Kaladin pushed past the shrieking Laral and stumbled into the surgery room. Even after years working with his father, the amount of blood in the room was shocking. It was as if someone had dumped out a bucket of bright red paint.
The scent of burned flesh hung in the air. Lirin worked frantically on Brightlord Rillir, Roshone's son. An evil-looking, tusklike thing jutted from the young man's abdomen, and his lower right leg was crushed. It hung by only a few tendons, splinters of bone poking out like reeds from the waters of a pond. Brightlord Roshone himself lay on the side table, groaning, eyes squeezed shut as he held his leg, which was pierced by another of the bony spears. Blood leaked from his improvised bandage, flowed down the side of the table, and dripped to the floor to mix with his son's.
Kaladin stood in the doorway gaping. Laral continued to scream. She clutched the doorframe as several of Roshone's guards tried to pull her away. Her wails were frantic. "Do something! Work harder! He can't! He was where it happened and I don't care and let me go!" The garbled phrases degenerated into screeches. The guards finally got her away.
"Kaladin!" his father snapped. "I need you!"
Shocked into motion, Kaladin entered the room, scrubbing his hands then gathering bandages from the cabinet, stepping in blood. He caught a glimpse of Rillir's face; much of the skin on the right side had been scraped off. The eyelid was gone, the blue eye itself sliced open at the front, deflated like the skin of a grape pressed for wine.
Kaladin hastened to his father with the bandages. His mother appeared at the doorway a moment later, Tien behind her. She raised a hand to her mouth, then pulled Tien away. He stumbled, looking woozy. She returned in a moment without him.
"Water, Kaladin!" Lirin cried. "Hesina, fetch more. Quickly!"
His mother jumped to help, though she rarely assisted in the surgery anymore. Her hands shook as she grabbed one of the buckets and ran outside. Kaladin took the other bucket, which was full, to his father as Lirin eased the length of bone from the young lighteyes's gut. Rillir's remaining eye fluttered, head quivering.
"What is that?" Kaladin asked, pressing the bandage to the wound as his father tossed the strange object aside.
"Whitespine tusk," his father said. "Water."
Kaladin grabbed a sponge, dunked it in the bucket, and used it to squeeze water into Rillir's gut wound. That washed away the blood, giving Lirin a good look at the damage. He quested with his fingers as Kaladin got some needle and thread ready. There was already a tourniquet on the leg. Full amputation would come later.
Lirin hesitated, fingers inside the gaping hole in Rillir's belly. Kaladin cleaned the wound again. He looked up at his father, concerned.
Lirin pulled his fingers out and walked to Brightlord Roshone. "Bandages, Kaladin," he said curtly.
Kaladin hurried over, though he shot a look over his shoulder at Rillir. The once-handsome young lighteyes trembled again, spasming. "Father…"
"Bandages!" Lirin said.
"What are you doing, surgeon?" Roshone bellowed. "What of my son?" Painspren swarmed around him.
"Your son is dead," Lirin said, yanking the tusk free from Roshone's leg.
The lighteyes bellowed in agony, though Kaladin couldn't tell if that was because of the tusk or his son. Roshone clenched his jaw as Kaladin pressed the bandage down on his leg. Lirin dunked his hands in the water bucket, then quickly wiped them with knobweed sap to frighten off rotspren.
"My son is not dead," Roshone growled. "I can see him moving! Tend to him, surgeon."
"Kaladin, get the dazewater," Lirin ordered gathering his sewing needle.
Kaladin hurried to the back of the room, steps splashing blood, and threw open the far cupboard. He took out a small flask of clear liquid.
"What are you doing?" Roshone bellowed, trying to sit up. "Look at my son! Almighty above, look at him!"
Kaladin turned hesitantly, pausing as he poured dazewater on a bandage. Rillir was spasming more violently.
"I work under three guidelines, Roshone," Lirin said, forcibly pressing the lighteyes down against his table. "The guidelines every surgeon uses when choosing between two patients. If the wounds are equal, treat the youngest first."
"Then see to my son!"
"If the wounds are not equally threatening," Lirin continued, "treat the worst wound first."
"As I've been telling you!"
"The third guideline supersedes them both, Roshone," Lirin said, leaning down. "A surgeon must know when someone is beyond their ability to help. I'm sorry, Roshone. I would save him if I could, I promise you. But I cannot."
"No!" Roshone said, struggling again.
"Kaladin! Quickly!" Lirin said.
Kaladin dashed over. He pressed the bandage of dazewater to Roshone's chin and mouth, just below the nose, forcing the lighteyed man to breathe the fumes. Kaladin held his own breath, as he'd been trained.
Roshone bellowed and screamed, but the two of them held him down, and he was weak from blood loss. Soon, his bellows became softer. In seconds, he was speaking in gibberish and grinning to himself. Lirin turned back to the leg wound while Kaladin went to throw away the dazewater bandage.
"No. Administer it to Rillir." His father didn't look away from his work. "It's the only mercy we can give him."
Kaladin nodded and used the dazewater bandage on the wounded youth. Rillir's breathing grew less frantic, though he didn't seem conscious enough to notice the effects. Then Kaladin threw the bandage with the dazewater into the brazier; heat negated the effects. The white, puffy bandage wrinkled and browned in the fire, steam streaming off it as the edges burst into flame.
Kaladin returned with the sponge and washed out Roshone's wound as Lirin prodded at it. There were a few shards of tusk trapped inside, and Lirin muttered to himself, getting out his tongs and razor-sharp knife.
"Damnation can take them all," Lirin said, pulling out the first sliver of tusk. Behind him, Rillir fell still. "Isn't sending half of us to war enough for them? Do they have to seek death even when they're living in a quiet township? Roshone should never have gone looking for the storming whitespine."
"He was looking for it?"
"They went hunting it," Lirin spat. "Wistiow and I used to joke about lighteyes like them. If you can't kill men, you kill beasts. Well, this is what you found, Roshone."
"Father," Kaladin said softly. "He's not going to be pleased with you when he awakes." The brightlord was humming softly, lying back, eyes closed.
Lirin didn't respond. He yanked out another fragment of tusk, and Kaladin washed out the wound. His father pressed his fingers to the side of the large puncture, inspecting it.
There was one more sliver of tusk, jutting from a muscle inside the wound. Right beside that muscle thumped the femoral artery, the largest in the leg. Lirin reached in with his knife, carefully cutting free the sliver of tusk. Then he paused for a moment, the edge of his blade just hairs from the artery.
If that were cut… Kaladin thought. Roshone would be dead in minutes. He was only alive right now because the tusk had missed the artery.
Lirin's normally steady hand quivered. Then he glanced up at Kaladin. He withdrew the knife without touching the artery, then reached in with his tongs to pull the sliver free. He tossed it aside, then calmly reached for his thread and needle.
Behind them, Rillir had stopped breathing. That evening, Kaladin sat on the steps to his house, hands in his lap.
Roshone had been returned to his estate to be cared for by his personal servants. His son's corpse was cooling in the crypt below, and a messenger had been sent to request a Soulcaster for the body.
On the horizon, the sun was red as blood. Everywhere Kaladin looked, the world was red.
The door to the surgery closed, and his father-looking as exhausted as Kaladin felt-tottered out. He eased himself down, sighing as he sat beside Kaladin, looking at the sun. Did it look like blood to him too?
They didn't speak as the sun slowly sank before them. Why was it most colorful when it was about to vanish for the night? Was it angry at being forced belong the horizon? Or was it a showman, giving a performance before retiring?
Why was the most colorful part of people's bodies-the brightness of their blood-hidden beneath the skin, never to be seen unless something went wrong?
