"Kaladin, look at this rock," Tien said. "It changes colors when you look at it from different sides."
Kal looked away from the window, glancing at his brother. Now thirteen years of age, Tien had turned from an eager boy into an eager adolescent. Though he'd grown, he was still small for his age, and his mop of black and brown hair still refused all attempts at order. He was squatting beside the lacquered cobwood dinner table, eyes level with the glossy surface, looking at a small, lumpish rock.
Kal sat on a stool peeling longroots with a short knife. The brown roots were dirty on the outside and sticky when he sliced into them, so working on them coated his fingers with a thick layer of crem. He finished a root and handed it up to his mother, who washed it off and sliced it into the stew pot.
"Mother, look at this," Tien said. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the leeside window, bathing the table. "From this side, the rock sparkles red, but from the other side, it's green."
"Perhaps it's magical," Hesina said. Chunk after chunk of longroot plunked into the water, each splash with a slightly different note.
"I think it must be," Tien said. "Or it has a spren. Do spren live in rocks?"
"Spren live in everything," Hesina replied.
"They can't live in everything," Kal said, dropping a peel into the pail at his feet. He glanced out the window, watching the road that led from the town to the citylord's mansion.
"They do," Hesina said. "Spren appear when something changes-when fear appears, or when it begins to rain. They are the heart of change, and therefore the heart of all things."
"This longroot," Kal said, holding it up skeptically.
"Has a spren."
"And if you slice it up?"
"Each bit has a spren. Only smaller."
Kal frowned, looking over the long tuber. They grew in cracks in the stone where water collected. They tasted faintly of minerals, but were easy to grow. His family needed food that didn't cost much, these days.
"So we eat spren," Kal said flatly.
"No," she said, "we eat the roots."
"When we have to," Tien added with a grimace.
"And the spren?" Kal pressed.
"They are freed. To return to wherever it is that spren live."
"Do I have a spren?" Tien said, looking down at his chest.
"You have a soul, dear. You're a person. But the pieces of your body may very well have spren living in them. Very small ones."
Tien pinched at his skin, as if trying to pry the tiny spren out.
"Dung," Kal said suddenly.
"Kal!" Hesina snapped. "That's not talk for mealtime."
"Dung," Kal said stubbornly. "It has spren?"
"I suppose it does."
"Dungspren," Tien said, then snickered.
His mother continued to chop. "Why all of these questions, suddenly?"
Kal shrugged. "I just-I don't know. Because."
He'd been thinking recently about the way the world worked, about what he was to do with his place in it. The other boys his age, they didn't wonder about their place. Most knew what their future held. Working in the fields.
Kal had a choice, though. Over the last several months, he'd finally made that choice. He would become a soldier. He was fifteen now, and could volunteer when the next recruiter came through town. He planned to do just that. No more wavering. He would learn to fight. That was the end of it. Wasn't it?
"I want to understand," he said. "I just want everything to make sense."
His mother smiled at that, standing in her brown work dress, hair pulled back in a tail, the top hidden beneath her yellow kerchief.
"What?" he demanded. "Why are you smiling?"
"You just want everything to make sense?"
"Yes."
"Well next time the ardents come through the town to burn prayers and Elevate people's Callings, I'll pass the message along." She smiled. "Until then, keep peeling roots."
Kal sighed, but did as she told him. He checked out the window again, and nearly dropped the root in shock. The carriage. It was coming down the roadway from the mansion. He felt a flutter of nervous hesitation. He'd planned, he'd thought, but now that the time was upon him, he wanted to sit and keep peeling. There would be another opportunity, surely…
No. He stood, trying to keep the anxiety from his voice. "I'm going to go rinse off." He held up crem-covered fingers.
"You should have washed the roots off first as I told you," his mother noted.
"I know," Kal said. Did his sigh of regret sound fake? "Maybe I'll just wash them all off now."
Hesina said nothing as he gathered up the remaining roots, crossed to the door, heart thumping, and stepped out into the evening light.
"See," Tien said from behind, "from this side it's green. I don't think it's a spren, Mother. It's the light. It makes the rock change…"
The door swung closed. Kal set down the tubers and charged through the streets of Hearthstone, passing men chopping wood, women throwing out dishwater, and a group of grandfathers sitting on steps and looking at the sunset. He dunked his hands into a rain barrel, but didn't stop as he shook the water free. He ran around Mabrow Pigherder's house, up past the commonwater-the large hole cut into the rock at the center of the town to catch rain-and along the breakwall, the steep hillside against which the town was built to shield it from storms.
Here, he found a small stand of stumpweight trees. Knobby and about as tall as a man, they grew leaves only on their leeward sides, running down the length of the tree like rungs on a ladder, waving in the cool breeze. As Kal got close, the large, bannerlike leaves snapped up close to the trunks, making a series of whipping sounds.
Kal's father stood on the other side, hands clasped behind his back. He was waiting where the road from the manor turned past Hearthstone. Lirin turned with a start, noticing Kal. He wore his finest clothing: a blue coat, buttoning up the sides, like a lighteyes's coat. But it was over a pair of white trousers that showed wear. He studied Kal through his spectacles.
"I'm going with you," Kal blurted. "Up to the mansion."
"How did you know?
"Everyone knows," Kal said. "You think they wouldn't talk if Brightlord Roshone invited you to dinner? You, of all people?"
Lirin looked away. "I told your mother to keep you busy."
"She tried." Kal grimaced. "I'll probably hear a storm of it when she finds those longroots sitting outside the front door."
Lirin said nothing. The carriage rolled to a stop nearby, wheels grinding against the stone.
"This will not be a pleasant, idle meal, Kal," Lirin said.
"I'm not a fool, Father." When Hesina had been told there was no more need for her to work in the town…Well, there was a reason they'd been reduced to eating longroots. "If you're going to confront him, then you should have someone to support you."
"And that someone is you?"
"I'm pretty much all you have."
The coachman cleared his throat. He didn't get down and open the door, the way he did for Brightlord Roshone.
Lirin eyed Kal.
"If you send me back, I'll go," Kal said.
"No. Come along if you must." Lirin walked up to the carriage and pulled open the door. It wasn't the fancy, gold-trimmed vehicle that Roshone used. This was the second carriage, the older brown one. Kal climbed in, feeling a surge of excitement at the small victory-and an equal measure of panic.
They were going to face Roshone. Finally.
The benches inside were amazing, the red cloth covering them softer than anything Kal had ever felt. He sat down, and the seat was surprisingly springy. Lirin sat across from Kal, pulling the door closed, and the coachman snapped his whip at the horses. The vehicle turned around and rattled back up the road. As soft as the seat was, the ride was terribly bumpy, and it rattled Kal's teeth against one another. It was worse than riding in a wagon, though that was probably because they were going faster.
"Why didn't you want us to know about this?" Kal asked.
"I wasn't certain I'd go."
"What else would you do?"
"Move away," Lirin said. "Take you to Kharbranth and escape this town, this kingdom, and Roshone's petty grudges."
Kal blinked in shock. He'd never thought of that. Suddenly everything seemed to expand. His future changed, wrapping upon itself, folding into a new form entirely. Father, Mother, Tien…with him. "Really?"
Lirin nodded absently. "Even if we didn't go to Kharbranth, I'm sure many Alethi towns would welcome us. Most have never had a surgeon to care for them. They do the best they can with local men who learned most of what they know from superstition or working on the occasional wounded chull. We could even move to Kholinar; I'm skilled enough to get work as a physician's assistant there."
"Why don't we go, then? Why haven't we gone?"
Lirin watched out the window. "I don't know. We should leave. It makes sense. We have the money. We aren't wanted here. The citylord hates us, the people mistrust us, the Stormfather himself seems inclined to knock us down." There was something in Lirin's voice. Regret?
"I tried very hard to leave once," Lirin said, more softly. "But there's a tie between a man's home and his heart. I've cared for these people, Kal. Delivered their children, set their bones, healed their scrapes. You've seen the worst of them, these last few years, but there was a time before that, a good time." He turned to Kal, clasping his hands in front of him, the carriage rattling. "They're mine, son. And I'm theirs. They're my responsibility, now that Wistiow has gone. I can't leave them to Roshone."
"Even if they like what he's doing?"
"Particularly because of that." Lirin raised a hand to his head. "Stormfather. It sounds more foolish now that I say it."
"No. I understand. I think." Kal shrugged. "I guess, well, they still come to us when they're hurt. They complain about how unnatural it is to cut into a person, but they still come. I used to wonder why."
"And did you come to a conclusion?"
"Kind of. I decided that in the end, they'd rather be alive to curse at you a few more days. It's what they do. Just like healing them is what you do. And they used to give you money. A man can say all kinds of things, but where he sets his spheres, that's where his heart is." Kal frowned. "I guess they did appreciate you."
Lirin smiled. "Wise words. I keep forgetting that you're nearly a man, Kal. When did you go and grow up on me?"
That night when we were nearly robbed, Kal thought immediately. That night when you shone light on the men outside, and showed that bravery had nothing to do with a spear held in battle.
"You're wrong about one thing, though," Lirin said. "You told me that they did appreciate me. But they still do. Oh, they grumble-they've always done that. But they also leave food for us."
Kal started. "They do?"
"How do you think we've been eating these last four months?"
"But-"
"They're frightened of Roshone, so they're quiet about it. They left it for your mother when she went to clean or put it in the rain barrel when it's empty."
"They tried to rob us."
"And those very men were among the ones who gave us food as well."
Kal pondered that as the carriage arrived at the manor house. It had been a long time since he'd visited the large, two-story building. It was constructed with a standard roof that sloped toward the stormward side, but was much larger. The walls were of thick white stones, and it had majestic square pillars on the leeward side.
Would he see Laral here? He was embarrassed by how infrequently he thought about her these days.
The mansion's front grounds had a low stone wall covered with all kinds of exotic plants. Rockbuds lined the top, their vines draping down the outside. Clusters of a bulbous variety of shalebark grew along the inside, bursting with a variety of bright colors. Oranges, reds, yellows, and blues. Some outcroppings looked like heaps of clothing, with folds spread like fans. Others grew out like horns. Most had tendrils like threads that waved in the wind. Brightlord Roshone paid much more attention to his grounds than Wistiow had.
