled, thinking of Malasha. Would she prove to be the one for him? She'd been a little cold to him lately. Of course, there was Danlan. He'd only just met her, but he was intrigued.
Regardless, Dalinar had also approved requests by darkeyed common soldiers to bring their families. He even paid half of the cost. When Adolin had asked why, Dalinar had replied that he didn't feel right forbidding them. The warcamps were never attacked anymore, so there was no danger. Adolin suspected his father felt that since he was living in a luxurious near-palace, his men might as well have the comfort of their families.
And so it was that children played and ran through the camp. Women hung wash and painted glyphwards as men sharpened spears and polished breastplates. Barrack interiors had been partitioned to create rooms.
"I think you were right," Adolin said as they walked, trying to draw his father out of his contemplations. "To let so many bring their families here, I mean."
"Yes, but how many will leave when this is over?"
"Does it matter?"
"I'm not certain. The Shattered Plains are now a de facto Alethi province. How will this place appear in a hundred years? Will those rings of barracks become neighborhoods? The outer shops become markets? The hills to the west become fields for planting?" He shook his head. "The gemhearts will always be here, it seems. And so long as they are, there will be people here as well."
"That's a good thing, isn't it? So long as those people are Alethi." Adolin chuckled.
"Perhaps. And what will happen to the value of gemstones if we continue to capture gemhearts at the rate we have?"
"I…" That was a good question.
"What happens, I wonder, when the scarcest, yet most desirable, substance in the land suddenly becomes commonplace? There's much going on here, son. Much we haven't considered. The gemhearts, the Parshendi, the death of Gavilar. You will have to be ready to consider these things."
"Me?" Adolin said. "What does that mean?"
Dalinar didn't answer, instead nodding as the commander of the Fifth Battalion hastened up to them and saluted. Adolin sighed and saluted back. The Twenty-first and Twenty-second Companies were doing close order drill here-an essential exercise whose true value few outside the military ever appreciated. The Twenty-third and Twenty-fourth Companies were doing extended order-or combat-drill, practicing the formations and movements used on the battlefield.
Fighting on the Shattered Plains was very different from regular warfare, as the Alethi had learned from some embarrassing early losses. The Parshendi were squat, muscular, and had that strange, skin-grown armor of theirs. It didn't cover as fully as plate, but it was far more efficient than what most foot soldiers had. Each Parshendi was essentially an extremely mobile heavy infantryman.
The Parshendi always attacked in pairs, eschewing a regular line of battle. That should have made it easy for a disciplined line to defeat them. But each pair of Parshendi had such momentum-and was so well armored-that they could break right through a shield wall. Alternatively, their jumping prowess could suddenly deposit entire ranks of Parshendi behind Alethi lines.
Beyond all that, there was that distinctive way they moved as a group in combat. They maneuvered with an inexplicable coordination. What had seemed at first to be mere barbarian savagery turned out to disguise something more subtle and dangerous.
They'd found only two reliable ways to defeat the Parshendi. The first was to use a Shardblade. Effective, but of limited application. The Kholin army had only two Blades, and while Shards were incredibly powerful, they needed proper support. An isolated, outnumbered Shardbearer could be tripped and toppled by his adversaries. In fact, the one time Adolin had seen a full Shardbearer fall to a regular soldier, it had happened because he had been swarmed by spearmen who broke his breastplate. Then a lighteyed archer had slain him from fifty paces, winning the Shards for himself. Not exactly a heroic end.
The other reliable way to fight Parshendi depended on quick-moving formations. Flexibility mixed with discipline: flexibility to respond to the uncanny way Parshendi fought, discipline to maintain lines and make up for individual Parshendi strength.
Havrom, Fifth Battalionlord, waited for Adolin and Dalinar with his companylords in a line. They saluted, right fists to right shoulders, knuckles outward.
Dalinar nodded to them. "Have my orders been seen to, Brightlord Havrom?"
"Yes, Highprince." Havrom was built like a tower, and wore a beard with long sides after the Horneater fashion, chin clean-shaven. He had relatives among the Peakfolk. "The men you wanted are waiting in the audience tent."
"What's this?" Adolin asked.
"I'll show you in a moment," Dalinar said. "First, review the troops."
Adolin frowned, but the soldiers were waiting. One company at a time, Havrom had the men fall in. Adolin walked before them, inspecting their lines and uniforms. They were neat and orderly, though Adolin knew that some of the soldiers in their army grumbled at the level of polish required of them. He happened to agree with them on that point.
At the end of the inspection, he questioned a few random men, asked their rank and if they had any specific concerns. None had any. Were they satisfied or just intimidated?
When he was done, Adolin returned to his father.
"You did that well," Dalinar said.
"All I did was walk down a line."
"Yes, but the presentation was good. The men know you care for their needs, and they respect you." He nodded, as if to himself. "You've learned well."
"I think you're reading too much into a simple inspection, Father."
Dalinar nodded to Havrom, and the battalionlord led the two of them to an audience tent near the side of the practice field. Adolin, puzzled, glanced at his father.
"I had Havrom gather the soldiers that Sadeas spoke to the other day," Dalinar said. "The ones he interviewed while we were on our way to the plateau assault."
"Ah," Adolin said. "We'll want to know what he asked them."
"Yes," Dalinar said. He gestured for Adolin to enter before him, and they walked in-tailed by a few of Dalinar's ardents. Inside, a group of ten soldiers waited on benches. They rose and saluted.
