Kaladin turned the rock over in his fingers, letting the facets of suspended quartz catch the light. He leaned against a large boulder, one foot pressed back against the stone, his spear next to him.
The rock caught the light, spinning it in different colors, depending on the direction he turned it. Beautiful, miniature crystals shimmered, like the cities made of gemstones mentioned in lore.
Around him, Highmarshal Amaram's army prepared for battle. Six thousand men sharpened spears or strapped on leather armor. The battlefield was nearby, and, with no highstorms expected, the army had spent the night in tents.
It had been nearly four years since he'd joined Amaram's army on that rainy night. Four years. And an eternity.
Soldiers hurried this way and that. Some raised hands and called greetings to Kaladin. He nodded to them, pocketing the stone, then folded his arms to wait. In the near distance, Amaram's standard was already flying, a burgundy field blazoned with a dark green glyphpair shaped like a whitespine with tusks upraised. Merem and khakh, honor and determination. The banner fluttered before a rising sun, the morning's chill starting to give way to the heat of the day.
Kaladin turned, looking eastward. Toward a home to which he could never return. He'd decided months ago. His enlistment would be up in a few weeks, but he would sign on again. He couldn't face his parents after having broken his promise to protect Tien.
A heavyset darkeyed soldier trotted up to him, an axe strapped to his back, white knots on his shoulders. The nonstandard weapon was a privilege of being a squadleader. Gare had beefy forearms and a thick black beard, though he'd lost a large section of scalp on the right side of his head. He was followed by two of his sergeants-Nalem and Korabet.
"Kaladin," Gare said. "Stormfather, man! Why are you pestering me? On a battle day!"
"I'm well aware of what's ahead, Gare," Kaladin said, arms still folded. Several companies were already gathering, forming ranks. Dallet would see Kaladin's own squad into place. At the front, they'd decided. Their enemy-a lighteyes named Hallaw-was fond of long volleys. They'd fought his men several times before. One time in particular was burned into Kaladin's memory and soul.
He had joined Amaram's army expecting to defend the Alethi borders-and defend them he did. Against other Alethi. Lesser landlords who sought to slice off bits of Highprince Sadeas's lands. Occasionally, Amaram's armies would try to seize territory from other highprinces-lands Amaram claimed really belonged to Sadeas and had been stolen years before. Kaladin didn't know what to make of that. Of all lighteyes, Amaram was the only one he trusted. But it did seem like they were doing the same thing as the armies they fought.
"Kaladin?" Gare asked impatiently.
"You have something I want," Kaladin said. "New recruit, just joined yesterday. Galan says his name is Cenn."
Gare scowled. "I'm supposed to play this game with you now? Talk to me after the battle. If the boy survives, maybe I'll give him to you." He turned to leave, cronies following.
Kaladin stood up straight, picking up his spear. The motion stopped Gare in his tracks.
"It's not going to be a trouble to you," Kaladin said quietly. "Just send the boy to my squad. Accept your payment. Stay quiet." He pulled out a pouch of spheres.
"Maybe I don't want to sell him," Gare said, turning back.
"You're not selling him. You're transferring him to me."
Gare eyed the pouch. "Well then, maybe I don't like how everyone does what you tell them. I don't care how good you are with a spear. My squad is my own."
"I'm not going to give you any more, Gare," Kaladin said, dropping the pouch to the ground. The spheres clinked. "We both know the boy is useless to you. Untrained, ill-equipped, too small to make a good line soldier. Send him to me."
Kaladin turned and began to walk away. Within seconds, he heard a clink as Gare recovered the pouch. "Can't blame a man for trying."
Kaladin kept walking.
"What do these recruits mean to you, anyway?" Gare called after Kaladin. "Your squad is half made up of men too small to fight properly! Almost makes a man think you want to get killed!"
Kaladin ignored him. He passed through the camp, waving to those who waved at him. Most everyone kept out of his way, either because they knew and respected him or they'd heard of his reputation. Youngest squadleader in the army, only four years of experience and already in command. A darkeyed man had to travel to the Shattered Plains to go any higher in rank.
The camp was a bedlam of soldiers hurrying about in last-minute preparations. More and more companies were gathering at the line, and Kaladin could see the enemy lining up on the shallow ridge across the field to the west.
The enemy. That was what they were called. Yet whenever there was an actual border dispute with the Vedens or the Reshi, those men would line up beside Amaram's troops and they would fight together. It was as if the Nightwatcher toyed with them, playing some forbidden game of chance, occasionally setting the men on his gameboard as allies, then setting them to kill one another the next day.
That wasn't for spearmen to think about. So he'd been told. Repeatedly. He supposed he should listen, as he figured that his duty was to keep his squad alive as best he could. Winning was secondary to that.
You can't kill to protect…
He found the surgeon's station easily; he could smell the scents of antiseptics and of small fires burning. Those smells reminded him of his youth, which now seemed so far, far away. Had he ever really planned to go become a surgeon? What had happened to his parents? What of Roshone?
Meaningless, now. He'd sent word to them via Amaram's scribes, a terse note that had cost him a week's wages. They knew he'd failed, and they knew he didn't intend to return. There had been no reply.
Ven was the chief of the surgeons, a tall man with a bulbous nose and a long face. He stood watching as his apprentices folded bandages. Kaladin had once idly considered getting wounded so he could join them; all of the apprentices had some incapacitation that prevented them from fighting. Kaladin hadn't been able to do it. Wounding himself seemed cowardly. Besides, surgery was his old life. In a way, he didn't deserve it anymore.
Kaladin pulled a pouch of spheres from his belt, meaning to toss it to Ven. The pouch stuck, however, refusing to come free of the belt. Kaladin cursed, stumbling, tugging at the pouch. It came free suddenly, causing him to lose his balance again. A translucent white form zipped away, spinning with a carefree air.
"Storming windspren," he said. They were common out on these rocky plains.
He continued past the surgery pavilion, tossing the pouch of spheres to Ven. The tall man caught it deftly, making it vanish into a pocket of his voluminous white robe. The bribe would ensure that Kaladin's men were served first on the battlefield, assuming there were no lighteyes who needed the attention.
It was time to join the line. He sped up, jogging along, spear in hand. Nobody gave him grief for wearing trousers under his leather spearman's skirt-something he did so his men could recognize him from behind. In fact, nobody gave him grief about much of anything these days. That still felt odd, after so many struggles during his first years in the army.
He still didn't feel as if he belonged. His reputation set him apart, but what was he to do? It kept his men from being taunted, and after several years of dealing with disaster after disaster, he could finally pause and think.
He wasn't certain he liked that. Thinking had proven dangerous lately. It had been a long while since he'd taken out that rock and thought of Tien and home.
He made his way to the front ranks, spotting his men right where he'd told them to go. "Dallet," Kaladin called, as he trotted over to the mountainous spearman who was the squad's sergeant. "We're soon going to have a new recruit. I need you to…" He trailed off. A young man, maybe fourteen, stood beside Dallet, looking tiny in his spearman's armor.
Kaladin felt a flash of recall. Another lad, one with a familiar face, holding a spear he wasn't supposed to need. Two promises broken at once.
"He found his way here just a few minutes ago, sir," Dallet said. "I've been gettin' him ready."
Kaladin shook himself out of the moment. Tien was dead. But Stormfather, this new lad looked a lot like him.
