Baxil hastened down the lavish palace corridor, clutching the bulky bag of tools. A sound like a footfall came from behind him and he jumped, spinning. He didn't see anything. The corridor was empty, a golden carpet lining the floor, mirrors on the walls, arched ceiling inlaid with elaborate mosaics.
"Would you stop that?" Av said, walking beside him. "Every time you jump I nearly cuff you one out of surprise."
"I can't help it," Baxil said. "Shouldn't we be doing this at night?"
"Mistress knows what she's doing," Av said. Like Baxil, Av was Emuli, with dark skin and hair. But the taller man was far more self-confident. He sauntered down the halls, acting as if they'd been invited, thick-bladed sword slung in a sheath over his shoulder.
If the Prime Kadasix may provide, Baxil thought, I'd rather Av never have to draw that weapon. Thank you.
Their mistress walked ahead of them, the only other person in the hallway. She wasn't Emuli-she didn't even seem Makabaki, though she had dark skin and long, beautiful black hair. She had eyes like a Shin, but she was tall and lean, like an Alethi. Av thought she was a mixed breed. Or so he said when they dared talk about such things. The mistress had good ears. Strangely good ears.
She stopped at the next intersection. Baxil caught himself glancing over his shoulder again. Av elbowed him, but he couldn't help looking. Yes, the mistress claimed that the palace servants would be busy getting the new guest wing ready, but this was the home of Ashno of Sages himself. One of the richest and holiest men in all of Emul. He had hundreds of servants. What if one of them walked down this hallway?
The two men joined their mistress at the intersection. He forced his eyes forward so he wouldn't keep looking over his shoulder, but then found himself staring at the mistress. It was dangerous, being employed by a woman as beautiful as she was, with that long black hair, worn free, hanging down to her waist. She never wore a proper woman's robe, or even a dress or skirt. Always trousers, usually sleek and tight, a thin-bladed sword at her hip. Her eyes were so faintly violet they were almost white.
She was amazing. Wonderful, intoxicating, overwhelming.
Av elbowed him in the ribs again. Baxil jumped, then glared at his cousin, rubbing his belly.
"Baxil," the mistress said. "My tools."
He opened the bag, handing over a folded tool belt. It clinked as she took it, not looking at him, then she strode down the hallway to their left.
Baxil watched, uncomfortable. This was the Hallowed Hall, the place where a wealthy man placed images of his Kadasix for reverence. The mistress walked up to the first piece of art. The painting depicted Epan, Lady of Dreams. It was beautiful, a masterpiece of gold leaf on black canvas.
The mistress took a knife from her bundle and slashed the painting down the front. Baxil cringed, but said nothing. He'd almost gotten used to the casual way she destroyed art, though he was baffled by it. She did pay the two of them very well, however.
Av leaned back against the wall, picking his teeth with a fingernail. Baxil tried to imitate his relaxed pose. The large hallway was lit with topaz chips set in beautiful chandeliers, but they made no move to take them. The mistress did not approve of stealing.
"I've been thinking of seeking the Old Magic," Baxil said, partially to keep himself from cringing as the mistress moved on to gouge out the eyes of a fine bust.
Av snorted. "Why?"
"I don't know," Baxil said. "Seems like something to do with myself. I've never sought it, you know, and they say every man gets one chance. Ask a boon of the Nightwatcher. Have you used yours?"
"Nah," Av said. "Don't fancy making the trip all the way to the Valley. Besides, my brother went. Came back with two numb hands. Never could feel anything with them again."
"What was his boon?" Baxil asked as the mistress wrapped up a vase with a cloth, then quietly shattered it on the floor and crushed the pieces.
"Don't know," Av said. "He never said. Seemed embarrassed. Probably asked for something silly, like a good haircut." Av smirked.
"I was thinking I'd make myself more useful," Baxil said. "Ask for courage, you know?"
"If you want," Av replied. "I figure there are better ways than the Old Magic. You never know what kind of curse you'll end up with."
"I could phrase my request perfectly," Baxil said.
"Doesn't work that way," Av said. "It's not a game, no matter how the stories try to put it. The Nightwatcher doesn't trick you or twist your words. You ask a boon. She gives what she feels you deserve, then gives you a curse to go along with it. Sometimes related, sometimes not."
"And you're an expert?" Baxil asked. The mistress was slashing another painting. "I thought you said you never went."
"I didn't," Av said. "On account of my father going, my mother going, and each of my brothers going. A few got what they wanted. Most all of them regretted the curse, save my father. He got a heap of good cloth; sold to keep us from starving during the lurnip famine a few decades ago."
"What was his curse?" Baxil said.
"Saw the world upside down from then on."
"Really?"
"Yeah," Av said. "Twisted all about. Like people walk on the ceilings and the sky was underneath him. Said he got used to it pretty quickly, though, and didn't really think it a curse by the time he died."
Even thinking about that curse made Baxil feel sick. He looked down at his sack of tools. If he weren't such a coward, would he-maybe-be able to convince the mistress to see him as something more than just hired muscle?
If the Prime Kadasix could provide, he thought, it would be very nice if I could know the right thing to do. Thank you.
The mistress returned, hair somewhat disheveled. She held out a hand. "Padded mallet, Baxil. There's a full statue back there."
He responded, pulling the mallet out of the sack and handing it to her.