"At ease," Dalinar said, clasping plated hands behind his back. "Adolin?" Dalinar nodded toward the men, indicating that Adolin should take the lead in the questioning.
Adolin stifled a sigh. Again? "Men, we need to know what Sadeas asked you and how you responded."
"Don't worry, Brightlord," said one of the men, speaking with a rural northern Alethi accent. "We didn't tell him nothing."
The others nodded vigorously.
"He's an eel, and we know it," another added.
"He is a highprince," Dalinar said sternly. "You will treat him with respect."
The soldier paled, then nodded.
"What, specifically, did he ask you?" Adolin asked.
"He wanted to know our duties in the camp, Brightlord," the man said. "We're grooms, you see."
Each soldier was trained in one or two additional skills beyond those of combat. Having a group of soldiers who could care for horses was useful, as it kept civilians from plateau assaults.
"He asked around," said one of the men. "Or, well, his people did. Found out we were in charge of the king's horse during the chasmfiend hunt."
"But we didn't say nothing," the first soldier repeated. "Nothing to get you into trouble, sir. We're not going to give that ee-er, that highprince, Brightlord sir, the rope to hang you, sir."
Adolin closed his eyes. If they had acted this way around Sadeas, it would have been more incriminating than the cut girth itself. He couldn't fault their loyalty, but they acted as if they assumed Dalinar had done something wrong, and needed to defend him.
He opened his eyes. "I spoke to some of you before, I recall. But let me ask again. Did any of you see a cut strap on the king's saddle?"
The men looked at each other, shaking heads. "No, Brightlord," one of the men replied. "If we'd seen it, we'd have changed it, right we would."
"But, Brightlord," one of the men added, "there was a lot of confusion that day, and a lot of people. Wasn't a right regular plateau assault or nothing like that. And, well, to be honest, sir, who'd have thought that we'd need to protect the king's saddle, of all things under the Halls?"
Dalinar nodded to Adolin, and they stepped out of the tent. "Well?"
"They probably didn't do much to help our cause," Adolin said with a grimace. "Despite their ardor. Or, rather, because of it."
"Agreed, unfortunately." Dalinar let out a sigh. He waved to Tadet; the short ardent was standing to the side of the tent. "Interview them separately," Dalinar told him softly. "See if you can tease specifics from them. Try to find out the exact words Sadeas used, and what their exact responses were."
"Yes, Brightlord."
"Come, Adolin," Dalinar said. "We've still got a few inspections to do."
"Father," Adolin said, taking Dalinar's arm. Their armor clinked softly.
Dalinar turned to him, frowning, and Adolin made a quick gesture toward the Cobalt Guard. A request for space to speak. The guards moved efficiently and quickly, clearing a private space around the two men.
"What is this about, Father?" Adolin demanded softly.
"What? We're doing inspections and seeing to camp business."
"And in each case, you shove me out into the lead," Adolin said. "Awkwardly, in a few cases, I might add. What's wrong? What's going on inside that head of yours?"
"I thought you had a distinct problem with the things going on inside my head."
Adolin winced. "Father, I-"
"No, it's all right, Adolin. I'm just trying to make a difficult decision. It helps me to move about while I do it." Dalinar grimaced. "Another man might find a place to sit and brood, but that never seems to help me. I've got too much to do."
"What is it you're trying to decide?" Adolin asked. "Perhaps I can help."
"You already have. I-" Dalinar cut off, frowning. A small force of soldiers was walking up to the Fifth Battalion's practice yards. They were escorting a man in red and brown. Those were Thanadal's colors.
"Don't you have a meeting with him this evening?" Adolin asked.
"Yes," Dalinar said.
Niter-head of the Cobalt Guard-ran to intercept the newcomers. He could be overly suspicious at times, but that wasn't a terrible trait for a bodyguard to have. He returned to Dalinar and Adolin shortly. Tanfaced, Niter bore a black beard, cut short. He was a lighteyes of very low rank, and had been with the guard for years. "He says that Highprince Thanadal will be unable to meet with you today as planned."
Dalinar's expression grew dark. "I will speak to the runner myself."
Reluctantly, Niter waved the spindly fellow forward. He approached and dropped to one knee before Dalinar. "Brightlord."
This time, Dalinar didn't ask for Adolin to take the lead. "Deliver your message."
"Brightlord Thanadal regrets that he is unable to attend you this day."
"And did he offer another time to meet?"
"He regrets to say that he has grown too busy. But he would be happy to speak with you at the king's feast one evening."
In public, Adolin thought, where half the men nearby will be eavesdropping while the other half-likely including Thanadal himself-will probably be drunk.
"I see," Dalinar said. "And did he give any indication of when he'd no longer be so busy?"
"Brightlord," the messenger said, growing uncomfortable. "He said that if you pressed, I should explain that he has spoken with several of the other highprinces, and feels he knows the nature of your inquiry. He said to tell you he does not wish to form an alliance, nor does he have any intention of going on a joint plateau assault with you."
Dalinar's expression grew darker. He dismissed the messenger with a wave, then turned to Adolin. The Cobalt Guard still kept a space open around them so they could talk.
"Thanadal was the last of them," Dalinar said. Each highprince had turned him down in his own way. Hatham with exceeding politeness, Bethab by letting his wife give the explanation, Thanadal with hostile civility. "All of them but Sadeas, at least."