They walked up past the whitewashed pillars and entered between the thick wooden stormdoors. The vestibule inside had a low ceiling and was decorated with ceramics; zircon spheres gave them a pale blue cast.
A tall servant in a long black coat and a bright purple cravat greeted them. He was Natir, the steward now that Miliv had died. He'd been brought in from Dalilak, a large coastal city to the north.
Natir led them to a dining room where Roshone sat at a long darkwood table. He'd gained weight, though not enough to be called fat. He still had that grey-flecked beard, and his hair was greased back down to his collar. He wore white trousers and a tight red vest over a white shirt.
He'd already begun his meal, and the spicy scents made Kal's stomach rumble. How long had it been since he'd had pork? There were five different dipping sauces on the table, and Roshone's wine was a deep, crystalline orange. He ate alone, no sign of Laral or his son.
The servant gestured toward a side table set up in a room next to the dining hall. Kal's father took one look at it, then walked to Roshone's table and sat down. Roshone paused, skewer halfway to his lips, spicy brown sauce dripping to the table before him.
"I'm of the second nahn," Lirin said, "and I have a personal invitation to dine with you. Surely you follow the precepts of rank closely enough to give me a place at your table."
Roshone clenched his teeth, but did not object. Taking a deep breath, Kal sat down beside his father. Before he left to join the war on the Shattered Plains, he had to know. Was his father a coward or a man of courage?
By the light of spheres at home, Lirin had always seemed weak. He worked in his surgery room, ignoring what the townspeople said about him. He told his son he couldn't practice with the spear and forbade him to think of going to war. Weren't those the actions of a coward? But five months ago, Kal had seen courage in him that he'd never expected.
And in the calm blue light of Roshone's palace, Lirin met the eyes of a man far above him in rank, wealth, and power. And did not flinch. How did he do it? Kal's heart thumped uncontrollably. He had to put his hands in his lap to keep them from betraying his nervousness.
Roshone waved to a serving man, and within a short time, new places had been set. The periphery of the room was dark. Roshone's table was an illuminated island amid a vast black expanse.
There were bowls of water for dipping one's fingers and stiff white cloth napkins beside them. A lighteyes' meal. Kal had rarely eaten such fine food; he tried not to make a fool of himself as he hesitantly took a skewer and imitated Roshone, using his knife to slide down the bottommost chunk of meat, then raising it and biting. The meat was savory and tender, though the spices were much hotter than he was accustomed to.
Lirin did not eat. He rested his elbows on the table, watching the Brightlord dine.
"I wished to offer you the chance to eat in peace," Roshone said eventually, "before we talked of serious matters. But you don't seem inclined to partake of my generosity."
"No."
"Very well," Roshone said, taking a piece of flatbread from the basket and wrapping it around his skewer, pulling off several vegetable chunks at once and eating them with the bread. "Then tell me. How long do you think you can defy me? Your family is destitute."
"We do just fine," Kal cut in.
Lirin glanced at him, but did not chastise him for speaking. "My son is correct. We can live. And if that doesn't work, we can leave. I will not bend to your will, Roshone."
"If you left," Roshone said, holding up a finger, "I would contact your new citylord and tell him of the spheres stolen from me."
"I would win an inquest over that. Besides, as a surgeon, I am immune to most demands you could make." It was true; men and their apprentices who served an essential function in towns were afforded special protection, even from lighteyes. The Vorin legal code of citizenship was complex enough that Kaladin still had difficulty understanding it.
"Yes, you would win an inquest," Roshone said. "You were so meticulous, preparing the exact right documents. You were the only one with Wistiow when he stamped them. Odd, that none of his clerks were there."
"Those clerks read him the documents."
"And then left the room."
"Because they were ordered to leave by Brightlord Wistiow. They have admitted this, I believe."
Roshone shrugged. "I don't need to prove that you stole the spheres, surgeon. I simply have to continue doing as I have been. I know that your family eats scraps. How long will you continue to make them suffer for your pride?"
"They won't be intimidated. And neither will I."
"I'm not asking if you're intimidated. I'm asking if you're starving."
"Not by any means," Lirin said, voice growing dry. "If we lack for something to eat, we can feast upon the attention you lavish upon us, Brightlord. We feel your eyes watching, hear your whispers to the townspeople. Judging from the degree of your concern with us, it would seem that you are the one who is intimidated."
Roshone fell still, skewer held limply in his hand, brilliant green eyes narrowed, lips pursed tight. In the dark, those eyes almost seemed to glow. Kal had to stop himself from cringing under the weight of that disapproving gaze. There was an air of command about lighteyes like Roshone.
He's not a real lighteyes! He's a reject. I'll see real ones eventually. Men of honor.
Lirin held the gaze evenly. "Every month we resist is a blow to your authority. You can't have me arrested, since I would win an inquest. You've tried to turn the other people against me, but they know-deep down-that they need me."
Roshone leaned forward. "I do not like your little town."
Lirin frowned at the odd response.
"I do not like being treated like an exile," Roshone continued. "I do not like living so far from anything-everything-important. And most of all, I do not like darkeyes who think themselves above their stations."
"I have trouble feeling sympathy for you."
Roshone sneered. He looked down at his meal, as if it had lost any flavor. "Very well. Let us make an…accommodation. I will take nine-tenths of the spheres. You can have the rest."
Kal stood up indignantly. "My father will never-"
"Kal," Lirin cut in. "I can speak for myself."
"Surely you won't make a deal, though."
Lirin didn't reply immediately. Finally, he said, "Go to the kitchens, Kal. Ask them if they have some food more to your tastes."
"Father, no-"
"Go, son." Lirin's voice was firm.
Was it true? After all of this, would his father simply capitulate? Kal felt his face grow red, and he fled the dining room. He knew the way to the kitchens. During his childhood, he'd often dined there with Laral.
He left not because he was told to, but because he didn't want his father or Roshone to see his emotions: chagrin at having stood to denounce Roshone when his father planned to make a deal, humiliation that his father would consider a deal, frustration at being banished. Kal was mortified to find himself crying. He passed a couple of Roshone's house soldiers standing at the doorway, lit only by a very low-trimmed oil lamp on the wall. Their rough features were highlighted in amber hues.
Kal hastened past them, turning a corner before pausing beside a plant stand, struggling with his emotions. The stand displayed an indoor vine-bud, one bred to remain open; a few conelike flowers climbed up from its vestigial shell. The lamp on the wall above it burned with a tiny, strangled light. These were the back rooms of the mansion, near the servant quarters, and spheres were not used for light here.
Kal leaned back, breathing in and out. He felt like one of the ten fools-specifically Cabine, who acted like a child though he was adult. But what was he to think of Lirin's actions?
He wiped his eyes, then pushed his way through the swinging doors into the kitchens. Roshone still employed Wistiow's chef. Barm was a tall, slender man with dark hair that he wore braided. He walked down the line of his kitchen counter, giving instructions to his various subchefs as a couple of parshmen walked in and out through the mansion's back doors, carrying in crates of food. Barm carried a long metal spoon, which banged on a pot or pan hanging from the ceiling each time he gave an order.
He barely spared Kal a brown-eyed glance, then told one of his servants to go fetch some flatbread and fruited tallew rice. A child's meal. Kal felt even more embarrassed that Barm had known instantly why he had been sent to the kitchens.
Kal walked to the dining nook to wait for the food. It was a whitewashed alcove with a slate-topped table. He sat down, elbows on the stone, head on his hands.
Why did it make him so angry to think that his father might bargain away most of the spheres in exchange for safety? True, if that happened, there wouldn't be enough to send Kal to Kharbranth. But he'd already decided to become a soldier. So it didn't matter. Did it?
I am going to join the army, Kal thought. I'll run away, I'll…
Suddenly, that dream-that plan-seemed incredibly childish. It belonged to a boy who ought to eat fruited meals and deserved to be sent away when the men talked of important topics. For the first time, the thought of not training with the surgeons filled him with regret.
The door into the kitchens banged open. Roshone's son, Rillir, sauntered in, chatting with the person behind him. "…don't know why Father insists on keeping everything so dreary around here all the time. Oil lamps in the hallways? Could he be any more provincial? It would do him some real good if I could get him out on a hunt or two. We might as well get some use out of being in this remote place."
Rillir noticed Kal sitting there, but passed over him as one might register the presence of a stool or a shelf for wine: noting it, but otherwise ignoring it.
Kal's own eyes were on the person who followed Rillir. Laral. Wistiow's daughter.
So much had changed. It had been so long, and seeing her brought up old emotions. Shame, excitement. Did she know that his parents had been hoping to marry him to her? Merely seeing her again almost flustered him completely. But no. His father could look Roshone in the eyes. He could do the same with her.
Kal stood up and nodded to her. She glanced at him, and blushed faintly, walking in with an old nurse in tow-a chaperone.
What had happened to the Laral he'd known, the girl with the loose yellow and black hair who liked climbing on rocks and running through fields? Now she was wrapped up in sleek yellow silk, a stylish lighteyed woman's dress, her neatly coiffed hair dyed black to hide the blond. Her left hand was hidden modestly in her sleeve. Laral looked like a lighteyes.
Wistiow's wealth-what was left of it-had gone to her. And when Roshone had been given authority over Hearthstone and granted the mansion and surrounding lands, Highprince Sadeas had given Laral a dowry in compensation.
"You," Rillir said, nodding to Kal and speaking in a smooth, city accent. "Be a good lad and fetch us some supper. We'll take it here in the nook."
"I'm not a kitchen servant."
"So?"
Kal flushed.
"If you're expecting some kind of tip or reward for just fetching me a meal…"
"I'm not-I mean-" Kal looked to Laral. "Tell him, Laral."
She looked away. "Well, go on, boy," she said. "Do as you're told. We're hungry."