"Perhaps I should get myself a Shardblade," she said absently, putting the tool up on her shoulder. "But that might make this too easy."
"I wouldn't mind if it were too easy, mistress," Baxil noted.
She sniffed, walking back down the hallway. Soon she began to pound on a statue at the far end, breaking off its arms. Baxil winced. "Someone's going to hear that."
"Yeah," Av said. "Probably why she waited to do it last."
At least the pounding was muffled by the padding. They had to be the only thieves who sneaked into the homes of rich men without taking anything.
"Why does she do this, Av?" Baxil found himself asking.
"Don't know. Maybe you should ask her."
"I thought you said I should never do that!"
"Depends," Av said. "How attached to your limbs are you?"
"Rather attached."
"Well, if you ever want that changed, start asking the mistress prying questions. Until then, shut up."
Baxil said nothing further. The Old Magic, he thought. It could change me. I will go looking for it.
Knowing his luck, though, he wouldn't be able to find it. He sighed, resting back against the wall as muted thuds continued to come from the mistress's direction. "I'm thinking of changing my Calling," Ashir said from behind.
Geranid nodded absently as she worked on her equations. The small stone room smelled sharply of spices. Ashir was trying another new experiment. It involved some kind of curry powder and a rare Shin fruit that he'd caramelized. Something like that. She could hear it sizzling on his new fabrial hotplate.
"I'm tired of cooking," Ashir continued. He had a soft, kindly voice. She loved him for that. Partially because he liked to talk-and if you were going to have someone talk while you were attempting to think, they might as well have a soft, kindly voice.
"I don't have passion for it as I once did," he continued. "Besides, what good will a cook be in the Spiritual Realm?"
"Heralds need food," she said absently, scratching out a line on her writing board, then scribbling another line of numbers beneath it.
"Do they?" Ashir asked. "I've never been convinced. Oh, I've read the speculations, but it just doesn't seem rational to me. The body must be fed in the Physical Realm, but the spirit exists in a completely different state."
"A state of ideals," she replied. "So, you could create ideal foods, perhaps."
"Hmm…What would be the fun in that? No experimentation."
"I could do without," she said, leaning forward to inspect the room's hearth, where two flamespren danced on the logs' fire. "If it meant never again having to eat something like that green soup you made last month."
"Ah," he said, sounding wistful. "That was something, wasn't it? Completely revolting, yet made entirely from appetizing ingredients." He seemed to consider it a personal triumph. "I wonder if they eat in the Cognitive Realm. Is a food there what it sees itself as being? I'll have to read and see if anyone has ever eaten while visiting Shadesmar."
Geranid responded with a noncommittal grunt, getting out her calipers and leaning closer to the heat to measure the flamespren. She frowned, then made another notation.
"Here, love," Ashir said, walking over, then knelt beside her and offered a small bowl. "Give this a try. I think you'll like it."
She eyed the contents. Bits of bread covered with a red sauce. It was men's food, but they were both ardents, so that didn't matter.
From outside came the sounds of waves gently lapping against the rocks. They were on a tiny Reshi island, technically sent to provide for the religious needs of any Vorin visitors. Some travelers did come to them for that, occasionally even some of the Reshi. But really, this was a way of getting away and focusing on their experiments. Geranid with her spren studies. Ashir with his chemistry-through cooking, of course, as it allowed him to eat the results.
The portly man smiled affably, head shaven, grey beard neatly squared off. They both kept to the rules of their stations, despite their seclusion. One did not write the ending of a lifetime of faith with a sloppy last chapter.
"No green," she noted, taking the bowl. "That's a good sign."
"Hmmm," he said, leaning down and adjusting his spectacles to inspect her notations. "Yes. It really was fascinating the way that Shin vegetable caramelized. I'm so pleased that Gom brought it to me. You'll have to go over my notes. I think I got the figures right, but I could be wrong." He wasn't as strong at mathematics as he was at theory. Conveniently, Geranid was just the opposite.
She took a spoon and tried the food. She didn't wear a sleeve on her safehand-another one of the advantages of being an ardent. The food was actually quite good. "Did you try this, Ashir?"
"Nope," he said, still looking over her figures. "You're the brave one, my dear."
She sniffed. "It's terrible."
"I can see that from how you're taking another large bite at this moment."
"Yes, but you'd hate it. No fruit. Is this fish you added?"
"A dried handful of the little minnows I caught outside this morning. Still don't know what species they are. Tasty, though." He hesitated, then looked up at the hearth and its spren. "Geranid, what is this?"
"I think I've had a breakthrough," she said softly.
"But the figures," he said, tapping the writing board. "You said they were erratic, and they still are."
"Yes," she said, narrowing her eyes at the flamespren. "But I can predict when they will be erratic and when they won't be."
He looked at her, frowning.
"The spren change when I measure them, Ashir," she said. "Before I measure, they dance and vary in size, luminosity, and shape. But when I make a notation, they immediately freeze in their current state. Then they remain that way permanently, so far as I can tell."
"What does it mean?" he asked.
"I'm hoping you'll be able to tell me. I have the figures. You've got the imagination, dear one."
He scratched at his beard, sitting back, and produced a bowl and spoon for himself. He'd sprinkled dried fruit over his portion; Geranid was half convinced he'd joined the ardentia because of his sweet tooth. "What happens if you erase the figures?" he asked.
"The spren go back to being variable," she said. "Length, shape, luminosity."