No, Kaladin thought. The blood isn't the most colorful part of a body. The eyes can be colorful too. The blood and the eyes. Both representations of one's heritage. And one's nobility.
"I saw inside a man today," Kaladin finally said.
"Not for the first time," Lirin said, "and certainly not for the last. I'm proud of you. I expected to find you here crying, as you usually do when we lose a patient. You're learning."
"When I said I saw inside a man," Kaladin said, "I wasn't talking about the wounds."
Lirin didn't respond for a moment. "I see."
"You would have let him die if I hadn't been there, wouldn't you?"
Silence.
"Why didn't you?" Kaladin said. "It would have solved so much!"
"It wouldn't have been letting him die. It would have been murdering him."
"You could have just let him bleed, then claimed you couldn't save him. Nobody would have questioned you. You could have done it."
"No," Lirin said, staring at the sunset. "No, I couldn't have."
"But why?"
"Because I'm not a killer, son."
Kaladin frowned.
Lirin had a distant look in his eyes. "Somebody has to start. Somebody has to step forward and do what is right, because it is right. If nobody starts, then others cannot follow. The lighteyes do their best to kill themselves, and to kill us. The others still haven't brought back Alds and Milp. Roshone just left them there."
Alds and Milp, two townsmen, had been on the hunt but hadn't returned with the party bearing the two wounded lighteyes. Roshone had been so worried about Rillir that he'd left them behind so he could travel quickly.
"The lighteyes don't care about life," Lirin said. "So I must. That's another reason why I wouldn't have let Roshone die, even if you hadn't been there. Though looking at you did strengthen me."
"I wish it hadn't," Kaladin said.
"You mustn't say such things."
"Why not?"
"Because, son. We have to be better than they are." He sighed, standing. "You should sleep. I may need you when the others return with Alds and Milp."
That wasn't likely; the two townsmen were probably dead by now. Their wounds were said to be pretty bad. Plus, the whitespines were still out there.
Lirin went inside, but didn't compel Kaladin to follow.
Would I have let him die? Kaladin wondered. Maybe even flicked that knife to hasten him on his way? Roshone had been nothing but a blight since his arrival, but did that justify killing him?
No. Cutting that artery wouldn't have been justified. But what obligation had Kaladin to help? Withholding his aid wasn't the same thing as killing. It just wasn't.
Kaladin thought it through a dozen different ways, pondering his father's words. What he found shocked him. He honestly would have let Roshone die on that table. It would have been better for Kaladin's family; it would have been better for the entire town.
Kaladin's father had once laughed at his son's desire to go to war. Indeed, now that Kaladin had decided he would become a surgeon on his own terms, his thoughts and actions of earlier years felt childish to him. But Lirin thought Kaladin incapable of killing. You can hardly step on a cremling without feeling guilty, son, he'd said. Ramming your spear into a man would be nowhere near as easy as you seem to think.
But his father was wrong. It was a stunning, frightening revelation. This wasn't idle fancy or daydreaming about the glory of battle. This was real.
At that moment, Kaladin knew he could kill, if he needed to. Some people-like a festering finger or a leg shattered beyond repair-just needed to be removed. "Like a highstorm, regular in their coming, yet always unexpected." -The word Desolation is used twice in reference to their appearances. See pages 57, 59, and 64 of Tales by Hearthlight. "I've made my decision," Shallan declared.
Jasnah looked up from her research. In an unusual moment of deference, she put aside her books and sat with her back to the Veil, regarding Shallan. "Very well."
"What you did was both legal and right, in the strict sense of the words," Shallan said. "But it was not moral, and it certainly wasn't ethical."
"So morality and legality are distinct?"
"Nearly all of the philosophies agree they are."
"But what do you think?"
Shallan hesitated. "Yes. You can be moral without following the law, and you can be immoral while following the law."
"But you also said what I did was 'right' but not 'moral.' The distinction between those two seems less easy to define."
"An action can be right," Shallan said. "It is simply something done, viewed without considering intent. Killing four men in self-defense is right."
"But not moral?"
"Morality applies to your intent and the greater context of the situation. Seeking out men to kill is an immoral act, Jasnah, regardless of the eventual outcome."
Jasnah tapped her desktop with a fingernail. She was wearing her glove, the gemstones of the broken Soulcaster bulging beneath. It had been two weeks. Surely she'd discovered that it didn't work. How could she be so calm?
Was she trying to fix it in secret? Perhaps she feared that if she revealed it was broken, she would lose political power. Or had she realized that hers had been swapped for a different Soulcaster? Could it be, despite all odds, that Jasnah just hadn't tried to use the Soulcaster? Shallan needed to leave before too long. But if she left before Jasnah discovered the swap, she risked having the woman try her Soulcaster just after Shallan vanished, bringing suspicion directly on her. The anxious waiting was driving Shallan near to madness.
Finally, Jasnah nodded, then returned to her research.
"You have nothing to say?" Shallan said. "I just accused you of murder."
"No," Jasnah said, "murder is a legal definition. You said I killed unethically."
"You think I'm wrong, I assume?"
"You are," Jasnah said. "But I accept that you believe what you are saying and have put rational thought behind it. I have looked over your notes, and I believe you understand the various philosophies. In some cases, I think that you were quite insightful in your interpretation of them. The lesson was instructive." She opened her book.
"Then that's it?"
"Of course not," Jasnah said. "We will study philosophy further in the future; for now, I'm satisfied that you have established a solid foundation in the topic."
"But I still decided you were wrong. I still think there's an absolute Truth out there."
"Yes," Jasnah said, "and it took you two weeks of struggling to come to that conclusion." Jasnah looked up, meeting Shallan's eyes. "It wasn't easy, was it?"
"No."
"And you still wonder, don't you?"
"Yes.
"That is enough." Jasnah narrowed her eyes slightly, a consoling smile appearing on her lips. "If it helps you wrestle with your feelings, child, understand that I was trying to do good. I sometimes wonder if I should accomplish more with my Soulcaster." She turned back to her reading. "You are free for the rest of the day."
Shallan blinked. "What?"
"Free," Jasnah said. "You may go. Do as you please. You'll spend it drawing beggars and barmaids, I suspect, but you may choose. Be off with you."
"Yes, Brightness! Thank you."
Jasnah waved in dismissal and Shallan grabbed her portfolio and hastened from the alcove. She hadn't had any free time since the day she'd gone sketching on her own in the gardens. She'd been gently chided for that; Jasnah had left her in her rooms to rest, not go out sketching.
Shallan waited impatiently as the parshman porters lowered her lift to the Veil's groundfloor, then hurried out into the cavernous central hall. A long walk later, she approached the guest quarters, nodding to the master-servants who served there. Half guards, half concierges, they monitored who entered and left.
She used her thick brass key to unlock the door to Jasnah's rooms, then slipped inside and locked the door behind her. The small sitting chamber-furnished with a rug and two chairs beside the hearth-was lit by topazes. The table still contained a half-full cup of orange wine from Jasnah's late research the night before, along with a few crumbs of bread on a plate.
Shallan hurried to her own chamber, then shut the door and took the Soulcaster out of her safepouch. The warm glow of the gemstones bathed her face in white and red light. They were large enough-and therefore bright enough-that it was hard to look at them directly. Each would be worth ten or twenty broams.
She'd been forced to hide them outside in the recent highstorm to infuse them, and that had been its own source of anxiety. She took a deep breath, then knelt and slid a small wooden stick from under the bed. A week and a half of practice, and she still hadn't managed to make the Soulcaster do…well, anything at all. She'd tried tapping the gems, twisting them, shaking her hand, and flexing her hand in exact mimicry of Jasnah. She'd studied picture after picture she'd drawn of the process. She tried speaking, concentrating, and even begging.