Kal gaped at her, then felt his face redden even more. "I'm…I'm not going to fetch you anything!" he managed to say. "I wouldn't do it no matter how many spheres you offer me. I'm not an errand boy, I'm a surgeon."
"Oh, you're that one's son."
"I am," Kal said, surprised at how proudly he felt those words. "I'm not going to be bullied by you, Rillir Roshone. Just like my father isn't bullied by yours."
Except, they are making a deal right now…
"Father didn't mention how amusing you were," Rillir said, leaning back against the wall. He seemed a decade older than Kal, not a mere two years. "So you find it shameful to fetch a man his meal? Being a surgeon makes you that much better than the kitchen staff?"
"Well, no. It's just not my Calling."
"Then what is your Calling?"
"Making sick people well."
"And if I don't eat, won't I be sick? So couldn't you call it your duty to see me fed?"
Kal frowned. "It's…well, it's not the same thing at all."
"I see it as being very similar."
"Look, why don't you just go get yourself some food?"
"It's not my Calling."
"Then what is your Calling?" Kal returned, throwing the man's own words back at him.
"I'm cityheir," Rillir said. "My duty is to lead-to see that jobs get done and that people are occupied in productive work. And as such, I give important tasks to idling darkeyes to make them useful."
Kal hesitated, growing angry.
"You see how his little mind works," Rillir said to Laral. "Like a dying fire, burning what little fuel it has, pumping out smoke. Ah, and look, his face grows red from the heat of it."
"Rillir, please," Laral said, laying her hand on his arm.
Rillir glanced at her, then rolled his eyes. "You're as provincial as my father sometimes, dear." He stood up straight and-with a look of resignation-led her past the nook and into the kitchen proper.
Kal sat back down hard, nearly bruising his legs on the bench with the force of it. A serving boy brought him his food and set it on the table, but that only reminded Kal of his childishness. So he didn't eat it; he just stared at it until, eventually, his father walked into the kitchen. Rillir and Laral were gone by then.
Lirin walked to the alcove and surveyed Kal. "You didn't eat."
Kal shook his head.
"You should have. It was free. Come on."
They walked in silence from the mansion into the dark night. The carriage awaited them, and soon Kal again sat facing his father. The driver climbed into place, making the vehicle quiver, and a snap of his whip set the horses in motion.
"I want to be a surgeon," Kal said suddenly.
His father's face-hidden in shadow-was unreadable. But when he spoke, he sounded confused. "I know that, son."
"No. I want to be a surgeon. I don't want to run away to join the war."
Silence in the darkness.
"You were considering that?" Lirin asked.
"Yes," Kal admitted. "It was childish. But I've decided for myself that I want to learn surgery instead."
"Why? What made you change?"
"I need to know how they think," Kal said, nodding back toward the mansion. "They're trained to speak their sentences in knots, and I have to be able to face them and talk back at them. Not fold like…" He hesitated.
"Like I did?" Lirin asked with a sigh.
Kal bit his lip, but had to ask. "How many spheres did you agree to give him? Will I still have enough to go to Kharbranth?"
"I didn't give him a thing."
"But-"
"Roshone and I talked for a time, arguing over amounts. I pretended to grow hotheaded and left."
"Pretended?" Kal asked, confused.
His father leaned forward, whispering to make certain the driver couldn't hear. With the bouncing and the noise of the wheels on the stone, there was little danger of that. "He has to think that I'm willing to bend. Today's meeting was about giving the appearance of desperation. A strong front at first, followed by frustration, letting him think that he'd gotten to me. Finally a retreat. He'll invite me again in a few months, after letting me 'sweat.'"
"But you won't bend then, either?" Kal whispered.
"No. Giving him any of the spheres would make him greedy for the rest. These lands don't produce as they used to, and Roshone is nearly broke from losing political battles. I still don't know which highlord was behind sending him here to torment us, though I wish I had him for a few moments in a dark room…"
The ferocity with which Lirin said that shocked Kal. It was the closest he'd ever heard his father come to threatening real violence.
"But why go through this in the first place?" Kal whispered. "You said that we can keep resisting him. Mother thinks so too. We won't eat well, but we won't starve."
His father didn't reply, though he looked troubled.
"You need to make him think that we're capitulating," Kal said. "Or that we're close to doing so. So that he'll stop looking for ways to undermine us? So he'll focus his attention on making a deal and not-"
Kal froze. He saw something unfamiliar in his father's eyes. Something like guilt. Suddenly it made sense. Cold, terrible sense.
"Stormfather," Kal whispered. "You did steal the spheres, didn't you?"
His father remained silent, riding in the old carriage, shadowed and black.
"That's why you've been so tense since Wistiow died," Kal whispered. "The drinking, the worrying…You're a thief! We're a family of thieves."
The carriage turned, and the violet light of Salas illuminated Lirin's face. He didn't look half so ominous from that angle-in fact, he looked fragile. He clasped his hands before him, eyes reflecting moonlight. "Wistiow was not lucid during the final days, Kal," he whispered. "I knew that, with his death, we would lose the promise of a union. Laral had not reached her day of majority, and the new citylord wouldn't let a darkeyes take her inheritance through marriage."
"So you robbed him?" Kal felt himself shrinking.
"I made certain that promises were kept. I had to do something. I couldn't trust to the generosity of the new citylord. Wisely, as you can see."
All of this time, Kal had assumed that Roshone was persecuting them out of malice and spite. But it turned out he was justified. "I can't believe it."
"Does it change so much?" Lirin whispered. His face looked haunted in the dim light. "What is different now?"
"Everything."
"And yet nothing. Roshone still wants those spheres, and we still deserve them. Wistiow, if he'd been fully lucid, would have given us those spheres. I'm certain."
"But he didn't."
"No."
Things were the same, yet different. One step, and the world flipped upside down. The villain became the hero, the hero the villain. "I-" Kal said. "I can't decide if what you did was incredibly brave or incredibly wrong."
Lirin sighed. "I know how you feel." He sat back. "Please, don't tell Tien what we've done." What we've done. Hesina had helped him. "When you are older, you'll understand."
"Maybe," Kal said, shaking his head. "But one thing hasn't changed. I want to go to Kharbranth."
"Even on stolen spheres?"
"I'll find a way to pay them back. Not to Roshone. To Laral."
"She'll be a Roshone before too long," Lirin said. "We should expect an engagement between her and Rillir before the year is out. Roshone will not let her slip away, not now that he's lost political favor in Kholinar. She represents one of the few chances his son has for an alliance with a good house."
Kal felt his stomach turn at the mention of Laral. "I have to learn. Perhaps I can…"
Can what, he thought. Come back and convince her to leave Rillir for me? Ridiculous.
He looked up suddenly at his father, who had bowed his head, looking sorrowful. He was a hero. A villain too. But a hero to his family. "I won't tell Tien," Kal whispered. "And I'm going to use the spheres to travel to Kholinar and study."
His father looked up.
"I want to learn to face lighteyes, like you do," Kal said. "Any of them can make a fool of me. I want to learn to talk like them, think like them."
"I want you to learn so that you can help people, son. Not so you can get back at the lighteyes."
"I think I can do both. If I can learn to be clever enough."
Lirin snorted. "You're plenty clever, son. You've got enough of your mother in you to talk circles around a lighteyes. The university will show you how, Kal."
"I want to start going by my full name," he replied, surprising himself. "Kaladin." It was a man's name. He'd always disliked how it sounded like the name of a lighteyes. Now it seemed to fit.
He wasn't a darkeyed farmer, but he wasn't a lighteyed lord either. Something in between. Kal had been a child who wanted to join the army because it was what other boys dreamed of. Kaladin would be a man who learned surgery and all the ways of the lighteyes. And someday he would return to this town and prove to Roshone, Rillir, and Laral herself that they had been wrong to dismiss him.
"Very well," Lirin said. "Kaladin." "Born from the darkness, they bear its taint still, marked upon their bodies much as the fire marks their souls." -I consider Gashashson-Navammis a trustworthy source, though I'm not certain about this translation. Find the original quote in the fourteenth book of Seld and retranslate it myself, perhaps? Kaladin floated.
Persistent fever, accompanied by cold sweats and hallucinations. Likely cause is infected wounds; clean with antiseptic to ward away rotspren. Keep the subject hydrated.
He was back in Hearthstone with his family. Only he was a grown man. The soldier he had become. And he didn't fit with them anymore. His father kept asking, How did this happen? You said you wanted to become a surgeon. A surgeon…
Broken ribs. Caused by trauma to the side, inflicted by a beating. Wrap the chest and prevent the subject from taking part in strenuous activity.
Occasionally, he'd open his eyes and see a dark room. It was cold, the walls made of stone, with a high roof. Other people lay in lines, covered in blankets. Corpses. They were corpses. This was a ware house where they were lined up for sale. Who bought corpses?
Highprince Sadeas. He bought corpses. They still walked after he bought them, but they were corpses. The stupid ones refused to accept it, pretending they were alive.
Lacerations on face, arms, and chest. Outer layer of skin stripped away in several patches. Caused by prolonged exposure to highstorm winds. Bandage wounded areas, apply a denocax salve to encourage new skin growth.
Time was passing. A lot of it. He should be dead. Why wasn't he dead? He wanted to lie back and let it happen.
But no. No. He had failed Tien. He had failed Goshel. He had failed his parents. He had failed Dallet. Dear Dallet.
He would not fail Bridge Four. He would not!
Hypothermia, caused by extreme cold. Warm subject and force him to remain seated. Do not let him sleep. If he survives a few hours, there will likely be no lasting aftereffects.
If he survives a few hours…
Bridgemen weren't supposed to survive.
Why would Lamaril say that? What army would employ men who were supposed to die?
His perspective had been too narrow, too shortsighted. He needed to understand the army's objectives. He watched the battle's progress, horrified. What had he done?
He needed to go back and change it. But no. He was wounded, wasn't he? He was bleeding on the ground. He was one of the fallen spearmen. He was a bridgeman from Bridge Two, betrayed by those fools in Bridge Four, who diverted all of the archers.
How dare they? How dare they?
How dare they survive by killing me!
