"Don't make the same mistake I did, son."
Kal looked up from his folio. His father sat on the other side of the operating room, one hand to his head, half-empty cup of wine in his other. Violet wine, among the strongest of liquors.
Lirin set the cup down, and the deep purple liquid-the color of cremling blood-shivered and trembled. It refracted Stormlight from a couple of spheres sitting on the counter.
"Father?"
"When you get to Kharbranth, stay there." His voice was slurred. "Don't get sucked back to this tiny, backward, foolish town. Don't force your beautiful wife to live away from everyone else she's ever known or loved."
Kal's father didn't often get drunk; this was a rare night of indulgence. Perhaps because Mother had gone to sleep early, exhausted from her work.
"You've always said I should come back," Kal said softly.
"I'm an idiot." His back to Kal, he stared at the wall splashed with white light from the spheres. "They don't want me here. They never wanted me here."
Kal looked down at his folio. It contained drawings of dissected bodies, the muscles splayed and pulled out. The drawings were so detailed. Each had glyphpairs to designate every part, and he'd committed those to memory. Now he studied the procedures, delving into the bodies of men long dead.
Once, Laral had told him that men weren't supposed to see beneath the skin. These folios, with their pictures, were part of what made everyone so mistrustful of Lirin. Seeing beneath was like seeing beneath the clothing, only worse.
Lirin poured himself more wine. How much the world could change in a short time. Kal pulled his coat close against the chill. A season of winter had come, but they couldn't afford charcoal for the brazier, for patients no longer gave offerings. Lirin hadn't stopped healing or surgery. The townspeople had simply stopped their donations, all at a word from Roshone.
"He shouldn't be able to do this," Kal whispered.
"But he can," Lirin said. He wore a white shirt and black vest atop tan trousers. The vest was unbuttoned, the front flaps hanging down by his sides, like the skin pulled back from the torsos of the men in Kal's drawings.
"We could spend the spheres," Kal said hesitantly.
"Those are for your education," Lirin snapped. "If I could send you now, I would."
Kal's father and mother had sent a letter to the surgeons in Kharbranth, asking them to let Kal take the entry tests early. They'd responded in the negative.
"He wants us to spend them," Lirin said, words slurred. "That's why he said what he did. He's trying to bully us into needing those spheres."
Roshone's words to the townspeople hadn't exactly been a command. He'd just implied that if Kal's father was too foolish to charge, then he shouldn't be paid. The next day, people had stopped donating.
The townsfolk regarded Roshone with a confusing mixture of adoration and fear. In Kal's opinion, he didn't deserve either. Obviously, the man had been banished to Hearthstone because he was so bitter and flawed. He clearly didn't deserve to be among the real lighteyes, who fought for vengeance on the Shattered Plains.
"Why do the people try so hard to please him?" Kal asked of his father's back. "They never reacted this way around Brightlord Wistiow."
"They do it because Roshone is unappeasable."
Kal frowned. Was that the wine talking?
Kal's father turned, his eyes reflecting pure Stormlight. In those eyes, Kal saw a surprising lucidity. He wasn't so drunk after all. "Brightlord Wistiow let men do as they wished. And so they ignored him. Roshone lets them know he finds them contemptible. And so they scramble to please him."
"That makes no sense," Kal said.
"It is the way of things," Lirin said, playing with one of the spheres on the table, rolling it beneath his finger. "You'll have to learn this, Kal. When men perceive the world as being right, we are content. But if we see a hole-a deficiency-we scramble to fill it."
"You make it sound noble, what they do."
"It is in a way," Lirin said. He sighed. "I shouldn't be so hard on our neighbors. They're petty, yes, but it's the pettiness of the ignorant. I'm not disgusted by them. I'm disgusted by the one who manipulates them. A man like Roshone can take what is honest and true in men and twist it into a mess of sludge to walk on." He took a sip, finishing the wine.
"We should just spend the spheres," Kal said. "Or send them somewhere, to a moneylender or something. If they were gone, he'd leave us alone."
"No," Lirin said softly. "Roshone is not the kind to spare a man once he is beaten. He's the type who keeps kicking. I don't know what political mistake landed him in this place, but he obviously can't get revenge on his rivals. So we're all he has." Lirin paused. "Poor fool."
Poor fool? Kal thought. He's trying to destroy our lives, and that's all Father can say?
What of the stories men sang at the hearths? Tales of clever herdsmen outwitting and overthrowing a foolish lighteyed man. There were dozens of variations, and Kal had heard them all. Shouldn't Lirin fight back somehow? Do something other than sit and wait?
But he didn't say anything; he knew exactly what Lirin would say. Let me worry about it. Get back to your studies.
Sighing, Kal settled back in his chair, opening his folio again. The surgery room was dim, lit by the four spheres on the table and a single one Kal used for reading. Lirin kept most of the spheres closed up in their cupboard, hidden away. Kal held up his own sphere, lighting the page. There were longer explanations of procedures in the back that his mother could read to him. She was the only woman in the town who could read, though Lirin said it wasn't uncommon among wellborn darkeyed women in the cities.
As he studied, Kal idly pulled something from his pocket. A rock that had been sitting on his chair for him when he'd come in to study. He recognized it as a favorite one that Tien had been carrying around recently. Now he'd left it for Kaladin; he often did that, hoping that his older brother would be able to see the beauty in it too, though they all just looked like ordinary rocks. He'd have to ask Tien what he found so special about this particular one. There was always something.
Tien spent his days now learning carpentry from Ral, one of the men in the town. Lirin had set him to it reluctantly; he'd been hoping for another surgery assistant, but Tien couldn't stand the sight of blood. He froze every time, and hadn't gotten used to it. That was troubling. Kal had hoped that his father would have Tien as an assistant when he left. And Kal was leaving, one way or another. He hadn't decided between the army or Kharbranth, though in recent months, he'd begun leaning toward becoming a spearman.
If he took that route, he'd have to do it stealthily, once he was old enough that the recruiters would take him over his parents' objections. Fifteen would probably be old enough. Five more months. For now, he figured that knowing the muscles-and vital parts of a body-would be pretty useful for either a surgeon or a spearman.
A thump came at the door. Kal jumped. It hadn't been a knock, but a thump. It came again. It sounded like something heavy pushing or slamming against the wood.
"What in the stormwinds?" Lirin said, rising from his stool. He crossed the small room; his undone vest brushed the operating table, button scraping the wood.
Another thump. Kal scrambled out of his chair, closing the folio. At fourteen and a half, he was nearly as tall as his father now. A scraping came at the door, like nails or claws. Kal raised a hand toward his father, suddenly terrified. It was late at night, dark in the room, and the town was silent.
There was something outside. It sounded like a beast. Inhuman. A den of whitespines were said to be making trouble nearby, striking at travelers on the roadway. Kal had an image in his head of the reptilian creatures, as big as horses but with carapace across their backs. Was one of them sniffing at the door? Brushing it, trying to force its way in?
"Father!" Kal yelped.
Lirin pulled open the door. The dim light of the spheres revealed not a monster, but a man wearing black clothing. He had a long metal bar in his hands, and he wore a black wool mask with holes cut for the eyes. Kal felt his heart race in panic as the would-be intruder leapt backward.
"Didn't expect to find anyone inside, did you?" Kal's father said. "It's been years since there was a theft in the town. I'm ashamed of you."
"Give us the spheres!" a voice called out of the darkness. Another figure moved in the shadows, and then another.
Stormfather! Kal clutched the folio to his chest with trembling hands. How many are there? Highwaymen, come to rob the town! Such things happened. More and more frequently these days, Kal's father said.
How could Lirin be so calm?
"Those spheres ain't yours," another voice called.
"Is that so?" Kal's father said. "Does that make them yours? You think he'd let you keep them?" Kal's father spoke as if they weren't bandits from outside the town. Kal crept forward to stand just behind his father, frightened-but at the same time ashamed of that fear. The men in the darkness were shadowy, nightmarish things, moving back and forth, faces of black.
"We'll give them to him," one voice said.
"No need for this to get violent, Lirin," another added. "You ain't going to spend them anyway."
Kal's father snorted. He ducked into the room. Kal cried out, moving back as Lirin threw open the cabinet where he kept the spheres. He grabbed the large glass goblet that he stored them in; it was covered with a black cloth.
"You want them?" Lirin called, walking to the doorway, passing Kal.
"Father?" Kal said, panicked.
"You want the light for yourself?" Lirin's voice grew louder. "Here!"
He pulled the cloth free. The goblet exploded with fiery radiance, the brightness nearly blinding. Kal raised his arm. His father was a shadowed silhouette that seemed to hold the sun itself in its fingers.
The large goblet shone with a calm light. Almost a cold light. Kal blinked away tears, his eyes adjusting. He could see the men outside clearly now. Where dangerous shadows had once loomed, cringing men now raised hands. They didn't seem so intimidating; in fact, the cloths over their faces looked ridiculous.
Where Kal had been afraid, he now felt strangely confident. For a moment, it wasn't light his father held, but understanding itself. That's Luten, Kal thought, noticing a man who limped. It was easy to distinguish him, despite the mask. Kal's father had operated on that leg; it was because of him that Luten could still walk. He recognized others too. Horl was the one with the wide shoulders, Balsas the man wearing the nice new coat.
Lirin didn't say anything to them at first. He stood with that light blazing, illuminating the entire stone square outside. The men seemed to shrink down, as if they knew he recognized them.
"Well?" Lirin said. "You've threatened violence against me. Come. Hit me. Rob me. Do it knowing I've lived among you almost my entire life. Do it knowing that I've healed your children. Come in. Bleed one of your own!"
The men faded into the night without a word. "They lived high atop a place no man could reach, but all could visit. The tower city itself, crafted by the hands of no man." -Though The Song of the Last Summer is a fanciful tale of romance from the third century after the Recreance, it is likely a valid reference in this case. See page 27 of Varala's translation, and note the undertext. They got better at carrying the bridge on its side. But not much better. Kaladin watched Bridge Four pass, moving awkwardly, maneuvering the bridge at their sides. Fortunately, there were plenty of handles on the bridge's underside, and they'd found how to grip them in the right way. They had to carry it at less steep an angle than he'd wanted. That would expose their legs, but may be he could train them to adjust to it as the arrows flew.
As it was, their carry was slow, and the bridgemen were so bunched up that if the Parshendi managed to drop a man, the others would stumble over him. Lose just a few men, and the balance would be upset so they'd drop it for certain.
This will have to be handled very carefully, Kaladin thought.
Syl fluttered along behind the bridge crew as a flurry of nearly translucent leaves. Beyond her, something caught Kaladin's eye: a uniformed soldier leading a ragged group of men in a despondent clump. Finally, Kaladin thought. He'd been waiting for another group of recruits. He waved curtly to Rock. The Horneater nodded; he'd take over training. It was time for a break anyway.
Kaladin jogged up the short incline at the rim of the lumberyard, arriving just as Gaz intercepted the newcomers.
"What a sorry batch," Gaz said. "I thought we'd been sent the dregs last time, but this lot…"
Lamaril shrugged. "They're yours now, Gaz. Split them up how you like." He and his soldiers departed, leaving the unfortunate conscripts. Some wore decent clothing; they'd be recently caught criminals. The rest had slave brands on their foreheads. Seeing them brought back feelings that Kaladin had to force down. He still stood on the very top of a steep slope; one wrong step could send him tumbling back down into that despair.
"In a line, you cremlings," Gaz snapped at the new recruits, pulling free his cudgel and waving it. He eyed Kaladin, but said nothing.
The group of men hastily lined up.
Gaz counted down the line, picking out the taller members. "You five men, you're in Bridge Six. Remember that. Forget it, and I'll see you get a whipping." He counted off another group. "You six men, you're in Bridge Fourteen. You four at the end, Bridge Three. You, you, and you, Bridge One. Bridge Two doesn't need any…You four, Bridge Seven."
That was all of them.
"Gaz," Kaladin said, folding his arms. Syl landed on his shoulder, her small tempest of leaves forming into a young woman.
Gaz turned to him.
"Bridge Four is down to thirty fighting members."
"Bridge Six and Bridge Fourteen have fewer than that."
"They each had twenty-nine and you just gave them both a big helping of new members. And Bridge One is at thirty-seven, and you sent them three new men."
"You barely lost anyone on the last run, and-"
Kaladin caught Gaz's arm as the sergeant tried to walk away. Gaz flinched, lifting his cudgel.
Try it, Kaladin thought, meeting Gaz's eyes. He almost wished that the sergeant would.
Gaz gritted his teeth. "Fine. One man."
"I pick him," Kaladin said.
"Whatever. They're all worthless anyway."
Kaladin turned to the group of new bridgemen. They'd gathered into clusters by which bridge crew Gaz had put them in. Kaladin immediately turned his attention to the taller men. By slave standards, they appeared well fed. Two of them looked like they'd "Hey, gancho!" a voice said from another group. "Hey! You want me, I think."
Kaladin turned. A short, spindly man was waving to him. The man had only one arm. Who would assign him to be a bridgeman?
He'd stop an arrow, Kaladin thought. That's all some bridgemen are good for, in the eyes of the uppers.
The man had brown hair and deep tan skin just a shade too dark to be Alethi. The fingernails on his hand were slate-colored and crystalline-he was a Herdazian, then. Most of the newcomers shared the same defeated look of apathy but this man was smiling, though he wore a slave's mark on his head.
That mark is old, Kaladin thought. Either he had a kind master before this, or he has somehow resisted being beaten down. The man obviously didn't understand what awaited him as a bridgeman. No person would smile if they understood that.