He took a bite of his mush. "Go into the other room."
"What?"
"Just do it. Take your writing board."
She sighed, standing up, joints popping. Was she getting that old? Starlight, but they'd spent a long time out on this island. She walked to the other room, where their cot was.
"What now?" she called.
"I'm going to measure the spren with your calipers," he called back. "I'll take three measurements in a row. Only write down one of the figures I give you. Don't tell me which one you're writing down."
"All right," she called back. The window was open, and she looked out over a darkening, glassy expanse of water. The Reshi Sea wasn't as shallow as the Purelake, but it was quite warm most of the time, dotted with tropical islands and the occasional monster of a greatshell.
"Three inches, seven tenths," Ashir called.
She didn't write down the figure.
"Two inches, eight tenths."
She ignored the number this time too, but got her chalk ready to write-as quietly as possible-the next numbers he called out.
"Two inches, three ten-Wow."
"What?" she called.
"It stopped changing sizes. I assume you wrote down that third number?"
She frowned, walking back into their small living chamber. Ashir's hotplate sat on a low table to her right. After the Reshi style, there were no chairs, just cushions, and all the furniture was flat and long, rather than tall.
She approached the hearth. One of the two flamespren danced about atop a log, shape changing and length flickering like the flames themselves. The other had taken on a far more stable shape. Its length no longer changed, though its form did slightly.
It seemed locked somehow. It almost looked like a little person as it danced over the fire. She reached up and erased her notation. It immediately began pulsing and changing erratically like the other one.
"Wow," Ashir repeated. "It's as if it knows, somehow, that it has been measured. As if merely defining its form traps it somehow. Write down a number."
"What number?"
"Any number," he said. "But one that might be the size of a flamespren."
She did so. Nothing happened.
"You have to actually measure it," he said, tapping his spoon softly against the side of his bowl. "No pretending."
"I wonder at the precision of the instrument," she said. "If I use one that is less precise, will that give the spren more flexibility? Or is there a threshold, an accuracy beyond which it finds itself bound?" She sat down, feeling daunted. "I need to research this more. Try it for luminosity, then compare that to my general equation of flamespren luminosity as compared to the fire they're drawn to dance around."
Ashir grimaced. "That, my dear, sounds a lot like math."
"Indeed."
"Then I shall make you a snack to occupy you while you create new marvels of calculation and genius." He smiled, kissing her forehead. "You just found something wonderful," he said more softly. "I don't know what it means yet, but it might very well change everything we understand about spren. And maybe even about fabrials."
She smiled, turning back to her equations. And for once, she didn't mind at all as he began chatting about his ingredients, working out a new formula for some sugary confection he was sure she'd love. Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, spun between the two guards as their eyes burned out. They slumped quietly to the floor.
With three quick strokes, he slashed his Shardblade through the hinges and latch of the grand door. Then he took a deep breath, absorbing the Stormlight from a pouch of gemstones at his waist. He burst alight with renewed power and kicked the door with the force of a Light-enhanced foot.
It flew backward into the room, hinges no longer holding it in place, then crashed to the floor, skidding on the stone. The large feast hall inside was filled with people, crackling hearths, and clattering plates. The heavy door slid to a halt, and the room grew quiet.
I am sorry, he thought. Then he dashed in to start the slaughter.
Chaos ensued. Screams, yells, panic. Szeth leaped atop the nearest dining table and started spinning, cutting down everyone nearby. As he did so, he made certain to listen to the sounds of the dying. He did not shut his ears to the screams. He did not ignore the wails of pain. He paid attention to each and every one.
And hated himself.
He moved forward, leaping from table to table, wielding his Shardblade, a god of burning Stormlight and death.
"Armsmen!" yelled the lighteyed man at the edge of the room. "Where are my armsmen!" Thick of waist and shoulder, the man had a square brown beard and a prominent nose. King Hanavanar of Jah Keved. Not a Shardbearer, though some rumors said that he secretly kept a Shardblade.
Near Szeth, men and women scrambled away, stumbling over one another. He dropped among them, his white clothing rippling. He cut through a man who was drawing his sword-but also sliced through three women who wanted only to escape. Eyes burned and bodies collapsed.
Szeth reached behind himself, infusing the table he'd leaped from, then Lashing it to the far wall with a Basic Lashing, the type that changed which direction was down. The large wooden table fell to the side, tumbling into people, causing more screams and more pain.
Szeth found himself crying. His orders were simple. Kill. Kill as you have never killed before. Lay the innocent screaming at your feet and make the lighteyes weep. Do so wearing white, so all know who you are. Szeth did not object. It was not his place. He was Truthless.
And he did as his masters demanded.
Three lighteyed men got up the nerve to attack him, and Szeth raised his Shardblade in salute. They screamed battle cries as they charged. He was silent. A flick of his wrist cut the blade from the first one's sword. The length of metal spun in the air as Szeth stepped between the other two, his Blade swishing through their necks. They dropped in tandem, eyes shriveling. Szeth struck the first man from behind, ramming the Blade through his back and out his chest.
The man dropped forward-a hole in his shirt, but his skin unmarred. As he hit the floor, his severed sword blade clanged to the stones beside him.
Another group came at Szeth from the side, and he drew Stormlight into his hand and flung it in a Full Lashing across the floor at their feet. This was the Lashing that bonded objects; when the men crossed it, their shoes stuck to the floor. They tripped, and found their hands and bodies Lashed to the floor as well. Szeth stepped through them mournfully, striking.