Strained tendons, ripped muscles, bruised and cracked bones, and pervasive soreness caused by extreme conditions. Enforce bed rest by any means necessary. Check for large and persistent bruises or pallor caused by internal hemorrhaging. That can be life-threatening. Be prepared for surgery.
He saw the deathspren. They were fist-size and black, with many legs and deep red eyes that glowed, leaving trails of burning light. They clustered around him, skittering this way and that. Their voices were whispers, scratchy sounds like paper being torn. They terrified him, but he couldn't escape them. He could barely move.
Only the dying could see deathspren. You saw them, then died. Only the very, very lucky few survived after that. Deathspren knew when the end was close.
Blistered fingers and toes, caused by frostnip. Make sure to apply antiseptic to any blisters that break. Encourage the body's natural healing. Permanent damage is unlikely.
Standing before the deathspren was a tiny figure of light. Not translucent, as she had always appeared before, but of pure white light. That soft, feminine face had a nobler, more angular cast to it now, like a warrior from a forgotten time. Not childlike at all. She stood guard on his chest, holding a sword made of light.
That glow was so pure, so sweet. It seemed to be the glow of life itself. Whenever one of the deathspren got too close, she would charge at it, wielding her radiant blade.
The light warded them off.
But there were a lot of deathspren. More and more each time he was lucid enough to look.
Severe delusions caused by trauma to the head. Maintain observation of subject. Do not allow alcohol intake. Enforce rest. Administer fathom bark to reduce cranial swelling. Firemoss can be used in extreme cases, but beware letting the subject form an addiction.
If medication fails, trepanning the skull may be needed to relieve pressure.
Usually fatal. Teft entered the barrack at midday. Ducking into the shadowy interior was like entering a cave. He glanced to the left, where the other wounded usually slept. They were all outside at the moment, getting some sun. All five were doing well, even Leyten.
Teft passed the lines of rolled-up blankets at the sides of the room, walking to the back of the chamber where Kaladin lay.
Poor man, Teft thought. What's worse, being sick near to death, or having to stay all the way back here, away from the light? It was necessary. Bridge Four walked a precarious line. They had been allowed to cut Kaladin down, and so far nobody had tried to stop them from caring for him. Practically the entire army had heard Sadeas give Kaladin to the Stormfather for judgment.
Gaz had come to see Kaladin, then had snorted to himself in amusement. He'd likely told his superiors that Kaladin would die. Men didn't live long with wounds like those.
Yet Kaladin hung on. Soldiers were going out of their way to try to get a peek at him. His survival was incredible. People were talking in camp. Given to the Stormfather for judgment, then spared. A miracle. Sadeas wouldn't like that. How long would it be before one of the lighteyes decided to relieve their brightlord of the problem? Sadeas couldn't take any overt action-not without losing a great deal of credibility-but a quiet poisoning or suffocation would abbreviate the embarrassment.
So Bridge Four kept Kaladin as far from outside eyes as possible. And they always left someone with him. Always.
Storming man, Teft thought, kneeling beside the feverish patient in his tousled blankets, eyes closed, face sweaty, body bound with a frightful number of bandages. Most were stained red. They didn't have the money to change them often.
Skar kept watch currently. The short, strong-faced man sat at Kaladin's feet.
"How is he?" Teft asked.
Skar spoke softly. "He seems to be getting worse, Teft. I heard him mumble about dark shapes, thrashing and telling them to keep back. He opened his eyes. He didn't seem to see me, but he saw something. I swear it."
Deathspren, Teft thought, feeling a chill. Kelek preserve us.
"I'll take a turn," Teft said, sitting. "You go get something to eat."
Skar stood, looking pale. It would crush the others' spirit for Kaladin to survive the highstorm, then die of his wounds. Skar shuffled from the room, shoulders slumped.
Teft watched Kaladin for a long while, trying to gather his thoughts, his emotions. "Why now?" he whispered. "Why here? After so many have watched and waited, you come here?"
But of course, Teft was getting ahead of himself. He didn't know for certain. He only had assumptions and hopes. No, not hopes-fears. He had rejected the Envisagers. And yet, here he was. He fished in his pocket and pulled out three small diamond spheres. It had been a long, long while since he'd saved anything of his wages, but he'd held on to these, thinking, worrying. They glowed with Stormlight in his hand.
Did he really want to know?
Gritting his teeth, Teft moved closer to Kaladin's side, looking down at the unconscious man's face. "You bastard," he whispered. "You storming bastard. You took a bunch of hanged men and lifted them up just enough to breathe. Now you're going to leave them? I won't have it, you hear. I won't."
He pressed the spheres into Kaladin's hand, wrapping the limp fingers around them, then laying the hand on Kaladin's abdomen. Then Teft sat back on his heels. What would happen? All the Envisagers had were stories and legends. Fool's tales, Teft had called them. Idle dreams.
He waited. Of course, nothing happened. You're as big a fool as any, Teft, he told himself. He reached for Kaladin's hand. Those spheres would buy a few drinks.
Kaladin gasped suddenly, drawing in a short, quick, powerful breath.
The glow in his hand faded.
Teft froze, eyes widening. Wisps of Light began to rise from Kaladin's body. It was faint, but there was no mistaking that glowing white Stormlight streaming off his frame. It was as if Kaladin had been bathed in sudden heat, and his very skin steamed.
Kaladin's eyes snapped open, and they leaked light too, faintly colored amber. He gasped again loudly, and the trailing wisps of light began to twist around the exposed cuts on his chest. A few of them pulled together and knit themselves up.
Then it was gone, the Light of those tiny chips expended. Kaladin's eyes closed and he relaxed. His wounds were still bad, his fever still raging, but some color had returned to his skin. The puffy redness around several cuts had diminished.
"My God," Teft said, realizing he was trembling. "Almighty, cast from heaven to dwell in our hearts…It is true." He bowed his head to the rock floor, squeezing his eyes shut, tears leaking from their corners.
Why now? he thought again. Why here?
And, in the name of all heaven, why me?
He knelt for a hundred heartbeats, counting, thinking, worrying. Eventually, he pulled himself to his feet and retrieved the spheres-now dun-from Kaladin's hand. He'd need to trade them for spheres with Light in them. Then he could return and let Kaladin drain those as well.
He'd have to be careful. A few spheres each day, but not too many. If the boy healed too quickly, it would draw too much attention.
And I need to tell the Envisagers, he thought. I need to…
The Envisagers were gone. Dead, because of what he had done. If there were others, he had no idea how to locate them.
Who would he tell? Who would believe him? Kaladin himself probably didn't understand what he was doing.
Best to keep it quiet, at least until he could figure out what to do about it. "Within a heartbeat, Alezarv was there, crossing a distance that would have taken more than four months to travel by foot." -Another folktale, this one recorded in Among the Darkeyed, by Calinam. Page 102. Stories of instantaneous travel and the Oathgates pervade these tales. Shallan's hand flew across the drawing board, moving as if of its own accord, charcoal scratching, sketching, smudging. Thick lines first, like trails of blood left by a thumb drawn across rough granite. Tiny lines like scratches made by a pin.
She sat in her closetlike stone chamber in the Conclave. No windows, no ornamentation on the granite walls. Just the bed, her trunk, the nightstand, and the small desk that doubled as a drawing table.
A single ruby broam cast a bloody light on her sketch. Usually, to produce a vibrant drawing, she had to consciously memorize a scene. A blink, freezing the world, imprinting it into her mind. She hadn't done that during Jasnah's annihilation of the thieves. She'd been too frozen by horror or morbid fascination.
Despite that, she could see each of those scenes in her mind just as vividly as if she'd deliberately memorized them. And these memories didn't vanish when she drew them. She couldn't rid her mind of them. Those deaths were burned into her.
She sat back from her drawing board, hand shaking, the picture before her an exact charcoal representation of the suffocating nightscape, squeezed between alley walls, a tortured figure of flame rising toward the sky. At that moment, its face still held its shape, shadow eyes wide and burning lips agape. Jasnah's hand was toward the figure, as if warding, or worshipping.
Shallan drew her charcoal-stained fingers to her chest, staring at her creation. It was one of dozens of drawings she'd done during the last few days. The man turned into fire, the other frozen into crystal, the two transmuted to smoke. She could only draw one of those two fully; she'd been facing down the alleyway to the east. Her drawings of the fourth man's death were of smoke rising, clothing already on the ground.
She felt guilty for being unable to record his death. And she felt stupid for that guilt.
Logic did not condemn Jasnah. Yes, the princess had gone willingly into danger, but that didn't remove responsibility from those who had chosen to hurt her. The men's actions were reprehensible. Shallan had spent the days poring through books on philosophy, and most ethical frameworks exonerated the princess.
But Shallan had been there. She'd watched those men die. She'd seen the terror in their eyes, and she felt terrible. Hadn't there been another way?
Kill or be killed. That was the Philosophy of Starkness. It exonerated Jasnah.
Actions are not evil. Intent is evil, and Jasnah's intent had been to stop men from harming others. That was the Philosophy of Purpose. It lauded Jasnah.
Morality is separate from the ideals of men. It exists whole somewhere, to be approached-but never truly understood-by the mortal. The Philosophy of Ideals. It claimed that removing evil was ultimately moral, and so in destroying evil men, Jasnah was justified.
Objective must be weighed against methods. If the goal is worthy, then the steps taken are worthwhile, even if some of them-on their own-are reprehensible. The Philosophy of Aspiration. It, more than any, called Jasnah's actions ethical.
Shallan pulled the sheet from her drawing board and tossed it down beside the others scattered across her bed. Her fingers moved again, clutching the charcoal pencil, beginning a new picture on the blank sheet strapped in place on the table, unable to escape.
Her theft nagged at her as much as the killings did. Ironically, Jasnah's demand that Shallan study moralistic philosophy forced her to contemplate her own, terrible actions. She'd come to Kharbranth to steal the fabrial, then use it to save her brothers and their house from massive debt and destruction. Yet in the end, this wasn't why Shallan had stolen the Soulcaster. She'd taken it because she was angry with Jasnah.