"You can use me," the man said. "We Herdazians are great fighters, gon." He pronounced that last word like "gone" and it appeared to refer to Kaladin. "You see, this one time, I was with, sure, three men and they were drunk and all but I still beat them." He spoke at a very quick pace, his thick accent slurring the words together.
He'd make a terrible bridgeman. He might be able to run with the bridge on his shoulders, but not maneuver it. He even looked a little flabby around the waist. Whatever bridge crew got him would put him right in the front and let him take an arrow, then be rid of him.
Gotta do what you can to stay alive, a voice from his past seemed to whisper. Turn a liability into an advantage…
Tien.
"Very well," Kaladin said, pointing. "I'll take the Herdazian at the back."
"What?" Gaz said.
The short man sauntered up to Kaladin. "Thanks, gancho! You'll be glad you picked me."
Kaladin turned to walk back, passing Gaz. The bridge sergeant scratched his head. "You pushed me that hard so you could pick the one-armed runt?"
Kaladin walked on without a word for Gaz. Instead, he turned to the one-armed Herdazian. "Why did you want to come with me? You don't know anything about the different bridge crews."
"You were only picking one," the man said. "That means one man gets to be special, the others don't. I've got a good feeling about you. It's in your eyes, gancho." He paused. "What's a bridge crew?"
Kaladin found himself smiling at the man's nonchalant attitude. "You'll see. What's your name?"
"Lopen," the man said. "Some of my cousins, they call me the Lopen because they haven't ever heard anyone else named that. I've asked around a lot, maybe one hundred…or two hundred…lots of people, sure. And nobody has heard of that name."
Kaladin blinked at the torrent of words. Did the man ever stop to breathe?
Bridge Four was taking their break, their massive bridge resting on one side and giving shade. The five wounded had joined them and were chatting; even Leyten was up, which was encouraging. He'd been having a lot of trouble walking, what with that crushed leg. Kaladin had done what he could, but the man would always have a limp.
The only one who didn't talk to the others was Dabbid, the man who had been so profoundly shocked by battle. He followed the others, but he didn't talk. Kaladin was starting to fear that the man would never recover from his mind fatigue.
Hobber-the round-faced, gap-toothed man who had taken an arrow to the leg-was walking without a crutch. It wouldn't be long before he could start running bridges again, and a good thing, too. They needed every pair of hands they could get.
"Head to the barrack there," Kaladin said to Lopen. "There's a blanket, sandals, and vest for you in the pile at the very back."
"Sure," Lopen said, sauntering off. He waved at a few of the men as he passed.
Rock walked up to Kaladin, folding his arms. "Is new member?"
"Yes," Kaladin said.
"The only kind Gaz would give us, I assume." Rock sighed. "This thing, we should have expected it. He will give us only the very most useless of bridgemen from now on."
Kaladin was tempted to say something in the way of agreement, but hesitated. Syl would probably see it as a lie, and that would annoy her.
"This new way of carrying the bridge," Rock said. "Is not very useful, I think. Is-"
He cut off as a horn call blared over the camp, echoing against stone buildings like the bleat of a distant greatshell. Kaladin grew tense. His men were on duty. He waited, tense, until the third set of horns blew.
"Line up!" Kaladin yelled. "Let's move!"
Unlike the other nineteen crews on duty, Kaladin's men didn't scramble about in confusion, but assembled in an orderly fashion. Lopen dashed out, wearing a vest, then hesitated, looking at the four squads, not knowing where to go. He'd be cut to ribbons if Kaladin put him in front, but he'd probably just slow them down anywhere else.
"Lopen!" Kaladin shouted.
The one-armed man saluted. Does he think he's actually in the military?
"You see that rain barrel? Go get some waterskins from the carpenter's assistants. They told me we could borrow some. Fill as many as you can, then catch up down below."
"Sure, gancho," Lopen said.
"Bridge up!" Kaladin shouted, moving into position at the front. "Shoulder carry!"
Bridge Four moved. While some of the other bridge crews were crowded around their barracks, Kaladin's team charged across the lumberyard. They were first down the incline, and reached the first permanent bridge before the army even formed up. There, Kaladin ordered them to put their bridge down and wait.
Shortly thereafter, Lopen trotted down the hillside-and, surprisingly, Dabbid and Hobber were with him. They couldn't move fast, not with Hobber's limp, but they had constructed a sort of litter with a tarp and two lengths of wood. Piled into the middle of it were a good twenty waterskins. They trotted up to the bridge team.
"What's this?" Kaladin said.
"You told me to bring whatever I could carry, gon," Lopen said. "Well, we got this thing from the carpenters. They use it to carry pieces of wood, they said, and they weren't using it so we took it and now we're here. Ain't that right, moolie?" He said that last to Dabbid, who just nodded.
"Moolie?" Kaladin asked.
"Means mute," Lopen said, shrugging. "'Cuz he doesn't seem to talk much, you see."
"I see. Well, good job. Bridge Four, back in position. Here comes the rest of the army."
The next few hours were what they had grown to expect from bridge runs. Grueling conditions, carrying the heavy bridge across plateaus. The water proved a huge help. The army occasionally watered the bridgemen during runs, but never as often as the men needed it. Being able to take a drink after crossing each plateau was as good as having a half-dozen more men.
But the real difference came from the practice. Bridge Four's men no longer fell exhausted each time they set a bridge down. The work was still difficult, but their bodies were ready for it. Kaladin caught more than a few glances of surprise or envy from the other bridge crews as his men laughed and joked instead of collapsing. Running a bridge once a week or so-as the other men did-just wasn't enough. An extra meal each night combined with training had built up his men's muscles and prepared them to work.
The march was a long one, as long as Kaladin had ever made. They traveled eastward for hours. That was a bad sign. When they aimed for closer plateaus, they often got there before the Parshendi. But this far out they were racing just to prevent the Parshendi from escaping with the gemheart; there was no chance they'd arrive before the enemy.
That meant it would probably be a difficult approach. We're not ready for the side carry, Kaladin thought nervously, as they finally drew close to an enormous plateau rising in an unusual shape. He'd heard of it-the Tower, it was called. No Alethi force had ever won a gemheart here.
They set their bridge down before the penultimate chasm, positioning it, and Kaladin felt a foreboding as the scouts crossed. The Tower was wedge-shaped, uneven, with the southeastern point rising far into the air, creating a steep hillside. Sadeas had brought a large number of soldiers; this plateau was enormous, allowing the deployment of a larger force. Kaladin waited, anxious. Maybe they'd be lucky, and the Parshendi would already be gone with the gemheart. It was possible, this far out.
The scouts came charging back. "Enemy lines on the opposing rim! They haven't gotten the chrysalis open yet!"
Kaladin groaned softly. The army began to cross on his bridge, and Bridge Four regarded him, solemn, expressions grim. They knew what would come next. Some of them, perhaps many of them, would not survive.
It was going to be very bad this time. On previous runs, they'd had a buff er. When they'd lost four or five men, they'd still been able to keep going. Now they were running with just thirty members. Every man they lost would slow them measurably, and the loss of just four or five more would cause them to wobble, or even topple. When that happened, the Parshendi would focus everything on them. He'd seen it happen before. If a bridge crew started to teeter, the Parshendi pounced.
Besides, when a bridge crew was visibly low on numbers, it always got targeted by the Parshendi to be taken down. Bridge Four was in trouble. This run could easily end with fifteen or twenty deaths. Something had to be done.
This was it.
"Gather close," Kaladin said.
The men frowned, stepping up to him.
"We're going to carry the bridge in side position," Kaladin said softly. "I'll go first. I'm going to steer; be ready to go in the direction I do."
"Kaladin," Teft said, "side position is slow. It was an interesting idea, but-"
"Do you trust me, Teft?" Kaladin asked.
"Well, I guess." The grizzled man glanced at the others. Kaladin could see that many of them did not, at least not fully.
"This will work," Kaladin said intently. "We're going to use the bridge as a shield to block arrows. We need to hurry out in front, faster than the other bridges. It'll be hard to outrun them with the side carry, but it's the only thing I can think of. If it doesn't work, I'll be in front, so I'll be the first to drop. If I die, move the bridge to shoulder-carry. We've practiced doing that. Then you'll be rid of me."
The bridgemen were silent.
"What if we don't want to be rid of you?" long-faced Natam asked.
Kaladin smiled. "Then run swiftly and follow my lead. I'm going to turn us unexpectedly during the run; be ready to change directions."
He went back to the bridge. The common soldiers were across, and the lighteyes-including Sadeas in his ornate Shardplate-were riding over the span. Kaladin and Bridge Four followed, then pulled the bridge behind them. They shoulder-carried it to the front of the army and put it down, waiting for the other bridges to get in place. Lopen and the other two water-carriers hung back with Gaz; it looked like they wouldn't get into trouble for not running. That was a small blessing.
Kaladin felt sweat bead on his forehead. He could just barely make out the Parshendi ranks ahead, on the other side of the chasm. Men of black and crimson, shortbows held at the ready, arrows nocked. The enormous slope of the Tower rose behind them.
Kaladin's heart beat faster. Anticipationspren sprung up around members of the army, but not his team. To their credit, there weren't any fearspren either-not that they didn't feel fear, they just weren't as panicked as the other bridge crews, so the fearspren went there instead.
Care, Tukks seemed to whisper at him from the past. The key to fighting isn't lack of passion, it's controlled passion. Care about winning. Care about those you defend. You have to care about something.
I care, Kaladin thought. Storm me as a fool, but I do.
"Bridges up!" Gaz's voice echoed across the front lines, repeating the order given him by Lamaril.
Bridge Four moved, quickly turning the bridge on its side and hoisting it up. The shorter men made a line, holding the bridge up to their right, with the taller men forming a bunched-up line behind them, reaching through and lifting or reaching high and steadying the bridge. Lamaril gave them a harsh look, and Kaladin's breath caught in his throat.
Gaz stepped up and whispered something to Lamaril. The nobleman nodded slowly, and said nothing. The assault call sounded.
Bridge Four charged.
From behind them, arrows flew in a wave over the bridge crews' heads, arcing down toward the Parshendi. Kaladin ran, jaw clenched. He had trouble keeping himself from stumbling over the rockbuds and shalebark growths. Fortunately, though his team was slower than normal, their practice and endurance meant they were still faster than the other crews. With Kaladin at their lead, Bridge Four managed to get out ahead of the others.
That was important, because Kaladin angled his team slightly to the right, as if his crew were just a tad off-course with the heavy bridge at the side. The Parshendi knelt down and began to chant together. Alethi arrows fell among them, distracting some, but the others raised bows.
Get ready… Kaladin thought. He pushed harder, and felt a sudden surge of strength. His legs stopped straining, his breath stopped wheezing. Perhaps it was the anxiety of battle, perhaps it was numbness setting in, but the unexpected strength gave him a slight sense of euphoria. He felt as if something were buzzing within him, mixing with his blood.
In that moment it felt like he was pulling the bridge behind him all alone, like a sail towing the ship beneath it. He turned farther to the right, running at a deeper angle, putting himself and his men in full sight of the Parshendi archers.
The Parshendi continued to chant, somehow knowing-without orders-when to draw their bows. They pulled arrows to marbled cheeks, sighting on the bridgemen. As expected, many aimed at his men.
Almost close enough!
Just a few heartbeats more…
Now!
Kaladin turned sharply to the left just as the Parshendi loosed. The bridge moved with him, now charging with the face of the bridge pointed toward the archers. Arrows flew, snapping against the wood, digging into it. Some arrows rattled against the stone beneath their feet. The bridge resounded with the impacts.
Kaladin heard desperate screams of pain from the other bridge crews. Men fell, some of them probably on their first run. In Bridge Four, nobody cried out. Nobody fell.
Kaladin turned the bridge again, running angled in the other direction, the bridgemen exposed again. The surprised Parshendi nocked arrows. Normally, they fired in waves. That gave Kaladin an opportunity, for as soon as the Parshendi got the arrows drawn, he turned, using the bulky bridge as a shield.
Again, arrows snapped into the wood. Again, other bridge crews screamed. Again, Kaladin's zigzagging run protected his men.
One more, Kaladin thought. This would be the tough one. The Parshendi would know what he was doing. They'd be ready to fire once he turned back.
He turned.
Nobody fired.
Amazed, he realized that the Parshendi archers had turned all of their attention to the other bridge crews, seeking easier targets. The space in front of Bridge Four was virtually empty.
The chasm was near, and-despite his angling-Kaladin brought his team in on-mark to place their bridge in the right spot. They all had to be aligned close together for cavalry charge to work. Kaladin quickly gave the order to drop. Some of the Parshendi archers turned their attention back, but most ignored them, firing their arrows at the other crews.
A crash from behind announced a bridge falling. Kaladin and his men pushed, the Alethi archers behind pelting the Parshendi to distract them and keep them from shoving the bridge back. Still pushing, Kaladin risked a glance over his shoulder.
The next bridge in line was close. It was Bridge Seven, but they were floundering, arrow after arrow striking them, cutting them down in rows. They fell as he watched, bridge crashing to the stones. Now Bridge Twenty-seven was wavering. Two other bridges were already down. Bridge Six had reached the chasm, but just barely, over half its members down. Where were the other bridge crews? He couldn't tell from his quick glance, and had to turn back to his work.
Kaladin's men placed their bridge with a thump, and Kaladin gave the call to pull back. He and his men dashed away to let the cavalry charge across. But no cavalry came. Sweat dripping from his brow, Kaladin spun.
Five other bridge crews had set their bridges, but others were still struggling to reach the chasm. Unexpectedly, they'd tried tilting their bridges to block the arrows, emulating Kaladin and his team. Many stumbled, some men attempting to lower the bridge for protection while others still ran forward.