"Well done," Kaladin said to Dallet, forcing himself to look away from Cenn. "I paid good money to get that boy away from Gare. That man's so incompetent he might as well be fighting for the other side."
Dallet grunted in agreement. The men would know what to do with Cenn.
All right, Kaladin thought, scanning the battlefield for a good place for his men to stand their ground, let's get to it.
He'd heard stories about the soldiers who fought on the Shattered Plains. The real soldiers. If you showed enough promise fighting in these border disputes, you were sent there. It was supposed to be safer there-far more soldiers, but fewer battles. So Kaladin wanted to get his squad there as soon as possible.
He conferred with Dallet, picking a place to hold. Eventually, the horns blew.
Kaladin's squad charged. "Where's the boy?" Kaladin said, yanking his spear out of the chest of a man in brown. The enemy soldier fell to the ground, groaning. "Dallet!"
The burly sergeant was fighting. He couldn't turn to acknowledge the yell.
Kaladin cursed, scanning the chaotic battlefield. Spears hit shields, flesh, leather; men yelled and screamed. Painspren swarmed the ground, like small orange hands or bits of sinew, reaching up from the ground amid the blood of the fallen.
Kaladin's squad was all accounted for, their wounded protected at the center. All except the new boy. Tien.
Cenn, Kaladin thought. His name is Cenn.
Kaladin caught sight of a flash of green in the middle of the enemy brown. A terrified voice somehow cut through the commotion. It was him.
Kaladin threw himself out of formation, prompting a call of surprise from Larn, who had been fighting at his side. Kaladin ducked past a spear thrust by an enemy, dashing over the stony ground, hopping corpses.
Cenn had been knocked to the ground, spear raised. An enemy soldier slammed his weapon down.
No.
Kaladin blocked the blow, deflecting the enemy spear and skidding to a stop in front of Cenn. There were six spearmen here, all wearing brown. Kaladin spun among them in a wild offensive rush. His spear seemed to flow of its own accord. He swept the feet out from under one man, took down another with a thrown knife.
He was like water running down a hill, flowing, always moving. Spearheads flashed in the air around him, hafts hissing with speed. Not one hit him. He could not be stopped, not when he felt like this. When he had the energy of defending the fallen, the power of standing to protect one of his men.
Kaladin snapped his spear into a resting position, crouching with one foot forward, one behind, spear held under his arm. Sweat trickled from his brow, cooled by the breeze. Odd. There hadn't been a breeze before. Now it seemed to envelop him.
All six enemy spearmen were dead or incapacitated. Kaladin breathed in and out once, then turned to see to Cenn's wound. He dropped his spear beside him, kneeling. The cut wasn't that bad, though it probably pained the lad terribly.
Getting out a bandage, Kaladin gave the battlefield one quick glance. Nearby, an enemy soldier stirred, but he was wounded badly enough that he wouldn't be trouble. Dallet and the rest of Kaladin's team were clearing the area of enemy stragglers. In the near distance, an enemy lighteyes of high rank was rallying a small group of soldiers for a counterattack. He wore full plate. Not Shardplate, of course, but silvery steel. A rich man, judging from his horse.
In a heartbeat, Kaladin was back to binding Cenn's leg-though he kept watch on the wounded enemy soldier from the corner of his eye.
"Kaladin, sir!" Cenn exclaimed, pointing at the soldier who had stirred. Stormfather! Had the boy only just noticed the man? Had Kaladin's battle senses ever been as dull as this boy's?
Dallet pushed the wounded enemy away. The rest of the squad made a ring formation around Kaladin, Dallet, and Cenn. Kaladin finished his binding, then stood, picking up his spear.
Dallet handed him back his knives. "Had me worried there, sir. Running off like that."
"I knew you'd follow," Kaladin said. "Raise the red banner. Cyn, Korater, you're going back with the boy. Dallet, hold here. Amaram's line is bulging this direction. We should be safe soon."
"And you, sir?" Dallet asked.
In the near distance, the lighteyes had failed to rally enough troops. He was exposed, like a stone left behind by a stream running dry.
"A Shardbearer," Cenn said.
Dallet snorted. "No, thank the Stormfather. Just a lighteyed officer. Shardbearers are far too valuable to waste on a minor border dispute."
Kaladin clenched his jaw, watching that lighteyed warrior. How mighty the man thought himself, sitting on his expensive horse, kept safe from the spearmen by his majestic armor and tall mount. He swung his mace, killing those around him.
These skirmishes were caused by ones like him, greedy minor lighteyes who tried to steal land while the better men were away, fighting the Parshendi. His type had far, far fewer casualties than the spearmen, and so the lives under his command became cheap things.
More and more over the last few years, each and every one of these petty lighteyes had come to represent Roshone in Kaladin's eyes. Only Amaram himself stood apart. Amaram, who had treated Kaladin's father so well, promising to keep Tien safe. Amaram, who always spoke with respect, even to lowly spearmen. He was like Dalinar and Sadeas. Not this riffraff.
Of course, Amaram had failed to protect Tien. But so had Kaladin.
"Sir?" Dallet said hesitantly.
"Subsquads Two and Three, pincer pattern," Kaladin said coldly, pointing at the enemy lighteyes. "We're taking a brightlord off his throne."
"You sure that's wise, sir?" Dallet said. "We've got wounded."
Kaladin turned toward Dallet. "That's one of Hallaw's officers. He might be the one."
"You don't know that, sir."
"Regardless, he's a battalionlord. If we kill an officer that high, we're all but guaranteed to be in the next group sent to the Shattered Plains. We're taking him. Imagine it, Dallet. Real soldiers. A warcamp with discipline and lighteyes with integrity. A place where our fighting will mean something."
Dallet sighed, but nodded. At Kaladin's wave, two subsquads joined him, as eager as he. Did they hate these squabbling lighteyes of their own accord, or had they picked up Kaladin's loathing?
The brightlord was surprisingly easy to take down. The problem with them-almost to a man-was that they underestimated darkeyes. Perhaps this one had a right. How many had he killed, in his years?
Subsquad three drew off the honor guard. Subsquad two distracted the lighteyes. He didn't see Kaladin approaching from a third direction. The man dropped with a knife to the eye; his face was unprotected. He screamed as he clattered to the ground, still alive. Kaladin rammed his spear down into the fallen man's face, striking three times as the horse galloped off.
The man's honor guard panicked and fled to rejoin their army. Kaladin signaled to the two subsquads by banging his spear against his shield, giving the "hold position" sign. They fanned out, and short Toorim-a man Kaladin had rescued from another squad-made as if to confirm the light-eyes was dead. He was really covertly looking for spheres.
Stealing from the dead was strictly prohibited, but Kaladin figured that if Amaram wanted the spoils, he could storming well kill the enemy himself. Kaladin respected Amaram more than most-well, more than any-lighteyes. But bribes weren't cheap.
Toorim walked up to him. "Nothing sir. Either he didn't bring any spheres into battle, or he has them hidden somewhere under that breastplate."
Kaladin nodded curtly, surveying the battlefield. Amaram's forces were recovering; they'd win the day before long. In fact, Amaram would probably be leading a direct surge against the enemy by now. He generally entered the battle at the end.
Kaladin wiped his brow. He'd have to send for Norby, their captainlord, to prove their kill. First he needed those healers to "Sir!" Toorim said suddenly.