However, she'd found a book the day before that had offered what seemed like a useful tip. It claimed that humming, of all things, could make a Soulcasting more effective. It was just a passing reference, but it was more than she'd found anywhere else. She sat down on her bed and forced herself to concentrate. She closed her eyes, holding the stick, imagining it transforming into quartz. Then she began humming.
Nothing happened. She kept on humming though, trying different notes, concentrating as hard as she could. She kept her attention on the task for a good half hour, but eventually her mind began to wander. A new worry began to nibble at her. Jasnah was one of the most brilliant, insightful scholars in the world. She'd put the Soulcaster out where it could be taken. Had she intentionally duped Shallan with a fake?
It seemed an awful lot of trouble to go through. Why not just spring the trap and reveal Shallan as a thief? The fact that she couldn't get the Soulcaster to work left her straining plausibility for explanations.
She stopped humming and opened her eyes. The stick had not changed. So much for that tip, she thought, setting the stick aside with a sigh. She'd been so hopeful.
She lay back on the bed, resting, staring up at the brown stone ceiling, cut-like the rest of the Conclave-directly out of the mountain. Here, the stone had been left intentionally rough, evoking the roof of a cave. It was quite beautiful in a subtle way she'd never noticed before, the colors and contours of the rock rippling like a disturbed pond.
She took a sheet from her portfolio and began to sketch the rock patterns. One sketch to calm her, and then she would get back to the Soulcaster. Perhaps she should try it on her other hand again.
She couldn't capture the colors of the strata, not in charcoal, but she could record the fascinating way the strata wove together. Like a work of art. Had some stoneworker cut this ceiling intentionally, crafting this subtle creation, or was it an accident of nature? She smiled, imagining some overworked stonecutter noticing the beautiful grain of the rock and deciding to form a wave pattern for his own personal wonder and sense of beauty.
"What are you?"
Shallan yelped, sitting up, sketchpad bouncing free of her lap. Someone had whispered those words. She'd heard them distinctly!
"Who is there?" she asked.
Silence.
"Who's there!" she said more loudly, her heart beating quickly.
Something sounded outside her door, from the sitting room. Shallan jumped, hiding the hand wearing the Soulcaster under a pillow as the door creaked open, revealing a wizened palace maid, darkeyed and dressed in a white and black uniform.
"Oh dear!" the woman exclaimed. "I had no idea you were here, Brightness." She bowed low.
A palace maid. Here to clean the room, an everyday occurrence. Focused on her meditation, Shallan hadn't heard her enter. "Why did you speak to me?"
"Speak to you, Brightness?"
"You…" No, the voice had been a whisper, and it had quite distinctly come from inside Shallan's room. It couldn't have been the maid.
She shivered and glanced about. But that was foolish. The tiny room was easily inspected. There were no Voidbringers hiding in the corners or under her bed.
What, then, had she heard? Noises from the woman cleaning, obviously. Shallan's mind had just interpreted those random sounds as words.
Forcing herself to relax, Shallan looked out past the maid into the sitting room. The woman had cleaned up the wineglass and crumbs. A broom leaned against the wall. In addition, Jasnah's door was cracked open. "Were you in Brightness Jasnah's room?" Shallan demanded.
"Yes, Brightness," the woman said. "Tidying up the desk, making the bed-"
"Brightness Jasnah does not like people entering her room. The maids have been told not to clean in there." The king had promised that his maids were very carefully chosen, and there had never been issues of theft, but Jasnah still insisted that none enter her bedchamber.
The woman paled. "I'm sorry, Brightness. I didn't hear! I wasn't told-"
"Hush, it's all right," Shallan said. "You'll want to go tell her what you've done. She always notices if her things were moved. It will be better for you if you go to her and explain."
"Y-Yes, Brightness." The woman bowed again.
"In fact," Shallan said, something occurring to her. "You should go now. No point putting it off."
The elderly maid sighed. "Yes, of course, Brightness." She withdrew. A few seconds later, the outside door closed and locked.
Shallan leapt up, pulling off the Soulcaster and stuffing it back in her safepouch. She hurried outside, heart thumping, the strange voice forgotten as she seized the opportunity to look into Jasnah's room. It was unlikely that Shallan would discover anything useful about the Soulcaster, but she couldn't pass up the chance-not with the maid to blame for moving things.
She felt only a glimmer of guilt for this. She'd already stolen from Jasnah. Compared with that, poking through her room was nothing.
The bedroom was larger than Shallan's, though it still felt cramped because of the unavoidable lack of windows. Jasnah's bed, a four-poster monstrosity, took up half the space. The vanity was against the far wall, and beside it the dressing table from which Shallan had originally stolen the Soulcaster. Other than a dresser, the only other thing in the room was the desk, books piled high on the left side.
Shallan never got a chance to look at Jasnah's notebooks. Might she, perhaps, have taken notes on the Soulcaster? Shallan sat at the desk, hurriedly pulling open the top drawer and poking through the brushpens, charcoal pencils, and sheets of paper. All were organized neatly, and the paper was blank. The bottom right drawer held ink and empty notebooks. The bottom left drawer had a small collection of reference books.
That left the books on the top of the table. Jasnah would have the majority of her notebooks with her as she worked. But…yes, there were still a few here. Heart fluttering, Shallan gathered up the three thin volumes and set them before her.
Notes on Urithiru, the first one declared inside. The notebook was full-it appeared-of quotes from and notations about various books Jasnah had found. All spoke of this place, Urithiru. Jasnah had mentioned it earlier to Kabsal.
Shallan put that book aside, looking at the next, hoping for mention of the Soulcaster. This notebook was also filled to capacity, but there was no title on it. Shallan picked through, reading some entries.
"The ones of ash and fire, who killed like a swarm, relentless before the Heralds…" Noted in Masly, page 337. Corroborated by Coldwin and Hasavah.
"They take away the light, wherever they lurk. Skin that is burned." Cormshen, page 104.
Innia, in her recordings of children's folktales, speaks of the Voidbringers as being "Like a highstorm, regular in their coming, yet always unexpected." The word Desolation is used twice in reference to their appearances. See pages 57, 59, and 64 of Tales by Hearthlight.
"They changed, even as we fought them. Like shadows they were, that can transform as the flame dances. Never underestimate them because of what you first see." Purports to be a scrap collected from Talatin, a Radiant of the Order of Stonewards. The source-Guvlow's Incarnate-is generally held as reliable, though this is from a copied fragment of The Poem of the Seventh Morning, which has been lost.
They went on like that. Pages and pages. Jasnah had trained her in this method of note taking-once the notebook was filled, each item would be evaluated again for reliability and usefulness and copied to different, more specific notebooks.
Frowning, Shallan looked through the final notebook. It focused on Natanatan, the Unclaimed Hills, and the Shattered Plains. It collected records of discoveries by hunters, explorers, or tradesmen searching for a river passage to New Natanan. Of the three notebooks, the largest was the one that focused on the Voidbringers.
The Voidbringers again. Many people in more rural places whispered of them and other monsters of the dark. The raspings, or stormwhispers, or even the dreaded nightspren. Shallan had been taught by stern tutors that these were superstition, fabrications of the Lost Radiants, who used tales of monsters to justify their domination of mankind.
The ardents taught something else. They spoke of the Lost Radiants-called the Knights Radiant then-fighting off Voidbringers during the war to hold Roshar. According to these teachings, it was only after defeating the Voidbringers-and the departure of the Heralds-that the Radiants had fallen.