It was chaos. These men hadn't practiced the side carry. As one straggling crew tried to hold their bridge up in the new position, they dropped it. Two more bridge crews were cut down completely by the Parshendi, who continued to fire.
Heavy cavalry charged, crossing the six bridges that had been set. Normally, two riders abreast on each bridge added up to a mass of a hundred horsemen, thirty to forty across and three ranks deep. That depended on many bridges aligned in a row, allowing an effective charge against the hundreds of Parshendi archers.
But the bridges had been set too erratically. Some cavalry got across, but they were scattered, and couldn't ride down the Parshendi without fear of being surrounded.
Foot soldiers had started to help push Bridge Six into place. We should go help, Kaladin realized. Get those other bridges across.
But it was too late. Though Kaladin stood near the battlefield, his men-as was their practice-had fallen back to the nearest rock outcropping for shelter. The one they'd chosen was close enough to see the battle, but was well protected from arrows. The Parshendi always ignored bridgemen after the initial assault, though the Alethi were careful to leave rear guards to protect the landing point and watch for Parshendi trying to cut off their retreat.
The soldiers finally maneuvered Bridge Six into place, and two more bridge crews got theirs down, but half of the bridges hadn't made it. The army had to reorganize on the run, dashing forward to support the cavalry, splitting to cross where the bridges had been set.
Teft left the outcropping and grabbed Kaladin by the arm, tugging him back to relative safety. Kaladin allowed himself to be pulled along, but he still looked at the battlefield, a horrible realization coming to him.
Rock stepped up beside Kaladin, clapping him on the shoulder. The large Horneater's hair was plastered to his head with sweat, but he was smiling broadly. "Is miracle! Not a single man wounded!"
Moash stepped up beside them. "Stormfather! I can't believe what we just did. Kaladin, you've changed bridge runs forever!"
"No," Kaladin said softly. "I've completely undermined our assault."
"I-What?"
Stormfather! Kaladin thought. The heavy cavalry had been cut off. A cavalry charge needed an unbroken line; it was the intimidation as much as anything that made it work.
But here, the Parshendi could dodge out of the way, then come at the horsemen from the flanks. And the foot soldiers hadn't gotten in quickly enough to help. Several groups of horsemen fought completely surrounded. Soldiers bunched up around the bridges that had been set, trying to get across, but the Parshendi had a solid foothold and were repelling them. Spearmen fell from the bridges, and the Parshendi then managed to topple one entire bridge into the chasm. The Alethi forces were soon on the defensive, the soldiers focused on holding the bridgeheads to secure an avenue of retreat for the cavalry.
Kaladin watched, really watched. He'd never studied the tactics and needs of the entire army in these assaults. He'd considered only the needs of his own crew. It was a foolish mistake, and he should have known better. He would have known better, if he'd still thought of himself as a real soldier. He hated Sadeas; he hated the way the man used bridge crews. But he shouldn't have changed Bridge Four's basic tactics without considering the larger scheme of the battle.
I deflected attention to the other bridge crews, Kaladin thought. That got us to the chasm too soon, and slowed some of the others.
And, since he'd run out in front, many other bridgemen had gotten a good view of how he'd used the bridge as a shield. That had led them to emulate Bridge Four. Each of the crews had ended up running at a different speed, and the Alethi archers hadn't known where to focus their volleys to soften the Parshendi for the bridge landings.
Stormfather! I've just cost Sadeas this battle.
There would be repercussions. The bridgemen had been forgotten while the generals and captains scrambled to revise their battle plans. But once this was over, they would come for him.
Or maybe it would happen sooner. Gaz and Lamaril, with a group of reserve spearmen, were marching toward Bridge Four.
Rock stepped up beside Kaladin on one side, a nervous Teft on the other, holding a stone in his hands. The bridgemen behind Kaladin began to mutter.
"Stand down," Kaladin said softly to Rock and Teft.
"But, Kaladin!" Teft said. "They-"
"Stand down. Gather the bridgemen. Get them back to the lumberyard safely, if you can." If any of us escape this disaster.
When Rock and Teft didn't back away, Kaladin stepped forward. The battle still raged on the Tower; Sadeas's group-led by the Shardbearer himself-had managed to claim a small section of ground and were holding it doggedly. Corpses piled up on both sides. It wouldn't be enough.
Rock and Teft moved up beside Kaladin again, but he stared them down, forcing them back. Then he turned to Gaz and Lamaril. I'll point out that Gaz told me to do this, he thought. He suggested I use a side carry on a bridge assault.
But no. There were no witnesses. It would be his word against Gaz's. That wouldn't work-plus, that argument would leave Gaz and Lamaril with good reason to see Kaladin dead immediately, before he could speak to their superiors.
Kaladin needed to do something else.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Gaz sputtered as he grew near.
"I've upended the army's strategy," Kaladin said, "throwing the entire assault force into chaos. You've come to punish me so that when your superiors come screaming to you for what happened, you can at least show that you acted quickly to deal with the one responsible."
Gaz paused, Lamaril and the spearmen stopping around him. The bridge sergeant looked surprised.
"If it's worth anything," Kaladin said grimly, "I didn't know this would happen. I was just trying to survive."
"Bridgemen aren't supposed to survive," Lamaril said curtly. He waved to a pair of his soldiers, then pointed at Kaladin.
"If you leave me alive," Kaladin said, "I promise I will tell your superiors that you had nothing to do with this. If you kill me, it will look like you were trying to hide something."
"Hide something?" Gaz said, glancing at the battle on the Tower. A stray arrow clattered across the rocks a short distance from him, shaft breaking. "What would we have to hide?"
"Depends. This very well could look like it was your idea from the start. Brightlord Lamaril, you didn't stop me. You could have, but you didn't, and soldiers saw Gaz and you speaking when you saw what I did. If I can't vouch for your ignorance of what I was going to do, then you'll look very, very bad."
Lamaril's soldiers looked to their leader. The lighteyed man scowled. "Beat him," he said, "but don't kill him." He turned and marched back toward the Alethi reserve lines.
The beefy spearmen walked up to Kaladin. They were darkeyed, but they might as well have been Parshendi for all the sympathy they would show him. Kaladin closed his eyes and steeled himself. He couldn't fight them all off. Not and remain with Bridge Four.
A spear butt to the gut knocked him to the ground, and he gasped as the soldiers began to kick. One booted foot tore open his belt pouch. His spheres-too precious to leave in the barrack-scattered across the stones. They had somehow lost their Stormlight, and were now dun, their life run out.
The soldiers kept kicking.
"They changed, even as we fought them. Like shadows they were, that can transform as the flame dances. Never underestimate them because of what you first see." -Purports to be a scrap collected from Talatin, a Radiant of the Order of Stonewards. The source-Guvlow's Incarnate-is generally held as reliable, though this is from a copied fragment of "The Poem of the Seventh Morning," which has been lost. Sometimes, when Shallan walked into the Palanaeum proper-the grand storehouse of books, manuscripts, and scrolls beyond the study areas of the Veil-she grew so distracted by the beauty and scope of it that she forgot everything else.
The Palanaeum was shaped like an inverted pyramid carved down into the rock. It had balcony walkways suspended around its perimeter. Slanted gently downward, they ran around all four walls to form a majestic square spiral, a giant staircase pointing toward the center of Roshar. A series of lifts provided a quicker method of descending.
Standing at the top level's railing, Shallan could see only halfway to the bottom. This place seemed too large, too grand, to have been shaped by the hands of men. How had the terraced levels been aligned so perfectly? Had Soulcasters been used to create the open spaces? How many gemstones would that have taken?
The lighting was dim; there was no general illumination, only small emerald lamps focused to illuminate the walkway floors. Ardents from the Devotary of Insight periodically moved through the levels, changing the spheres. There had to be hundreds upon hundreds of the emeralds here; apparently, they made up the Kharbranthian royal treasury. What better place for them than the extremely secure Palanaeum? Here they could both be protected and serve to illuminate the enormous library.
Shallan continued on her way. Her parshman servant carried a sphere lantern containing a trio of sapphire marks. The soft blue light reflected against the stone walls, portions of which had been Soulcast into quartz purely for ornamentation. The railings had been carved from wood, then transformed to marble. When she ran her fingers across one, she could feel the original wood's grain. At the same time, it had the cold smoothness of stone. An oddity that seemed designed to confuse the senses.
Her parshman carried a small basket of books full of drawings by famous natural scientists. Jasnah had begun allowing Shallan to spend some of her study time on topics of her own choosing. Just a single hour a day, but it was remarkable how precious that hour had become. Recently, she'd been digging through Myalmr's Western Voyages.
The world was a wondrous place. She hungered to learn more, wished to observe each and every one of its creatures, to have sketches of them in her books. To organize Roshar by capturing it in images. The books she read, though wonderful, all felt incomplete. Each author would be good with words or with drawings, but rarely both. And if the author was good with both, then her grasp of science would be poor.
There were so many holes in their understanding. Holes that Shallan could fill.
No, she told herself firmly as she walked. That's not what I'm here to do.
It was getting harder and harder to stay focused on the theft, though Jasnah-as Shallan had hoped-had begun using her as a bathing attendant. That might soon present the opportunity she needed. And yet, the more she studied, the more she hungered for knowledge.
She led her parshman to one of the lifts. There, two other parshmen began lowering her. Shallan eyed the basket of books. She could spend her time on the lift reading, maybe finish that section of Western Voyages…
She turned away from the basket. Stay focused. On the fifth level down, she stepped out into the smaller walkway that connected the lift to the sloping ramps set into the walls. Upon reaching the wall, she turned right and continued down a little farther. The wall was lined with doorways and, finding the one she wanted, she entered a large stone chamber filled with tall bookshelves. "Wait here," she said to her parshman as she dug her drawing folio out of the basket. She tucked it under her arm, took the lantern, and hurried into the stacks.
One could disappear for hours in the Palanaeum and never see another soul. Shallan rarely saw anyone while searching out an obscure book for Jasnah. There were ardents and servants to fetch volumes, of course, but Jasnah thought it important for Shallan to practice doing it herself. Apparently the Kharbranthian filing system was now standard for many of Roshar's libraries and archives.
At the back of the room, she found a small desk of cobwood. She set her lantern on one side and sat on the stool, getting out her portfolio. The room was silent and dark, her lantern light revealing the ends of bookshelves to her right and a smooth stone wall to her left. The air smelled of old paper and dust. Not wet. It was never damp in the Palanaeum. Perhaps the dryness had something to do with the long troughs of white powder at the ends of each room.
She undid her portfolio's leather ties. Inside, the top sheets were blank, and the next few contained drawings she'd done of people in the Palanaeum. More faces for her collection. Hidden in the middle was a far more important set of drawings: sketches of Jasnah performing Soulcastings.
The princess used her Soulcaster infrequently; perhaps she hesitated to use it when Shallan was around. But Shallan had caught a handful of occasions, mostly when Jasnah had been distracted, and had apparently forgotten she wasn't alone.
Shallan held up one picture. Jasnah, sitting in the alcove, hand to the side and touching a crumpled piece of notepaper, a gem on her Soulcaster glowing. Shallan held up the next picture. It depicted the same scene just seconds later. The paper had become a ball of flames. It hadn't burned. No, it had become fire. Tongues of flame coiling, a flash of heat in the air. What had been on it that Jasnah wished to hide?
Another picture showed Jasnah Soulcasting the wine in her cup into a chunk of crystal to use as a paperweight, the goblet itself holding down another stack, on one of the rare occasions when they'd dined-and studied-on a patio outside the Conclave. There was also the one of Jasnah burning words after running out of ink. When Shallan had seen her burning letters into a page, she'd been amazed at the Soulcaster's precision.
It seemed that this Soulcaster was attuned to three Essences in particular: Vapor, Spark, and Lucentia. But it should be able to create any of the Ten Essences, from Zephyr to Talus. That last one was the most important to Shallan, as Talus included stone and earth. She could create new mineral deposits for her family to exploit. It would work; Soulcasters were very rare in Jah Keved, and her family's marble, jade, and opal would sell at a premium. They couldn't create actual gemstones with a Soulcaster-that was said to be impossible-but they could create other deposits of near equal value.
Once those new deposits ran out, they'd have to move to less lucrative trades. That would be all right, though. By then, they'd have paid off their debts and compensated those to whom promises had been broken. House Davar would become unimportant again, but would not collapse.
Shallan studied the pictures again. The Alethi princess seemed remarkably casual about Soulcasting. She held one of the most powerful artifacts in all of Roshar, and she used it to create paperweights? What else did she use the Soulcaster for, when Shallan wasn't watching? Jasnah seemed to use it less frequently in her presence now than she had at first.
Shallan fished in the safepouch inside her sleeve, bringing out her father's broken Soulcaster. It had been sheared in two places: across one of the chains and through the setting that held one of the stones. She inspected it in the light, looking-not for the first time-for signs of that damage. The link in the chain had been replaced perfectly and the setting reforged equally well. Even knowing exactly where the cuts had been, she couldn't find any flaw. Unfortunately, repairing only the outward defects hadn't made it functional.
She hefted the heavy construction of metal and chains. Then she put it on, looping chains around her thumb, small finger, and middle finger. There were no gemstones in the device at present. She compared the broken Soulcaster to the drawings, inspecting it from all sides. Yes, it looked identical. She'd worried about that.
Shallan felt her heart flutter as she regarded the broken Soulcaster. Stealing from Jasnah had seemed acceptable when the princess had been a distant, unknown figure. A heretic, presumably ill-tempered and demanding. But what of the real Jasnah? A careful scholar, stern but fair, with a surprising level of wisdom and insight? Could Shallan really steal from her?
She tried to still her heart. Even as a little child, she'd been this way. She could remember her tears at fights between her parents. She was not good with confrontation.