Kaladin glanced back at the enemy lines.
"Stormfather!" Toorim exclaimed. "Sir!"
Toorim wasn't looking at the enemy lines. Kaladin spun, looking back at friendly ranks. There-bearing down through the soldiers on a horse the color of death itself-was an impossibility.
The man wore shining golden armor. Perfect golden armor, as if this were what every other suit of armor had been designed to imitate. Each piece fit perfectly; there were no holes showing straps or leather. It made the rider look enormous, powerful. Like a god carrying a majestic blade that should have been too big to use. It was engraved and stylized, shaped like flames in motion.
"Stormfather…" Kaladin breathed.
The Shardbearer broke out of Amaram's lines. He'd been riding through them, cutting down men as he passed. For a brief moment, Kaladin's mind refused to acknowledge that this creature-this beautiful divinity-could be an enemy. The fact that the Shardbearer had come through their side reinforced that illusion.
Kaladin's confusion lasted right up until the moment the Shardbearer trampled Cenn, Shardblade dropping and cutting through Dallet's head in a single, easy stroke.
"No!" Kaladin bellowed. "No!"
Dallet's body fell back to the ground, eyes seeming to catch alight, smoke rising from them. The Shardbearer cut down Cyn and trampled Lyndel before moving on. It was all done with nonchalance, like a woman pausing to wipe a spot on the counter.
"NO!" Kaladin screamed, charging toward the fallen men of his squad. He hadn't lost anyone this battle! He was going to protect them all!
He fell to his knees beside Dallet, dropping his spear. But there was no heartbeat, and those burned-out eyes…He was dead. Grief threatened to overwhelm Kaladin.
No! said the part of his mind trained by his father. Save the ones you can!
He turned to Cenn. The boy had taken a hoof to the chest, cracking his sternum and shattering ribs. The boy gasped, eyes upward, struggling for breath. Kaladin pulled out a bandage. Then he paused, looking at it. A bandage? To mend a smashed chest?
Cenn stopped wheezing. He convulsed once, eyes still open. "He watches!" the boy hissed. "The black piper in the night. He holds us in his palm…playing a tune that no man can hear!"
Cenn's eyes glazed over. He stopped breathing.
Lyndel's face had been smashed in. Cyn's eyes smoldered, and he wasn't breathing either. Kaladin knelt in Cenn's blood, horrified, as Toorim and the two subsquads formed around him, looking as stunned as Kaladin felt.
This isn't possible. I…I…
Screaming.
Kaladin looked up. Amaram's banner of green and burgundy flew just to the south. The Shardbearer had cut through Kaladin's squad heading straight for that banner. Spearmen fled in disarray, screaming, scattering before the Shardbearer.
Anger boiled inside of Kaladin.
"Sir?" Toorim asked.
Kaladin picked up his spear and stood. His knees were covered with Cenn's blood. His men regarded him, confused, worried. They stood firm in the midst of the chaos; as far as Kaladin could tell, they were the only men who weren't fleeing. The Shardbearer had turned the ranks to mush.
Kaladin thrust his spear into the air, then began to run. His men bellowed a war cry, falling into formation behind him, charging across the flat rocky ground. Spearmen in uniforms of both colors scrambled out of the way, dropping spears and shields.
Kaladin picked up speed, legs pumping, his squad barely keeping pace. Just ahead-right before the Shardbearer-a pocket of green broke and ran. Amaram's honor guard. Faced by a Shardbearer, they abandoned their charge. Amaram himself was a solitary man on a rearing horse. He wore silvery plate armor that looked so commonplace when compared with the Shardplate.
Kaladin's squad charged against the flow of the army, a wedge of soldiers going the wrong way. The only ones going the wrong way. Some of the fleeing men paused as he charged past, but none joined.
Ahead, the Shardbearer rode past Amaram. With a sweep of the Blade, the Shardbearer slashed through the neck of Amaram's mount. Its eyes burned into two great pits, and it toppled, jerking fitfully, Amaram still in its saddle.
The Shardbearer wheeled his destrier in a tight circle, then threw himself from horseback at full speed. He hit the ground with a grinding sound, somehow remaining upright and skidding to a halt.
Kaladin redoubled his speed. Was he running to get vengeance, or was he trying to protect his highmarshal? The only lighteyes who had ever shown a modicum of humanity? Did it matter?
Amaram struggled in his bulky plate, the carcass of the horse on his leg.
The Shardbearer raised his Blade in two hands to finish him off.
Coming at the Shardbearer from behind, Kaladin screamed and swung low with the butt of his spear, putting momentum and muscle behind the blow. The spear haft shattered against the Shardbearer's back leg in a spray of wooden slivers.
The jolt of it knocked Kaladin to the ground, his arms shaking, the broken spear clutched in his hands. The Shardbearer stumbled, lowering his Blade. He turned a helmed face toward Kaladin, posture indicating utter surprise.
The twenty remaining men of Kaladin's squad arrived a heartbeat later, attacking vigorously. Kaladin scrambled to his feet and ran for the spear from a fallen soldier. He tossed his broken one away after snatching one of his knives from its sheath, snatched the new one off the ground, then turned back to see his men attacking as he had taught. They came at the foe from three directions, ramming spears between joints in the Plate. The Shardbearer glanced around, as a bemused man might regard a pack of puppies yapping around him. Not a single one of the spear thrusts appeared to pierce his armor. He shook a helmed head.
Then he struck.
The Shardblade swept out in a broad sweeping series of deadly strokes, cutting through ten of the spearmen.
Kaladin was paralyzed in horror as Toorim, Acis, Hamel, and seven others fell to the ground, eyes burning, their armor and weapons sheared completely through. The remaining spearmen stumbled back, aghast.
The Shardbearer attacked again, killing Raksha, Navar, and four others. Kaladin gaped. His men-his friends-dead, just like that. The last four scrambled away, Hab stumbling over Toorim's corpse and falling to the ground, dropping his spear.
The Shardbearer ignored them, stepping up to the pinned Amaram again.
No, Kaladin thought. No, no, NO! Something drove him forward, against all logic, against all sense. Sickened, agonized, enraged.
The hollow where they fought was empty save for them. Sensible spearmen had fled. His four remaining men achieved the ridge a short distance away, but didn't run. They called for him.
"Kaladin!" Reesh yelled. "Kaladin, no!"
Kaladin screamed instead. The Shardbearer saw him, and spun-impossibly quick-swinging. Kaladin ducked under the blow and rammed the butt of his spear against the Shardbearer's knee.
It bounced off. Kaladin cursed, throwing himself backward just as the Blade sliced the air in front of him. Kaladin rebounded and lunged forward. He made an expert thrust at his enemy's neck. The neck brace rebuffed the attack. Kaladin's spear barely scratched the Plate's paint.
The Shardbearer turned on him, holding his Blade in a two-handed grip. Kaladin dashed past, just out of range of that incredible sword. Amaram had finally pulled himself free, and he was crawling away, one leg dragging behind him-multiple fractures, from the twist of it.
Kaladin skidded to a stop, spinning, regarding the Shardbearer. This creature wasn't a god. It was everything the most petty of lighteyes represented. The ability to kill people like Kaladin with impunity.
Every suit of armor had a chink. Every man had a flaw. Kaladin thought he saw the man's eyes through the helm's slit. That slit was just big enough for a dagger, but the throw would have to be perfect. He'd have to be close. Deadly close.