Both groups agreed that the Voidbringers were gone. Fabrications or long-defeated enemies, the result was the same. Shallan could believe that some people-some scholars, even-might believe that the Voidbringers still existed, haunting mankind. But Jasnah the skeptic? Jasnah, who denied the existence of the Almighty? Could the woman really be so twisted as to deny the existence of God, but accept the existence of his mythological enemies?
A knock came at the outer door. Shallan jumped, raising her hand to her breast. She hurriedly replaced the notebooks on the desk in the same order and orientation. Then, flustered, she hurried out to the door. Jasnah wouldn't knock, you silly fool, she told herself, unlocking and opening the door a crack.
Kabsal stood outside. The handsome, lighteyed ardent held up a basket. "I've heard reports that you have the day free." He shook the basket temptingly. "Would you like some jam?"
Shallan calmed herself, then glanced back at Jasnah's open quarters. She really should investigate more. She turned to Kabsal, meaning to tell him no, but his eyes were so inviting. That hint of a smile on his face, that good-natured and relaxed posture.
If Shallan went with Kabsal, maybe she could ask him what he knew regarding Soulcasters. That wasn't what decided it for her, however, The truth was, she needed to relax. She'd been so on edge lately, brain stuffed with philosophy, every spare moment spent trying to make the Soulcaster work. Was it any wonder she was hearing voices?
"I'd love some jam," she declared. "Truthberry jam," Kabsal said, holding up the small green jar. "It's Azish. Legends there say that those who consume the berries speak only the truth until the next sunset."
Shallan raised an eyebrow. They were seated on cushions atop a blanket in the Conclave gardens, not far from where she'd first experimented with the Soulcaster. "And is it true?"
"Hardly," Kabsal said, opening the jar. "The berries are harmless. But the leaves and stalks of the truthberry plant, if burned, give off a smoke that makes people intoxicated and euphoric. It appears that peoples often gathered the stalks for making fires. They'd eat the berries around the campfire and have a rather…interesting night."
"It's a wonder-" Shallan began, then bit her lip.
"What?" he prodded.
She sighed. "It's a wonder they didn't become known as birthberries, considering-" She blushed.
He laughed. "That's a good point!"
"Stormfather," she said, blushing further. "I'm terrible at being proper. Here, give me some of that jam."
He smiled, handing over a slice of bread with green jam slathered across the top. A dull-eyed parshman-appropriated from inside the Conclave-sat on the ground beside a shalebark wall, acting as an impromptu chaperone. It felt so strange to be out with a man near her own age with only a single parshman in attendance. It felt liberating. Exhilarating. Or maybe that was just the sunlight and the open air.
"I'm also terrible at being scholarly," she said, closing her eyes, breathing deeply. "I like it outside far too much."
"Many of the greatest scholars spent their lives traveling."
"And for each one of them," Shallan said, "there were a hundred more stuck back in a hole of a library, buried in books."
"And they wouldn't have had it any other way. Most people with a bent for research prefer their holes and libraries. But you do not. That makes you intriguing."
She opened her eyes, smiling at him, then took a luscious bite of her jam and bread. This Thaylen bread was so fluffy, it was more like cake.
"So," she said as he chewed on his bite, "do you feel any more truthful, now that you've had the jam?"
"I am an ardent," he said. "It is my duty and calling to be truthful at all times."
"Of course," she said. "I'm always truthful as well. So full of truth, in fact, that sometimes it squeezes the lies right out my lips. There isn't a place for them inside, you see."
He laughed heartily. "Shallan Davar. I can't imagine anyone as sweet as yourself uttering a single untruth."
"Then for the sake of your sanity, I'll keep them coming in pairs." She smiled. "I'm having a terrible time, and this food is awful."
"You've just disproven an entire body of lore and mythology surrounding the eating of truthberry jam!"
"Good," Shallan said. "Jam should not have lore or mythology. It should be sweet, colorful, and delicious."
"Like young ladies, I presume."
"Brother Kabsal!" She blushed again. "That wasn't at all appropriate."
"And yet you smile."
"I can't help it," she said. "I'm sweet, colorful, and delicious."
"You have the colorful part right," he said, obviously amused at her deep blush. "And the sweet part. Can't speak for your deliciousness…"
"Kabsal!" she exclaimed, though she wasn't entirely shocked. She'd once told herself that he was interested in her only in order to protect her soul, but that was getting more and more difficult to believe. He stopped by at least once a week.
He chuckled at her embarrassment, but that only made her blush further.
"Stop it!" She held her hand up in front of her eyes. "My face must be the color of my hair! You shouldn't say such things; you're a man of religion."
"But still a man, Shallan."
"One who said his interest in me was only academic."
"Yes, academic," he said idly. "Involving many experiments and much firsthand field research."
"Kabsal!"
He laughed deeply, taking a bite of his bread. "I'm sorry, Brightness Shallan. But it gets such a reaction!"
She grumbled, lowering her hand, but knew that he said the things-in part-because she encouraged him. She couldn't help it. Nobody had ever shown her the kind of interest that he, increasingly, did. She liked him-liked talking with him, liked listening to him. It was a wonderful way to break the monotony of study.
There was, of course, no prospect for a union. Assuming she could protect her family, she'd be needed to make a good political marriage. Dallying with an ardent owned by the king of Kharbranth wouldn't serve anyone.
I'll soon have to start hinting to him the truth, she thought. He has to know that this won't go anywhere. Doesn't he?
He leaned toward her. "You really are what you seem, aren't you, Shallan?"
"Capable? Intelligent? Charming?"
He smiled. "Genuine."
"I wouldn't say that," she said.
"You are. I see it in you."
"It's not that I'm genuine. I'm naive. I lived my entire childhood in my family's manor."
"You don't have the air of a recluse about you. You're so at ease at conversation."
"I had to become so. I spent most of my childhood in my own company, and I detest boring conversation partners."
He smiled, though his eyes held concern. "It seems a shame that one such as you would lack for attention. That's like hanging a beautiful painting facing the wall."
She leaned back on her safehand, finishing off her bread. "I wouldn't say I lacked for attention, not quantitatively, for certain. My father paid me plenty of attention."
"I've heard of him. A stern man, by reputation."
"He's…" She had to pretend he was still alive. "My father is a man of passion and virtue. Just never at the same time."
"Shallan! That might just be the wittiest thing I've heard you say."
"And perhaps the most truthful. Unfortunately."
Kabsal looked into her eyes, searching for something. What did he see? "You don't seem to care for your father much."
"Another truthful statement. The berries are working on both of us, I see."
"He's a hurtful man, I gather?"
"Yes, though never to me. I'm too precious. His ideal, perfect daughter. You see, my father is precisely the type of man to hang a picture facing the wrong way. That way, it can't be soiled by unworthy eyes or touched by unworthy fingers."
"That's a shame. As you look very touchable to me."
She glared. "I told you, no more of that teasing."
"That wasn't teasing," he said, regarding her with deep blue eyes. Earnest eyes. "You intrigue me, Shallan Davar."
She found her heart thumping. Oddly, a panic rose within her at the same time. "I shouldn't be intriguing."
"Why not?"
"Logic puzzles are intriguing. Mathematical computations can be intriguing. Political maneuvers are intriguing. But women…they should be nothing short of baffling."
"And what if I think I'm beginning to understand you?"
"Then I'm at a severe disadvantage," she said. "As I don't understand myself."
He smiled.
"We shouldn't be talking like this, Kabsal. You're an ardent."
"A man can leave the ardentia, Shallan."
She felt a jolt. He looked steadily at her, not blinking. Handsome, soft-spoken, witty. This could grow very dangerous very quickly, she thought.
"Jasnah thinks you're getting close to me because you want her Soulcaster," Shallan blurted out. Then she winced. Idiot! That's your response when a man hints that he might leave the service of the Almighty in order to be with you?