But she'd do it. For Nan Balat, Tet Wikim, and Asha Jushu. Her brothers depended on her. She pressed her hands against her thighs to keep them from shaking, breathing in and out. After a few minutes, nerves under control, she took off the damaged Soulcaster and returned it to her safepouch. She gathered up her papers. They might be important in discovering how to use the Soulcaster. What was she going to do about that? Was there a way to ask Jasnah about using a Soulcaster without arousing suspicion?
A light flickering through nearby bookcases startled her, and she tucked away her folio. It turned out to be just an old, berobed female ardent, shuffling with a lantern and followed by a parshman servant. She didn't look in Shallan's direction as she turned between two rows of shelves, her lantern's light shining out through the spaces between the books. Lit that way-with her figure hidden but the light streaming between the shelves-it looked as if one of the Heralds themselves were walking through the stacks.
Her heart racing again, Shallan raised her safehand to her breast. I make a terrible thief, she thought with a grimace. She finished gathering her things and moved through the stacks, lantern held before her. The head of each row was carved with symbols, indicating the date the books had entered the Palanaeum. That was how they were organized. There were enormous cabinets filled with indexes on the top level.
Jasnah had sent Shallan to fetch-and then read-a copy of Dialogues, a famous historical work on political theory. However, this was also the room that contained Shadows Remembered-the book Jasnah was reading when the king had visited. Shallan had later looked it up in the index. It might have been reshelved by now.
Suddenly curious, Shallan counted off the rows. She stepped in and counted shelves inward. Near the middle and at the bottom, she found a thin red volume with a red hogshide cover. Shadows Remembered. Shallan set her lantern on the ground and slipped the book free, feeling furtive as she flipped through the pages.
She was confused by what she discovered. She hadn't realized this was a book of children's stories. There was no undertext commentary, just a collection of tales. Shallan sat down on the floor, reading through the first one. It was the story of a child who wandered away from his home at night and was chased by Voidbringers until he hid in a cavern beside a lake. He whittled a piece of wood into a roughly human shape and sent it floating across the lake, fooling the creatures into attacking and eating it instead.
Shallan didn't have much time-Jasnah would grow suspicious if she remained down here too long-but she skimmed the rest of the stories. They were all of a similar style, ghost stories about spirits or Voidbringers. The only commentary was at the back, explaining that the author had been curious about the folktales told by common darkeyes. She had spent years collecting and recording them.
Shadows Remembered, Shallan thought, would have been better off forgotten.
This was what Jasnah had been reading? Shallan had expected Shadows Remembered to be some kind of deep philosophical discussion of a hidden historical murder. Jasnah was a Veristitalian. She constructed the truth of what happened in the past. What kind of truth could she find in stories told to frighten disobedient darkeyed children?
Shallan slid the volume back in place and hurried on her way. A short time later, Shallan returned to the alcove to discover that her haste had been unnecessary. Jasnah wasn't there. Kabsal, however, was.
The youthful ardent sat at the long desk, flipping through one of Shallan's books on art. Shallan noticed him before he saw her, and she found herself smiling despite her troubles. She folded her arms and adopted a dubious expression. "Again?" she asked.
Kabsal leaped up, slapping the book closed. "Shallan," he said, his bald head reflecting the blue light of her parshman's lantern. "I came looking for-"
"For Jasnah," Shallan said. "As always. And yet, she's never here when you come."
"An unfortunate coincidence," he said, raising a hand to his forehead. "I am a poor judge of timing, am I not?"
"And is that a basket of bread at your feet?"
"A gift for Brightness Jasnah," he said. "From the Devotary of Insight."
"I doubt a bread basket is going to persuade her to renounce her heresy," Shallan said. "Perhaps if you'd included jam."
The ardent smiled, picking up the basket and pulling out a small jar of red simberry jam.
"Of course, I've told you that Jasnah doesn't like jam," Shallan said "And yet you bring it anyway, knowing jam to be among my favorite foods. And you've done this oh…a dozen times in the last few months?"
"I'm growing a bit transparent, aren't I?"
"Just a tad," she said, smiling. "It's about my soul, isn't it? You're worried about me because I'm apprenticed to a heretic."
"Er…well, yes, I'm afraid."
"I'd be insulted," Shallan said. "But you did bring jam." She smiled, waving for her parshman to deposit her books and then wait beside the doorway. Was it true that there were parshmen on the Shattered Plains who were fighting? That seemed hard to credit. She'd never known any parshman to as much as raise their voice. They didn't seem bright enough for disobedience.
Of course, some reports she'd heard-including those Jasnah had made her read when studying King Gavilar's murder-indicated that the Parshendi weren't like other parshmen. They were bigger, had odd armor that grew from their skin itself, and spoke far more frequently. Perhaps they weren't parshmen at all, but some kind of distant cousin, a different race entirely.
She sat down at the desk as Kabsal got out the bread, her parshman waiting at the doorway. A parshman wasn't much of a chaperone, but Kabsal was an ardent, which meant technically she didn't need one.
The bread had been purchased from a Thaylen bakery, which meant it was fluffy and brown. And, since he was an ardent, it didn't matter that jam was a feminine food-they could enjoy it together. She eyed him as he cut the bread. The ardents in her father's employ had all been crusty men or women in their later years, stern-eyed and impatient with children. She'd never even considered that the devotaries would attract young men like Kabsal.
During these last few weeks, she'd found herself thinking of him in ways that would better have been avoided.
"Have you considered," he noted, "what kind of person you declare yourself to be by preferring simberry jam?"
"I wasn't aware that my taste in jams could be that significant."
"There are those who have studied it," Kabsal said, slathering on the thick red jam and handing her the slice. "You run across some very odd books, working in the Palanaeum. It's not hard to conclude that perhaps everything has been studied at one time or another."
"Hum," Shallan said. "And simberry jam?"
"According to Palates of Personality-and before you object, yes it is a real book, and that is its title-a fondness for simberries indicates a spontaneous, impulsive personality. And also a preference for-" He cut off as a wadded-up piece of paper bounced off his forehead. He blinked.
"Sorry," Shallan said. "It just kind of happened. Must be all that impulsiveness and spontaneity I have."
He smiled. "You disagree with the conclusions?"
"I don't know," she said with a shrug. "I've had people tell me they could determine my personality based on the day I was born, or the position of Taln's Scar on my seventh birthday, or by numerological extrapolations of the tenth glyphic paradigm. But I think we're more complicated than that."
"People are more complicated than the numerological extrapolations of the tenth glyphic paradigm?" Kabsal said, spreading jam on a piece of bread for himself. "No wonder I have such difficulty understanding women."
"Very funny. I mean that we're more complex than mere bundles of personality traits. Am I spontaneous? Sometimes. You might describe my chasing Jasnah here to become her ward that way. But before that, I spent seventeen years being about as unspontaneous as someone could be. In many situations-if I'm encouraged-my tongue can be quite spontaneous, but my actions rarely are. We're all spontaneous sometimes, and we're all conservative sometimes."
"So you're saying that the book is right then. It says you're spontaneous; you're spontaneous sometimes. Ergo, it's correct."
"By that argument, it's right about everybody."
"One hundred percent accurate!"
"Well, not one hundred percent," Shallan said, swallowing another bite of the sweet, fluffy bread. "As has been noted, Jasnah hates jam of all kinds."
"Ah yes," Kabsal said. "She's a jam heretic too. Her soul is in more danger than I had realized." He grinned and took a bite of his bread.
"Indeed," Shallan said. "So what else does that book of yours say about me-and half the world's population-because of our enjoyment of foods with far too much sugar in them?"
"Well, a fondness for simberry is also supposed to indicate a love of the outdoors."
"Ah, the outdoors," Shallan said. "I visited that mythical place once. It was so very long ago, I've nearly forgotten it. Tell me, does the sun still shine, or is that just my dreamy recollection?"
"Surely your studies aren't that bad."
"Jasnah is inordinately fond of dust," Shallan said. "I believe she thrives on it, feeding off the particles like a chull crunching rockbuds."
"And you, Shallan? On what do you thrive?"
"Charcoal."
He looked confused at first, then glanced at her folio. "Ah yes. I was surprised at how quickly your name, and pictures, spread through the Conclave."
Shallan ate the last of her bread, then wiped her hands on a damp rag Kabsal had brought. "You make me sound like a disease." She ran a finger through her red hair, grimacing. "I guess I do have the coloring of a rash, don't I?"
"Nonsense," he said sternly. "You shouldn't say such things, Brightness. It's disrespectful."
"Of myself?"
"No. Of the Almighty, who made you."
"He made cremlings too. Not to mentions rashes and diseases. So being compared to one is actually an honor."
"I fail to follow that logic, Brightness. As he created all things, comparisons are meaningless."
"Like the claims of your Palates book, eh?"
"A point."
"There are worse things to be than a disease," she said, idly thoughtful. "When you have one, it reminds you that you're alive. Makes you fight for what you have. When the disease has run its course, normal healthy life seems wonderful by comparison."
"And would you not rather be a sense of euphoria? Bringing pleasant feelings and joy to those you infect?"
"Euphoria passes. It is usually brief, so we spend more time longing for it than enjoying it." She sighed. "Look what we've done. Now I'm depressed. At least turning back to my studies will seem exciting by comparison."
He frowned at the books. "I was under the impression that you enjoyed your studies."
"As was I. Then Jasnah Kholin stomped into my life and proved that even something pleasant could become boring."
"I see. So she's a harsh mistress?"
"Actually, no," Shallan said. "I'm just fond of hyperbole."
"I'm not," he said. "It's a real bastard to spell."
"Kabsal!"
"Sorry," he said. Then he glanced upward. "Sorry."
"I'm sure the ceiling forgives you. To get the Almighty's attention, you might want to burn a prayer instead."
"I owe him a few anyway," Kabsal said. "You were saying?"
"Well, Brightness Jasnah isn't a harsh mistress. She's actually everything she's said to be. Brilliant, beautiful, mysterious. I'm fortunate to be her ward."
Kabsal nodded. "She is said to be a sterling woman, save for one thing."
"You mean the heresy?"
He nodded.
"It's not as bad for me as you think," she said. "She's rarely vocal about her beliefs unless provoked."
"She's ashamed, then."
"I doubt that. Merely considerate."
He eyed her.
"You needn't worry about me," Shallan said. "Jasnah doesn't try to persuade me to abandon the devotaries."
Kabsal leaned forward, growing more somber. He was older than she-a man in his mid-twenties, confident, self-assured, and earnest. He was practically the only man near her age that she'd ever talked to outside of her father's careful supervision.
But he was also an ardent. So, of course, nothing could come of it. Could it?
"Shallan," Kabsal said gently, "can you not see how we-how I-would be concerned? Brightness Jasnah is a very powerful and intriguing woman. We would expect her ideas to be infectious."
"Infectious? I thought you said I was the disease."
"I never said that!"
"Yes, but I pretended you did. Which is virtually the same thing."
He frowned. "Brightness Shallan, the ardents are worried about you. The souls of the Almighty's children are our responsibility. Jasnah has a history of corrupting those with whom she comes in contact."
"Really?" Shallan asked, genuinely interested. "Other wards?"
"It is not my place to say."
"We can move to another place."
"I'm firm on this point, Brightness. I will not speak of it."
"Write it, then."
"Brightness…" he said, voice taking on a suffering tone.
"Oh, all right," she said, sighing. "Well, I can assure you, my soul is quite well and thoroughly uninfected."
He sat back, then cut another piece of bread. She found herself studying him again, but grew annoyed at her own girlish foolishness. She would soon be returning to her family, and he was only visiting her for reasons relating to his Calling. But she truly was fond of his company. He was the only one here in Kharbranth that she felt she could really talk to. And he was handsome; the simple clothing and shaved head only highlighted his strong features. Like many young ardents, he kept his beard short and neatly trimmed. He spoke with a refined voice, and he was so well-read.
"Well, if you're certain about your soul," he said, turning back to her. "Then perhaps I could interest you in our devotary."
"I have a devotary. The Devotary of Purity."
"But the Devotary of Purity isn't the place for a scholar. The Glory it advocates has nothing to do with your studies or your art."
"A person doesn't need a devotary that focuses directly on their Calling."
"It is nice when the two coincide, though."
Shallan stifled a grimace. The Devotary of Purity focused on-as one might imagine-teaching one to emulate the Almighty's honesty and wholesomeness. The ardents at the devotary hall hadn't known what to make of her fascination with art. They'd always wanted her to do sketches of things they found "pure." Statues of the Heralds, depictions of the Double Eye.
Her father had chosen the devotary for her, of course.
"I just wonder if you made an informed choice," Kabsal said. "Switching devotaries is allowed, after all."
"Yes, but isn't recruitment frowned upon? Ardents competing for members?"
"It is indeed frowned upon. A deplorable habit."
"But you do it anyway?"
"I curse occasionally too."
"I hadn't noticed. You're a very curious ardent, Kabsal."
"You'd be surprised. We're not nearly as stuffy a bunch as we seem. Well, except Brother Habsant; he spends so much time staring at the rest of us." He hesitated. "Actually, now I think about it, he might actually be stuffed. I don't know that I've ever seen him move…"
"We're getting distracted. Weren't you trying to recruit me to your devotary?"
"Yes. And it's not so uncommon as you think. All of the devotaries engage in it. We do a lot of frowning at one another for our profound lack of ethics." He leaned forward again, growing more serious. "My devotary has relatively few members, as we don't have as much exposure as others. So whenever someone seeking knowledge comes to the Palanaeum, we take it upon ourselves to inform them."
"Recruit them."