Kaladin charged forward again. The Shardbearer swung his Blade out in the same wide sweep he'd used to kill so many of Kaladin's men. Kaladin threw himself downward, skidding on his knees and bending backward. The Shardblade flashed above him, shearing the top of his spear free. The tip flipped up into the air, tumbling end over end.
Kaladin strained, hurling himself back onto his feet. He whipped his hand up, flinging his knife at the eyes watching from behind impervious armor. The dagger hit the faceplate just slightly off from the right angle, bouncing against the sides of the slit and ricocheting out.
The Shardbearer cursed, swinging his huge Blade back at Kaladin.
Kaladin landed on his feet, momentum still propelling him forward. Something flashed in the air beside him, falling toward the ground.
The spearhead.
Kaladin bellowed in defiance, spinning, snatching the spearhead from the air. It had been falling tip-down, and he caught it by the four inches of haft that remained, gripping it with his thumb on the stump, the sharp point extending down beneath his hand. The Shardbearer brought his weapon around as Kaladin skidded to a stop and flung his arm to the side, slamming the spearhead right in the Shardbearer's visor slit.
All fell still.
Kaladin stood with his arm extended, the Shardbearer standing just to his right. Amaram had pulled himself halfway up the side of the shallow hollow. Kaladin's spearmates stood on the edge of the scene, gawking. Kaladin stood there, gasping, still gripping the haft of the spear, hand before the Shardbearer's face.
The Shardbearer creaked, then fell backward, crashing to the ground. His Blade dropped from his fingers, hitting the ground at an angle and digging into the stone.
Kaladin stumbled away, feeling drained. Stunned. Numbed. His men rushed up, halting in a group, staring at the fallen man. They were amazed, even a little reverent.
"Is he dead?" Alabet asked softly.
"He is," a voice said from the side.
Kaladin turned. Amaram still lay on the ground, but he had pulled off his helm, dark hair and beard slicked with sweat. "If he were still alive, his Blade would have vanished. His armor is falling off of him. He is dead. Blood of my ancestors…you killed a Shardbearer!"
Oddly, Kaladin wasn't surprised. Just exhausted. He looked around at the bodies of men who had been his dearest friends.
"Take it, Kaladin," Coreb said.
Kaladin turned, looking at the Shardblade, which sprouted at an angle into the stone, hilt toward the sky.
"Take it," Coreb said again. "It's yours. Stormfather, Kaladin. You're a Shardbearer!"
Kaladin stepped forward, dazed, raising his hand toward the hilt of the Blade. He hesitated just an inch away from it.
Everything felt wrong.
If he took that Blade, he'd become one of them. His eyes would even change, if the stories were right. Though the Blade glistened in the light, clean of the murders it had performed, for a moment it seemed red to him. Stained with Dallet's blood. Toorim's blood. The blood of the men who had been alive just moments before.
It was a treasure. Men traded kingdoms for Shardblades. The handful of darkeyed men who had won them lived forever in song and story.
But the thought of touching that Blade sickened him. It represented everything he'd come to hate about the lighteyes, and it had just slaughtered men he loved dearly. He could not become a legend because of something like that. He looked at his reflection in the Blade's pitiless metal, then lowered his hand and turned away.
"It's yours, Coreb," Kaladin said. "I give it to you."
"What?" Coreb said from behind.
Ahead, Amaram's honor guard had finally returned, apprehensively appearing at the top of the small hollow, looking ashamed.
"What are you doing?" Amaram demanded as Kaladin passed him. "What-Aren't you going to take the Blade?"
"I don't want it," Kaladin said softly. "I'm giving it to my men."
Kaladin walked away, emotionally exhausted, tears on his cheeks as he climbed out of the hollow and shoved his way through the honor guard.
He walked back to the warcamp alone. "They take away the light, wherever they lurk. Skin that is burned." -Cormshen, page 104. Shallan sat quietly, propped up in a sterile, white-sheeted bed in one of Kharbranth's many hospitals. Her arm was wrapped in a neat, crisp bandage, and she held her drawing board in front of her. The nurses had reluctantly allowed her to sketch, so long as she did not "stress herself."
Her arm ached; she'd sliced herself more deeply than she'd intended. She'd hoped to simulate a wound from breaking the pitcher; she hadn't thought far enough ahead to realize how much like a suicide attempt it might seem. Though she'd protested that she'd simply fallen from bed, she could see that the nurses and ardents didn't accept it. She couldn't blame them.
The results were embarrassing, but at least nobody thought she might have Soulcast to make that blood. Embarrassment was worth escaping suspicion.
She continued her sketch. She was in a large, hallwaylike room in a Kharbranthian hospital, the walls lined with many beds. Other than obvious aggravations, her two days in the hospital had gone fairly well. She'd had a lot of time to think about that strangest of afternoons, when she'd seen ghosts, transformed glass to blood, and had an ardent offer to resign the ardentia to be with her.
She'd done several drawings of this hospital room. The creatures lurked in her sketches, staying at the distant edges of the room. Their presence made it difficult for her to sleep, but she was slowly growing accustomed to them.
The air smelled of soap and lister's oil; she was bathed regularly and her arm washed with antiseptic to frighten away rotspren. About half of the beds held sick women, and there were wheeled fabric dividers with wooden frames that could be rolled around a bed for privacy. Shallan wore a plain white robe that untied at the front and had a long left sleeve that tied shut to protect her safehand.
She'd transferred her safepouch to the robe, buttoning it inside the left sleeve. Nobody had looked in the pouch. When she'd been washed, they'd unbuttoned it and given it to her without a word, despite its unusual weight. One did not look in a woman's safepouch. Still, she kept hold of it whenever she could.
In the hospital, her every need was seen to, but she could not leave. It reminded her of being at home on her father's estates. More and more, that frightened her as much as the symbolheads did. She'd tasted independence, and she didn't want to go back to what she had been. Coddled, pampered, displayed.
Unfortunately, it was unlikely she'd be able to return to studying with Jasnah. Her supposed suicide attempt gave her an excellent reason to return home. She had to go. To remain, sending the Soulcaster away on its own, would be selfish considering this opportunity to leave without arousing suspicion. Besides, she'd used the Soulcaster. She could use the long trip home to figure out how she'd done it, then be ready to help her family when she arrived.
She sighed, and then with a few shadings, she finished her sketch. It was a picture of that strange place she had gone. That distant horizon with its powerful yet cold sun. Clouds running toward it above, endless ocean below, making the sun look as if it were at the end of a long tunnel. Above the ocean hovered hundreds of flames, a sea of lights above the sea of glass beads.
She lifted the picture up, looking at the sketch underneath. It depicted her, huddled on her bed, surrounded by the strange creatures. She didn't dare tell Jasnah what she had seen, lest it reveal that she had Soulcast, and therefore committed the theft.
The next picture was one of her, lying on the ground amid the blood. She looked up from the sketchpad. A white-clothed female ardent sat against the wall nearby, pretending to sew but really keeping watch in case Shallan decided to harm herself again. Shallan made a thin line of her lips.
It's a good cover, she told herself. It works perfectly. Stop being so embarrassed.
She turned to the last of her day's sketches. It depicted one of the symbolheads. No eyes, no face, just that jagged alien symbol with points like cut crystal. They had to have something to do with the Soulcasting. Didn't they?