"Brightness Jasnah is quite clever," Kabsal said, slicing himself another piece of bread.
Shallan blinked. "Oh, er. You mean she's right?"
"Right and wrong," Kabsal said. "The devotary would very, very much like to get that fabrial. I planned to ask your help eventually."
"But?"
"But my superiors thought it was a terrible idea." He grimaced. "They think the king of Alethkar is volatile enough that he'd march to war with Kharbranth over that. Soulcasters aren't Shardblades, but they can be equally important." He shook his head, taking a bite of bread. "Elhokar Kholin should be ashamed to let his sister use that fabrial, particularly so trivially. But if we were to steal it…Well, the repercussions could be felt across all of Vorin Roshar."
"Is that so?" Shallan said, feeling sick.
He nodded. "Most people don't think about it. I didn't. Kings rule and war with Shards-but their armies subsist through Soulcasters. Do you have any idea the kinds of supply lines and support personnel Soulcasters replace? Without them, warfare is virtually impossible. You'd need hundreds of wagons filled with food every month!"
"I guess…that would be a problem." She took a deep breath. "They fascinate me, these Soulcasters. I've always wondered what it would feel like to use one."
"I as well."
"So you've never used one?"
He shook his head. "There aren't any in Kharbranth."
Right, she thought. Of course. That's why the king needed Jasnah to help his granddaughter. "Have you ever heard anyone talk about using one?" She cringed at the bold statement. Would it make him suspicious?
He just nodded idly. "There's a secret to it, Shallan."
"Really?" she asked, heart in her throat.
He looked up at her, seeming conspiratorial. "It's really not that difficult."
"It…What?"
"It's true," he said. "I've heard it from several ardents. There's so much shadow and ritual surrounding Soulcasters. They're kept mysterious, aren't used where people can see. But the truth is, there's not much to them. You just put one on, press your hand against something, and tap a gemstone with your finger. It works that simply."
"That's not how Jasnah does it," she said, perhaps too defensively.
"Yes, that confused me, but supposedly if you use one long enough, you learn how to control them better." He shook his head. "I don't like the mystery that has grown up around them. It smells too much like the mysticism of the old Hierocracy. We'd better not find ourselves treading down that path again. What would it matter if people knew how simple the Soulcasters are to use? The principles and gifts of the Almighty are often simple."
Shallan barely listened to that last part. Unfortunately, it seemed that Kabsal was as ignorant as she. More ignorant, even. She'd tried the exact method he spoke of, and it didn't work. Perhaps the ardents he knew were lying to protect the secret.
"Anyway," Kabsal said, "I guess that's a tangent. You asked me about stealing the Soulcaster, and rest assured, I wouldn't put you in that position. I was foolish to think of it, and I was shortly forbidden to attempt it. I was ordered to care for your soul and see that you weren't corrupted by Jasnah's teachings, and perhaps try to reclaim Jasnah's soul as well."
"Well, that last one is going to be difficult."
"I hadn't noticed," he replied dryly.
She smiled, though she couldn't quite decide how to feel. "I kind of killed the moment, didn't I? Between us?"
"I'm glad you did," he said, dusting off his hands. "I get carried away, Shallan. At times, I wonder if I'm as bad at being an ardent as you are at being proper. I don't want to be presumptuous. It's just that the way you speak, it gets my mind churning, and my tongue starts saying whatever comes to it."
"And so…"
"And so we should call it a day," Kabsal said, standing. "I need time to think."
Shallan stood as well, holding out her freehand for his assistance; standing up in a sleek Vorin dress was difficult. They were in a section of the gardens where the shalebark wasn't quite so high, so once standing, Shallan could see that the king himself was passing nearby, chatting with a middle-aged ardent who had a long, narrow face.
The king often went strolling through the gardens on his midday walk. She waved to him, but the kindly man didn't see her. He was deep in conversation with the ardent. Kabsal turned, noticed the king, then ducked down.
"What?" Shallan said.
"The king keeps careful track of his ardents. He and Brother Ixil think I'm on cataloging duty today."
She found herself smiling. "You're scrapping your day's work to go on a picnic with me?"
"Yes."
"I thought you were supposed to spend time with me," she said, folding her arms. "To protect my soul."
"I was. But there are those among the ardents who worry that I'm a little too interested in you."
"They're right."
"I'll come see you tomorrow," he said, peeking up over the top of the shalebark. "Assuming I'm not stuck in indexing all day as a punishment." He smiled at her. "If I decide to leave the ardentia, that is my choice, and they cannot forbid it-though they may try to distract me." He scrambled away as she prepared herself to tell him that he was presuming too much.
She couldn't get the words out. Perhaps because she was growing less and less certain what she wanted. Shouldn't she be focused on helping her family?
By now, Jasnah likely had discovered that her Soulcaster didn't work, but saw no advantage in revealing it. Shallan should leave. She could go to Jasnah and use the terrible experience in the alleyway as an excuse to quit.
And yet, she was terribly reluctant. Kabsal was part of that, but he wasn't the main reason. The truth was that, despite her occasional complaints, she loved learning to be a scholar. Even after Jasnah's philosophical training, even after spending days reading book after book. Even with the confusion and the stress, Shallan often felt fulfilled in a way she'd never been before. Yes, Jasnah had been wrong to kill those men, but Shallan wanted to know enough about philosophy to cite the correct reasons why. Yes, digging through historical records could be tedious, but Shallan appreciated the skills and patience she was learning; they were sure to be of value when she got to do her own deep research in the future.
Days spent learning, lunches spent laughing with Kabsal, evenings chatting and debating with Jasnah. That was what she wanted. And those were the parts of her life that were complete lies.
Troubled, she picked up the basket of bread and jam, then made her way back to the Conclave and Jasnah's suite. An envelope addressed to her sat in the waiting bin. Shallan frowned, breaking the seal to look inside.
Lass, it read. We got your message. The Wind's Pleasure will soon be at port in Kharbranth again. Of course we'll give you passage and return to your estates. It would be my pleasure to have you aboard. We are Davar men, we are. Indebted to your family.
We're making a quick trip over to the mainland, but will hurry to Kharbranth next. Expect us in one week's time to pick you up.
– Captain Tozbek
The undertext, written by Tozbek's wife, read even more clearly. We'd happily give you free passage, Brightness, if you're willing to do some scribing for us during the trip. The ledgers badly need to be rewritten.
Shallan stared at the note for a long time. She'd wanted to know where he was and when he was planning to return, but he'd apparently taken her letter as a request to come and pick her up.
It seemed a fitting deadline. That would put her departure at three weeks after stealing the Soulcaster, as she'd told Nan Balat to expect. If Jasnah hadn't reacted to the Soulcaster switch by then, Shallan would have to take it to mean that she wasn't under suspicion.
One week. She would be on that ship. It made her break inside to realize it, but it had to be done. She lowered the paper and left the guest hallway, her steps taking her through the twisting corridors into the Veil.
Shortly, she stood outside Jasnah's alcove. The princess sat at her desk, reed scratching at a notebook. She glanced up. "I thought I told you that you could do whatever you want today."
"You did," Shallan said. "And I realized that what I want to do is study."
Jasnah smiled in a sly, understanding way. Almost a self-satisfied way. If she only knew. "Well, I'm not going to chide you for that," Jasnah said, turning back to her research.
Shallan sat, offering the bread and jam to Jasnah, who shook her head and continued researching. Shallan cut herself another slice and topped it with jam. Then she opened a book and sighed in satisfaction.