"I doubt it would be wise to approach him with this, Father."
"You're probably right." Dalinar's voice was cold. He was angry. Furious, even. "They're sending me a message. They've never liked the influence I have over the king, and they're eager to see me fall. They don't want to do something I ask them to, just in case it might help me regain my footing."
"Father, I'm sorry."
"Perhaps it's for the best. The important point is that I have failed. I can't get them to work together. Elhokar was right." He looked to Adolin. "I would like you to continue inspections for me, son. There's something I want to do."
"What?"
"Just some work I see needs to be done."
Adolin wanted to object, but he couldn't think of the words to say. Finally, he sighed and gave a nod. "You'll tell me what this is about, though?"
"Soon," Dalinar promised. "Very soon." Dalinar watched his son leave, striding purposefully away. He would make a good highprince. Dalinar's decision was a simple one.
Was it time to step aside, and let his son take his place?
If he took this step, Dalinar would be expected to stay out of politics, retiring to his lands and leaving Adolin to rule. It was a painful decision to contemplate, and he had to be careful not to make it hastily. But if he really was going mad, as everyone in the camp seemed to believe, then he had to step down. And soon, before his condition progressed to the point that he no longer had the presence of mind to let go.
A monarch is control, he thought, remembering a passage from The Way of Kings. He provides stability. It is his service and his trade good. If he cannot control himself, then how can he control the lives of men? What merchant worth his Stormlight won't partake of the very fruit he sells?
Odd, that those quotes still came to him, even as he was wondering if they had-in part-driven him to madness. "Niter," he said. "Fetch my warhammer. Have it waiting for me at the staging field."
Dalinar wanted to be moving, working, as he thought. His guards hastened to keep up as he strode down the pathway between the barracks of Battalions Six and Seven. Niter sent several men to fetch the weapon. His voice sounded strangely excited, as if he thought Dalinar was going to do something impressive.
Dalinar doubted he would think it so. He eventually strode out onto the staging field, cape fluttering behind him, plated boots clanking against the stones. He didn't have to wait long for the hammer; it came pulled by two men on a small cart. Sweating, the soldiers heaved it from the cart, the haft as thick as a man's wrist and the front of the head larger than an outspread palm. Two men together could barely lift it.
Dalinar grabbed the hammer with one gauntleted hand, swinging it up to rest on his shoulder. He ignored the soldiers performing exercises on the field, walking to where the group of dirty workers chipped at the latrine ditch. They looked up at him, horrified to see the highprince himself looming over them in full Shardplate.
"Who's in charge here?" Dalinar asked.
A scruffy civilian in brown trousers raised a nervous hand. "Brightlord, how may we serve you?"
"By relaxing for a little while," Dalinar said. "Out with you."
The worried workers scrambled out. Lighteyed officers gathered behind, confused by Dalinar's actions.
Dalinar gripped the haft of his warhammer in a gauntleted hand; the metal shaft was wrapped tightly with leather. Taking a deep breath, he leaped down into the half-finished ditch, lifted the hammer, then swung, slamming the weapon down against the rock.
A powerful crack rang across the practice field, and a wave of shock ran up Dalinar's arms. The Shardplate absorbed most of the recoil, and he left a large crack in the stones. He hefted and swung again, this time breaking free a large section of rock. Though it would have been difficult for two or three regular men to lift, Dalinar grabbed it with one hand and tossed it aside. It clattered across the stones.
Where were the Shards for regular men? Why hadn't the ancients, who were so wise, created anything to help them? As Dalinar continued to work, beats of his hammer throwing chips and dust into the air, he easily did the work of twenty men. Shardplate could be used for so many things to ease the lives of workers and darkeyes across Roshar.
It felt good to be working. To be doing something useful. Lately, he felt as if his efforts had been akin to running about in circles. The work helped him think.
He was losing his thirst for battle. That worried him, as the Thrill-the enjoyment and longing for war-was part of what drove the Alethi as a people. The grandest of masculine arts was to become a great warrior, and the most important Calling was to fight. The Almighty himself depended on the Alethi to train themselves in honorable battle so that when they died, they could join the Heralds' army and win back the Tranquiline Halls.
And yet, thinking about killing was starting to sicken him. It had grown worse since that last bridge assault. What would happen next time he went into battle? He could not lead this way. That was a major reason that abdicating in favor of Adolin looked right.
He continued to swing. Again and again, beating against the stones. Soldiers gathered above and-despite his orders-the workers did not leave to relax. They watched, dumbfounded, as a Shardbearer did their work. Occasionally, he summoned his Blade and used it to cut the rock, slicing out sections before returning to the hammer to break them apart.
He probably looked ridiculous. He couldn't do the work of all of the laborers in camp, and he had important tasks to fill his time. There was no reason for him to get down in a trench and toil. And yet it felt so good. So wonderful to pitch in directly with the needs of the camp. The results of what he did to protect Elhokar were often difficult to gauge; it was fulfilling to be able to do something where his progress was obvious.
But even in this, he was acting according to the ideals that had infected him. The book spoke of a king carrying the burdens of his people. It said that those who led were the lowest of men, for they were required to serve everyone. It all swirled around in him. The Codes, the teachings of the book, the things the visions-or delusions-showed.
Never fight other men except when forced to in war.
Bang!
Let your actions defend you, not your words.
Bang!
Expect honor from those you meet, and give them the chance to live up to it.
Bang!
Rule as you would be ruled.