"Let them see what it is they are missing." He took a bite of his bread and jam. "In the Devotary of Purity, did they teach you about the nature of the Almighty? The divine prism, with the ten facets representing the Heralds?"
"They touched on it," she said. "Mostly we talked about achieving my goals of…well, purity. Somewhat boring, I'll admit, since there wasn't much chance for impurity on my part."
Kabsal shook his head. "The Almighty gives everyone talents-and when we pick a Calling that capitalizes on them, we are worshipping him in the most fundamental way. A devotary-and its ardents-should help nurture that, encouraging you to set and achieve goals of excellence." He waved to the books stacked on the desk. "This is what your devotary should be helping you with, Shallan. History, logic, science, art. Being honest and good is important, but we should be working harder to encourage the natural talents of people, rather than forcing them to adapt to the Glories and Callings we feel are most important."
"That is a reasonable argument, I guess."
Kabsal nodded, looking thoughtful "Is it any wonder a woman like Jasnah Kholin turned away from that? Many devotaries encourage women to leave difficult studies of theology to the ardents. If only Jasnah had been able to see the true beauty of our doctrine." He smiled, digging a thick book out of his bread basket. "I really had hoped, originally, to be able to show her what I mean."
"I doubt she'd react well to that."
"Perhaps," he said idly, hefting the tome. "But to be the one who finally convinced her!"
"Brother Kabsal, that sounds almost like you're seeking distinction."
He blushed, and she realized she'd said something that genuinely embarrassed him. She winced, cursing her tongue.
"Yes," he said. "I do seek distinction. I shouldn't wish so badly to be the one who converts her. But I do. If she would just listen to my proof."
"Proof?"
"I have real evidence that the Almighty exists."
"I'd like to see it." Then she raised a finger, cutting him off. "Not because I doubt his existence, Kabsal. I'm just curious."
He smiled. "It will be my pleasure to explain. But first, would you like another slice of bread?"
"I should say no," she said, "and avoid excess, as my tutors trained me. But instead I'll say yes."
"Because of the jam?"
"Of course," she said, taking the bread. "How did your book of oracular preserves describe me? Impulsive and spontaneous? I can do that. If it means jam."
He slathered a piece for her, then wiped his fingers on his cloth and opened his book, flipping through the pages until he reached one that had a drawing on it. Shallan slid closer for a better look. The picture wasn't of a person; it depicted a pattern of some kind. A triangular shape, with three outlying wings and a peaked center.
"Do you recognize this?" Kabsal asked.
It seemed familiar. "I feel that I should."
"It's Kholinar," he said. "The Alethi capital, drawn as it would appear from above. See the peaks here, the ridges there? It was built around the rock formation that was already there." He flipped the page. "Here's Vedenar, capital of Jah Keved." This one was a hexagonal pattern. "Akinah." A circular pattern. "Thaylen City." A four-pointed star pattern.
"What does it mean?"
"It is proof that the Almighty is in all things. You can see him here, in these cities. Do you see how symmetrical they are?"
"The cities were built by men, Kabsal. They wanted symmetry because it is holy."
"Yes, but in each case they built around existing rock formations."
"That doesn't mean anything," Shallan said. "I do believe, but I don't know if this is proof. Wind and water can create symmetry; you see it in nature all the time. The men picked areas that were roughly symmetrical, then designed their cities to make up for any flaws."
He turned to his basket again, rummaging. He came out with-of all things-a metal plate. As she opened her mouth to ask a question, he held up his finger again and set the plate down on a small wooden stand that raised it a few inches above the tabletop.
Kabsal sprinkled white, powdery sand on the sheet of metal, coating it. Then he got out a bow, the kind drawn across strings to make music.
"You came prepared for this demonstration, I see," Shallan noted. "You really did want to make your case to Jasnah."
He smiled, then drew the bow across the edge of the metal plate, making it vibrate. The sand hopped and bounced, like tiny insects dropped onto something hot.
"This," he said, "is called cymatics. The study of the patterns that sounds make when interacting with a physical medium."
As he drew the bow again, the plate made a sound, almost a pure note. It was actually enough to draw a single musicspren, which spun for a moment in the air above him, then vanished. Kabsal finished, then gestured to the plate with a flourish.
"So…?" Shallan asked.
"Kholinar," he said, holding up his book for comparison.
Shallan cocked her head. The pattern in the sand looked exactly like Kholinar.
He dropped more sand on the plate and then drew the bow across it at another point and the sand rearranged itself.
"Vedenar," he said.
She compared again. It was an exact match.
"Thaylen City," he said, repeating the process at another spot. He carefully chose another point on the plate's edge and bowed it one final time. "Akinah. Shallan, proof of the Almighty's existence is in the very cities we live in. Look at the perfect symmetry!"
She had to admit, there was something compelling about the patterns. "It could be a false correlation. Both caused by the same thing."
"Yes. The Almighty," he said, sitting. "Our very language is symmetrical. Look at the glyphs-each one can be folded in half perfectly. And the alphabet too. Fold any line of text down across itself, and you'll find symmetry. Surely you know the story, that both glyphs and letters came from the Dawnsingers?"
"Yes."
"Even our names. Yours is nearly perfect. Shallan. One letter off, an ideal name for a lighteyed woman. Not too holy, but ever so close. The original names for the ten Silver Kingdoms. Alethela, Valhav, Shin Kak Nish. Perfect, symmetrical."
He reached forward, taking her hand. "It's here, around us. Don't forget that, Shallan, no matter what she says."
"I won't," she said, realizing how he'd guided the conversation. He'd said he believed her, but still he'd gone through his proofs. It was touching and annoying at the same time. She did not like condescension. But, then, could one really blame an ardent for preaching?
Kabsal looked up suddenly, releasing her hand. "I hear footsteps." He stood, and Shallan turned as Jasnah walked into the alcove, followed by a parshman carrying a basket of books. Jasnah showed no surprise at the presence of the ardent.
"I'm sorry, Brightness Jasnah," Shallan said, standing. "He-"
"You are not a captive, child," Jasnah interrupted brusquely. "You are allowed visitors. Just be careful to check your skin for tooth marks. These types have a habit of dragging their prey out to sea with them."
Kabsal flushed. He moved to gather up his things.
Jasnah waved for the parshman to place her books on the table. "Can that plate reproduce a cymatic pattern corresponding to Urithiru, priest? Or do you only have patterns for the standard four cities?"
Kabsal looked at her, obviously shocked to realize that she knew exactly what the plate was for. He picked up his book. "Urithiru is just a fable."
"Odd. One would think that your type would be used to believing in fables."
His face grew redder. He finished packing his things, then nodded curtly to Shallan and walked hastily from the room.
"If I may say so, Brightness," Shallan said, "that was exceptionally rude of you."
"I'm prone to such bouts of incivility," Jasnah said. "I'm certain he has heard what I'm like. I simply wanted to make sure he got what he expected."
"You haven't acted that way toward other ardents in the Palanaeum."
"The other ardents in the Palanaeum haven't been working to turn my ward against me."
"He wasn't…" Shallan trailed off. "He was simply worried about my soul."
"Has he asked you to try to steal my Soulcaster yet?"
Shallan felt a sudden spike of shock. Her hand went to the pouch at her waist. Did Jasnah know? No, Shallan told herself. No, listen to the question. "He didn't."
"Watch," Jasnah said, opening a book. "He will eventually. I've experience with his type." She looked at Shallan, and her expression softened. "He's not interested in you. Not in any of the ways you think. In particular, this isn't about your soul. It's about me."
"That is somewhat arrogant of you," Shallan said, "don't you think?"
"Only if I'm wrong, child," Jasnah said, turning back to her book. "And I rarely am." "I walked from Abamabar to Urithiru." -This quote from the Eighth Parable of The Way of Kings seems to contradict Varala and Sinbian, who both claim the city was inaccessible by foot. Perhaps there was a way constructed, or perhaps Nohadon was being metaphorical. Bridgemen aren't supposed to survive…
Kaladin's mind felt fuzzy. He knew that he hurt, but other than that, he floated. As if his head were detached from his body and bouncing off the walls and ceilings.
"Kaladin!" a concerned voice whispered. "Kaladin, please. Please don't be hurt anymore."
Bridgemen aren't supposed to survive. Why did those words bother him so much? He remembered what had happened, using the bridge as a shield, throwing the army off, dooming the assault. Stormfather, he thought, I'm an idiot!
"Kaladin?"
It was Syl's voice. He risked opening his eyes and looked out on an upside-down world, sky extending below him, familiar lumberyard in the air above him.
No. He was upside down. Hanging against the side of Bridge Four's barrack. The Soulcast building was fifteen feet tall at its peak, with a shallowly slanted roof. Kaladin was tied by his ankles to a rope, which would-in turn-be affixed to a ring set into the slanted roof. He'd seen it happen to other bridgemen. One who had committed a murder in camp, another who had been caught stealing for the fifth time.
His back was to the wall so that he faced eastward. His arms were free, hanging down at his sides, and they almost touched the ground. He groaned again, hurting everywhere.
As his father had trained him, he began to prod his side to check for broken ribs. He winced as he found several that were tender, at least cracked. Probably broken. He felt at his shoulder too, where he feared that his collarbone was broken. One of his eyes was swollen. Time would show if he'd sustained any serious internal damage.
He rubbed his face, and flakes of dried blood cracked free and fluttered toward the ground. Gash on his head, bloodied nose, split lip. Syl landed on his chest, feet planted on his sternum, hands clasped before her. "Kaladin?"
"I'm alive," he mumbled, words slurred by his swollen lip. "What happened?"
"You were beaten by those soldiers," she said, seeming to grow smaller. "I've gotten back at them. I made one of them trip three times today." She looked concerned.
He found himself smiling. How long could a man hang like this, blood going to his head?
"There was a lot of yelling," Syl said softly. "I think several men were demoted. The soldier, Lamaril, he…"
"What?"
"He was executed," Syl said, even more quietly. "Highprince Sadeas did it himself, the hour the army got back from the plateau. He said something about the ultimate responsibility falling on the lighteyes. Lamaril kept screaming that you had promised to absolve him, and that Gaz should be punished instead."
Kaladin smirked ruefully. "He shouldn't have had me beaten senseless. Gaz?"
"They left him in his position. I don't know why."
"Right of responsibility. In a disaster like this, the lighteyes are supposed to take most of the blame. They like to make a show of obeying old precepts like that, when it suits them. Why am I still alive?"
"Something about an example," Syl said, wrapping her translucent arms around herself. "Kaladin, I feel cold."
"You can feel temperature?" Kaladin said, coughing.
"Not usually. I can now. I don't understand it. I…I don't like it."
"It'll be all right."
"You shouldn't lie."
"Sometimes it's all right to lie, Syl."
"And this is one of those times?"
He blinked, trying to ignore his wounds, the pressure in his head, trying to clear his mind. He failed on all counts. "Yes," he whispered.
"I think I understand."
"So," Kaladin said, resting his head back, the parietal knob of his skull resting against the wall, "I'm to be judged by the highstorm. They'll let the storm kill me."
Hanging here, Kaladin would be exposed directly to the winds and everything they would throw at him. If you were prudent and took appropriate action, it was possible to survive outside in a highstorm, though it was a miserable experience. Kaladin had done it on several occasions, hunkered down, taking shelter in the lee of a rock formation. But hanging on a wall facing directly stormward? He'd be cut to ribbons and crushed by stones.
"I'll be right back," Syl said, dropping off his chest, taking the form of a falling stone, then changing into windblown leaves near the ground and fluttering away, curving to the right. The lumberyard was empty. Kaladin could smell the crisp, chill air, the land bracing for a highstorm. The lull, it was called, when the wind fell still, the air cold, the pressure dropping, the humidity rising right before a storm.
A few seconds later, Rock poked his head around the wall, Syl on his shoulder. He crept up to Kaladin, a nervous Teft following. They were joined by Moash; despite the latter's protests that he didn't trust Kaladin, he looked almost as concerned as the other two.
"Lordling?" Moash said. "You awake?"
"I'm conscious," Kaladin croaked. "Everyone get back from the battle all right?"
"All of our men, sure enough," Teft said, scratching at his beard. "But we lost the battle. It was a disaster. Over two hundred bridgemen dead. Those who survived were only enough to carry eleven bridges."
Two hundred men, Kaladin thought. That's my fault. I protected my own at the cost of others. I was too hasty.
Bridgemen aren't supposed to survive. There's something about that. He wouldn't be able to ask Lamaril. That man had gotten what he deserved, though. If Kaladin had the ability to choose, such would be the end of all lighteyes, the king included.
"We wanted to say something," Rock said. "Is from all of the men. Most wouldn't come out. Highstorm coming, and-"
"It's all right," Kaladin whispered.
Teft nudged Rock to continue.
"Well, is this. We will remember you. Bridge Four, we won't go back to how we were. Maybe all of us will die, but we'll show the new ones. Fires at night. Laughter. Living. We'll make a tradition out of it. For you." Rock and Teft knew about the knobweed. They could keep earning extra money to pay for things.
"You did this for us," Moash put in. "We'd have died on that field. Perhaps as many as died in the other bridge crews. This way, we're only going to lose one."
"I say it isn't right, what they're doing," Teft said with a scowl. "We talked about cutting you down…"
"No," Kaladin said. "That would only earn you a similar punishment."
The three men shared glances. It seemed they'd come to the same conclusion.
"What did Sadeas say?" Kaladin asked. "About me."
"That he understood how a bridgeman would want to save his life," Teft said, "even at others' expense. He called you a selfish coward, but acted like that was all that could be expected."
"He says he's letting the Stormfather judge you," Moash added. "Jezerezeh, king of Heralds. He says that if you deserve to live, you will…" He trailed off. He knew as well as the others that unprotected men didn't survive highstorms, not like this.