The king edged away, as if to round the chamber and escape. Szeth sprayed a table's top with a Full Lashing, then infused the entire thing with a Basic Lashing as well, pointed at the doorway. The table flipped into the air and crashed against the exit-the side bearing the Full Lashing sticking it to the wall. People tried to pry it out of the way, but that only made them bunch up as Szeth waded into them, Shardblade sweeping.
So many deaths. Why? What purpose did it fulfill?
When he'd assaulted Alethkar six years before, he'd thought that had been a massacre. He hadn't known what a true massacre was. He reached the door and found himself standing over the bodies of some thirty people, his emotions caught up in the tempest of Stormlight within him. He hated that Stormlight, suddenly, as much as he hated himself. As much as the cursed Blade he held.
And…and the king. Szeth spun on the man. Irrationally, his confused, broken mind blamed this man. Why had he called a feast on this night? Why couldn't he have retired early? Why had he invited so many people?
Szeth charged at the king. He passed the dead, who lay twisted on the floor, burned-out eyes staring in lifeless accusation. The king cowered behind his high table.
That high table shuddered, quivering oddly.
Something was wrong.
Instinctively, Szeth Lashed himself to the ceiling. From his viewpoint, the room flipped, and the floor was now the ceiling. Two figures burst out from beneath the king's table. Two men in Plate, carrying Shardblades, swinging.
Twisting in the air, Szeth evaded their swings, then Lashed himself back to the floor, landing on the king's table just as the king summoned a Shardblade. So the rumors were true.
The king struck, but Szeth jumped backward, landing beyond the Shardbearers. Outside, he could hear footfalls. Szeth glanced to see men pouring into the room. The newcomers carried distinctive, diamond-shaped shields. Half-shards. Szeth had heard of the new fabrials, capable of stopping a Shardblade.
"You think I didn't know you were coming?" the king yelled at him. "After you killed three of my highprinces? We're ready for you, assassin." He lifted something from beneath the table. Another of those half-shard shields. They were made of metal imbedded with a gemstone hidden at the back.
"You are a fool," Szeth said, Stormlight leaking from his mouth.
"Why?" the king called. "You think I should have run?"
"No," Szeth replied, meeting his eyes. "Because you set a trap for me during a feast. And now I can blame you for their deaths."
The soldiers fanned out through the room while the two fully armored Shardbearers stepped toward him, Blades out. The king smiled.
"So let it be," Szeth said, breathing deeply, sucking in the Stormlight of the many gemstones tied in the pouches at his waist. The Light began to rage within him, like a highstorm in his chest, burning and screaming. He breathed in more than he'd ever held before, holding it until he was barely able to keep the Stormlight from ripping him apart.
Were those still tears in his eyes? Would that they could hide his crimes. He yanked the strap free at his waist, releasing his belt and the heavy spheres.
Then he dropped his Shardblade.
His opponents froze in shock as his Blade vanished to mist. Who would drop a Shardblade in the middle of a battle? It defied reason.
And so did Szeth.
You are a work of art, Szeth-son-Neturo. A god.
It was time to see.
The soldiers and Shardbearers charged. Mere heartbeats before they reached him, Szeth spun into motion, liquid tempest in his veins. He dodged between the initial sword strikes, spinning into the midst of the soldiers. Holding this much Stormlight made it easier to infuse things; the light wanted out, and it pushed against his skin. In this state, the Shardblade would only be a distraction. Szeth himself was the real weapon.
He grabbed the arm of an attacking soldier. It took only an instant to infuse and Lash him upward. The man cried out, falling into the air as Szeth ducked another sword thrust. He touched the attacker's leg, inhumanly lithe. With a look and a blink, he Lashed that man to the ceiling as well.
Soldiers cursed, slashing at him, their bulky half-shards suddenly becoming hindrances as Szeth moved among them, graceful as a skyeel, touching arms, legs, shoulders, sending a dozen, then two dozen, men flying in all directions. Most went up, but he sent a barrage of them toward the approaching Shardbearers, who cried out as squirming bodies smashed into them.
He jumped backward as a squad of soldiers came at him, Lashing himself to the far wall and spinning into the air. The room changed orientations, and he landed on the wall-which was now down for him. He ran along it toward the king, who waited behind his Shardbearers.
"Kill him!" the king said. "Storm you all! What are you doing? Kill him!"
Szeth leaped off the wall, Lashing himself downward as he flipped, landing with one knee on the dining table. Silverware and plates clinked as he grabbed a dining knife and infused once, twice, three times. He used a triple Basic Lashing, pointing it in the direction of the king, then dropped it and Lashed himself backward.
He lurched away as one of the Shardbearers struck, cutting the table in half. Szeth's released knife fell far more quickly than it should have, flashing toward the king. He barely got his shield up in time, eyes wide as the knife clanged against the metal.
Damnation, Szeth thought, Lashing himself upward with a quarter of a Basic Lashing. That didn't pull him upward, it just made him much lighter. A quarter of his weight was now pulled upward instead of downward. In essence, he became half as heavy as he had been.
He twisted, white clothing flapping gracefully as he dropped amid the common soldiers. Soldiers he'd Lashed earlier began to fall from the high ceiling, their Stormlight running out. A rain of broken bodies, crashing one by one to the floor.