In one week, she'd have to leave. But in the meantime, she would let herself pretend a little while longer. "They lived out in the wilds, always awaiting the Desolation-or sometimes, a foolish child who took no heed of the night's darkness." -A child's tale, yes, but this quote from Shadows Remembered seems to hint at the truth I seek. See page 82, the fourth tale. Kaladin awoke to a familiar feeling of dread.
He'd spent much of the night lying awake on the hard floor, staring up into the dark, thinking. Why try? Why care? There is no hope for these men.
He felt like a wanderer seeking desperately for a pathway into the city to escape wild beasts. But the city was atop a steep mountain, and no matter how he approached, the climb was always the same. Impossible. A hundred different paths. The same result.
Surviving his punishment would not save his men. Training them to run faster would not save them. They were bait. The efficiency of the bait did not change its purpose or its fate.
Kaladin forced himself to his feet. He felt ground down, like a millstone used far too long. He still didn't understand how he'd survived. Did you preserve me, Almighty? Save me so that I could watch them die?
You were supposed to burn prayers to send them to the Almighty, who waited for his Heralds to recapture the Tranquiline Halls. That had never made sense to Kaladin. The Almighty was supposed to be able to see all and know all. So why did he need a prayer burned before he would do anything? Why did he need people to fight for him in the first place?
Kaladin left the barrack, stepping into the light. Then he froze.
The men were lined up, waiting. A ragged bunch of bridgemen, wearing brown leather vests and short trousers that only reached their knees. Dirty shirts, sleeves rolled to the elbows, lacing down the front. Dusty skin, mops of ragged hair. And yet now, because of Rock's gift, they all had neatly trimmed beards or clean-shaven faces. Everything else about them was worn. But their faces were clean.
Kaladin raised a hesitant hand to his face, touching his unkempt black beard. The men seemed to be waiting for something. "What?" he asked.
The men shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the lumberyard. They were waiting for him to lead them in practice, of course. But practice was futile. He opened his mouth to tell them that, but hesitated as he saw something approaching. Four men, carrying a palanquin. A tall, thin man in a violet lighteyes's coat walked beside it.
The men turned to look. "What's this?" Hobber asked, scratching at his thick neck.
"It will be Lamaril's replacement," Kaladin said, gently pushing his way through the line of bridgemen. Syl flitted down and landed on his shoulder as the palanquin bearers stopped before Kaladin and turned to the side, revealing a dark-haired woman wearing a sleek violet dress decorated with golden glyphs. She lounged on her side, resting on a cushioned couch, her eyes a pale blue.
"I am Brightness Hashal," she said, voice lightly touched by a Kholinar accent. "My husband, Brightlord Matal, is your new captain."
Kaladin held his tongue, biting back a remark. He had some experience with lighteyes who got "promoted" to positions like this one. Matal himself said nothing, simply standing with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He was tall-nearly as tall as Kaladin-but spindly. Delicate hands. That sword hadn't seen much practice.
"We have been advised," Hashal said, "that this crew has been troublesome." Her eyes narrowed, focusing on Kaladin. "It seems that you have survived the Almighty's judgment. I bear a message for you from your betters. The Almighty has given you another chance to prove yourself as a bridgeman. That is all. Many are trying to read too much into what happened, so Highprince Sadeas has forbidden gawkers to come see you.
"My husband does not intend to run the bridge crews with his predecessor's laxness. My husband is a well-respected and honored associate of Highprince Sadeas himself, not some near-darkeyed mongrel like Lamaril."
"Is that so?" Kaladin said. "Then how did he end up in this latrine pit of a job?"
Hashal didn't display a hint of anger at the comment. She flicked her fingers to the side, and one of the soldiers stepped forward and rammed the butt of his spear toward Kaladin's stomach.
Kaladin caught it, old reflexes still too keen. Possibilities flashed through his mind, and he could see the fight before it took place.
Yank on the spear, throw the soldier off guard.
Step forward and ram an elbow into his forearm, making him drop the weapon.
Take control, spin the spear up and slam the soldier on the side of the head.
Spin into a sweep to drop the two who came to help their companion.
Raise the spear for the No. That would only get Kaladin killed.
Kaladin released the butt of the spear. The soldier blinked in surprise that a mere bridgeman had blocked his blow. Scowling, the soldier jerked the butt up and slammed it into the side of Kaladin's head.
Kaladin let it hit him, rolling with it, allowing it to toss him to the ground. His head rang from the shock, but his eyesight stopped spinning after a moment. He'd have a headache, but probably no concussion.
He took in a few deep breaths, lying on the ground, hands forming fists. His fingers seemed to burn where he had touched the spear. The soldier stepped back into position beside the palanquin.
"No laxness," Hashal said calmly. "If you must know, my husband requested this assignment. The bridge crews are essential to Brightlord Sadeas's advantage in the War of Reckoning. Their mismanagement under Lamaril was disgraceful."
Rock knelt down, helping Kaladin to his feet while scowling at the lighteyes and their soldiers. Kaladin stumbled up, holding his hand to the side of his head. His fingers felt slick and wet, and a trickle of warm blood ran down his neck to his shoulder.
"From now on," Hashal said, "aside from doing normal bridge duty, each crew will be assigned only one type of work duty. Gaz!"
The short bridge sergeant poked out from behind the palanquin. Kaladin hadn't noticed him there, behind the porters and the soldiers. "Yes, Brightness?" Gaz bowed several times.
"My husband wishes Bridge Four to be assigned chasm duty permanently. Whenever they are not needed for bridge duty, I want them working in those chasms. This will be far more efficient. They will know which sections have been scoured recently, and will not cover the same ground. You see? Efficiency. They will start immediately."
She rapped on the side of her palanquin, and the porters turned, bearing her away. Her husband continued to walk alongside her without saying a word, and Gaz hurried to keep up. Kaladin stared after them, holding his hand to his head. Dunny ran and fetched him a bandage.
"Chasm duty," Moash grumbled. "Great job, lordling. She'd see us dead from a chasmfiend if the Parshendi arrows don't take us."
"What are we going to do?" asked lean, balding Peet, his voice edged with worry.
"We get to work," Kaladin said, taking the bandage from Dunny.
He walked away, leaving them in a frightened clump. A short time later, Kaladin stood at the edge of the chasm, looking down. The hot light of the noon sun burned the back of his neck and cast his shadow downward into the rift, to join with those below. I could fly, he thought. Step off and fall, wind blowing against me. Fly for a few moments. A few, beautiful moments.
He knelt and grabbed the rope ladder, then climbed down into the darkness. The other bridgemen followed in a silent group. They'd been infected by his mood.
Kaladin knew what was happening to him. Step by step, he was turning back into the wretch he had been. He'd always known it was a danger. He'd clung to the bridgemen as a lifeline. But he was letting go now.
As he stepped down the rungs, a faint translucent figure of blue and white dropped beside him, sitting on a swinglike seat. Its ropes disappeared a few inches above Syl's head.
"What is wrong with you?" she asked softly.
Kaladin just kept climbing down.
"You should be happy. You survived the storms. The other bridgemen were so excited."
"I itched to fight that soldier," Kaladin whispered.
Syl cocked her head.
"I could have beaten him," Kaladin continued. "I probably could have beaten all four of them. I've always been good with the spear. No, not good. Durk called me amazing. A natural born soldier, an artist with the spear."
"Maybe you should have fought them, then."
"I thought you didn't like killing."
"I hate it," she said, growing more translucent. "But I've helped men kill before."
Kaladin froze on the ladder. "What?"
"It's true," she said. "I can remember it, just faintly."
"How?"
"I don't know." She grew paler. "I don't want to talk about it. But it was right to do. I feel it."
Kaladin hung for a moment longer. Teft called down, asking if something was wrong. He started to descend again.