I visited another place, she thought. I think…I think I spoke with the spirit of the goblet. Did a goblet, of all things, have a soul? Upon opening her pouch to check on the Soulcaster, she'd found that the sphere Kabsal had given her had stopped glowing. She could remember a vague feeling of light and beauty, a raging storm inside of her.
She'd taken the light from the sphere and given it to the goblet-the spren of the goblet-as a bribe to transform. Was that how Soulcasting worked? Or was she just struggling to make connections?
Shallan lowered the sketchpad as visitors entered the room and began moving among the patients. Most of the women sat up excitedly as they saw King Taravangian, with his orange robes and kindly, aged air. He paused at each bed to chat. She'd heard that he visited frequently, at least once a week.
Eventually he reached Shallan's bedside. He smiled at her, sitting as one of his many attendants placed a padded stool for him. "And young Shallan Davar. I was so terribly saddened to hear of your accident. I apologize for not coming earlier. Duties of state kept me."
"It is quite all right, Your Majesty."
"No, no, it is not," he said. "But it is what must be. There are many who complain that I spend too much of my time here."
Shallan smiled. Those complaints were never vociferous. The landlords and house lords who played politics in court were quite content with a king who spent so much of his time outside the palace, ignoring their schemes.
"This hospital is amazing, Your Majesty," she said. "I can't believe how well everyone is cared for."
He smiled widely. "My great triumph. Lighteyes and darkeyes alike, nobody turned away-not beggar, not whore, not sailor from afar. It's all paid for by the Palanaeum, you know. In a way, even the most obscure and useless record is helping heal the sick."
"I'm glad to be here."
"I doubt that, child. A hospital such as this one is, perhaps, the only thing a man could pour so much money into and be delighted if it were never used. It is a tragedy that you must become my guest."
"What I meant was that I'd rather be sick here than somewhere else. Though I suppose that's a little like saying it's better to choke on wine than on dishwater."
He laughed. "What a sweet thing you are," he said, rising. "Is there anything I can do to improve your stay?"
"End it?"
"I'm afraid that I can't allow that," he said, eyes softening. "I must defer to the wisdom of my surgeons and nurses. They say that you are still at risk. We must think of your health."
"Keeping me here gives me health at the expense of my wellness, Your Majesty."
He shook his head. "You mustn't be allowed to have another accident."
"I…I understand. But I promise that I'm feeling much better. The episode that struck me was caused by overwork. Now that I'm relaxed, I'm not in any further danger."
"That is good," he said. "But we still need to keep you for a few more days."
"Yes, Your Majesty. But could I at least have visitors?" So far, the hospital staff had insisted that she was not to be bothered.
"Yes…I can see how that might help you. I'll speak to the ardents and suggest that you be allowed a few visitors." He hesitated. "Once you are well again, it might be best for you to suspend your training."
She pasted a grimace on her face, trying not to feel sick at the charade. "I hate to do that, Your Majesty. But I have been missing my family greatly. Perhaps I should return to them."
"An excellent idea. I'm certain the ardents will be more likely to release you if they know you'll be going home." He smiled in a kindly way, resting a hand on her shoulder. "This world, it is a tempest sometimes. But remember, the sun always rises again."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
The king moved away, visiting other patients, then speaking quietly with the ardents. Not five minutes passed before Jasnah walked through the doorway with her characteristic straight-backed stride. She wore a beautiful dress, deep blue with golden embroidery. Her sleek black hair was done in braids and pierced by six thin golden spikes; her cheeks glowed with blush, her lips bloodred with lip paint. She stood out in the white room like a flower upon a field of barren stone.
She glided toward Shallan on feet hidden beneath the loose folds of her silk skirt, carrying a thick book under her arm. An ardent brought her a stool, and she sat down where the king had just stood.
Jasnah regarded Shallan, face stiff, impassive. "I have been told that my tutelage is demanding, perhaps harsh. This is one reason why I often refuse to take wards."
"I apologize for my weakness, Brightness," Shallan said, looking down.
Jasnah seemed displeased. "I did not mean to suggest fault in you, child. I was attempting the opposite. Unfortunately I'm…unaccustomed to such behavior."
"Apologizing?"
"Yes."
"Well, you see," Shallan said, "in order to grow proficient at apologizing, you must first make mistakes. That's your problem, Jasnah. You're absolutely terrible at making them."
The woman's expression softened. "The king mentioned to me that you would be returning to your family."
"What? When?"
"When he met me in the hallway outside," she said, "and finally gave me permission to visit you."
"You make it sound as if you were waiting out there."
Jasnah didn't reply.
"But your research!"
"Can be done in the hospital waiting chamber." She hesitated. "It has been somewhat difficult for me to focus these last few days."
"Jasnah! That's quite nearly human of you!"
Jasnah regarded her reprovingly, and Shallan winced, immediately regretting the words. "I'm sorry. I've learned poorly, haven't I?"
"Or perhaps you are just practicing the art of the apology. So that you will not be unsettled when the need arises, as I am."
"How very clever of me."
"Indeed."
"Can I stop now, then?" Shallan asked. "I think I've had quite enough practice."
"I should think," Jasnah said, "that apology is an art of which we could use a few more masters. Do not use me as a model in this. Pride is often mistaken for faultlessness." She leaned forward. "I am sorry, Shallan Davar. In overworking you, I may have done the world a disservice and stolen from it one of the great scholars of the rising generation."
Shallan blushed, feeling more foolish and guilty. Shallan's eyes flickered to her mistress's hand. Jasnah wore the black glove that hid the fake. In the fingers of her safehand, Shallan grasped the pouch holding the Soulcaster. If Jasnah only knew.
Jasnah took the book from beneath her arm and set it on the bed beside Shallan. "This is for you."
Shallan picked it up. She opened to the front page, but it was blank. The next one was as well, as were all inside of it. Her frown deepened, and she looked up at Jasnah.
"It's called the Book of Endless Pages," Jasnah said.
"Er, I'm pretty sure it's not endless, Brightness." She flipped to the last page and held it up.
Jasnah smiled. "It's a metaphor, Shallan. Many years ago, someone dear to me made a very good attempt at converting me to Vorinism. This was the method he used."
Shallan cocked her head.
"You search for truth," Jasnah said, "but you also hold to your faith. There is much to admire in that. Seek out the Devotary of Sincerity. They are one of the very smallest of the devotaries, but this book is their guide."
"One with blank pages?"
"Indeed. They worship the Almighty, but are guided by the belief that there are always more answers to be found. The book cannot be filled, as there is always something to learn. This devotary is a place where one is never penalized for questions, even those challenging Vorinism's own tenets." She shook her head. "I cannot explain their ways. You should be able to find them in Vedenar, though there are none in Kharbranth."
"I…" Shallan trailed off, noticing how Jasnah's hand rested fondly on the book. It was precious to her. "I hadn't thought to find ardents who were willing to question their own beliefs."
Jasnah raised an eyebrow. "You will find wise men in any religion, Shallan, and good men in every nation. Those who truly seek wisdom are those who will acknowledge the virtue in their adversaries and who will learn from those who disabuse them of error. All others-heretic, Vorin, Ysperist, or Maakian-are equally closed-minded." She took her hand from the book, moving as if to stand up.
"He's wrong," Shallan said suddenly, realizing something.