Bang!
He stood waist-deep in what would eventually be a latrine, his ears filled with the groans of breaking stone. He was coming to believe those ideals. No, he'd already come to believe them. Now he was living them. What would the world be like if all men lived as the book proclaimed?
Someone had to start. Someone had to be the model. In this, he had a reason not to abdicate. Whether or not he was mad, the way he now did things was better than the way Sadeas or the others did them. One needed only look at the lives of his soldiers and his people to see that was true.
Bang!
Stone could not be changed without pounding. Was it the same with a man like him? Was that why everything was so hard for him suddenly? But why him? Dalinar wasn't a philosopher or idealist. He was a soldier. And-if he admitted the truth-in earlier years, he'd been a tyrant and a warmonger. Could twilight years spent pretending to follow the precepts of better men erase a lifetime of butchery?
He had begun to sweat. The swath he had cut through the ground was as wide as a man was tall, as deep as his chest, and some thirty yards long. The longer he worked, the more people gathered to watch and whisper.
Shardplate was sacred. Was the highprince really digging a latrine with it? Had the stress affected him that profoundly? Frightened of highstorms. Growing cowardly. Refusing to duel or defend himself from slurs. Afraid of fighting, wishing to give up the war.
Suspected of trying to kill the king.
Eventually, Teleb decided that letting all the people stare down at Dalinar wasn't respectful, and he ordered the men back to their separate duties. He cleared away the workers, taking Dalinar's order to heart and commanding them to sit in the shade and "converse in a lighthearted manner." From someone else, that command might have been said with a smile, but Teleb was as literal as the rocks themselves.
Still Dalinar worked. He knew where the latrine was supposed to end; he'd approved the work order. A long, sloping trough was to be cut, then covered with oiled and tarred boards to seal in the scent. A latrine house would be set at the high end, and the contents could be Soulcast to smoke once every few months.
The work felt even better once he was alone. One man, breaking rocks, pounding beat after beat. Like the drums the Parshendi had played on that day so long past. Dalinar could feel those beats still, could hear them in his mind, shaking him.
I'm sorry, brother.
He had spoken to the ardents about his visions. They felt that the visions were most likely a product of an overtaxed mind.
He had no reason to believe the truth of anything the visions showed him. In following them, he had done more than just ignore Sadeas's maneuvers; he'd depleted his resources precariously. His reputation was on the brink of ruin. He was in danger of dragging down the entire Kholin house.
And that was the most important point in favor of him abdicating. If he continued, his actions could very well lead to the deaths of Adolin, Renarin, and Elhokar. He would risk his own life for his ideals, but could he risk the lives of his sons?
Chips sprayed, bouncing off his Plate. He was beginning to feel worn and tired. The Plate didn't do the work for him-it enhanced his strength, so each strike of the hammer was his own. His fingers were growing numb from the repeated vibration of the hammer's haft. He was close to a decision. His mind was calm, clear.
He swung the hammer again.
"Wouldn't the Blade be more efficient?" asked a dry, feminine voice.
Dalinar froze, the hammer's head resting on broken stone. He turned to see Navani standing beside the trough, wearing a gown of blue and soft red, her grey-sprinkled hair reflecting light from a sun that was unexpectedly close to setting. She was attended by two young women-not her own wards, but ones she had "borrowed" from other lighteyed women in the camp.
Navani stood with her arms folded, the sunlight behind her like a halo. Dalinar hesitantly raised an armored forearm to block the light. "Mathana?"
"The rockwork," Navani said, nodding to the trough. "Now, I wouldn't presume to make judgments; hitting things is a masculine art. But are you not in the possession of a sword that can cut through stone as easily as-I once had it described to me-a highstorm blows over a Herdazian?"
Dalinar looked back at the rocks. Then he raised his hammer again and slammed it into the stones, making a satisfying crunch. "Shardblades are too good at cutting."
"Curious," she said. "I'll do my best to pretend there was sense in that. As an aside, has it ever struck you that most masculine arts deal with destroying, while feminine arts deal with creation?"
Dalinar swung again. Bang! Remarkable how much easier it was to have a conversation with Navani while not looking directly at her. "I do use the Blade to cut down the sides and middle. But I still have to break up the rocks. Have you ever tried to lift out a chunk of stone that has been sliced by a Shardblade?"
"I can't say that I have."
"It's not easy." Bang! "Blades make a very thin cut. The rocks still press against one another. It's hard to grasp or move them." Bang! "It's more complicated than it seems." Bang! "This is the best way."
Navani dusted a few chips of stone from her dress. "And more messy, I see."
Bang!
"So, are you going to apologize?" she asked.
"For?"
"For missing our appointment."
Dalinar froze in midswing. He'd completely forgotten that, at the feast when she'd first returned, he'd agreed to have Navani read for him today. He hadn't told his scribes of the appointment. He turned toward her, chagrined. He'd been angered because Thanadal had canceled their appointment, but at least he had thought to send a messenger.
Navani stood with arms folded, safehand tucked away, sleek dress seeming to burn with sunlight. She bore a hint of a smile on her lips. By standing her up, he'd put himself-by honor-in her power.
"I'm truly sorry," he said. "I've had some difficult things to consider lately, but that doesn't excuse forgetting you."
"I know. I'll ponder a way to let you make up for the lapse. But for now, you should know that one of your spanreeds is flashing."
"What? Which one?"
"Your scribes say it is the one bound to my daughter."