"I didn't fight the soldiers today," Kaladin said, eyes toward the chasm wall, "because it wouldn't work. My father told me that it is impossible to protect by killing. Well, he was wrong."
"But-"
"He was wrong," Kaladin said, "because he implied that you could protect people in other ways. You can't. This world wants them dead, and trying to save them is pointless." He reached the bottom of the chasm, stepping into darkness. Teft reached the bottom next and lit his torch, bathing the moss-covered stone walls in flickering orange light.
"Is that why you didn't accept it?" Syl whispered, flitting over and landing on Kaladin's shoulder. "The glory. All those months ago?"
Kaladin shook his head. "No. That was something else."
"What did you say, Kaladin?" Teft raised the torch. The aging bridgeman's face looked older than usual in the flickering light, the shadows it created emphasizing the furrows in his skin.
"Nothing, Teft," Kaladin said. "Nothing important."
Syl sniffed at that. Kaladin ignored her, lighting his torch from Teft's as the other bridgemen arrived. When they were all down, Kaladin led the way out into the dark rift. The pale sky seemed distant here, like a far-off scream. This place was a tomb, with rotting wood and stagnant pools of water, good only for growing cremling larvae.
The bridgemen clustered together unconsciously as they always did in this fell place. Kaladin walked in front, and Syl fell silent. He gave Teft the chalk to mark directions, and didn't pause to pick up salvage. But neither did he walk too quickly. The other bridgemen were hushed behind them, speaking in occasional whispers too low to echo. As if their words were strangled by the gloom.
Rock eventually moved up to walk beside Kaladin. "Is difficult job, we have been given. But we are bridgemen! Life, it is difficult, eh? Is nothing new. We must have plan. How do we fight next?"
"There is no next fight, Rock."
"But we have won grand victory! Look, not days ago, you were delirious. You should have died. I know this thing. But instead, you walk, strong as any other man. Ha! Stronger. Is miracle. The Uli'tekanaki guide you."
"It's not a miracle, Rock," Kaladin said. "It's more of a curse."
"How is that a curse, my friend?" Rock asked, chuckling. He jumped up and into a puddle and laughed louder as it splashed Teft, who was walking just behind. The large Horneater could be remarkably childlike at times. "Living, this thing is no curse!"
"It is if it brings me back to watch you all die," Kaladin said. "Better I shouldn't have survived that storm. I'm just going to end up dead from a Parshendi arrow. We all are."
Rock looked troubled. When Kaladin offered nothing more, he withdrew. They continued, uncomfortably passing sections of scarred wall where chasmfiends had left their marks. Eventually they stumbled across a heap of bodies deposited by the highstorms. Kaladin stopped, holding up his torch, the other bridgemen peeking around him. Some fifty people had been washed into a recess in the rock, a small dead-end side passage in the stone.
The bodies were piled there, a wall of the dead, arms hanging out, reeds and flotsam stuck between them. Kaladin saw at a glance that the corpses were old enough to begin bloating and rotting. Behind him, one of the men retched, which caused a few of the others to do so as well. The scent was terrible, the corpses slashed and ripped into by cremlings and larger carrion beasts, many of which scuttled away from the light. A disembodied hand lay nearby, and a trail of blood led away. There were also fresh scrapes in the lichen as high as fifteen feet up the wall. A chasmfiend had ripped one of the bodies loose to devour. It might come back for the others.
Kaladin didn't retch. He shoved his half-burned torch between two large stones, then got to work, pulling bodies from the pile. At least they weren't rotted enough to come apart. The bridgemen slowly filled in around him, working. Kaladin let his mind grow numb, not thinking.
Once the bodies were down, the bridgemen laid them in a line. Then they began pulling off their armor, searching their pockets, taking knives from belts. Kaladin left gathering the spears to the others, working by himself off to the side.
Teft knelt beside Kaladin, rolling over a body with a head smashed by the fall. The shorter man began to undo the straps on the fallen man's breastplate. "Do you want to talk?"
Kaladin didn't say anything. He just kept working. Don't think about the future. Don't think about what will happen. Just survive.
Don't care, but don't despair. Just be.
"Kaladin." Teft's voice was like a knife, digging into Kaladin's shell, making him squirm.
"If I wanted to talk," Kaladin grumbled, "would I be working here by myself?"
"Fair enough," Teft said. He finally got the breastplate strap undone. "The other men are confused, son. They want to know what we're going to do next."
Kaladin sighed, then stood, turning to look at the bridgemen. "I don't know what to do! If we try to protect ourselves, Sadeas will have us punished! We're bait, and we're going to die. There's nothing I can do about it! It's hopeless."
The bridgemen regarded him with shock.
Kaladin turned from them and went back to work, kneeling beside Teft. "There," he said. "I explained it to them."
"Idiot," Teft said under his breath. "After all you've done, you're abandoning us now?"
To the side, the bridgemen turned back to work. Kaladin caught a few of them grumbling. "Bastard," Moash said. "I said this would happen."
"Abandoning you?" Kaladin hissed to Teft. Just let me be. Let me go back to apathy. At least then there's no pain. "Teft, I've spent hours and hours trying to find a way out, but there isn't one! Sadeas wants us dead. Lighteyes get what they want; that's the way the world works."
"So?"
Kaladin ignored him, turning back to his work, pulling at the boot on a soldier whose fibula looked to have been shattered in three different places. That made it storming awkward to get the boot off.
"Well, maybe we will die," Teft said. "But maybe this isn't about surviving."
Why was Teft-of all people-trying to cheer him up? "If survival isn't the point, Teft, then what is?" Kaladin finally got the boot off. He turned to the next body in line, then froze.
It was a bridgeman. Kaladin didn't recognize him, but that vest and those sandals were unmistakable. He lay slumped against the wall, arms at his sides, mouth slightly open and eyelids sunken. The skin on one of the hands had slipped free and pulled away.
"I don't know what the point is," Teft grumbled. "But it seems pathetic to give up. We should keep fighting. Right until those arrows take us. You know, 'journey before destination.'"
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know," Teft said, looking down quickly. "Just something I heard once."
"It's something the Lost Radiants used to say," Sigzil said, walking past.
Kaladin glanced to the side. The soft-spoken Azish man set a shield on a pile. He looked up, brown skin dark in the torchlight. "It was their motto. Part of it, at least. 'Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination.'"
"Lost Radiants?" Skar said, carrying an armful of boots. "Who's bringing them up?"
"Teft did," Moash said.
"I did not! That was just something I heard once."
"What does it even mean?" Dunny asked.
"I said I don't know!" Teft said.
"It was supposedly one of their creeds," Sigzil said. "In Yulay, there are groups of people who talk of the Radiants. And wish for their return."
"Who'd want them to return?" Skar said, leaning back against the wall, folding his arms. "They betrayed us to the Voidbringers."
"Ha!" Rock said. "Voidbringers! Lowlander nonsense. Is campfire tale told by children."
"They were real," Skar said defensively. "Everyone knows that."
"Everyone who listens to campfire stories!" Rock said with a laugh. "Too much air! Makes your minds soft. Is all right, though-you are still my family. Just the dumb ones!"
Teft scowled as the others continued to talk about the Lost Radiants.
"Journey before destination," Syl whispered on Kaladin's shoulder. "I like that."
"Why?" Kaladin asked, kneeling down to untie the dead bridgeman's sandals.
"Because," she replied, as if that were explanation enough. "Teft is right, Kaladin. I know you want to give up. But you can't."
"Why not?"
"Because you can't."