If the intentions were more important than the action, then she had to condemn herself. Perhaps the Philosophy of Aspiration-which stated that objectives were more important than the steps taken to achieve them-would agree with what she'd done, but that was the philosophy she found most reprehensible. Shallan sat here sketching, condemning Jasnah. But Shallan was the one who had betrayed a woman who had trusted her and taken her in. Now she was planning to commit heresy with the Soulcaster by using it although she was not an ardent.
The Soulcaster itself lay in the hidden part of Shallan's trunk. Three days, and Jasnah had said nothing about the disappearance. She wore the fake each day. She said nothing, acted no differently. Maybe she hadn't tried Soulcasting. Almighty send that she didn't go out and put herself into danger again, expecting to be able to use the fabrial to kill men who attacked her.
Of course, there was one other aspect of that night that Shallan had to think of. She carried a concealed weapon that she hadn't used. She felt foolish for not even thinking of getting it out that night. But she wasn't accustomed to Shallan froze, realizing for the first time what she'd been drawing. Not another scene from the alleyway, but a lavish room with a thick, ornamented rug and swords on the walls. A long dining table, set with a half-eaten meal.
And a dead man in fine clothing, lying face-first on the floor, blood pooling around him. She jumped back, tossing aside the charcoal, then crumpled up the paper. Shaking, she moved over and sat down on the bed among the pictures. Dropping the crumpled drawing, she raised her fingers to her forehead, feeling the cold sweat there.
Something was wrong with her, with her drawings.
She had to get out. Escape the death, the philosophy and the questions. She stood and hurriedly strode into the main room of Jasnah's quarters. The princess herself was away researching, as always. She hadn't demanded that Shallan come to the Veil today. Was that because she realized that her ward needed time to think alone? Or was it because she suspected Shallan of stealing the Soulcaster, and no longer trusted her?
Shallan hurried through the room. It was furnished only with the basics provided by King Taravangian. Shallan pulled open the door to the hallway, and nearly ran into a master-servant who had been reaching up to knock.
The woman started, and Shallan let out a yelp. "Brightness," the woman said, bowing immediately. "Apologies. But one of your spanreeds is flashing." The woman held up the reed, affixed on the side with a small blinking ruby.
Shallan breathed in and out, stilling her heart. "Thank you," she said. She, like Jasnah, left her spanreeds in the care of servants because she was often away from her rooms, and was likely to miss any attempt to contact her.
Still flustered, she was tempted to leave the thing and continue on her way. However, she did need to speak with her brothers, Nan Balat particularly, and he'd been away the last few times she'd contacted home. She took the spanreed and closed the door. She didn't dare return to her rooms, with all of those sketches accusing her, but there was a desk and a spanreed board in the main room. She sat there, then twisted the ruby.
Shallan? the reed wrote. Are you comfortable? It was a code phrase, meant to indicate to her that it was indeed Nan Balat-or, at least, his betrothed-on the other side.
My back hurts and my wrist itches, she wrote back, giving the other half of the code phrase.
I'm sorry I missed your other communications, Nan Balat sent. I had to attend a feast in Father's name. It was with Sur Kamar, so it wasn't really something I could miss, despite the day of traveling each way.
It's all right, Shallan wrote. She took a deep breath. I have the item. She turned the gem.
The reed was still for a long moment. Finally, a hurried hand wrote, Praise the Heralds. Oh, Shallan. You've done it! You are on your way back to us, then? How can you use the spanreed on the ocean? Are you in port?
I haven't left, Shallan wrote.
What? Why?
Because it would be too suspicious, she wrote. Think about it, Nan Balat. If Jasnah tries the item and finds it broken, she might not immediately decide that she's been had. That changes if I've suddenly and suspiciously left for home.
I have to wait until she's made the discovery, then see what she does next. If she realizes that her fabrial was replaced with a fake, then I can deflect her toward other culprits. She's already suspicious of the ardentia. If-on the other hand-she assumes that her fabrial has broken somehow, I'll know we're free.
She twisted the gem, setting the spanreed in place.
The question she'd been expecting came next. And if she immediately assumes that you did it? Shallan, what if you can't deflect her suspicion? What if she orders a search of your chambers and they find the hidden compartment?
She picked up the pen. Then it is still better for me to be here, she wrote. Balat, I have learned much about Jasnah Kholin. She is incredibly focused and determined. She will not let me escape if she thinks I have robbed her. She will hunt me down, and will use all of her resources to exact retribution. We'd have our own king and highprinces on our property in days, demanding that we turn over the fabrial. Stormfather! I'll bet Jasnah has contacts in Jah Keved that she could reach before I got back. I'd find myself in custody the moment I landed.
Our only hope is to deflect her. If that doesn't work, better for me to be here and suffer her wrath quickly. Likely she would take the Soulcaster and banish me from her sight. If we make her work and chase after me, though…She can be very ruthless, Balat. It would not go well for us.
The response was long in coming. When did you get so good at logic, small one? he finally sent. I see that you've thought this through. Better than I have, at least. But Shallan, our time is running out.
I know, she wrote. You said you could hold things together for a few more months. I ask you to do that. Give me two or three weeks, at least, to see what Jasnah does. Besides, while I am here, I can look into how the thing works. I haven't found any books that give hints, but there are so many here, maybe I just haven't found the right one yet.
Very well, he wrote. A few weeks. Be careful, small one. The men who gave Father his fabrial visited again. They asked after you. I'm worried about them. Even more than I worry about our finances. They disturb me in a profound way. Farewell.
Farewell, she wrote back.
So far, there had been no hint of reaction from the princess. She hadn't even mentioned the Soulcaster. That made Shallan nervous. She wished that Jasnah would just say something. The waiting was excruciating. Each day, while she sat with Jasnah, Shallan's stomach churned with anxiety until she was nauseated. At least-considering the killings a few days ago-Shallan had a very good excuse for looking disturbed.
Cold, calm logic. Jasnah herself would be proud.
A knock came at the door, and Shallan quickly gathered up the conversation she'd had with Nan Balat and burned it in the hearth. A palace maid entered a moment later, carrying a basket in the crook of her arm. She smiled at Shallan. It was time for the daily cleaning.
Shallan had a strange moment of panic at seeing the woman. She wasn't one of the maids Shallan recognized. What if Jasnah had sent her or someone else to search Shallan's room? Had she done so already? Shallan nodded to the woman and then-to assuage her worries-she walked to her room and closed the door. She rushed to the chest and checked the hidden compartment. The fabrial was there. She lifted it out, inspecting it. Would she know if Jasnah somehow reversed the exchange?
You're being foolish, she told herself. Jasnah's subtle, but she's not that subtle. Still, Shallan stuffed the Soulcaster in her safepouch. It just barely fit inside the envelope-like cloth container. She'd feel safer knowing she had it on her while the maid cleaned her room. Besides, the safepouch might be a better hiding place for it than her trunk.
By tradition, a woman's safepouch was where she kept items of intimate or very precious import. To search one would be like strip-searching her-considering her rank, either would be virtually unthinkable unless she were obviously implicated in a crime. Jasnah could probably force it. But if Jasnah could do that, she could order a search of Shallan's room, and her trunk would be under particular scrutiny. The truth was, if Jasnah chose to suspect her, there would be little Shallan could do to hide the fabrial. So the safepouch was as good a place as any.
She gathered up the pictures she'd drawn and put them upside-down on the desk, trying not to look at them. She didn't want those to be seen by the maid. Finally, she left, taking her portfolio. She felt that she needed to get outside and escape for a while. Draw something other than death and murder. The conversation with Nan Balat had only served to upset her more.
"Brightness?" the maid asked.
Shallan froze, but the maid held up a basket. "This was dropped off for you with the master-servants."
She hesitantly accepted it, looking inside. Bread and jam. A note, tied to one of the jars, read: Bluebar jam. If you like it, it means you're mysterious, reserved, and thoughtful. It was signed Kabsal.
Shallan placed the basket's handle in the crook of her safearm's elbow. Kabsal. Maybe she should go find him. She always felt better after a conversation with him.
But no. She was going to leave; she couldn't keep stringing him, or herself, along. She was afraid of where the relationship was going. Instead, she made her way to the main cavern and then to the Conclave's exit. She walked out into the sunlight and took a deep breath, looking up into the sky as servants and attendants parted around her, swarming in and out of the Conclave. She held her portfolio close, feeling the cool breeze on her cheeks and the contrasting warmth of the sunlight pressing down on her hair and forehead.
In the end, the most disturbing part was that Jasnah had been right. Shallan's world of simple answers had been a foolish, childish place. She'd clung to the hope that she could find truth, and use it to explain-perhaps justify-what she had done back in Jah Keved. But if there was such a thing as truth, it was far more complicated and murky than she'd assumed.
Some problems didn't seem to have any good answers. Just a lot of wrong ones. She could choose the source of her guilt, but she couldn't choose to be rid of that guilt entirely. Two hours-and about twenty quick sketches-later, Shallan felt far more relaxed.
She sat in the palace gardens, sketchpad in her lap, drawing snails. The gardens weren't as extensive as her father's, but they were far more varied, not to mention blessedly secluded. Like many modern gardens, they were designed with walls of cultivated shalebark. This one's made a maze of living stone. They were short enough that, when standing, she could see the way back to the entrance. But if she sat down on one of the numerous benches, she could feel alone and unseen.
She'd asked a groundskeeper the name of the most prominent shalebark plant; he'd called it "plated stone." A fitting name, as it grew in thin round sections that piled atop one another, like plates in a cupboard. From the sides, it looked like weathered rock that exposed hundreds of thin strata. Tiny little tendrils grew up out of pores, waving in the wind. The stonelike casings had a bluish shade, but the tendrils were yellowish.
Her current subject was a snail with a low horizontal shell edged with little ridges. When she tapped, it would flatten itself into a rift in the shalebark, appearing to become part of the plated stone. It blended in perfectly. When she let it move, it nibbled at the shalebark-but didn't chew it away.