Jasnah turned to her.
"Kabsal," Shallan said, blushing. "He says you're researching the Voidbringers because you want to prove that Vorinism is false."
Jasnah sniffed in derision. "I would not dedicate four years of my life to such an empty pursuit. It's idiocy to try to prove a negative. Let the Vorin believe as they wish-the wise among them will find goodness and solace in their faith; the fools would be fools no matter what they believed."
Shallan frowned. So why was Jasnah studying the Voidbringers?
"Ah. Speak of the storm and it begins to bluster," Jasnah said, turning toward the room's entrance.
With a start, Shallan realized that Kabsal had just arrived, wearing his usual grey robes. He was arguing softly with a nurse, who pointed at the basket he carried. Finally, the nurse threw up her hands and walked away, leaving Kabsal to approach, triumphant. "Finally!" he said to Shallan. "Old Mungam can be a real tyrant."
"Mungam?" Shallan asked.
"The ardent who runs this place," Kabsal said. "I should have been allowed in immediately. After all, I know what you need to make you better!" He pulled out a jar of jam, smiling broadly.
Jasnah remained on her stool, regarding Kabsal across the bed. "I would have thought," she said dryly, "that you would allow Shallan a respite, considering how your attentions drove her to despair."
Kabsal flushed. He looked at Shallan, and she could see the pleading in his eyes.
"It wasn't you, Kabsal," Shallan said. "I just…I wasn't ready for life away from my family estate. I still don't know what came over me. I've never done anything like that before."
He smiled, pulling a stool over for himself. "I think," he said, "that the lack of color in these places is what keeps people sick so long. That and the lack of proper food." He winked, turning the jar toward Shallan. It was deep, dark red. "Strawberry."
"Never heard of it," Shallan said.
"It's exceedingly rare," Jasnah said, reaching for the jar. "Like most plants from Shinovar, it can't grow other places."
Kabsal looked surprised as Jasnah removed the lid and dipped a finger into the jar. She hesitated, then raised a bit of the jam to her nose to sniff at it.
"I was under the impression that you disliked jam, Brightness Jasnah," Kabsal said.
"I do," she said. "I was simply curious about the scent. I've heard that strawberries are very distinctive." She screwed the lid back on, then wiped her finger on her cloth handkerchief.
"I brought bread as well," Kabsal said. He pulled out a small loaf of the fluffy bread. "It's nice of you not to blame me, Shallan, but I can see that my attentions were too forward. I thought, maybe, I could bring this and…"
"And what?" Jasnah asked. "Absolve yourself? 'I'm sorry I drove you to suicide. Here's some bread.'"
He blushed, looking down.
"Of course I'll have some," Shallan said, glaring at Jasnah. "And she will too. It was very kind of you, Kabsal." She took the bread, breaking off a chunk for Kabsal, one for herself, then one for Jasnah.
"No," Jasnah said. "Thank you."
"Jasnah," Shallan said. "Would you please at least try some?" It bothered her that the two of them got on so poorly.
The older woman sighed. "Oh, very well." She took the bread, holding it as Shallan and Kabsal ate. The bread was moist and delicious, though Jasnah grimaced as she put hers in her mouth and chewed it.
"You should really try the jam," Kabsal said to Shallan. "Strawberry is hard to find. I had to make quite a number of inquiries."
"No doubt bribing merchants with the king's money," Jasnah noted.
Kabsal sighed. "Brightness Jasnah, I realize that you are not fond of me. But I'm working very hard to be pleasant. Could you at least pretend to do likewise?"
Jasnah eyed Shallan, probably recalling Kabsal's guess that undermining Vorinism was the goal of her research. She didn't apologize, but also made no retort.
Good enough, Shallan thought.
"The jam, Shallan," Kabsal said, handing her a slice of bread for it.
"Oh, right." She removed the lid of the jar, holding it between her knees and using her freehand.
"You missed your ship out, I assume," Kabsal said.
"Yes."
"What's this?" Jasnah asked.
Shallan cringed. "I was planning to leave, Brightness. I'm sorry. I should have told you."
Jasnah settled back. "I suppose it was to be expected, all things considered."
"The jam?" Kabsal prodded again.
Shallan frowned. He was particularly insistent about that jam. She raised the jar and sniffed at it, then pulled back. "It smells terrible! This is jam?" It smelled like vinegar and slime.
"What?" Kabsal said, alarmed. He took the jar, sniffing at it, then pulled away, looking nauseated.
"It appears you got a bad jar," Jasnah said. "That's not how it's supposed to smell?"
"Not at all," Kabsal said. He hesitated, then stuck his finger into the jam anyway, shoving a large glob into his mouth.
"Kabsal!" Shallan said. "That's revolting!"
He coughed, but forced it down. "Not so bad, really. You should try it."
"What?"
"Really," he said, forcing it toward her. "I mean, I wanted this to be special, for you. And it turned out so horribly."
"I'm not tasting that, Kabsal."
He hesitated, as if considering forcing it upon her. Why was he acting so strangely? He raised a hand to his head, stood up, and stumbled away from the bed.
Then he began to rush from the room. He made it only halfway before crashing to the floor, his body sliding a little way across the spotless stone.
"Kabsal!" Shallan said, leaping out of the bed, hurrying to his side, wearing only the white robe. He was shaking. And…and…
And so was she. The room was spinning. Suddenly she felt very, very tired. She tried to stand, but slipped, dizzy. She barely felt herself hit the floor.
Someone was kneeling above her, cursing.
Jasnah. Her voice was distant. "She's been poisoned. I need a garnet. Bring me a garnet!"
There's one in my pouch, Shallan thought. She fumbled with it, managing to undo the tie of her safehand's sleeve. Why…why does she want…
But no, I can't show her that. The Soulcaster!
Her mind was so fuzzy.
"Shallan," Jasnah's voice said, anxious, very soft. "I'm going to have to Soulcast your blood to purify it. It will be dangerous. Extremely dangerous. I'm not good with flesh or blood. It's not where my talent lies."
She needs it. To save me. Weakly, she reached in and pulled out her safepouch with her right hand. "You…can't…"
"Hush, child. Where is that garnet!"
"You can't Soulcast," Shallan said weakly, pulling the ties of her pouch open. She upended it, vaguely seeing a fuzzy golden object slip out onto the floor, alongside the garnet that Kabsal had given her.
Stormfather! Why was the room spinning so much?
Jasnah gasped. Distantly.
Fading…
Something happened. A flash of warmth burned through Shallan, something inside her skin, as if she had been dumped into a steaming hot cauldron. She screamed, arching her back, her muscles spasming.
All went black.
"Radiant / of birthplace / the announcer comes / to come announce / the birthplace of Radiants." -Though I am not overly fond of the ketek poetic form as a means of conveying information, this one by Allahn is often quoted in reference to Urithiru. I believe some mistook the home of the Radiants for their birthplace. The towering walls of the chasm rising on either side of Kaladin dripped with greenish grey moss. His torch's flames danced, light reflecting on slick, rain-wetted sections of stone. The humid air was chilly, and the highstorm had left puddles and ponds. Spindly bones-an ulna and a radius-poked from a deep puddle Kaladin passed. He didn't look to see if the rest of the skeleton was there.
Flash floods, Kaladin thought, listening to the scraping steps of the bridgemen behind him. That water has to go somewhere, otherwise we'd have canals to cross instead of chasms.