Szeth came at the soldiers again. Some men fell as he sent others flying. Their expensive shields clanged to the stones, falling from dead or stunned fingers. Soldiers tried to reach him, but Szeth danced between them, using the ancient martial art of kammar, which used only the hands. It was meant as a less deadly form of fighting, focused on grabbing enemies and using their weight against them, immobilizing them.
It was also ideal when one wanted to touch and infuse someone.
He was the storm. He was destruction. At his will, men flipped into the air, fell, and died. He swept outward, touching a table and Lashing it upward with half a Basic Lashing. With half its mass pulled upward, half downward, it became weightless. Szeth sprayed it with a Full Lashing, then kicked it toward the soldiers; they stuck to it, their clothing and skin bonding to the wood.
A Shardblade hissed through the air beside him, and Szeth exhaled lightly, Stormlight rising from his lips as he ducked out of the way. The two Shardbearers attacked as bodies fell from above, but Szeth was too quick, too limber. The Shardbearers didn't work together. They were accustomed to dominating a battlefield or dueling with a single enemy. Their powerful weapons made them sloppy.
Szeth ran on light feet, held to the ground only half as much as other men. He easily leaped another swipe, Lashing himself to the ceiling to give himself just a little more lift before quarter-Lashing to make himself weighted down again. The result was an effortless leap of ten feet into the air.
The missed swing hit the ground and cut through the belt he'd dropped earlier, opening one of his large pouches. Spheres and bare gemstones sprayed across the floor. Some infused. Some dun. Szeth pulled Stormlight from those that rolled close.
Behind the Shardbearers, the king himself approached, weapon ready. He should have tried to run.
The two Shardbearers swung their oversized Blades at Szeth. He spun away from the attacks, reaching out and snatching a shield from the air as it tumbled toward the ground. The man who had been holding it crashed to the floor a second later.
Szeth leaped at one of the Shardbearers-a man in gold armor-deflecting his weapon with the shield and pushing past him. The other man, whose Plate was red, swung too. Szeth caught the Blade on his shield, which cracked, barely holding. Still pushing it against the Blade, Szeth Lashed himself behind the Shardbearer while jumping forward.
The move flipped Szeth up and over the man. Szeth went on, falling toward the far wall as the second wave of soldiers began to drop to the floor. One crashed into the Shardbearer in red, making him stumble.
Szeth hit the wall, landing against the stones. He was so full of Stormlight. So much power, so much life, so much terrible, terrible destruction.
Stone. It was sacred. He never thought about that anymore. How could anything be sacred to him, now?
As bodies crashed into the Shardbearers, he knelt and placed his hand on a large stone in the wall before him, infusing it. He Lashed it time and time again in the direction of the Shardbearers. Once, twice, ten times, fifteen times. He kept pouring Stormlight into it. It glowed brightly. Mortar cracked. Stone ground against stone.
The red Shardbearer turned just as the massive, infused rock fell toward him, moving with twenty times the normal acceleration of a falling stone. It crashed into him, shattering his breastplate, spraying molten bits in all directions. The block hurled him across the room, crushing him against the far wall. He did not move.
Szeth was nearly out of Stormlight now. He quarter-Lashed himself to reduce his weight, then loped across the ground. Men were crushed, broken, dead around him. Spheres rolled on the floor, and he drew in their Stormlight. The Light streamed up, like the souls of those he had killed, infusing him.
He began to run. The other Shardbearer stumbled backward, holding up his Blade, stepping onto the wood of a shattered tabletop, the legs of which had broken free. The king finally realized his trap was failing. He started to flee.
Ten heartbeats, Szeth thought. Return to me, you creation of Damnation.
Szeth's heartbeats began to thump in his ears. He screamed-Light bursting from his mouth like radiant smoke-and threw himself to the ground as the Shardbearer swung. Szeth Lashed himself toward the far wall, skidding through the Shardbearer's legs. He immediately Lashed himself upward.
He soared into the air as the Shardbearer rounded on him again. But Szeth wasn't there. He Lashed himself back downward, dropping behind the Shardbearer to land on the broken tabletop. He stooped and infused it. A man in Shardplate might be protected from Lashings, but the things he stood upon were not.
Szeth Lashed the plank upward with a multiple Lashing. It lurched into the air, tossing aside the Shardbearer like a toy soldier. Szeth himself stayed atop the board, riding it upward in a rush of air. As it reached the lofty ceiling he threw himself off, Lashing himself downward once, twice, three times.
The tabletop crashed to the ceiling. Szeth fell with incredible speed toward the Shardbearer, who lay dazed on his back.
Szeth's Blade formed in his fingers just as he hit, driving the weapon down through Shardplate. The breastplate exploded and the Blade sank deeply through the man's chest and into the floor underneath.
Szeth stood, pulling his Shardblade free. The fleeing king looked over his shoulder with a cry of disbelieving horror. Both of his Shardbearers had fallen in a matter of seconds. The last of the soldiers nervously moved in to protect his retreat.
Szeth had stopped crying. It seemed like he couldn't cry any longer. He felt numb. His mind…it just couldn't think. He hated the king. Hated him so badly. And it hurt, physically hurt him, how strong that irrational hatred was.
Stormlight rising from him, he Lashed himself toward the king.