Jasnah! It had been weeks since they'd last communicated; the messages he'd sent her had prompted only the tersest of answers. When Jasnah was deeply immersed in one of her projects, she often ignored all else. If she was sending to him now, either she'd discovered something or she was taking a break to renew her contacts.
Dalinar turned to look down the latrine. He'd nearly completed it; and he realized he'd been unconsciously planning to make his final decision once he reached the end. He itched to continue working.
But if Jasnah wanted to converse…
He needed to talk with her. Perhaps he could persuade her to return to the Shattered Plains. He would feel a lot more secure about abdicating if he knew that she would come watch over Elhokar and Adolin.
Dalinar tossed aside his hammer-his pounding had bent the haft a good thirty degrees and the head was a misshapen lump-and jumped out of the ditch. He'd have a new weapon forged; that was not unusual for Shardbearers.
"Your pardon, Mathana," Dalinar said, "but I fear I must beg your leave so soon after begging your forgiveness. I must receive this communication."
He bowed to her and turned to hurry away.
"Actually," Navani said from behind, "I think I'll beg something of you. It has been months since I've spoken with my daughter. I'll join you, if you'll permit it."
He hesitated, but he couldn't deny her so soon after giving her offense. "Of course." He waited as Navani walked to her palanquin and settled herself. The bearers lifted it, and Dalinar struck out again, the bearers and Navani's borrowed wards walking close.
"You are a kind man, Dalinar Kholin," Navani said, that same sly smile on her lips as she sat back in the cushioned chair. "I'm afraid that I'm compelled to find you fascinating."
"My sense of honor makes me easy to manipulate," Dalinar said, eyes forward. Dealing with her was not something he needed right now. "I know it does. No need to toy with me, Navani."
She laughed softly. "I'm not trying to take advantage of you, Dalinar, I-" She paused. "Well, perhaps I am taking advantage of you just a little. But I'm not 'toying' with you. This last year in particular, you've begun to be the person the others all claim that they are. Can't you see how intriguing that makes you?"
"I don't do it to be intriguing."
"If you did, it wouldn't work!" She leaned toward him. "Do you know why I picked Gavilar instead of you all those years ago?"
Blast. Her comments-her presence-were like a goblet of darkwine poured into the middle of his crystal thoughts. The clarity he'd sought in hard labor was quickly vanishing. Did she have to be so forward? He didn't answer the question. Instead, he picked up his pace and hoped that she'd see he didn't want to discuss the topic.
It was no use. "I didn't pick him because he would become king, Dalinar. Though that's what everyone says. I chose him because you frightened me. That intensity of yours…it scared your brother too, you know."
He said nothing.
"It's still in there," she said. "I can see it in your eyes. But you've wrapped armor around it, a glistening set of Shardplate to contain it. That is part of what I find fascinating."
He stopped, looking at her. The palanquin bearers halted. "This would not work, Navani," he said softly.
"Wouldn't it?"
He shook his head. "I will not dishonor my brother's memory." He regarded her sternly, and she eventually nodded.
When he continued walking, she said nothing, though she did eye him slyly from time to time. Eventually, they reached his personal complex, marked by fluttering blue banners with the glyphpair khokh and linil, the former drawn in the shape of a crown, the second forming a tower. Dalinar's mother had drawn the original design, the same his signet ring bore, though Elhokar used a sword and crown instead.
The soldiers at the entrance to his complex saluted, and Dalinar waited for Navani to join him before entering. The cavernous interior was lit by infused sapphires. Once they reached his sitting chamber, he was again struck by just how lavish it had gotten over the months.
Three of his clerks waited with their attending girls. All six stood up when he entered. Adolin was also there.
Dalinar frowned at the youth. "Shouldn't you be seeing to the inspections?"
Adolin started. "Father, I finished those hours ago."
"You did?" Stormfather! How long did I spend pounding on those stones?
"Father," Adolin said, stepping up to him. "Can we speak privately for a moment?" As usual, Adolin's black-peppered blond hair was an unruly mop. He'd changed from his Plate and bathed, and now he wore a fashionable-though battle-worthy-uniform with a long blue coat, buttoned at the sides, and straight, stiff brown trousers beneath.
"I'm not ready to discuss that as yet, son," Dalinar said softly. "I need a little more time."
Adolin studied him, eyes concerned. He will make a fine highprince, Dalinar thought. He's been reared to it in a way that I never was.
"All right then," Adolin said. "But there's something else I want to ask you." He pointed toward one of the clerks, a woman with auburn hair and only a few strands of black. She was lithe and long-necked, wearing a green dress, her hair arranged high on her head in a complex set of braids held together with four traditional steel hair-spikes.
"This is Danlan Morakotha," Adolin said softly to Dalinar. "She came into camp yesterday to spend a few months with her father, Brightlord Morakotha. She has been calling on me recently, and I took the liberty of offering her a position among your clerks while she is here."
Dalinar blinked. "What about…"
"Malasha?" Adolin sighed. "Didn't work out."
"And this one?" Dalinar asked, voice hushed, yet incredulous. "How long did you say she's been in camp? Since yesterday? And you've already got her calling on you?"
Adolin shrugged. "Well, I do have a reputation to maintain."
Dalinar sighed, eyeing Navani, who stood close enough to hear. She pretended-for propriety-that she wasn't listening in. "You know, it is customary to eventually choose just one woman to court." You're going to need a good wife, son. Perhaps very soon.