It's cleaning the shalebark, she realized, continuing her sketch. Eating off the lichen and mold. Indeed, a cleaner trail extended behind it.
Patches of a different kind of shalebark-with fingerlike protrusions growing up into the air from a central knob-grew alongside the plated stone. When she looked closely, she noted little cremlings-thin and multilegged-crawling along it, eating at it. Were they too cleaning it?
Curious, she thought, beginning a sketch of the miniature cremlings. They had carapaces shaded like the shalebark's fingers, while the snail's shell was a near duplicate of the yellow and blue colorings of the plated stone. It was as if they had been designed by the Almighty in pairs, the plant giving safety to the animal, the animal cleaning the plant.
A few lifespren-tiny, glowing green specks-floated around the shalebark mounds. Some danced amid the rifts in the bark, others in the air like dust motes zigzagging up, only to fall again.
She used a finer-tipped charcoal pencil to scribble some thoughts about the relationship between the animals and the plants. She didn't know of any books that spoke of relationships like this one. Scholars seemed to prefer studying big, dynamic animals, like greatshells or whitespines. But this seemed a beautiful, wondrous discovery to Shallan.
Snails and plants can help one another, she thought. But I betray Jasnah.
She glanced toward her safehand, and the pouch hidden inside. She felt more secure having the Soulcaster near. She hadn't yet dared try to use it. She'd been too nervous about the theft, and had worried about using the object near Jasnah. Now, however, she was in a nook deep within the maze, with only one curving entrance into her dead end. She stood up casually, looking around. No one else was in the gardens, and she was far enough inside that it would take minutes for anyone to get to her.
Shallan sat back down, setting aside her drawing pad and pencil. I might as well see if I can figure out how to use it, she thought. Maybe there's no need to keep searching the Palanaeum for a solution. So long as she stood up and glanced about periodically, she could be certain she wouldn't be approached or seen by accident.
She removed the forbidden device. It was heavy in her hand. Solid. Taking a deep breath, she looped the chains over her fingers and around her wrist, the gemstones set against the back of her hand. The metal was cold, the chains loose. She flexed her hand, pulling the fabrial tight.
She'd anticipated a feeling of power. Prickles on her skin, perhaps, or a sense of strength and might. But there was nothing.
She tapped the three gemstones-she'd placed her smokestone into the third setting. Some other fabrials, like spanreeds, worked when you tapped the stones. But that was foolish, as she'd never seen Jasnah do that. The woman just closed her eyes and touched something, Soulcasting it. Smoke, crystal, and fire were what this Soulcaster was best at. Only once had she seen Jasnah create anything else.
Hesitant, Shallan took a piece of broken shalebark from the base of one of the plants. She held it up in her freehand, then closed her eyes.
Become smoke! she commanded.
Nothing happened.
Become crystal! she commanded instead.
She cracked an eye. There was no change.
Fire. Burn! You're fire! You-
She paused, realizing the stupidity of that. A mysteriously burned hand? No, that wouldn't be at all suspicious. Instead, she focused on crystal. She closed her eyes again, holding the image of a piece of quartz in her mind. She tried to will the shalebark to change.
Nothing happened, so she just tried focusing, imagining the shalebark transforming. After a few minutes of failure, she tried making the pouch change instead, then tried the bench, then tried one of her hairs. Nothing worked.
Shallan checked to make certain she was still alone, then sat down, frustrated. Nan Balat had asked Luesh how the devices worked, and he'd said that it was easier to show than explain. He'd promised to give them answers if she actually managed to steal Jasnah's.
Now he was dead. Was she doomed to carry this one back to her family, only to immediately give it away to those dangerous men, never using it to gain wealth to protect her house? All because they didn't know how to activate it?
The other fabrials she'd used had been simple to activate, but those were constructed by contemporary artifabrians. Soulcasters were fabrials from ancient times. They wouldn't employ modern methods of activation. She stared at the glowing gemstones suspended on the back of her hand. How would she figure out the method of using a tool thousands of years old, one forbidden to any but ardents?
She slid the Soulcaster back into her safepouch. It seemed she was back to searching the Palanaeum. That or asking Kabsal. But would she manage that without looking suspicious? She broke out his bread and jam, eating and thinking idly. If Kabsal didn't know, and if she couldn't find the answers by the time she left Kharbranth, were there other options? If she took the artifact to the Veden king-or maybe the ardents-might they be able to protect her family in exchange for the gift? After all, she couldn't really be blamed for stealing from a heretic, and so long as Jasnah didn't know who had the Soulcaster, they would be safe.
For some reason, that made her feel even worse. Stealing the Soulcaster to save her family was one thing, but turning it over to the very ardents whom Jasnah disdained? It seemed a greater betrayal.
Yet another difficult decision. Well then, she thought, it's a good thing Jasnah is so determined to train me in how to deal with those. By the time all this is done, I should be quite the expert… "Death upon the lips. Sound upon the air. Char upon the skin." -From "The Last Desolation" by Ambrian, line 335. Kaladin stumbled into the light, shading his eyes against the burning sun, his bare feet feeling the transition from cold indoor stone to sun-warmed stone outside. The air was lightly humid, not muggy as it had been in previous weeks.
He rested his hand on the wooden doorframe, his legs quivering rebelliously, his arms feeling as if he'd carried a bridge for three days straight. He breathed deeply. His side should have blazed with pain, but he felt only a residual soreness. Some of his deeper cuts were still scabbed over, but the smaller ones had vanished completely. His head was surprisingly clear. He didn't even have a headache.
He rounded the side of the barrack, feeling stronger with each step, though he kept his hand on the wall. Lopen followed behind; the Herdazian had been watching over Kaladin when he awoke.
I should be dead, Kaladin thought. What is going on?
On the other side of the barrack he was surprised to find the men carrying their bridge in daily practice. Rock ran at the front center, giving the marching beat as Kaladin had once done. They reached the other side of the lumberyard and turned around, charging back. Only when they were almost past the barrack did one of the men in front-Moash-notice Kaladin. He froze, nearly causing the entire bridge crew to trip.
"What is wrong with you?" Torfin yelled from behind, head enveloped by the wood of the bridge.
Moash didn't listen. He ducked out from under the bridge, looking at Kaladin with wide eyes. Rock gave a hasty shout for the men to put down the bridge. More saw him, adopting the same reverent expressions as Moash. Hobber and Peet, their wounds sufficiently healed, had started practicing with the others. That was good. They'd be drawing pay again.
The men walked up to Kaladin, silent in their leather vests. They kept their distance, hesitant, as if he were fragile. Or holy. Kaladin was bare-chested, his nearly healed wounds exposed, and wore only his knee-length bridgeman's trousers.
"You really need to practice what to do if one of you trips or stumbles, men," Kaladin said. "When Moash stopped abruptly, you all about fell over. That could be a disaster on the field."
They stared at him, incredulous, and he couldn't help but smile. In a moment, they crowded around him, laughing and thumping him on the back. It wasn't an entirely appropriate welcome for a sick man, particularly when Rock did it, but Kaladin did appreciate their enthusiasm.
Only Teft didn't join in. The aging bridgeman stood at the side, arms folded. He seemed concerned. "Teft?" Kaladin asked. "You all right?"
Teft snorted, but showed a hint of a grin. "I just figure those lads don't bathe often enough for me to want to get close enough for a hug. No offense."
Kaladin laughed. "I understand." His last "bath" had been the highstorm.
The highstorm.
The other bridgemen continued to laugh, asking how he felt, proclaiming that Rock would have to fix something extra special for their nightly fireside meal. Kaladin smiled and nodded, assuring them he felt well, but he was remembering the storm.
He recalled it distinctly. Holding to the ring atop the building, his head down and eyes closed against the pelting torrent. He remembered Syl, standing protectively before him, as if she could turn back the storm itself. He couldn't see her about now. Where was she?
He also remembered the face. The Stormfather himself? Surely not. A delusion. Yes…yes, he'd certainly been delusional. Memories of deathspren were blended with relived parts of his life-and both mixed with strange, sudden shocks of strength-icy cold, but refreshing. It had been like the cold air of a crisp morning after a long night in a stuffy room, or like rubbing the sap of gulket leaves on sore muscles, making them feel warm and cold at the same time.
He could remember those moments so clearly. What had caused them? The fever?
"How long?" he said, checking over the bridgemen, counting them. Thirty-three, counting Lopen and the silent Dabbid. Almost all were accounted for. Impossible. If his ribs were healed, then he must have been unconscious for three weeks, at least. How many bridge runs?
"Ten days," Moash said.
"Impossible," Kaladin said. "My wounds-"
"Is why we're so surprised to see you up and walking!" Rock said, laughing. "You must have bones like granite. Is my name you should be having!"
Kaladin leaned back against the wall. Nobody corrected Moash. An entire crew of men couldn't lose track of the weeks like that. "Idolir and Treff?" he asked.
"We lost them," Moash said, growing solemn. "We did two bridge runs while you were unconscious. Nobody badly wounded, but two dead. We…we didn't know how to help them."
That made the men grow subdued. But death was the way of bridgemen, and they couldn't afford to dwell for long on the lost. Kaladin did decide, however, that he'd need to train a few of the others in healing.
But how was he up and walking? Had he been less injured than he'd assumed? Hesitantly, he prodded at his side, feeling for broken ribs. Just a little sore. Other than the weakness, he felt as healthy as he ever had. Perhaps he should have paid a little more attention to his mother's religious teachings.
As the men turned back to talking and celebrating, he noticed the looks they gave him. Respectful, reverent. They remembered what he'd said before the highstorm. Looking back, Kaladin realized he'd been a little delirious. It now seemed an incredibly arrogant proclamation, not to mention that it smelled of prophecy. If the ardents discovered that…
Well, he couldn't undo what he'd done. He'd just have to continue. You were already balancing over a chasm, Kaladin thought to himself. Did you have to scale an even higher cliffside?
A sudden, mournful horn call sounded across the camp. The bridgemen fell silent. The horn sounded twice more.
"Figures," Natam said.
"We're on duty?" Kaladin asked.
"Yeah," Moash said.