He fell, feet just above the ground, as if he were floating. His clothing rippled. To those guards still alive, he would seem to be gliding across the ground.
He Lashed himself downward at a slight angle and began to swing his Blade as he reached the ranks of the soldiers. He ran through them as if he were moving down a steep slope. Swirling and spinning, he dropped a dozen men, graceful and terrible, drawing in more Stormlight from spheres that had been scattered on the floor.
Szeth reached the doorway, men with burning eyes falling to the ground behind him. Just outside, the king ran amid a final small group of guards. He turned and cried out as he saw Szeth, then threw up his half-shard shield.
Szeth wove through the guards, then hit the shield twice, shattering it and forcing the king backward. The man tripped, dropping his Blade. It puffed away to mist.
Szeth leaped up and Lashed himself downward with a double Basic Lashing. He hit atop the king, his increased weight breaking an arm and pinning the man to the ground. Szeth swept his blade through the surprised soldiers, who fell as their legs died beneath them.
Finally, Szeth raised his Blade over his head, looking down at the king.
"What are you?" the man whispered, eyes watering with pain.
"Death," Szeth said, then drove his Blade point-first through the man's face and into the rock below.
"I'm standing over the body of a brother. I'm weeping. Is that his blood or mine? What have we done?" -Dated Vevanev, 1173, 107 seconds pre-death. Subject: an out-of-work Veden sailor. "Father," Adolin said, pacing in Dalinar's sitting room. "This is insane."
"That is appropriate," Dalinar replied dryly. "As-it appears-I am as well."
"I never claimed you were insane."
"Actually," Renarin noted, "I believe that you did."
Adolin glanced at his brother. Renarin stood beside the hearth, inspecting the new fabrial that had been installed there just a few days ago. The infused ruby, encased in a metal enclosure, glowed softly and gave off a comfortable heat. It was convenient, though it felt wrong to Adolin that no fire lay crackling there.
The three were alone in Dalinar's sitting room, awaiting the advent of the day's highstorm. It had been one week since Dalinar had informed his sons of his intention to step down as highprince.
Adolin's father sat in one of his large, high-backed chairs, hands laced before him, stoic. The warcamps didn't know of his decision yet-bless the Heralds-but he intended to make the announcement soon. Perhaps at tonight's feast.
"All right, fine," Adolin said. "Perhaps I said it. But I didn't mean it. Or at least I didn't mean for it to have this effect on you."
"We had this discussion a week ago, Adolin," Dalinar said softly.
"Yes, and you promised to think over your decision!"
"I have. My resolve has not wavered."
Adolin continued to pace; Renarin stood up straight, watching him as he stalked past. I'm a fool, Adolin thought. Of course this is what Father would do. I should have seen it.
"Look," Adolin said, "just because you might have some problems doesn't mean you have to abdicate."
"Adolin, our enemies will use my weakness against us. In fact, you believe that they are already doing so. If I don't give up the princedom now, matters could grow much worse than they are now."
"But I don't want to be highprince," Adolin complained. "Not yet, at least."
"Leadership is rarely about what we want, son. I think too few among the Alethi elite realize that fact."
"And what will happen to you?" Adolin asked, pained. He stopped and looked toward his father.
Dalinar was so firm, even sitting there, contemplating his own madness. Hands clasped before him, wearing a stiff blue uniform with a coat of Kholin blue, silver hair dusting his temples. Those hands of his were thick and callused, his expression determined. Dalinar made a decision and stuck to it, not wavering or debating.
Mad or not, he was what Alethkar needed. And Adolin had-in his haste-done what no warrior on the battlefield had ever been able to do: chop Dalinar Kholin's legs out from under him and send him away in defeat.
Oh, Stormfather, Adolin thought, stomach twisting in pain. Jezerezeh, Kelek, and Ishi, Heralds above. Let me find a way to right this. Please.
"I will return to Alethkar," Dalinar said. "Though I hate to leave our army here down a Shardbearer. Could I…but no, I could not give them up."
"Of course not!" Adolin said, aghast. A Shardbearer, giving up his Shards? It almost never happened unless the Bearer was too weak and sickly to use them.
Dalinar nodded. "I have long worried that our homeland is in danger, now that every single Shardbearer fights out here on the Plains. Well, perhaps this change of winds is a blessing. I will return to Kholinar and aid the queen, make myself useful fighting against border incursions. Perhaps the Reshi and the Vedens will be less likely to strike against us if they know that they'd be facing a full Shardbearer."
"That's possible," Adolin said. "But they could also escalate and start sending a Shardbearer of their own on raids."
That seemed to worry his father. Jah Keved was the only other kingdom in Roshar that owned a substantial number of Shards, nearly as many as Alethkar. There hadn't been a direct war between them in centuries. Alethkar had been too divided, and Jah Keved was little better. But if the two kingdoms clashed in force, it would be a war the like of which hadn't been seen since the days of the Hierocracy.
Distant thunder rumbled outside, and Adolin turned sharply toward Dalinar. His father remained in his chair, staring westward, away from the storm. "We will continue this discussion afterward," Dalinar said. "For now, you two should tie my arms to the chair."
Adolin grimaced, but did as he was told without complaint. Dalinar blinked, looking around. He was on the battlement of a single-walled fortress. Crafted from large blocks of deep red stone, the wall was sheer and straight. It was built across a rift in the leeward side of a tall rock formation overlooking an open plain of stone, like a wet leaf stuck across a crack in a boulder.