Kaladin didn't know if he could trust his dream or not, but he'd asked around, and it was true that the eastern edge of the Shattered Plains was more open than the western side. The plateaus had been worn away. If the bridgemen could get there, they might be able to flee to the east.
Might. Many chasmfiends lived in that area, and Alethi scouts patrolled the perimeter beyond. If Kaladin's team met them, they would have trouble explaining what a group of armed men-many with slave brands-was doing there.
Syl walked along the wall of the chasm, about level with Kaladin's head. Groundspren didn't pull her downward as they did everything else. She walked with her hands clasped behind her back, her tiny, knee-length skirt fluttering in an intangible wind.
Escape to the east. It seemed unlikely. The highprinces had tried very hard to explore that way, looking for a route to the center of the Plains. They'd failed. Chasmfiends had killed some groups. Others had been caught in the chasms during highstorms, despite precautions. It was impossible to predict the storms perfectly.
Other scouting parties had avoided those two fates. They'd used enormous extensible ladders to climb atop plateaus during highstorms. They'd lost many men, though, as the plateau tops provided poor cover during storms, and you couldn't bring wagons or other shelter with you into the chasms. The bigger problem, he'd heard, had been the Parshendi patrols. They'd found and killed dozens of scouting parties.
"Kaladin?" Teft asked, hustling up, splashing through a puddle where bits of empty cremling carapace floated. "You all right?"
"Fine."
"You look thoughtful."
"More breakfast-full," Kaladin said. "That gruel was particularly dense this morning."
Teft smiled. "I never took you for the glib type."
"I used to be more so. I get it from my mother. You could rarely say anything to her without getting it twisted about and tossed back to you."
Teft nodded. They walked in silence for a time, the bridgemen behind laughing as Dunny told a story about the first girl he'd ever kissed.
"Son," Teft said, "have you felt anything strange lately?"
"Strange? What kind of strange?"
"I don't know. Just…anything odd?" He coughed. "You know, like odd surges of strength? The…er, feeling that you're light?"
"The feeling that I'm what?"
"Light. Er, maybe, like your head is light. Light-headed. That sort of thing. Storm it, boy, I'm just checking to see if you're still sick. You were beat up pretty badly by that highstorm."
"I'm fine," Kaladin said. "Remarkably so, actually."
"Odd, eh?"
It was odd. It fed his nagging worry that he was subject to some kind of supernatural curse of the type that were supposed to happen to people who sought the Old Magic. There were stories of evil men made immortal, then tortured over and over again-like Extes, who had his arms torn off each day for sacrificing his son to the Voidbringers in exchange for knowledge of the day of his death. It was just a tale, but tales came from somewhere.
Kaladin lived when everyone else died. Was that the work of some spren from Damnation, toying with him like a windspren, but infinitely more nefarious? Letting him think that he might be able to do some good, then killing everyone he tried to help? There were supposed to be thousands of kinds of spren, many that people never saw or didn't know about. Syl followed him. Could some kind of evil spren be doing the same?
A very disturbing thought.
Superstition is useless, he told himself forcefully. Think on it too much, and you'll end up like Durk, insisting that you need to wear your lucky boots into every battle.
They reached a section where the chasm forked, splitting around a plateau high above. Kaladin turned to face the bridgemen. "This is as good a place as any." The bridgemen stopped, bunching up. He could see the anticipation in their eyes, the excitement.
He'd felt that once, back before he'd known the soreness and the pain of practice. Oddly, Kaladin felt he was now both more in awe of and more disappointed in the spear than he'd been as a youth. He loved the focus, the feeling of certainty that he felt when he fought. But that hadn't saved those who followed him.
"This is where I'm supposed to tell you what a sorry group you are," Kaladin said to the men. "It's the way I've always seen it done. The training sergeant tells the recruits that they are pathetic. He points out their weakness, perhaps spars with a few of them, tossing them on their backsides to teach them humility. I did that a few times myself when training new spearmen."
Kaladin shook his head. "Today, that's not how we'll begin. You men don't need humbling. You don't dream of glory. You dream of survival. Most of all, you aren't the sad, unprepared group of recruits most sergeants have to deal with. You're tough. I've seen you run for miles carrying a bridge. You're brave. I've seen you charge straight at a line of archers. You're determined. Otherwise you wouldn't be here, right now, with me."
Kaladin walked to the side of the chasm and extracted a discarded spear from some flood-strewn rubble. Once he had it, however, he realized that the spearhead had been knocked off. He almost tossed it aside, then reconsidered.
Spears were dangerous for him to hold. They made him want to fight, and might lead him to think he was who he'd once been: Kaladin Stormblessed, confident squadleader. He wasn't that man any longer.
It seemed that whenever he picked up weapons, the people around him died-friends as well as foes. So, for now, it seemed good to hold this length of wood; it was just a staff. Nothing more. A stick he could use for training.
He could face returning to the spear another time.
"It's good that you're already prepared," Kaladin said to the men. "Because we don't have the six weeks I was given to train a new batch of recruits. In six weeks, Sadeas will have half of us dead. I intend to see you all drinking mudbeer in a tavern somewhere safe by the time six weeks have passed."
Several of them gave a kind of half-cheer at that.
"We'll have to be fast," Kaladin said. "I'll have to push you hard. That's our only option." He glanced at the spear haft. "The first thing you need to learn is that it's all right to care."
The twenty-three bridgemen stood in a double row. All had wanted to come. Even Leyten, who had been hurt so badly. They didn't have any who were wounded so badly they couldn't walk, although Dabbid continued to stare off at nothing. Rock stood with his arms folded, apparently with no intention of learning to fight. Shen, the parshman, stood at the very back. He looked at the ground. Kaladin didn't intend to put a spear in his hands.
Several of the bridgemen seemed confused by what Kaladin had said about emotions, though Teft just raised an eyebrow and Moash yawned. "What do you mean?" Drehy asked. He was a lanky blond man, long-limbed and muscled. He spoke with a faint accent; he was from somewhere far to the west, called Rianal.
"A lot of soldiers," Kaladin said, running his thumb across the pole, feeling the grain of the wood, "they think that you fight the best if you're passionless and cold. I think that's stormleavings. Yes, you need to be focused. Yes, emotions are dangerous. But if you don't care about anything, what are you? An animal, driven only to kill. Our passion is what makes us human. We have to fight for a reason. So I say that it's all right to care. We'll talk about controlling your fear and anger, but remember this as the first lesson I taught you."
Several of the bridgemen nodded. Most seemed confused still. Kaladin remembered being there, wondering why Tukks wasted time talking about emotions. He'd thought he understood emotion-his drive to learn the spear had come because of his emotions. Vengeance. Hatred. A lust for the power to exact retribution on Varth and the soldiers of his squad.
He looked up, trying to banish those memories. No, the bridgemen didn't understand his words about caring, but perhaps they would remember later, as Kaladin had.
"The second lesson," Kaladin said, slapping the decapitated spear to the rock beside him with a crack that echoed down the chasm, "is more utilitarian. Before you can learn to fight, you're going to have to learn how to stand." He dropped the spear. The bridgemen watched him with frowns of disappointment.
Kaladin fell into a basic spearman's stance, feet wide apart-but not too wide-turned sideways, knees bent in a loose crouch. "Skar, I want you to come try to push me backward."