"When I'm old and boring, perhaps," Adolin said, smiling at the young woman. She was pretty. But only in camp one day? Blood of my ancestors, Dalinar thought. He'd spent three years courting the woman who'd eventually become his wife. Even if he couldn't remember her face, he did remember how persistently he'd pursued her.
Surely he'd loved her. All emotion regarding her was gone, wiped from his mind by forces he should never have tempted. Unfortunately, he did remember how much he'd desired Navani, years before meeting the woman who would become his wife.
Stop that, he told himself. Moments ago, he'd been on the brink of deciding to abdicate his seat as highprince. It was no time to let Navani distract him.
"Brightness Danlan Morakotha," he said to the young woman. "You are welcome among my clerks. I understand that I've received a communication?"
"Indeed, Brightlord," the woman said, curtsying. She nodded to the line of five spanreeds sitting on his bookshelf, set upright in pen holders. The spanreeds looked like ordinary writing reeds, except that each had a small infused ruby affixed. The one on the far right pulsed slowly.
Litima was there, and though she had seniority, she nodded for Danlan to fetch the spanreed. The young woman hurried to the bookshelf and moved the still-blinking reed to the small writing desk beside the lectern. She carefully clipped a piece of paper onto the writing board and put the ink vial into its hole, twisting it snugly into place and then pulling the stopper. Lighteyed women were very proficient at working with just their freehand.
She sat down, looking up at him, seeming slightly nervous. Dalinar didn't trust her, of course-she could easily be a spy for one of the other highprinces. Unfortunately, there weren't any women in camp he trusted completely, not with Jasnah gone.
"I am ready, Brightlord," Danlan said. She had a breathy, husky voice. Just the type that attracted Adolin. He hoped she wasn't as vapid as those he usually picked.
"Proceed," Dalinar said, waving Navani toward one of the room's plush easy chairs. The other clerks sat back down on their bench.
Danlan turned the spanreed's gemstone one notch, indicating that the request had been acknowledged. Then she checked the levels on the sides of the writing board-small vials of oil with bubbles at the center, which allowed her to make the board perfectly flat. Finally, she inked the reed and placed it on the dot at the top left of the page. Holding it upright, she twisted the gemstone setting one more time with her thumb. Then she removed her hand.
The reed remained in place, tip against the paper, hovering as if held in a phantom hand. Then it began to write, mimicking the exact movements Jasnah made miles away, writing with a reed conjoined to this one.
Dalinar stood beside the writing table, armored arms folded. He could see that his proximity made Danlan nervous, but he was too anxious to sit.
Jasnah had elegant handwriting, of course-Jasnah rarely did anything without taking the time to perfect it. Dalinar leaned forward as the familiar-yet indecipherable-lines appeared on the page in stark violet. Faint wisps of reddish smoke floated up from the gemstone.
The pen stopped writing, freezing in place.
"'Uncle,'" Danlan read, "'I presume that you are well.'"
"Indeed," Dalinar replied. "I am well cared for by those around me." The words were code indicating that he didn't trust-or at least didn't know-everyone listening. Jasnah would be careful not to send anything too sensitive.
Danlan took the pen and twisted the gemstone, then wrote out the words, sending them across the ocean to Jasnah. Was she still in Tukar? After Danlan finished writing, she returned it to the dot at the top left-the spot where the pens were both to be placed so Jasnah could continue the conversation-then turned the gemstone back to the previous setting.
"'As I expected, I have found my way to Kharbranth,'" Danlan read. "'The secrets I seek are too obscure to be contained even in the Palanaeum, but I find hints. Tantalizing fragments. Is Elhokar well?'"
Hints? Fragments? Of what? She had a penchant for drama, Jasnah did, though she wasn't as flamboyant about it as the king.
"Your brother tried very hard to get himself killed by a chasmfiend a few weeks back," Dalinar replied. Adolin smiled at that, leaning with his shoulder against the bookcase. "But evidently the Heralds watch over him. He is well, though your presence here is sorely missed. I'm certain he could use your counsel. He is relying heavily on Brightness Lalai to act as clerk."
Perhaps that would make Jasnah return. There was little love lost between herself and Sadeas's cousin, who was the king's head scribe in the queen's absence.
Danlan scratched away, writing the words. To the side, Navani cleared her throat.
"Oh," Dalinar said, "add this: Your mother is here in the warcamps again."
A short time later, the pen wrote of its own volition. "'Send my mother my respect. Keep her at arm's length, Uncle. She bites.'"
From the side, Navani sniffed, and Dalinar realized he hadn't signaled that Navani was actually listening. He blushed as Danlan continued speaking. "'I cannot speak of my work via spanreed, but I'm growing increasingly concerned. There is something here, hidden by the sheer number of accrued pages in the historical record.'"
Jasnah was a Veristitalian. She'd explained it to him once; they were an order of scholars who tried to find the truth in the past. They wished to create unbiased, factual accounts of what had happened in order to extrapolate what to do in the future. He wasn't clear on why they thought themselves different from regular historians.
"Will you be returning?" Dalinar asked.
"'I cannot say,'" Danlan read after the reply came. "'I do not dare stop my research. But a time may soon come when I dare not stay away either.'"
What? Dalinar thought.
"'Regardless,'" Danlan continued, "'I have some questions for you. I need you to describe for me again what happened when you met that first Parshendi patrol seven years ago.'"