"Line up!" Rock snapped. "You know what to do! Let's show Captain Kaladin that we haven't forgotten how to do this."
"'Captain' Kaladin?" Kaladin asked as the men lined up.
"Sure, gancho," Lopen said from beside him, speaking with that quick accent that seemed so at odds with his nonchalant attitude. "They tried to make Rock bridgeleader, sure, but we just started calling you 'captain' and him 'squadleader.' Made Gaz angry." Lopen grinned.
Kaladin nodded. The other men were so joyous, but he was finding it difficult to share their mood.
As they formed up around their bridge, he began to realize the source of his melancholy. His men were right back where they'd started. Or worse. He was weakened and injured, and had offended the highprince himself. Sadeas would not be pleased when he learned that Kaladin had survived his fever.
The bridgemen were still destined to be cut down one by one. The side carry had been a failure. He hadn't saved his men, he'd just given them a short stay of execution.
Bridgemen aren't supposed to survive…
He suspected why that was. Gritting his teeth, he let go of the barrack wall and crossed to where the bridgemen stood in line, leaders of the sub-squads doing a quick check of their vests and sandals.
Rock eyed Kaladin. "And what is this thing you believe you are doing?"
"I'm joining you," Kaladin said.
"And what would you tell one of the men if they had just gotten up from a week with the fevers?"
Kaladin hesitated. I'm not like the other men, he thought, then regretted it. He couldn't start believing himself invincible. To run now with the crew, as weak as he was, would be sheer idiocy. "You're right."
"You can help me and the moolie carry water, gancho," Lopen said. "We're a team now. Go on every run."
Kaladin nodded. "All right."
Rock eyed him.
"If I'm feeling too weak at the end of the permanent bridges, I'll go back. I promise."
Rock nodded reluctantly. The men marched under the bridge to the staging area, and Kaladin joined Lopen and Dabbid, filling waterskins. Kaladin stood at the edge of the precipice, hands clasped behind his back, sandaled toes at the very edge of the cliff. The chasm stared up at him, but he did not meet its gaze. He was focused on the battle being waged on the next plateau.
This approach had been an easy one; they'd arrived at the same time as the Parshendi. Instead of bothering to kill bridgemen, the Parshendi had taken a defensive position in the center of the plateau, around the chrysalis. Now Sadeas's men fought them.
Kaladin's brow was slick with sweat from the day's heat, and he still felt a lingering exhaustion from his sickness. Yet it wasn't nearly as bad as it should have been. The surgeon's son was baffled.
For the moment, the soldier overruled the surgeon. He was transfixed by the battle. Alethi spearmen in leathers and breastplates pressed a curved line against the Parshendi warriors. Most Parshendi used battle-axes or hammers, though a few wielded swords or clubs. They all had that red-orange armor growing from their skin, and they fought in pairs, singing all the while.
It was the worst kind of battle, the kind that was close. Often, you'd lose far fewer men in a skirmish where your enemies quickly gained the upper hand. When that happened, your commander would order the retreat to cut his losses. But close battles…they were brutal, blood-soaked things. Watching the fighting-the bodies dropped to the rocks, the weapons flashing, the men pushed off the plateau-reminded him of his first fights as a spearman. His commander had been shocked at how easily Kaladin dealt with seeing blood. Kaladin's father would have been shocked at how easily Kaladin spilled it.
There was a big difference between his battles in Alethkar and the fights on the Shattered Plains. There, he'd been surrounded by the worst-or at least worst-trained-soldiers in Alethkar. Men who didn't hold their lines. And yet, for all their disorder, those fights had made sense to him. These here on the Shattered Plains still did not.
That had been his miscalculation. He'd changed battlefield tactics before understanding them. He would not make that mistake again.
Rock stepped up beside Kaladin, joined by Sigzil. The thick-limbed Horneater made for quite a contrast to the short, quiet Azish man. Sigzil's skin was a deep brown-not true black, like some parshmen's. He tended to keep to himself.
"Is bad battle," Rock said, folding his arms. "The soldiers will not be happy, whether or not they win."
Kaladin nodded absently, listening to the yells, screams, and curses. "Why do they fight, Rock?"
"For money," Rock said. "And for vengeance. You should know this thing. Is it not your king who Parshendi killed?"
"Oh, I understand why we fight," Kaladin said. "But the Parshendi. Why do they fight?"
Rock grinned. "Is because they don't very much like the idea of being beheaded for killing your king, I should think! Very unaccommodating of them."
Kaladin smiled, though he found mirth unnatural while watching men die. He had been trained too long by his father for any death to leave him unmoved. "Perhaps. But, then, why do they fight for the gemhearts? Their numbers are dwindling because of skirmishes like these."
"You know this thing?" Rock asked.
"They raid less frequently than they used to," Kaladin said. "People talk about it in camp. And they don't strike as close to the Alethi side as they once did."
Rock nodded thoughtfully. "It seems logical. Ha! Perhaps we will soon win this fight and be going home."
"No," Sigzil said softly. He had a very formal way of speaking, with barely a hint of an accent. What language did the Azish speak, anyway? Their kingdom was so distant that Kaladin had only ever met one other. "I doubt that. And I can tell you why they fight, Kaladin."
"Really?"
"They must have Soulcasters. They need the gemstones for the same reason we do. To make food."
"It sounds reasonable," Kaladin said, hands still clasped behind his back, feet in a wide stance. Parade rest still felt natural to him. "Just conjecture, but a reasonable one. Let me ask you something else, then. Why can't bridgemen have shields?"
"Because this thing makes us too slow," Rock said.
"No," Sigzil said. "They could send bridgemen with shields out in front of the bridges, running in front of us. It wouldn't slow anyone down. Yes, you would have to field more bridgemen-but you'd save enough lives with those shields to make up for the larger roster."
Kaladin nodded. "Sadeas fields more of us than he needs already. In most cases, more bridges land than he needs."
"But why?" Sigzil asked.
"Because we make good targets," Kaladin said softly, understanding. "We're put out in front to draw Parshendi attention."
"Of course we are," Rock said, shrugging. "Armies always do these things. The poorest and the least trained go first."
"I know," Kaladin said, "but usually, they're at least given some measure of protection. Don't you see? We're not just an expendable initial wave. We're bait. We're exposed, so the Parshendi can't help but fire at us. It allows the regular soldiers to approach without being hurt. The Parshendi archers are aiming at the bridgemen."
Rock frowned.
"Shields would make us less tempting," Kaladin said. "That's why he forbids them."
"Perhaps," Sigzil said from the side, thoughtful. "But it seems foolish to waste troops."
"Actually, it isn't foolish," Kaladin said. "If you have to repeatedly attack fortified positions, you can't afford to lose your trained troops. Don't you see? Sadeas has only a limited number of trained men. But untrained ones are easy to find. Each arrow that strikes down a bridgeman is one that doesn't hit a soldier you've spent a great deal of money outfitting and training. That's why it's better for Sadeas to field a large number of bridgemen, rather than a smaller-but protected-number."
He should have seen it earlier. He had been distracted by how important bridgemen were to the battles. If the bridges didn't arrive at the chasms, then the army couldn't cross. But each bridge crew was kept well stocked with bodies, and twice as many bridge crews were sent on an assault as were needed.
Seeing a bridge fall must give the Parshendi a great sense of satisfaction, and they usually got to drop two or three bridges on every bad chasm run. Sometimes more. So long as bridgemen were dying, and the Parshendi didn't spend their time firing on soldiers, Sadeas had reason to keep the bridgemen vulnerable. The Parshendi should have seen through it, but it was very hard to turn your arrow away from the unarmored man carrying the siege equipment. The Parshendi were said to be unsophisticated fighters. Indeed, watching the battle on the other plateau-studying it, focusing-he saw that was true.
Where the Alethi maintained a straight, disciplined line-each man protecting his partners-the Parshendi attacked in independent pairs. The Alethi had superior technique and tactics. True, each of the Parshendi was superior in strength, and their skill with those axes was remarkable. But Sadeas's Alethi troops were well trained in modern formations. Once they got a foothold-and if they could prolong the battle-their discipline often saw them to victory.
The Parshendi haven't fought in large-scale battles before this war, Kaladin decided. They're used to smaller skirmishes, perhaps against other villages or clans.
Several of the other bridgemen joined Kaladin, Rock, and Sigzil. Before long, the majority of them were standing there, some imitating Kaladin's stance. It took another hour before the battle was won. Sadeas proved victorious, but Rock was right. The soldiers were grim; they'd lost many friends this day.
It was a tired, battered group of spearmen that Kaladin and the others led back to camp. A few hours later, Kaladin sat on a chunk of wood beside Bridge Four's nightly fire. Syl sat on his knee, having taken the form of a small, translucent blue and white flame. She'd come to him during the march back, spinning around gleefully to see him up and walking, but had given no explanation for her absence.
The real fire crackled and popped, Rock's large pot bubbling on top of it, some flamespren dancing on the logs. Every couple of seconds, someone asked Rock if the stew was done yet, often banging on his bowl with a good-natured smack of the spoon. Rock said nothing, stirring. They all knew that nobody ate until he declared the stew finished; he was very particular about not serving "inferior" food.
The air smelled of boiling dumplings. The men were laughing. Their bridgeleader had survived execution and today's bridge run hadn't cost a single casualty. Spirits were high.
Except for Kaladin's.
He understood now. He understood just how futile their struggle was. He understood why Sadeas hadn't bothered to acknowledge Kaladin's survival. He was already a bridgeman, and being a bridgeman was a death sentence.
Kaladin had hoped to show Sadeas that his bridge crew could be efficient and useful. He'd hoped to prove that they deserved protection-shields, armor, training. Kaladin thought that if they acted like soldiers, maybe they would be seen as soldiers.
None of that would work. A bridgeman who survived was, by definition, a bridgeman who had failed.
His men laughed and enjoyed the fire. They trusted him. He'd done the impossible, surviving a highstorm, wounded, tied to a wall. Surely he would perform another miracle, this time for them. They were good men, but they thought like foot soldiers. The officers and the lighteyes would worry about the long term. The men were fed and happy, and that was enough for now.