These visions feel so real, Dalinar thought, glancing at the spear he held in his hand and then down at his antiquated uniform: a cloth skirt and leather jerkin. It was hard to remember that he was really sitting in his chair, arms tied down. He couldn't feel the ropes or hear the highstorm.
He considered waiting out the vision, doing nothing. If this wasn't real, why should he participate? Yet he didn't completely believe-couldn't completely believe-that he was coming up with these delusions on his own. His decision to abdicate to Adolin was motivated by his doubts. Was he mad? Was he misinterpreting? At the very least, he could no longer trust himself. He didn't know what was real and what wasn't. In such a situation a man should step down from his authority and sort things through.
Either way, he felt he needed to live these visions, not ignore them. A desperate piece of him still hoped to come to a solution before he had to abdicate formally. He didn't let that piece gain too much control-a man had to do what was right. But Dalinar would give it this much: He would treat the vision as real while he was part of it. If there were secrets to be found here, only by playing along would he find them.
He looked about him. What was he being shown this time, and why? The spearhead on his weapon was of good steel, though his cap appeared to be bronze. One of the six men with him on the wall wore a breastplate of bronze; two others had poorly patched leather uniforms, sliced and resewn with wide stitches.
The other men lounged about, idly looking out over the wall. Guard duty, Dalinar thought, stepping up and scanning the landscape outside. This rock formation was at the end of an enormous plain-the perfect situation for a fortress. No army could approach without being seen long before its arrival.
The air was cold enough that clumps of ice clung to the stone in shadowed corners. The sunlight did little to dispel the cold, and the weather explained the lack of grass; the blades would be retracted into their holes, awaiting the relief of spring weather.
Dalinar pulled his cloak closer, prompting one of his companions to do the same.
"Storming weather," the man muttered. "How long's it going to last? Been eight weeks already."
Eight weeks? Forty days of winter at once? That was rare. Despite the cold, the other three soldiers looked anything but engaged by their guard duties. One was even dozing.
"Stay alert," Dalinar chided them.
They glanced at him, the one who had been dozing blinking awake. All three seemed incredulous. One-a tall, red-haired man-scowled. "This from you, Leef?"
Dalinar bit back a retort. Who did they see him as?
The chill air made his breath steam, and from behind him he could hear metal clanging as men worked at forges and anvils below. The gates to the fortress were closed, and the archer towers were manned to the left and right. They were at war, but guard duty was always boring work. It took well trained soldiers to remain alert for hours on end. Perhaps that was why there were so many soldiers here; if the quality of eyes watching could not be assured, then quantity would serve.
However, Dalinar had an advantage. The visions never showed him episodes of idle peace; they threw him into times of conflict and change. Turning points. So it was that, despite dozens of other eyes watching, he was the first to spot it.
"There!" he said, leaning out over the side of the roughstone crenellation. "What is that?"
The redheaded man raised a hand, shading his eyes. "Nothing. A shadow."
"No, it's moving," said one of the others. "Looks like people. Marching."
Dalinar's heart began to thump in anticipation as the red-haired man called the alert. More archers rushed onto the battlement, stringing bows. Soldiers gathered in the ruddy courtyard below. Everything was made of that same red rock, and Dalinar caught one of the men referring to this place as "Feverstone Keep." He'd never heard of it.
Scouts galloped from the keep on horses. Why didn't they have outriders already?
"It has to be the rear defense force," one soldier muttered. "They can't have gotten through our lines. Not with the Radiants fighting…"
Radiants? Dalinar stepped closer to listen, but the man gave him a scowl and turned away. Whoever Dalinar was, the others didn't much care for him.
Apparently, this keep was a fallback position behind the front lines of a war. So either that approaching force was friendly, or the enemy had punched through and sent an advance element to besiege the keep. These were reserves, then, which was probably why they had been left with a few horses. They still should have had outriders.
When the scouts finally did gallop back to the keep, they bore white flags. Dalinar glanced at his companions, confirming his suspicions as they relaxed. White meant friends. Yet would he have been sent here if it were that simple? If it was just in his mind, would it fabricate a simple, boring vision when it never had before?
"We need to be alert for a trap," Dalinar said. "Someone find out what those scouts saw. Did they identify banners only, or did they get a close look?"
The other soldiers-including some of the archers who now filled the wall top-gave him strange looks. Dalinar cursed softly, glancing back out at the shadowy oncoming force. He had a foreboding itch in the back of his skull. Ignoring the odd looks, he hefted his spear and ran down the walkway of the wall top, reaching a set of stairs. They were built in switchbacks, running in zigzags straight down the tall wall, with no railing. He'd been on such fortifications before, and knew how to keep his eyes focused on the steps to avoid vertigo.
He reached the bottom and-spear resting on his shoulder-struck out to find someone in charge. The buildings of Feverstone Keep were blocky and utilitarian, built up against one another along the rock walls of the natural rift. Most had square raincatchers on top. With good food stores-or, if lucky, a Soulcaster-such a fortification could withstand a siege for years.
He couldn't read the rank insignias, but he could recognize an officer when he saw one standing in a blood-red cloak with a group of honor guards. He had no mail, just a shiny bronze breastplate over leather, and was conferring with one of the scouts. Dalinar hurried up.