Dalinar frowned. Despite the Plate's augmentation, his digging had left him feeling tired. But he didn't dare sit on one of the room's chairs while wearing his Plate. He took off one of his gauntlets, though, and ran his hand through his hair. He wasn't fond of this topic, but part of him was glad of the distraction. A reason to hold off on making a decision that would change his life forever.
Danlan looked at him, prepared to dictate his words. Why did Jasnah want this story again? Hadn't she written an account of these very events in her biography of her father?
Well, she would eventually tell him why, and-if her past revelations were any indication-her current project would be of great worth. He wished Elhokar had received a measure of his sister's wisdom.
"These are painful memories, Jasnah. I wish I'd never convinced your father to go on that expedition. If we'd never discovered the Parshendi, then they couldn't have assassinated him. The first meeting happened when we were exploring a forest that wasn't on the maps. This was south of the Shattered Plains, in a valley about two weeks' march from the Drying Sea."
During Gavilar's youth, only two things had thrilled him-conquest and hunting. When he hadn't been seeking one, it had been the other. Suggesting the hunt had seemed rational at the time. Gavilar had been acting oddly, losing his thirst for battle. Men had started to say that he was weak. Dalinar had wanted to remind his brother of the good times in their youth. Hence the hunt for a legendary chasmfiend.
"Your father wasn't with me when I ran across them," Dalinar continued, thinking back. Camping on humid, forested hills. Interrogating Natan natives via translators. Looking for scat or broken trees. "I was leading scouts up a tributary of the Deathbend River while your father scouted downstream. We found the Parshendi camped on the other side. I didn't believe it at first. Parshmen. Camped, free and organized. And they carried weapons. Not crude ones, either. Swords, spears with carved hafts…"
He trailed off. Gavilar hadn't believed either, when Dalinar told him. There was no such thing as a free parshman tribe. They were servants, and always had been servants.
"'Did they have Shardblades then?'" Danlan said. Dalinar hadn't realized that Jasnah had made a response.
"No."
A scratched reply eventually came. "'But they have them now. When did you first see a Parshendi Shardbearer?'"
"After Gavilar's death," Dalinar said.
He made the connection. They'd always wondered why Gavilar had wanted a treaty with the Parshendi. They wouldn't have needed one just to harvest the greatshells on the Shattered Plains; the Parshendi hadn't lived on the Plains then.
Dalinar felt a chill. Could his brother have known that these Parshendi had access to Shardblades? Had he made the treaty hoping to get out of them where they'd found the weapons?
Is it his death? Dalinar wondered. Is that the secret Jasnah's looking for? She'd never shown Elhokar's dedication to vengeance, but she thought differently from her brother. Revenge wouldn't drive her. But questions. Yes, questions would.
"'One more thing, Uncle,'" Danlan read. "'Then I can go back to digging through this labyrinth of a library. At times, I feel like a cairn robber, sifting through the bones of those long dead. Regardless. The Parshendi, you once mentioned how quickly they seemed to learn our language.'"
"Yes," Dalinar said. "In a matter of days, we were speaking and communicating quite well. Remarkable." Who would have thought that parshmen, of all people, had the wit for such a marvel? Most he'd known didn't do much speaking at all.
"'What were the first things they spoke to you about?'" Danlan said. "'The very first questions they asked? Can you remember?'"
Dalinar closed his eyes, remembering days with the Parshendi camped just across the river from them. Gavilar had become fascinated by them. "They wanted to see our maps."
"Did they mention the Voidbringers?"
Voidbringers? "Not that I recall. Why?"
"'I'd rather not say right now. However, I want to show you something. Have your scribe get out a new sheet of paper.'"
Danlan affixed a new page to the writing board. She put the pen to the corner and let go. It rose and began to scratch back and forth in quick, bold strokes. It was a drawing. Dalinar stood up and stepped closer, and Adolin crowded near. Reed and ink wasn't the best medium, and drawing across spans wasn't precise. The pen leaked tiny globs of ink in places it wouldn't have on the other side, and though the inkwell was in the exact same place-allowing Jasnah to re-ink both her reed and Dalinar's at the same time-his reed sometimes ran out before the one on the other side.
Still, the picture was marvelous. This isn't Jasnah, Dalinar realized. Whoever was doing the drawing was far, far more talented than his niece.
The picture resolved into a depiction of a tall shadow looming over some buildings. Hints of carapace and claws showed in the thin ink lines, and shadows were made by drawing finer lines close together.
Danlan set it aside, getting out a third sheet of paper. Dalinar held the drawing up, Adolin at his side. The nightmarish beast in the lines and shadows was faintly familiar. Like…
"It's a chasmfiend," Adolin said, pointing. "It's distorted-far more menacing in the face and larger at the shoulders, and I don't see its second set of foreclaws-but someone was obviously trying to draw one of them."
"Yes," Dalinar said, rubbing his chin.
"'This is a depiction from one of the books here,'" Danlan read. "'My new ward is quite skilled at drawing, and so I had her reproduce it for you. Tell me. Does it remind you of anything?'"
A new ward? Dalinar thought. It had been years since Jasnah had taken one. She always said she didn't have the time. "This picture's of a chasmfiend," Dalinar said.
Danlan wrote the words. A moment later, the reply came. "'The book describes this as a picture of a Voidbringer.'" Danlan frowned, cocking her head. "'The book is a copy of a text originally written in the years before the Recreance. However, the illustrations are copied from another text, even older. In fact, some think that picture was drawn only two or three generations after the Heralds departed.'"