Not for Kaladin.
He found himself face-to-face with the man he'd left behind. The one he'd abandoned that night he'd decided not to throw himself into the chasm. A man with haunted eyes, a man who had given up on caring or hoping. A walking corpse.
I'm going to fail them, he thought.
He couldn't let them continue running bridges, dying off one by one. But he also couldn't think of an alternative. And so their laughter tore at him.
One of the men-Maps-stood, holding up his arms, quieting the others. It was the time between moons, and so he was lit mostly by the firelight; there was a spray of stars in the sky above. Several of those moved about, the tiny pinpricks of light chasing after one another, zipping around like distant, glowing insects. Starspren. They were rare.
Maps was a flat-faced fellow, his beard bushy, his eyebrows thick. Everyone called him Maps because of the birthmark on his chest that he swore was an exact map of Alethkar, though Kaladin hadn't been able to see the resemblance.
Maps cleared his throat. "It's a good night, a special night, and all. We've got our bridgeleader back."
Several of the men clapped. Kaladin tried not to show how sick he felt inside.
"We've got good food coming," Maps said. He eyed Rock. "It is coming, ain't it, Rock?"
"Is coming," Rock said, stirring.
"You're sure about that? We could go on another bridge run. Give you a little extra time, you know, five or six more hours…"
Rock gave him a fierce look. The men laughed, several banging their bowls with their spoons. Maps chuckled, then he reached to the ground behind the stone he was using for a seat. He pulled out a paper-wrapped package and tossed it to Rock.
Surprised, the tall Horneater barely caught it, nearly dropping it into the stew.
"From all of us," Maps said, a little awkwardly, "for making us stew each night. Don't think we haven't noticed how hard you work on it. We relax while you cook. And you always serve everyone else first. So we bought you something to thank you." He wiped his nose on his arm, spoiling the moment slightly, and sat back down. Several of the other bridgemen thumped him on the back, complimenting his speech.
Rock unwrapped the package and stared into it for a long while. Kaladin leaned forward, trying to get a look at the contents. Rock reached in and held the item up. It was a straight razor of gleaming silvery steel; there was a length of wood covering the sharp side. Rock pulled this off, inspecting the blade. "You airsick fools," he said softly. "Is beautiful."
"There's a piece of polished steel too," said Peet. "For a mirror. And some beard soap and a leather strop for sharpening."
Amazingly, Rock grew teary-eyed. He turned away from the pot, bearing his gifts. "Stew is ready," he said. Then he ran into the barrack building.
The men sat quietly. "Stormfather," youthful Dunny finally said, "you think we did the right thing? I mean, the way he complains and all…"
"I think it was perfect," Teft said. "Just give the big lout some time to recover."
"Sorry we didn't get you nothin', sir," Maps said to Kaladin. "We didn't know you'd be awake and all."
"It's all right," Kaladin said.
"Well," Skar said. "Is someone going to serve that stew, or will we all just sit here hungry until it burns?"
Dunny jumped up, grabbing the ladle. The men gathered around the pot, jostling one another as Dunny served. Without Rock there to snap at them and keep them in line, it was something of a melee. Only Sigzil did not join in. The quiet, dark-skinned man sat to the side, eyes reflecting the flames.
Kaladin rose. He was worried-terrified, really-that he might become that wretch again. The one who had given up on caring because he saw no alternative. So he sought conversation, walking over toward Sigzil. His motion disturbed Syl, who sniffed and buzzed up onto his shoulder. She still held the form of a flickering flame; having that on his shoulder was even more distracting. He didn't say anything; if she knew it bothered him, she'd be likely to do it more. She was still a windspren, after all.
Kaladin sat down next to Sigzil. "Not hungry?"
"They are more eager than I," Sigzil said. "If previous evenings are a reliable guide, there will still be enough for me once they have filled their bowls."
Kaladin nodded. "I appreciated your analysis out on the plateau today."
"I am good at that, sometimes."
"You're educated. You speak like it and you act like it."
Sigzil hesitated. "Yes," he finally said. "Among my people, it is not a sin for a male to be keen of mind."
"It isn't a sin for Alethi either."
"My experience is that you care only about wars and the art of killing."
"And what have you seen of us besides our army?"
"Not much," Sigzil admitted.
"So, a man of education," Kaladin said thoughtfully. "In a bridge crew."
"My education was never completed."
"Neither was mine."
Sigzil looked at him, curious.
"I apprenticed as a surgeon," Kaladin said.
Sigzil nodded, thick dark hair falling around his shoulders. He'd been one of the only bridgemen who bothered shaving. Now that Rock had a razor, maybe that would change. "A surgeon," he said. "I cannot say that is surprising, considering how you handled the wounded. The men say that you're secretly a lighteyes of very high rank."
"What? But my eyes are dark brown!"
"Pardon me," Sigzil said. "I didn't speak the right word-you don't have the right word in your language. To you, a lighteyes is the same as a leader. In other kingdoms, though, other things make a man a…curse this Alethi language. A man of high birth. A brightlord, only without the eyes. Anyway, the men think you must have been raised outside of Alethkar. As a leader."
Sigzil looked back at the others. They were beginning to sit back down, attacking their stew with vigor. "It's the way you lead so naturally, the way you make others want to listen to you. These are things they associate with lighteyes. And so they have invented a past for you. You will have a difficult time disabusing them of it now." Sigzil eyed him. "Assuming it is a fabrication. I was there in the chasm the day you used that spear."
"A spear," Kaladin said. "A darkeyed soldier's weapon, not a lighteyes's sword."
"To many bridgemen, the difference is minimal. All are so far above us."
"So what is your story?"
Sigzil smirked. "I wondered if you were going to ask. The others mentioned that you have pried into their origins."
"I like to know the men I lead."
"And if some of us are murderers?" Sigzil asked quietly.
"Then I'm in good company," Kaladin said. "If it was a lighteyes you killed, then I might buy you a drink."
"Not a lighteyes," Sigzil said. "And he is not dead."
"Then you're not a murderer," Kaladin said.
"Not for want of trying." Sigzil's eyes grew distant. "I thought for certain I had succeeded. It was not the wisest choice I made. My master…" He trailed off.
"Is he the one you tried to kill?"
"No."
Kaladin waited, but no more information was forthcoming. A scholar, he thought. Or at least a man of learning. There has to be a way to use this.
Find a way out of this death trap, Kaladin. Use what you have. There has to be a way.
"You were right about the bridgemen," Sigzil said. "We are sent to die. It is the only reasonable explanation. There is a place in the world. Marabethia. Have you heard of it?"
"No," Kaladin said.
"It is beside the sea, to the north, in the Selay lands. The people are known for their great fondness for debate. At each intersection in the city they have small pedestals on which a man can stand and proclaim his arguments. It is said that everyone in Marabethia carries a pouch with an overripe fruit just in case they pass a proclaimer with whom they disagree."
Kaladin frowned. He hadn't heard so many words from Sigzil in all the time they'd been bridgemen together.
"What you said earlier, on the plateau," Sigzil continued, eyes forward, "it made me think of the Marabethians. You see, they have a curious way of treating condemned criminals. They dangle them over the seaside cliff near the city, down near the water at high tide, with a cut sliced in each cheek. There is a particular species of greatshell in the depths there. The creatures are known for their succulent flavor, and of course they have gemhearts. Not nearly as large as the ones in these chasmfiends, but still nice. So the criminals, they become bait. A criminal may demand execution instead, but they say if you hang there for a week and are not eaten, then you can go free."
"And does that often happen?" Kaladin asked.
Sigzil shook his head. "Never. But the prisoners almost always take the chance. The Marabethians have a saying for someone who refuses to see the truth of a situation. 'You have eyes of red and blue,' they say. Red for the blood dripping. Blue for the water. It is said that these two things are all the prisoners see. Usually they are attacked within one day. And yet, most still wish to take that chance. They prefer the false hope."
Eyes of red and blue, Kaladin thought, imagining the morbid picture.
"You do a good work," Sigzil said, rising, picking up his bowl. "At first, I hated you for lying to the men. But I have come to see that a false hope makes them happy. What you do is like giving medicine to a sick man to ease his pain until he dies. Now these men can spend their last days in laughter. You are a healer indeed, Kaladin Stormblessed."
Kaladin wanted to object, to say that it wasn't a false hope, but he couldn't. Not with his heart in his stomach. Not with what he knew.
A moment later, Rock burst from the barrack. "I feel like a true alil'tiki'i again!" he proclaimed, holding aloft his razor. "My friends, you cannot know what you have done! Someday, I will take you to the Peaks and show you the hospitality of kings!"
Despite all of his complaining, he hadn't shaved his beard off completely. He had left long, red-blond sideburns, which curved down to his chin. The tip of the chin itself was shaved clean, as were his lips. On the tall, oval-faced man, the look was quite distinctive. "Ha!" Rock said, striding up to the fire. He grabbed the nearest men there and hugged them both to him, causing Bisig to nearly spill his stew. "I will make you all family for this. A peak dweller's humaka'aban is his pride! I feel like a true man again. Here. This razor belongs not to me, but to us all. Any who wishes to use it must do so. Is my honor to share with you!"
The men laughed, and a few took him up on the offer. Kaladin wasn't one of them. It just…didn't seem to matter to him. He accepted the bowl of stew Dunny brought him, but didn't eat. Sigzil chose not to sit back down beside him, retreating to the other side of the campfire.
Eyes of red and blue, Kaladin thought. I don't know if that fits us. For him to have eyes of red and blue, Kaladin would have to believe that there was at least a small chance the bridge crew could survive. This night, Kaladin had trouble convincing himself.
He'd never been an optimist. He saw the world as it was, or he tried to. That was a problem, though, when the truth he saw was so terrible.
Oh, Stormfather, he thought, feeling the crushing weight of despair as he stared down at his bowl. I'm falling back to the wretch I was. I'm losing my grip on this, on myself.
He couldn't carry the hopes of all the bridgemen.
He just wasn't strong enough.