"I want you three to do something for me," Kaladin said, closing his eyes against the blood trickling down his face from his lip, which he'd cracked open by speaking.
"Anything, Kaladin," Rock said.
"I want you to go back into the barrack and tell the men to come out after the storm. Tell them to look up at me tied here. Tell them I'll open my eyes and look back at them, and they'll know that I survived."
The three bridgemen fell silent.
"Yes, of course, Kaladin," Teft said. "We'll do it."
"Tell them," Kaladin continued, voice firmer, "that it won't end here. Tell them I chose not to take my own life, and so there's no way in Damnation I'm going to give it up to Sadeas."
Rock smiled one of those broad smiles of his. "By the uli'tekanaki, Kaladin. I almost believe you'll do it."
"Here," Teft said, handing him something. "For luck."
Kaladin took the object in a weak, bloodstained hand. It was a sphere, a full skymark. It was dun, the Stormlight gone from it. Carry a sphere with you into the storm, the old saying said, and at least you'll have light by which to see.
"It's all we were able to save from your pouch," Teft said. "Gaz and Lamaril got the rest. We complained, but what were we to do?"
"Thank you," Kaladin said.
Moash and Rock retreated to the safety of the barrack, Syl leaving Rock's shoulder to stay with Kaladin. Teft lingered too, as if thinking to spend the storm with Kaladin. He eventually shook his head, muttering, and joined the others. Kaladin thought he heard the man calling himself a coward.
The door to the barrack shut. Kaladin fingered the smooth glass sphere. The sky was darkening, and not just because the sun was setting. Blackness gathered. The highstorm.
Syl walked up the side of the wall, then sat down on it, looking at him, tiny face somber. "You told them you'd survive. What happens if you don't?"
Kaladin's head was pounding with his pulse. "My mother would cringe if she knew how quickly the other soldiers taught me to gamble. First night in Amaram's army, and they had me playing for spheres."
"Kaladin?" Syl said.
"Sorry," Kaladin said, rocking his head from side to side. "What you said, it reminded me of that night. There's a term in gambling, you see. 'In for all,' they say. It's when you put all of your money on one bet."
"I don't understand."
"I'm putting it all on the long bet," Kaladin whispered. "If I die, then they'll come out, shake their heads, and tell themselves they knew it would happen. But if I live, they'll remember it. And it will give them hope. They might see it as a miracle."
Syl was silent for a moment. "Do you want to be a miracle?"
"No," Kaladin whispered. "But for them, I will be."
It was a desperate, foolish hope. The eastern horizon, inverted in his sight, was growing darker. From this perspective, the storm was like the shadow of some enormous beast lumbering across the ground. He felt the disturbing fuzziness of a person who had been hit too hard on the head. Concussion. That was what it was called. He was having trouble thinking, but he didn't want to fall unconscious. He wanted to stare at the highstorm straight on, though it terrified him. He felt the same panic he'd felt looking down into the black chasm, back when he'd nearly killed himself. It was the fear of what he could not see, what he could not know.
The stormwall approached, the visible curtain of rain and wind at the advent of a highstorm. It was a massive wave of water, dirt, and rocks, hundreds of feet high, thousands upon thousands of windspren zipping before it.
In battle, he'd been able to fight his way to safety with the skill of his spear. When he'd stepped to the edge of the chasm, there had been a line of retreat. This time, there was nothing. No way to fight or avoid that black beast, that shadow spanning the entirety of the horizon, plunging the world into an early night. The eastern edge of the crater that made the warcamp had been worn away, and Bridge Four's barrack was first in its row. There was nothing between him and the Plains. Nothing between him and the storm.
Staring at that raging, blustering, churning wave of wind-pushed water and debris, Kaladin felt as if he were watching the end of the world descend upon him.
He took a deep breath, the pain of his ribs forgotten, as the stormwall crossed the lumberyard in a flash and slammed into him. "Though many wished Urithiru to be built in Alethela, it was obvious that it could not be. And so it was that we asked for it to be placed westward, in the place nearest to Honor." -Perhaps the oldest surviving original source mentioning the city, requoted in The Vavibrar, line 1804. What I wouldn't give for a way to translate the Dawnchant. The force of the stormwall nearly knocked him unconscious, but the sudden chill of it shocked him lucid.
For a moment, Kaladin couldn't feel anything but that coldness. He was pressed against the side of the barrack by the extended blast of water. Rocks and bits of branch crashed against the stone around him; he was already too numb to tell how many slashed or beat against his skin.
He bore it, dazed, eyes pressed shut and breath held. Then the stormwall passed, crashing onward. The next blast of wind came in from the side-the air was swirling and gusting from all directions now. The wind flung him sideways-his back scraping against stone-and up into the air. The wind stabilized, blowing out of the east again. Kaladin hung in darkness, and his feet yanked against the rope. In a panic, he realized that he was now flapping in the wind like a kite, tied to the ring in the barrack's slanted roof.
Only that rope kept him from being blown along with the other debris to be tumbled and tossed before the storm across the entirety of Roshar. For those few heartbeats, he could not think. He could only feel the panic and the cold-one boiling out of his chest, the other trying to freeze him from the skin inward. He screamed, clutching his single sphere as if it were a lifeline. The scream was a mistake, as it let that coldness course into his mouth. Like a spirit forcing its arm down his throat.
The wind was like a maelstrom, chaotic, moving in different directions. One buff et ripped at him, then passed, and he fell to the roof of the barrack with a thud. Almost immediately, the terrible winds tried to lift him again, pounding his skin with waves of icy water. Thunder crashed, the heartbeat of the beast that had swallowed him. Lighting split the darkness like white teeth in the night. The wind was so loud it nearly drowned out the thunder; howling and moaning.
"Grab the roof, Kaladin!"
Syl's voice. So soft, so small. How could he hear it at all?
Numbly, he realized he was lying facedown on the sloped roof. It wasn't so steeply peaked that he was immediately pitched off, and the wind was generally blowing him backward. He did as Syl said, grabbing the lip of the roof with cold, slick fingers. Then he lay facedown, head tucked between his arms. He still had the sphere in his hand, pressed against the stone rooftop. His fingers started to slip. The wind was blowing so hard, trying to push him to the west. If he let go, he'd end up dangling in the air again. His rope tether was not long enough for him to get to the other side of the shallow-peaked rooftop, where he'd be sheltered.
A boulder hit the roof beside him-he couldn't hear its impact or see it in the tempest's darkness, but he could feel the building vibrate. The boulder rolled forward and crashed down to the ground. The entire storm didn't have such force, but occasional gusts could pick up and toss large objects, hurling them hundreds of feet.
His fingers slipped further.
"The ring," Syl whispered.
The ring. The rope tied his legs to a steel ring on the side of the roof behind him. Kaladin let go, then snatched the ring as he was blown backward. He clutched to it. The rope continued down to his ankles, about the length of his body. He thought for a moment of untying the ropes, but he didn't dare let go of the ring. He clung there, like a pennant flapping in the wind, holding the ring in both hands, sphere cupped inside one of them and pressed against the steel.
Each moment was a struggle. The wind yanked him left, then hurled him right. He couldn't know how long it lasted; time had no meaning in this place of fury and tumult. His numbed, battered mind started to think he was in a nightmare. A terrible dream inside his head, full of black, living winds. Screams in the air, bright and white, the flash of lightning revealing a terrible, twisted world of chaos and terror. The very buildings seemed blown sideways, the entire world askew, warped by the storm's terrible power.
In those brief moments of light when he dared to look, he thought he saw Syl standing in front of him, her face to the wind, tiny hands forward. As if she were trying to hold back the storm and split the winds as a stone divided the waters of a swift stream.
The cold of the rainwater numbed the scrapes and bruises. But it also numbed his fingers. He didn't feel them slipping. The next he knew, he was whipping in the air again, tossed to the side, being slammed down against the roof of the barrack.
He hit hard. His vision flashed with sparkling lights that melded together and were followed by blackness.
Not unconsciousness, blackness.
Kaladin blinked. All was still. The storm was quiet, and everything was purely dark. I'm dead, he thought immediately. But why could he feel the wet stone roof beneath him? He shook his head, dripping rainwater down his face. There was no lightning, no wind, no rain. The silence was unnatural.
He stumbled to his feet, managing to stand on the gently sloped roof. The stone was slick beneath his toes. He couldn't feel his wounds. The pain just wasn't there.
He opened his mouth to call out into the darkness, but hesitated. That silence was not to be broken. The air itself seemed to weigh less, as did he. He almost felt as if he could float away.
In that darkness, an enormous face appeared just in front of his. A face of blackness, yet faintly traced in the dark. It was wide, the breadth of a massive thunderhead, and extended far to either side, yet it was somehow still visible to Kaladin. Inhuman. Smiling.
Kaladin felt a deep chill-a rolling prickle of ice-scurry down his spine and through his entire body. The sphere suddenly burst to life in his hand, flaring with a sapphire glow. It illuminated the stone roof beneath him, making his fist blaze with blue fire. His shirt was in tatters, his skin lacerated. He looked down at himself, shocked, then looked up at the face.
It was gone. There was only the darkness.
Lightning flashed, and Kaladin's pains returned. He gasped, falling to his knees before the rain and the wind. He slipped down, face hitting the rooftop.
What had that been? A vision? A delusion? His strength was fleeing him, his thoughts growing muddled again. The winds weren't as strong now, but the rain was still so cold. Lethargic, confused, nearly overwhelmed by his pain, he brought his hand up to the side and looked at the sphere. It was glowing. Smeared with his blood and glowing.
He hurt so much, and his strength had faded. Closing his eyes, he felt himself enveloped by a second blackness. The blackness of unconsciousness. Rock was the first to the door when the highstorm subsided. Teft followed more slowly, groaning to himself. His knees hurt. His knees always hurt near a storm. His grandfather had complained about that in his later years, and Teft had called him daft. Now he felt it too.
Storming Damnation, he thought, wearily stepping outside. It was still raining, of course. These were the after-flurries of drizzle that trailed a highstorm, the riddens. A few rainspren sat in puddles, like blue candles, and a few windspren danced in the stormwinds. The rain was cold, and he splashed through puddles that soaked his sandaled feet, chilling them straight through the skin and muscle. He hated being wet. But, then, he hated a lot of things.
For a while, life had been looking up. Not now.
How did everything go so wrong so quickly? he thought, holding his arms close, walking slowly and watching his feet. Some soldiers had left their barracks and stood nearby, wearing raincloaks, watching. Probably to make certain nobody had snuck out to cut Kaladin down early. They didn't try to stop Rock, though. The storm had passed.
Rock charged around the side of the building. Other bridgemen left the barrack behind as Teft followed Rock. Storming Horneater. Like a big lumbering chull. He actually believed. He thought they'd find that foolish young bridgeleader alive. Probably figured they'd discover him having a nice cup of tea, relaxing in the shade with the Stormfather himself.
And you don't believe? Teft asked himself, still looking down. If you don't, why are you following? But if you did believe, you'd look. You wouldn't stare at your feet. You'd look up and see.
Could a man both believe, and not believe, at the same time? Teft stopped beside Rock and-steeling himself-looked up at the wall of the barrack.
There he saw what he'd expected and what he'd feared. The corpse looked like a hunk of slaughter house meat, skinned and bled. Was that a person? Kaladin's skin was sliced in a hundred places, dribbles of blood mixing with rainwater running down the side of the building. The lad's body still hung by the ankles. His shirt had been ripped off; his bridgeman trousers were ragged. Ironically, his face was cleaner now than when they'd left him, washed by the storm.
Teft had seen enough dead men on the battlefield to know what he was looking at. Poor lad, he thought, shaking his head as the rest of Bridge Four gathered around him and Rock, quiet, horrified. You almost made me believe in you.
Kaladin's eyes snapped open.
The gathered bridgemen gasped, several cursing and falling to the ground, splashing in the pools of rainwater. Kaladin drew in a ragged breath, wheezing, eyes staring forward, intense and unseeing. He exhaled, blowing flecks of bloody spittle out over his lips. His hand, hanging below him, slipped open.
Something dropped to the stones. The sphere Teft had given him. It splashed into a puddle and stopped there. It was dun, no Stormlight in it.
What in the name of Kelek? Teft thought, kneeling. You left a sphere out in the storm, and it gathered Stormlight. Held in Kaladin's hand, this one should have been fully infused. What had gone wrong?
"Umalakai'ki!" Rock bellowed, pointing. "Kama mohoray namavau-" He stopped, realizing he was speaking the wrong language. "Somebody be helping me get him down! Is still alive! We need ladder and knife! Hurry!"
The bridgemen scrambled. The soldiers approached, muttering, but they didn't stop the bridgemen. Sadeas himself had declared that the Stormfather would choose Kaladin's fate. Everyone knew that meant death.
Except…Teft stood up straight, holding the dun sphere. An empty sphere after a storm, he thought. And a man who's still alive when he should be dead. Two impossibilities.
Together they bespoke something that should be even more impossible.
"Where's that ladder!" Teft found himself yelling. "Curse you all, hurry, hurry! We need to get him bandaged. Somebody go fetch that salve he always puts on wounds!"
He glanced back at Kaladin, then spoke much more softly. "And you'd better survive, son. Because I want some answers." "Taking the Dawnshard, known to bind any creature voidish or mortal, he crawled up the steps crafted for Heralds, ten strides tall apiece, toward the grand temple above." -From The Poem of Ista. I have found no modern explanation of what these "Dawnshards" are. They seem ignored by scholars, though talk of them was obviously prevalent among those recording the early mythologies. It was not uncommon for us to meet native peoples while traveling through the Unclaimed Hills, Shallan read. These ancient lands were once one of the Silver Kingdoms, after all. One must wonder if the great-shelled beasts lived among them back then, or if the creatures have come to inhabit the wilderness left by humankind's passing.