Adolin whistled softly. That would make it very old indeed. So far as Dalinar understood, they had few pieces of art or writing dating from the shadowdays, The Way of Kings being one of the oldest, and the only complete text. And even it had survived only in translation; they had no copies in the original tongue.
"'Before you jump to conclusions,'" Danlan read, "'I'm not implying that the Voidbringers were the same thing as chasmfiends. I believe that the ancient artist didn't know what a Voidbringer looked like, and so she drew the most horrific thing she knew of.'"
But how did the original artist know what a chasmfiend looked like? Dalinar thought. We only just discovered the Shattered Plains But of course. Though the Unclaimed Hills were now empty, they had once been an inhabited kingdom. Someone in the past had known about chasmfiends, known them well enough to draw one and label it a Voidbringer.
"'I must go now,'" Jasnah said via Danlan. "'Care for my brother in my absence, Uncle.'"
"Jasnah," Dalinar sent, choosing his words very carefully. "Things are difficult here. The storm begins to blow unchecked, and the building shakes and moans. You may soon hear news that shocks you. It would be very nice if you could return and lend your aid."
He waited quietly for the reply, the spanreed scratching. "'I should like to promise a date when I will come.'" Dalinar could almost hear Jasnah's calm, cool voice. "'But I cannot estimate when my research will be completed.'"
"This is very important, Jasnah," Dalinar said. "Please reconsider."
"'Be assured, Uncle, that I am coming. Eventually. I just can't say when.'"
Dalinar sighed.
"'Note,'" Jasnah wrote, "'that I am most eager to see a chasmfiend for myself.'"
"A dead one," Dalinar said. "I have no intention of letting you repeat your brother's experience of a few weeks ago."
"'Ah,'" Jasnah sent back, "'dear, overprotective Dalinar. One of these years, you will have to admit that your favored niece and nephew have grown up.'"
"I'll treat you as adults so long as you act the part," Dalinar said. "Come speedily, and we'll get you a dead chasmfiend. Take care."
They waited to see if a further response came, but the gem stopped blinking, Jasnah's transmission complete. Danlan put away the spanreed and the board, and Dalinar thanked the clerks for their aid. They withdrew; Adolin looked as if he wanted to linger, but Dalinar gestured for him to leave.
Dalinar looked down at the picture of the chasmfiend again, unsatisfied. What had he gained from the conversation? More vague hints? What could be so important about Jasnah's research that she would ignore threats to the kingdom?
He would have to compose a more forthright letter to her once he'd made his announcement, explaining why he had decided to step down. Perhaps that would bring her back.
And, in a moment of shock, Dalinar realized that he had made his decision. Sometime between leaving the trench and now, he'd stopped treating his abdication as an if and started thinking of it as a when. It was the right decision. He felt sick about it, but certain. A man sometimes needed to do things that were unpleasant.
It was the discussion with Jasnah, he realized. The talk of her father. He was acting like Gavilar at the end. That had nearly undermined the kingdom. Well, he needed to stop himself before he got that far. Perhaps whatever was happening to him was some kind of disease of the mind, inherited from their parents. It "You are quite fond of Jasnah," Navani said.
Dalinar started, turning away from the picture of the chasmfiend. He'd assumed she'd followed Adolin out. But she still stood there, looking at him.
"Why is it," Navani said, "that you encourage her so strongly to return?"
He turned to face Navani, and realized that she'd sent her two youthful attendants out with the clerks. They were now alone.
"Navani," he said. "This is inappropriate."
"Bah. We're family, and I have questions."
Dalinar hesitated, then walked to the center of the room. Navani stood near the door. Blessedly, her attendants had left open the door at the end of the antechamber, and beyond it were two guards in the hall outside. It wasn't an ideal situation, but so long as Dalinar could see the guards and they him, his conversation with Navani was just barely, proper.
"Dalinar?" Navani asked. "Are you going to answer me? Why is it you trust my daughter so much when others almost universally revile her?"
"I consider their disdain for her to be a recommendation," he said.
"She is a heretic."
"She refused to join any of the devotaries because she did not believe in their teachings. Rather than compromise for the sake of appearances, she has been honest and has refused to make professions she does not believe. I find that a sign of honor."
Navani snorted. "You two are a pair of nails in the same doorframe. Stern, hard, and storming annoying to pull free."
"You should go now," Dalinar said, nodding toward the hallway. He suddenly felt very exhausted. "People will talk."
"Let them. We need to plan, Dalinar. You are the most important highprince in-"
"Navani," he cut in. "I'm going to abdicate in favor of Adolin."
She blinked in surprise.
"I'm stepping down as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements. It will be a few days at most." Speaking the words felt odd, as if saying them made his decision real.
Navani looked pained. "Oh, Dalinar," she whispered. "This is a terrible mistake."
"It is mine to make. And I must repeat my request. I have many things to think about, Navani, and I can't deal with you right now." He pointed at the doorway.
Navani rolled her eyes, but left as requested. She shut the door behind her.
That's it, Dalinar thought, letting out a long exhalation. I've made the decision.
Too weary to remove his Plate unassisted, he sank down onto the floor, resting his head back against the wall. He would tell Adolin of his decision in the morning, then announce it at a feast within the week. From there, he would return to Alethkar and his lands.
It was over.