"We're assigned to chasm duty from now on," Kaladin said. "We won't be able to collect any more reeds to make money. That means no more bandages, antiseptic, or food for the nightly meals. With all of these bodies, we're bound to run into rotspren, and the men will grow sick-assuming chasmfiends don't eat us or a surprise highstorm doesn't drown us. And we'll have to keep running those bridges until Damnation ends, losing man after man. It's hopeless."
The men were still talking. "The Lost Radiants helped the other side," Skar argued. "They were tarnished all along."
Teft took offense at that. The wiry man stood up straight, pointing at Skar. "You don't know anything! It was too long ago. Nobody knows what really happened."
"Then why do all the stories say the same thing?" Skar demanded. "They abandoned us. Just like the lighteyes are abandoning us right now. Maybe Kaladin's right. Maybe there is no hope."
Kaladin looked down. Those words haunted him. Maybe Kaladin is right…maybe there is no hope…
He'd done this before. Under his last own er, before being sold to Tvlakv and being made a bridgeman. He'd given up on a quiet night after leading Goshel and the other slaves in rebellion. They'd been slaughtered. But somehow he'd survived. Storm it all, why did he always survive? I can't do it again, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. I can't help them.
Tien. Tukks. Goshel. Dallet. The nameless slave he'd tried to heal in Tvlakv's slave wagons. All had ended up the same. Kaladin had the touch of failure. Sometimes he gave them hope, but what was hope except another opportunity for failure? How many times could a man fall before he no longer stood back up?
"I just think we're ignorant," Teft grumbled. "I don't like listening to what the lighteyes say about the past. Their women write all the histories, you know."
"I can't believe you're arguing about this, Teft," Skar said, exasperated. "What next? Should we let the Voidbringers steal our hearts? Maybe they're just misunderstood. Or the Parshendi. Maybe we should just let them kill our king whenever they want."
"Would you two just storm off?" Moash snapped. "It doesn't matter. You heard Kaladin. Even he thinks we're as good as dead."
Kaladin couldn't take their voices anymore. He stumbled away, into the darkness, away from the torchlight. None of the men followed him. He entered a place of dark shadows, with only the distant ribbon of sky above for light.
Here, Kaladin escaped their eyes. In the darkness he ran into a boulder, stumbling to a stop. It was slick with moss and lichen. He stood with his hands pressed against it, then groaned and turned around to lean back against it. Syl alighted in front of him, still visible, despite the darkness. She sat down in the air, arranging her dress around her legs.
"I can't save them, Syl," Kaladin whispered, anguished.
"Are you certain?"
"I've failed every time before."
"And so you'll fail this time too?"
"Yes."
She fell silent. "Well then," she eventually said. "Let's say that you're right."
"So why fight? I told myself that I would try one last time. But I failed before I began. There's no saving them."
"Doesn't the fight itself mean anything?"
"Not if you're destined to die." He hung his head.
Sigzil's words echoed in his head. Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination. Kaladin looked up at the crack of sky. Like a faraway river of pure, blue water.
Life before death.
What did the saying mean? That men should seek life before seeking death? That was obvious. Or did it mean something else? That life came before death? Again, obvious. And yet the simple words spoke to him. Death comes, they whispered. Death comes to all. But life comes first. Cherish it.
Death is the destination. But the journey, that is life. That is what matters.
A cold wind blew through the corridor of stone, washing over him, bringing crisp, fresh scents and blowing away the stink of rotting corpses.
Nobody cared for the bridgemen. Nobody cared for those at the bottom, with the darkest eyes. And yet, that wind seemed to whisper to him over and over. Life before death. Life before death. Live before you die.
His foot hit something. He bent down and picked it up. A small rock. He could barely make it out in the darkness. He recognized what was happening to him, this melancholy, this sense of despair. It had taken him often when he'd been younger, most frequently during the weeks of the Weeping, when the sky was hidden by clouds. During those times, Tien had cheered him up, helped him pull out of his despair. Tien had always been able to do that.
Once he'd lost his brother, he'd dealt with these periods of sadness more awkwardly. He'd become the wretch, not caring-but also not despairing. It had seemed better not to feel at all, as opposed to feeling pain.
I'm going to fail them, Kaladin thought, squeezing his eyes shut. Why try?
Wasn't he a fool to keep grasping as he did? If only he could win once. That would be enough. As long as he could believe that he could help someone, as long as he believed that some paths led to places other than darkness, he could hope.
You promised yourself you would try one last time, he thought. They aren't dead yet.
Still alive. For now.
There was one thing he hadn't tried. Something he'd been too frightened of. Every time he'd tried it in the past, he'd lost everything.
The wretch seemed to be standing before him. He meant release. Apathy. Did Kaladin really want to go back to that? It was a false refuge. Being that man hadn't protected him. It had only led him deeper and deeper until taking his own life had seemed the better way.
Life before death.
Kaladin stood up, opening his eyes, dropping the small rock. He walked slowly back toward the torchlight. The bridgemen looked up from their work. So many questioning eyes. Some doubtful, some grim, others encouraging. Rock, Dunny, Hobber, Leyten. They believed in him. He had survived the storms. One miracle granted.
"There is something we could try," Kaladin said. "But it will most likely end with us all dead at the hands of our own army."
"We're bound to end up dead anyway," Maps noted. "You said so yourself." Several of the others nodded.
Kaladin took a deep breath. "We have to try to escape."
"But the warcamp is guarded!" said Earless Jaks. "Bridgemen aren't allowed out without supervision. They know we'd run."
"We'd die," Moash said, face grim. "We're miles and miles from civilization. There's nothing out here but greatshells, and no shelter from highstorms."
"I know," Kaladin said. "But it's either this or the Parshendi arrows."
The men fell silent.
"They're going to send us down here every day to rob corpses," Kaladin said. "And they don't send us with supervision, since they fear the chasmfiends. Most bridgeman work is busywork, to distract us from our fate, so we only have to bring back a small amount of salvage."
"You think we should choose one of these chasms and flee down it?" Skar asked. "They've tried to map them all. The crews never reached the other side of the Plains-they got killed by chasmfiends or highstorm floods."
Kaladin shook his head. "That's not what we're going to do." He kicked at something on the ground before him-a fallen spear. His kick sent it into the air toward Moash, who caught it, surprised.
"I can train you to use those," Kaladin said softly.
The men fell silent, looking at the weapon.
"What good would this thing do?" Rock asked, taking the spear from Moash, looking it over. "We cannot fight an army."
"No," Kaladin said. "But if I train you, then we can attack a guard post at night. We might be able to get away." Kaladin looked at them, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "Once we're free, they'll send soldiers after us. Sadeas won't let bridgemen kill his soldiers and get away with it. We'll have to hope he underestimates us and sends a small group at first. If we kill them, we might be able to get far enough away to hide. It will be dangerous. Sadeas will go to great lengths to recapture us, and we'll likely end with an entire company chasing us down. Storm it, we'll probably never escape the camp in the first place. But it's something."
He fell silent, waiting as the men exchanged uncertain glances.
"I'll do it," Teft said, straightening up.
"Me too," Moash said, stepping forward. He seemed eager.
"And I," Sigzil said. "I would rather spit in their Alethi faces and die on their swords than remain a slave."
"Ha!" Rock said. "And I shall cook you all much food to keep you full while you kill."
"You won't fight with us?" Dunny asked, surprised.
"Is beneath me," Rock said raising his chin.
"Well, I'll do it," Dunny said. "I'm your man, Captain."
Others began to chime in, each man standing, several grabbing spears from the wet ground. They didn't yell in excitement or roar like other troops Kaladin had led. They were frightened by the idea of fighting-most had been common slaves or lowly workmen. But they were willing.
Kaladin stepped forward and began to outline a plan.