She settled back in her chair, the humid air warm around her. To her left, Jasnah Kholin floated quietly in the pool inset in the floor of the bathing chamber. Jasnah liked to soak in the bath, and Shallan couldn't blame her. During most of Shallan's life, bathing had been an ordeal involving dozens of parshmen carting heated buckets of water, followed by a quick scrub in the brass tub before the water cooled.
Kharbranth's palace offered far more luxury. The stone pool in the ground resembled a small personal lake, luxuriously warmed by clever fabrials that produced heat. Shallan didn't know much about fabrials yet, though part of her was very intrigued. This type was becoming increasingly common. Just the other day, the Conclave staff had sent Jasnah one to heat her chambers.
The water didn't have to be carried in but came out of pipes. At the turn of a lever, water flowed in. It was warm when it entered, and was kept heated by the fabrials set into the sides of the pool. Shallan had bathed in the chamber herself, and it was absolutely marvelous.
The practical decor was of rock decorated with small colorful stones set in mortar up the sides of the walls. Shallan sat beside the pool, fully dressed, reading as she waited on Jasnah's needs. The book was Gavilar's account-as spoken to Jasnah herself years ago-after his first meeting with the strange parshmen later known as the Parshendi.
Occasionally, during our explorations, we'd meet with natives, she read. Not parshmen. Natan people, with their pale bluish skin, wide noses, and wool-like white hair. In exchange for gifts of food, they would point us to the hunting grounds of greatshells.
Then we met the parshmen. I'd been on a half-dozen expeditions to Natanatan, but never had I seen anything like this! Parshmen, living on their own? All logic, experience, and science declared that to be an impossibility. Parshmen need the hand of civilized peoples to guide them. This has been proven time and time again. Leave one out in the wilderness, and it will just sit there, doing nothing, until someone comes along to give it orders.
Yet here was a group who could hunt, make weapons, build buildings, and-indeed-create their own civilization. We soon realized that this single discovery could expand, perhaps overthrow, all we understood about our gentle servants.
Shallan moved her eyes down to the bottom of the page where-separated by a line-the undertext was written in a small, cramped script. Most books dictated by men had an undertext, notes added by the woman or ardent who scribed the book. By unspoken agreement, the undertext was never shared out loud. Here, a wife would sometimes clarify-or even contradict-the account of her husband. The only way to preserve such honesty for future scholars was to maintain the sanctity and secrecy of the writing.
It should be noted, Jasnah had written in the undertext to this passage, that I have adapted my father's words-by his own instruction-to make them more appropriate for recording. That meant she made his dictation sound more scholarly and impressive. In addition, by most accounts, King Gavilar originally ignored these strange, self-sufficient parshmen. It was only after explanation by his scholars and scribes that he understood the import of what he'd discovered. This inclusion is not meant to highlight my father's ignorance; he was, and is, a warrior. His attention was not on the anthropological import of our expedition, but upon the hunt that was to be its culmination.
Shallan closed the cover, thoughtful. The volume was from Jasnah's own collection-the Palanaeum had several copies, but Shallan wasn't allowed to bring the Palanaeum's books into a bathing chamber.
Jasnah's clothing lay on a bench at the side of the room. Atop the folded garments, a small golden pouch held the Soulcaster. Shallan glanced at Jasnah. The princess floated face-up in the pool, black hair fanning out behind her in the water, her eyes closed. Her daily bath was the one time she seemed to relax completely. She looked much younger now, stripped of both clothing and intensity, floating like a child resting after a day of active swimming.
Thirty-four years old. That seemed ancient in some regards-some women Jasnah's age had children as old as Shallan. And yet it was also young. Young enough that Jasnah was praised for her beauty, young enough that men declared it a shame she wasn't yet married.
Shallan glanced at the pile of clothing. She carried the broken fabrial in her safepouch. She could swap them here and now. It was the opportunity she'd been waiting for. Jasnah now trusted her enough to relax, soaking in the bathing chamber without worrying about her fabrial.
Could Shallan really do it? Could she betray this woman who had taken her in?
Considering what I've done before, she thought, this is nothing. It wouldn't be the first time she betrayed someone who trusted her.
She stood up. To the side, Jasnah cracked an eye.
Blast, Shallan thought, tucking the book under her arm, pacing, trying to look thoughtful. Jasnah watched her. Not suspiciously. Curiously.
"Why did your father want to make a treaty with the Parshendi?" Shallan found herself asking as she walked.
"Why wouldn't he want to?"
"That's not an answer."
"Of course it is. It's just not one that tells you anything."
"It would help, Brightness, if you would give me a useful answer."
"Then ask a useful question."
Shallan set her jaw. "What did the Parshendi have that King Gavilar wanted?"
Jasnah smiled, closing her eyes again. "Closer. But you can probably guess the answer to that."
"Shards."
Jasnah nodded, still relaxed in the water.
"The text doesn't mention them," Shallan said.
"My father didn't speak of them," Jasnah said. "But from things he said…well, I now suspect that they motivated the treaty."
"Can you be sure he knew, though? Maybe he just wanted the gemhearts."
"Perhaps," Jasnah said. "The Parshendi seemed amused at our interest in the gemstones woven into their beards." She smiled. "You should have seen our shock when we discovered where they'd gotten them. When the lanceryn died off during the scouring of Aimia, we thought we'd seen the last gemhearts of large size. And yet here was another great-shelled beast with them, living in a land not too distant from Kholinar itself.
"Anyway, the Parshendi were willing to share them with us, so long as they could still hunt them too. To them, if you took the trouble to hunt the chasmfiends, their gemhearts were yours. I doubt a treaty would have been needed for that. And yet, just before leaving to return to Alethkar, my father suddenly began talking fervently of the need for an agreement."
"So what happened? What changed?"
"I can't be certain. However, he once described the strange actions of a Parshendi warrior during a chasmfiend hunt. Instead of reaching for his spear when the greatshell appeared, this man held his hand to the side in a very suspicious way. Only my father saw it; I suspected he believed the man planned to summon a Blade. The Parshendi realized what he was doing, and stopped himself. My father didn't speak of it further, and I assume he didn't want the world's eyes on the Shattered Plains any more than they already were."
Shallan tapped her book. "It seems tenuous. If he was sure about the Blades, he must have seen more."
"I suspect so as well. But I studied the treaty carefully, after his death. The clauses for favored trade status and mutual border crossing could very well have been a step toward folding the Parshendi into Alethkar as a nation. It certainly would have prevented the Parshendi from trading their Shards to other kingdoms without coming to us first. Perhaps that was all he wanted to do."
"But why kill him?" Shallan said, arms crossed, strolling in the direction of Jasnah's folded clothing. "Did the Parshendi realize that he intended to have their Shardblades, and so struck at him preemptively?"
"Uncertain," Jasnah said. She sounded skeptical. Why did she think the Parshendi killed Gavilar? Shallan nearly asked, but she had a feeling she wouldn't get any more out of Jasnah. The woman expected Shallan to think, discover, and draw conclusions on her own.
Shallan stopped beside the bench. The pouch holding the Soulcaster was open, the drawstrings loose. She could see the precious artifact curled up inside. The swap would be easy. She had used a large chunk of her money to buy gemstones that matched Jasnah's, and had put them into the broken Soulcaster. The two were now exactly identical.
She still hadn't learned anything about using the fabrial; she'd tried to find a way to ask, but Jasnah avoided speaking of the Soulcaster. Pushing harder would be suspicious. Shallan would have to get information elsewhere. Perhaps from Kabsal, or maybe from a book in the Palanaeum.
Regardless, the time was upon her. Shallan found her hand going to her safepouch, and she felt inside of it, running her fingers along the chains of her broken fabrial. Her heart beat faster. She glanced at Jasnah, but the woman was just lying there, floating, eyes closed. What if she opened her eyes?
Don't think of that! Shallan told herself. Just do it. Make the swap. It's so close…
"You are progressing more quickly than I had assumed you would," Jasnah said suddenly.
Shallan spun, but Jasnah's eyes were still closed. "I was wrong to judge you so harshly because of your prior education. I myself have often said that passion outperforms upbringing. You have the determination and the capacity to become a respected scholar, Shallan. I realize that the answers seem slow in coming, but continue your research. You will have them eventually."
Shallan stood for a moment, hand in her pouch, heart thumping uncontrollably. She felt sick. I can't do it, she realized. Stormfather, but I'm a fool. I came all of this way…and now I can't do it!
She pulled her hand from her pouch and stalked back across the bathing chamber to her chair. What was she going to tell her brothers? Had she just doomed her family? She sat down, setting her book aside and sighing, prompting Jasnah to open her eyes. Jasnah watched her, then righted herself in the water and gestured for the hairsoap.
Gritting her teeth, Shallan stood up and fetched the soap tray for Jasnah, bringing it over and squatting down to proffer it. Jasnah took the powdery hairsoap and mashed it in her hand, lathering it before putting it into her sleek black hair with both hands. Even naked, Jasnah Kholin was composed and in control.
"Perhaps we have spent too much time indoors of late," the princess said. "You look penned up, Shallan. Anxious."
"I'm fine," Shallan said brusquely.
"Hum, yes. As evidenced by your perfectly reasonable, relaxed tone. Perhaps we need to shift some of your training from history to something more hands-on, more visceral."
"Like natural science?" Shallan asked, perking up.
Jasnah tilted her head back. Shallan knelt down on a towel beside the pool, then reached down with her freehand, massaging the soap into her mistress's lush tresses.
"I was thinking philosophy," Jasnah said.
Shallan blinked. "Philosophy? What good is that?" Isn't it the art of saying nothing with as many words as possible?
"Philosophy is an important field of study," Jasnah said sternly. "Particularly if you're going to be involved in court politics. The nature of morality must be considered, and preferably before one is exposed to situations where a moral decision is required."
"Yes, Brightness. Though I fail to see how philosophy is more 'hands-on' than history."
"History, by definition, cannot be experienced directly. As it is happening, it is the present, and that is philosophy's realm."
"That's just a matter of definition."
"Yes," Jasnah said, "all words have a tendency to be subject to how they are defined."
"I suppose," Shallan said, leaning back, letting Jasnah dunk her hair to clean off the soap.
The princess began scrubbing her skin with mildly abrasive soap. "That was a particularly bland response, Shallan. What happened to your wit?"
Shallan glanced at the bench and its precious fabrial. After all this time, she had proven too weak to do what needed to be done. "My wit is on temporary hiatus, Brightness," she said. "Pending review by its colleagues, sincerity and temerity."
Jasnah raised an eyebrow at her.
Shallan sat back on her heels, still kneeling on the towel. "How do you know what is right, Jasnah? If you don't listen to the devotaries, how do you decide?"
"That depends upon one's philosophy. What is most important to you?"
"I don't know. Can't you tell me?"
"No," Jasnah replied. "If I gave you the answers, I'd be no better than the devotaries, prescribing beliefs."
"They aren't evil, Jasnah."
"Except when they try to rule the world."
Shallan drew her lips into a thin line. The War of Loss had destroyed the Hierocracy, shattering Vorinism into the devotaries. That was the inevitable result of a religion trying to rule. The devotaries were to teach morals, not enforce them. Enforcement was for the lighteyes.
"You say you can't give me answers," Shallan said. "But can't I ask for the advice of someone wise? Someone who's gone before? Why write our philosophies, draw our conclusions, if not to influence others? You yourself told me that information is worthless unless we use it to make judgments."
Jasnah smiled, dunking her arms and washing off the soap. Shallan caught a victorious glimmer in her eye. She wasn't necessarily advocating ideas because she believed them; she just wanted to push Shallan. It was infuriating. How was Shallan to know what Jasnah really thought if she adopted conflicting points of view like this?
"You act as if there were one answer," Jasnah said, gesturing to Shallan to fetch a towel and climbing from the pool. "A single, eternally perfect response."
Shallan hastily complied, bearing a large, fluffy towel. "Isn't that what philosophy is about? Finding the answers? Seeking the truth, the real meaning of things?"
Toweling off, Jasnah raised an eyebrow at her.
"What?" Shallan asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"I believe it is time for a field exercise," Jasnah said. "Outside of the Palanaeum."
"Now?" Shallan asked. "It's so late!"
"I told you philosophy was a hands-on art," Jasnah said, wrapping the towel around herself, then reaching down and taking the Soulcaster out of its pouch. She slipped the chains around her fingers, securing the gemstones to the back of her hand. "I'll prove it to you. Come, help me dress." As a child, Shallan had relished those evenings when she'd been able to slip away into the gardens. When the blanket of darkness rested atop the grounds, they had seemed a different place entirely. In those shadows, she'd been able to imagine that the rockbuds, shalebark, and trees were some foreign fauna. The scrapings of cremlings climbing out of cracks had become the footsteps of mysterious people from far-off lands. Large-eyed traders from Shinovar, a greatshell rider from Kadrix, or a narrowboat sailor from the Purelake.
She didn't have those same imaginings when walking Kharbranth at night. Imagining dark wanderers in the night had once been an intriguing game-but here, dark wanderers were likely to be real. Instead of becoming a mysterious, intriguing place at night, Kharbranth seemed much the same to her-just more dangerous.
Jasnah ignored the calls of rickshaw pullers and palanquin porters. She walked slowly in a beautiful dress of violet and gold, Shallan following in blue silk. Jasnah hadn't taken time to have her hair done following her bath, and she wore it loose, cascading across her shoulders, almost scandalous in its freedom.