"What?"
"Try and throw me off balance," Kaladin said. "Force me to stumble."
Skar shrugged and walked forward. He tried to shove Kaladin back, but Kaladin easily knocked his hands aside with a quick snap of the wrist. Skar cursed and came at him again, but Kaladin caught his arm and shoved him backward, causing Skar to stumble.
"Drehy, come help him," Kaladin said. "Moash, you too. Try to force me off balance."
The other two joined Skar. Kaladin stepped around the attacks, staying squarely in the middle of them, adjusting his stance to rebuff each attempt. He grabbed Drehy's arm and yanked him forward, nearly causing him to fall. He stepped into Skar's shoulder-rush, deflecting the weight of the man's body and throwing him backward. He pulled back as Moash got his arms on him, causing Moash to overbalance himself.
Kaladin remained completely unfazed, weaving between them and adjusting his center of balance by bending his knees and positioning his feet. "Combat begins with the legs," Kaladin said as he evaded the attacks. "I don't care how fast you are with a jab, how accurate you are with a thrust. If your opponent can trip you, or make you stumble, you'll lose. Losing means dying."
Several of the watching bridgemen tried to imitate Kaladin, crouching down. Skar, Drehy, and Moash had finally decided to try a coordinated rush, planning to all tackle Kaladin at once. Kaladin held up his hand. "Well done, you three." He motioned them back to stand with the others. They reluctantly broke off their attacks.
"I'm going to split you into pairs," Kaladin said. "We're going to spend all day today-and probably each day this week-working on stances. Learning to maintain one, learning to not lock your knees the moment you're threatened, learning to hold your center of balance. It will take time, but I promise you if we start here, you'll learn to be deadly far more quickly. Even if it seems that all you're doing at first is standing around."
The men nodded.
"Teft," Kaladin ordered. "Split them into pairs by size and weight, then run them through an elementary forward spear stance."
"Aye, sir!" Teft barked. Then he froze, realizing what he'd given away. The speed at which he'd responded made it obvious that Teft had been a soldier. Teft met Kaladin's eyes and saw that Kaladin knew. The older man scowled, but Kaladin returned a grin. He had a veteran under his command; that was going to make this all a lot easier.
Teft didn't feign ignorance, and easily fell into the role of the training sergeant, splitting the men into pairs, correcting their stances. No wonder he never takes off that shirt, Kaladin thought. It probably hides a mess of scars.
As Teft instructed the men, Kaladin pointed to Rock, gesturing him over.
"Yes?" Rock asked. The man was so broad of chest that his bridgeman's vest could barely fasten.
"You said something before," Kaladin said. "About fighting being beneath you?"
"Is true. I am not a fourth son."
"What does that have to do with it?"
"First son and second son are needed for making food," Rock said, raising a finger. "Is most important. Without food, nobody lives, yes? Third son is craftsman. This is me. I serve proudly. Only fourth son can be warrior. Warriors, they are not needed as much as food or crafts. You see?"
"Your profession is determined by your birth order?"
"Yes," Rock said proudly. "Is best way. On the Peaks, there is always food. Not every family has four sons. So not always is a soldier needed. I cannot fight. What man could do this thing before the Uli'tekanaki?"
Kaladin shot a glance at Syl. She shrugged, not seeming to care what Rock did. "All right," he said. "I've got something else I want you to do, then. Go grab Lopen, Dabbid…" Kaladin hesitated. "And Shen. Get him too."
Rock did so. Lopen was in the line, learning the stances, though Dabbid-as usual-stood off to the side, staring at nothing in particular. Whatever had taken him, it was far worse than regular battle shock. Shen stood beside him, hesitant, as if not certain of his place.
Rock pulled Lopen out of the line, then grabbed Dabbid and Shen and walked back to Kaladin.
"Gancho," Lopen said, with a lazy salute. "Guess I'll make a poor spearman, with one hand."
"That's all right," Kaladin said. "I have something else I need you to do. We'll see trouble from Gaz and our new captain-or at least his wife-if we don't bring back salvage."
"We three cannot do the work of thirty, Kaladin," Rock said, scratching at his beard. "Is not possible."
"Maybe not," Kaladin said. "But most of our time down in these chasms is spent looking for corpses that haven't been picked clean. I think we can work a lot faster. We need to work a lot faster, if we're going to train with the spear. Fortunately, we have an advantage."
He held out his hand, and Syl alighted on it. He'd spoken to her earlier, and she'd agreed to his plan. He didn't notice her doing anything special, but Lopen suddenly gasped. Syl had made herself visible to him.
"Ah…" Rock said, bowing in respect to Syl. "Like gathering reeds."
"Well flick my sparks," Lopen said. "Rock, you never said it was so pretty!"
Syl smiled broadly.
"Be respectful," Rock said. "Is not for you to speak of her in that way, little person."
The men knew about Syl, of course. Kaladin didn't speak of her, but they saw him talking to the air, and Rock had explained.
"Lopen," Kaladin said. "Syl can move far more quickly than a bridgeman. She will search out places for you to gather, and you four can pick through things quickly."
"Dangerous," Rock said. "What if we meet chasmfiend while alone?"
"Unfortunately, we can't come back empty-handed. The last thing we want is Hashal deciding to send Gaz down to supervise."
Lopen snorted. "He'd never do that, gancho. Too much work down here."
"Too dangerous too," Rock added.
"Everyone says that," Kaladin said. "But I've never seen more than these scrapes on the walls."
"They're down here," Rock said. "Is not just legend. Just before you came, half a bridge crew was killed. Eaten. Most beasts come to the middle plateaus, but there are some who come this far."
"Well, I hate to put you in danger, but unless we try this, we'll have chasm duty taken from us and we'll end up cleaning latrines instead."
"All right, gancho," Lopen said. "I'll go."
"As will I," Rock said. "With ali'i'kamura to protect, perhaps it will be safe."
"I intend to teach you to fight eventually," Kaladin said. Then as Rock frowned, Kaladin hastily added, "You, Lopen, I mean. One arm doesn't mean you're useless. You'll be at a disadvantage, but there are things I can teach you to deal with that. Right now a scavenger is more important to us than another spear."
"Sounds swift to me." Lopen gestured to Dabbid, and the two walked over to gather sacks for the collecting. Rock moved to join them, but Kaladin took his arm.
"I haven't given up on finding an easier way out of here than fighting," Kaladin said to him. "If we never returned, Gaz and the others would probably just assume that a chasmfiend got us. If there's some way to reach the other side…"
Rock looked skeptical. "Many have searched for this thing."
"The eastern edge is open."
"Yes," Rock said, laughing, "and when you are able to travel that far without being eaten by chasmfiend or killed in floods, I shall name you my kaluk'i'iki."
Kaladin raised an eyebrow.
"Only a woman can be kaluk'i'iki," Rock said, as if that explained the joke.
"Wife?"
Rock laughed even louder. "No, no. Airsick lowlanders. Ha!"
"Great. Look, see if you can memorize the chasms, perhaps make a map of some kind. I suspect that most who come down here stick to the established routes. That means we're much more likely to find salvage down side passages; that's where I'll be sending Syl."
"Side passages?" Rock said, still amused. "One might begin to think you want me to be eaten. Ha, and by a greatshell. They are supposed to be tasted, not tasting."