They walked the Ralinsa-the main thoroughfare that led down the hillside in switchbacks, connecting Conclave and port. Despite the late hour, the roadway was crowded, and many of the men who walked here seemed to bear the night inside of them. They were gruff er, more shadowed of face. Shouts still rang through the city, but those carried the night in them too, measured by the roughness of their words and the sharpness of their tones. The steep, slanted hillside that formed the city was no less crowded with buildings than always, yet these too seemed to draw in the night. Blackened, like stones burned by a fire. Hollow remains.
The bells still rang. In the darkness, each ring was a tiny scream. They made the wind more present, a living thing that caused a chiming cacophony each time it passed. A breeze rose, and an avalanche of sound came tumbling across the Ralinsa. Shallan nearly found herself ducking before it.
"Brightness," Shallan said. "Shouldn't we call for a palanquin?"
"A palanquin might inhibit the lesson."
"I'll be all right learning that lesson during the day, if you wouldn't mind."
Jasnah stopped, looking off the Ralinsa and toward a darker side street. "What do you think of that roadway, Shallan?"
"It doesn't look particularly appealing to me."
"And yet," Jasnah said, "it is the most direct route from the Ralinsa to the theater district."
"Is that where we're going?"
"We aren't 'going' anywhere," Jasnah said, taking off down the side street. "We are acting, pondering, and learning."
Shallan followed nervously. The night swallowed them; only the occasional light from late-night taverns and shops offered illumination. Jasnah wore her black, fingerless glove over her Soulcaster, hiding the light of its gemstones.
Shallan found herself creeping. Her slippered feet could feel every change in the ground underfoot, each pebble and crack. She looked about nervously as they passed a group of workers gathered around a tavern doorway. They were darkeyes, of course. In the night, that distinction seemed more profound.
"Brightness?" Shallan asked in a hushed tone.
"When we are young," Jasnah said, "we want simple answers. There is no greater indication of youth, perhaps, than the desire for everything to be as it should. As it has ever been."
Shallan frowned, still watching the men by the tavern over her shoulder.
"The older we grow," Jasnah said, "the more we question. We begin to ask why. And yet, we still want the answers to be simple. We assume that the people around us-adults, leaders-will have those answers. Whatever they give often satisfies us."
"I was never satisfied," Shallan said softly. "I wanted more."
"You were mature," Jasnah said. "What you describe happens to most of us, as we age. Indeed, it seems to me that aging, wisdom, and wondering are synonymous. The older we grow, the more likely we are to reject the simple answers. Unless someone gets in our way and demands they be accepted regardless." Jasnah's eyes narrowed. "You wonder why I reject the devotaries."
"I do."
"Most of them seek to stop the questions." Jasnah halted. Then she briefly pulled back her glove, using the light beneath to reveal the street around her. The gemstones on her hand-larger than broams-blazed like torches, red, white, and grey.
"Is it wise to be showing your wealth like that, Brightness?" Shallan said, speaking very softly and glancing about her.
"No," Jasnah said. "It is most certainly not. Particularly not here. You see, this street has gained a particular reputation lately. On three separate occasions during the last two months, theatergoers who chose this route to the main road were accosted by footpads. In each case, the people were murdered."
Shallan felt herself grow pale.
"The city watch," Jasnah said, "has done nothing. Taravangian has sent them several pointed reprimands, but the captain of the watch is cousin to a very influential lighteyes in the city, and Taravangian is not a terribly powerful king. Some suspect that there is more going on, that the footpads might be bribing the watch. The politics of it are irrelevant at the moment for, as you can see, no members of the watch are guarding the place, despite its reputation."
Jasnah pulled her glove back on, plunging the roadway back into darkness. Shallan blinked, her eyes adjusting.
"How foolish," Jasnah said, "would you say it is for us to come here, two undefended women wearing costly clothing and bearing riches?"
"Very foolish. Jasnah, can we go? Please. Whatever lesson you have in mind isn't worth this."
Jasnah drew her lips into a line, then looked toward a narrow, darker alleyway off the road they were on. It was almost completely black now that Jasnah had replaced her glove.
"You're at an interesting place in your life, Shallan," Jasnah said, flexing her hand. "You are old enough to wonder, to ask, to reject what is presented to you simply because it was presented to you. But you also cling to the idealism of youth. You feel there must be some single, all-defining Truth-and you think that once you find it, all that once confused you will suddenly make sense."
"I…" Shallan wanted to argue, but Jasnah's words were tellingly accurate. The terrible things Shallan had done, the terrible thing she had planned to do, haunted her. Was it possible to do something horrible in the name of accomplishing something wonderful?
Jasnah walked into the narrow alleyway.
"Jasnah!" Shallan said. "What are you doing?"
"This is philosophy in action, child," Jasnah said. "Come with me."
Shallan hesitated at the mouth of the alleyway, her heart thumping, her thoughts muddled. The wind blew and bells rang, like frozen raindrops shattering against the stones. In a moment of decision, she rushed after Jasnah, preferring company, even in the dark, to being alone. The shrouded glimmer of the Soulcaster was barely enough to light their way, and Shallan followed in Jasnah's shadow.
Noise from behind. Shallan turned with a start to see several dark forms crowding into the alley. "Oh, Stormfather," she whispered. Why? Why was Jasnah doing this?
Shaking, Shallan grabbed at Jasnah's dress with her freehand. Other shadows were moving in front of them, from the far side of the alley. They grew closer, grunting, splashing through foul, stagnant puddles. Chill water had already soaked Shallan's slippers.
Jasnah stopped moving. The frail light of her cloaked Soulcaster reflected off metal in the hands of their stalkers. Swords or knives.
These men meant murder. You didn't rob women like Shallan and Jasnah, women with powerful connections, then leave them alive as witnesses. Men like these were not the gentlemen bandits of romantic stories. They lived each day knowing that if they were caught, they would be hanged.
Paralyzed by fear, Shallan couldn't even scream.
Stormfather, Stormfather, Stormfather!
"And now," Jasnah said, voice hard and grim, "the lesson." She whipped off her glove.
The sudden light was nearly blinding. Shallan raised a hand against it, stumbling back against the alley wall. There were four men around them. Not the men from the tavern entrance, but others. Men she hadn't noticed watching them. She could see the knives now, and she could also see the murder in their eyes.
Her scream finally broke free.
The men grunted at the glare, but shoved their way forward. A thick-chested man with a dark beard came up to Jasnah, weapon raised. She calmly reached her hand out-fingers splayed-and pressed it against his chest as he swung a knife. Shallan's breath caught in her throat.
Jasnah's hand sank into the man's skin, and he froze. A second later he burned.
No, he became fire. Transformed into flames in an eyeblink. Rising around Jasnah's hand, they formed the outline of a man with head thrown back and mouth open. For just a moment, the blaze of the man's death outshone Jasnah's gemstones.
Shallan's scream trailed off. The figure of flames was strangely beautiful. It was gone in a moment, the fire dissipating into the night air, leaving an orange afterimage in Shallan's eyes.
The other three men began to curse, scrambling away, tripping over one another in their panic. One fell. Jasnah turned casually, brushing his shoulder with her fingers as he struggled to his knees. He became crystal, a figure of pure, flawless quartz-his clothing transformed along with him. The diamond in Jasnah's Soulcaster faded, but there was still plenty of Stormlight left to send rainbow sparkles through the transformed corpse.
The other two men fled in opposite directions. Jasnah took a deep breath, closing her eyes, lifting her hand above her head. Shallan held her safehand to her breast, stunned, confused. Terrified.
Stormlight shot from Jasnah's hand like twin bolts of lightning, symmetrical. One struck each of the footpads and they popped, puffing into smoke. Their empty clothing dropped to the ground. With a sharp snap, the smokestone crystal on Jasnah's Soulcaster cracked, its light vanishing, leaving her with just the diamond and the ruby.
The remains of the two footpads rose into the air, small billows of greasy vapor. Jasnah opened her eyes, looking eerily calm. She tugged her glove back on-using her safehand to hold it against her stomach and sliding her freehand fingers in. Then she calmly walked back the way they had come. She left the crystal corpse kneeling with hand upraised. Frozen forever.
Shallan pried herself off the wall and hastened after Jasnah, sickened and amazed. Ardents were forbidden to use their Soulcasters on people. They rarely even used them in front of others. And how had Jasnah struck down two men at a distance? From everything Shallan had read-what little there was to find-Soulcasting required physical contact.
Too overwhelmed to demand answers, she stood silent-freehand held to the side of her head, trying to control her trembling and her gasping breaths-as Jasnah called for a palanquin. One came eventually, and the two women climbed in.
The bearers carried them toward the Ralinsa, their steps jostling Shallan and Jasnah, who sat across from one another in the palanquin. Jasnah idly popped the broken smokestone from her Soulcaster, then tucked it into a pocket. It could be sold to a gemsmith, who could cut smaller gemstones from the salvaged pieces.
"That was horrible," Shallan finally said, hand still held to her breast. "It was one of the most awful things I've ever experienced. You killed four men."
"Four men who were planning to beat, rob, kill, and possibly rape us."
"You tempted them into coming for us!"
"Did I force them to commit any crimes?"
"You showed off your gemstones."
"Can a woman not walk with her possessions down the street of a city?"
"At night?" Shallan asked. "Through a rough area? Displaying wealth? You all but asked for what happened!"
"Does that make it right?" Jasnah said, leaning forward. "Do you condone what the men were planning to do?"
"Of course not. But that doesn't make what you did right either!"
"And yet, those men are off the street. The people of this city are that much safer. The issue that Taravangian has been so worried about has been solved, and no more theatergoers will fall to those thugs. How many lives did I just save?"
"I know how many you just took," Shallan said. "And through the power of something that should be holy!"
"Philosophy in action. An important lesson for you."
"You did all this just to prove a point," Shallan said softly. "You did this to prove to me that you could. Damnation, Jasnah, how could you do something like that?"
Jasnah didn't reply. Shallan stared at the woman, searching for emotion in those expressionless eyes. Stormfather. Did I ever really know this woman? Who is she, really?
Jasnah leaned back, watching the city pass. "I did not do this just to prove a point, child. I have been feeling for some time that I took advantage of His Majesty's hospitality. He doesn't realize how much trouble he could face for allying himself with me. Besides, men like those…" There was something in her voice, an edge Shallan had never heard before.
What was done to you? Shallan wondered with horror. And who did it?
"Regardless," Jasnah continued, "tonight's actions came about because I chose this path, not because of anything I felt you needed to see. However, the opportunity also presented a chance for instruction, for questions. Am I a monster or am I a hero? Did I just slaughter four men, or did I stop four murderers from walking the streets? Does one deserve to have evil done to her by consequence of putting herself where evil can reach her? Did I have a right to defend myself? Or was I just looking for an excuse to end lives?"
"I don't know," Shallan whispered.
"You will spend the next week researching it and thinking on it. If you wish to be a scholar-a true scholar who changes the world-then you will need to face questions like this. There will be times when you must make decisions that churn your stomach, Shallan Davar. I'll have you ready to make those decisions."
Jasnah fell silent, looking out the side as the palanquin bearers marched them up to the Conclave. Too troubled to say more, Shallan suffered the rest of the trip in silence. She followed Jasnah through the hushed hallways to their rooms, passing scholars on their way to the Palanaeum for some midnight study.
Inside their rooms, Shallan helped Jasnah undress, though she hated touching the woman. She shouldn't have felt that way. The men Jasnah had killed were terrible creatures, and she had little doubt that they would have killed her. But it wasn't the act itself so much as the cold callousness of it that bothered her.
Still feeling numb, Shallan fetched Jasnah a sleeping robe as the woman removed her jewelry and set it on the dressing table. "You could have let the other three get away," Shallan said, walking back toward Jasnah, who had sat down to brush her hair. "You only needed to kill one of them."
"No, I didn't," Jasnah said.
"Why? They would have been too frightened to do something like that again."
"You don't know that. I sincerely wanted those men gone. A careless barmaid walking home the wrong way cannot protect herself, but I can. And I will."
"You have no authority to do so, not in someone else's city."
"True," Jasnah said. "Another point to consider, I suppose." She raised the brush to her hair, pointedly turning away from Shallan. She closed her eyes, as if to shut Shallan out.
The Soulcaster sat on the dressing table beside Jasnah's earrings. Shallan gritted her teeth, holding the soft, silken robe. Jasnah sat in her white underdress, brushing her hair.
There will be times when you must make decisions that churn your stomach, Shallan Davar…
I've faced them already.
I'm facing one now.
How dare Jasnah do this? How dare she make Shallan a part of it? How dare she use something beautiful and holy as a device for destruction?
Jasnah didn't deserve to own the Soulcaster.
With a swift move of her hand, Shallan tucked the folded robe under her safearm, then shoved her hand into her safepouch and popped out the intact smokestone from her father's Soulcaster. She stepped up to the dressing table, and-using the motion of placing the robe onto the table as a cover-made the exchange. She slid the working Soulcaster into her safehand within its sleeve, stepping back as Jasnah opened her eyes and glanced at the robe, which now sat innocently beside the nonfunctional Soulcaster.
Shallan's breath caught in her throat.
Jasnah closed her eyes again, handing the brush toward Shallan. "Fifty strokes tonight, Shallan. It has been a fatiguing day."
Shallan moved by rote, brushing her mistress's hair while clutching the stolen Soulcaster in her hidden safehand, panicked that Jasnah would notice the swap at any moment.
She didn't. Not when she put on her robe. Not when she tucked the broken Soulcaster away in her jewelry case and locked it with a key she wore around her neck as she slept.
Shallan walked from the room stunned, in turmoil. Exhausted, sickened, confused.
But undiscovered.