Only then did he see that the man's eyes were dark brown. That gave Dalinar a shock of incredulity. Those around him treated the man like a brightlord.
"…the Order of the Stonewards, my lord," the still-mounted scout was saying. "And a large number of Windrunners. All on foot."
"But why?" the darkeyed officer demanded. "Why are Radiants coming here? They should be fighting the devils on the front lines!"
"My lord," the scout said, "our orders were to return as soon as we identified them."
"Well, go back and find out why they're here!" the officer bellowed, causing the scout to flinch, then turn to ride away.
The Radiants. They were usually connected to Dalinar's visions in one way or another. As the officer began to call commands to his attendants, telling them to prep empty bunkers for the knights, Dalinar followed the scout toward the wall. Men crowded near the kill slits there, peering out at the plain. Like those above, these wore motley uniforms that looked pieced together. They weren't a ragged bunch, but were obviously wearing secondhand leavings.
The scout rode through a sally port as Dalinar entered the shadow of the enormous wall, walking up to the back of a crowd of soldiers. "What is it?" he asked.
"The Radiants," one of the men said. "They've broken into a run."
"It's almost like they're going to attack," said another. He chuckled at how ridiculous that sounded, though there was an edge of uncertainty to his voice.
What? Dalinar thought, anxious. "Let me through."
Surprisingly, the men parted. As Dalinar pushed by, he could sense their confusion. He'd given the command with the authority of a highprince and a lighteyes, and they'd obeyed instinctively. Now that they saw him, they were uncertain. What was this simple guardsman doing ordering them about?
He didn't give them a chance to question him. He climbed onto the platform against the wall, where a rectangular kill slit looked through the wall and onto the plain. It was too small for a man to get through, but wide enough for archers to fire out. Through it, Dalinar saw that the approaching soldiers had formed a distinct line. Men and women in gleaming Shardplate charged forward. The scout pulled to a halt, looking at the charging Shardbearers. They ran shoulder to shoulder, not a single one of place. Like a crystalline wave. As they drew closer, Dalinar could see that their Plate was unpainted, but it glowed either blue or amber at the joints and across glyphs at the front, as with other Radiants he'd seen in his visions.
"They don't have their Shardblades out," Dalinar said. "That's a good sign."
The scout outside backed his horse up. There looked to be a good two hundred Shardbearers out there. Alethkar owned some twenty Blades, Jah Keved a similar number. If one added up all the rest in the world, there might be enough total to equal the two powerful Vorin kingdoms. That meant, so far as he knew, there were less than hundred Blades in all of the world. And here he saw two hundred Shardbearers gathered in one army. It was mind-numbing.
The Radiants slowed, falling into a trot, then a walk. The soldiers around Dalinar grew still. The leading Radiants stopped in a line, immobile. Suddenly, others began to fall from the sky. They hit with the sound of rock cracking, puffs of Stormlight blossoming from their figures. These all glowed blue.
Soon, there were some three hundred Radiants out on the field. They began summoning their Blades. The weapons appeared in their hands, like fog forming and condensing. It was done in silence. Their visors were down.
"If them charging without swords was a good sign," whispered one of the men beside Dalinar, "then what does this mean?"
A suspicion began to rise within Dalinar, the horror that he might know what this vision was about to show him. The scout, at last unnerved, turned his horse and galloped back to the keep, screaming for the door to be opened to him. As if a little wood and stone would be a protection against hundreds of Shardbearers. A single man with Plate and Blade was almost an army unto himself, and that wasn't accounting for the strange powers these people had.
The soldiers pulled the sally port open for the scout. Making a snap decision, Dalinar leaped down and charged to the opening. Behind, the officer Dalinar had seen earlier was clearing a path for himself to walk up to the kill slit.
Dalinar reached the open door, darting through it just after the scout charged back into the courtyard. Men called after Dalinar, terrified. He ignored them, running out onto the open plain. The expansive, straight wall stretched above him, like a highway up to the sun itself. The Radiants were still distant, though they'd stopped within bowshot. Transfixed by the beautiful figures, Dalinar slowed, then stopped about a hundred feet away.
One knight stepped ahead of his companions, his brilliant cape a rich blue. His Shardblade of rippling steel had intricate carvings along the center. He held it toward the keep for a moment.
Then he drove it point-first into the stone plain. Dalinar blinked. The Shardbearer removed his helm, exposing a handsome head with blond hair and pale skin, light as that of a man from Shinovar. He tossed the helm to the ground beside his blade. It rolled slightly as the Shardbearer made fists in his gauntlets, arms at his sides. He opened his palms wide, and the gauntlets fell free to the rocky ground.
He turned, his Shardplate falling off his body-breastplate dropping free, greaves slipping off. Underneath, he wore a rumpled blue uniform. He stepped free of his bootlike sabatons and continued to walk away, Shardplate and Shardblade-the most precious treasures any man could own-tossed to the ground and abandoned like refuse.
The others began to follow suit. Hundreds of men and women, driving Shardblades into the stone and then removing their Plate. The sound of metal hitting stone came like rain. Then like thunder.
Dalinar found himself running forward. The door behind him opened and some curious soldiers left the keep. Dalinar reached the Shardblades. They sprouted from the rock like glittering silver trees, a forest of weapons. They glowed softly in a way his own Shardblade never had, but as he dashed among them, their light started to fade.
A terrible feeling struck him. A sense of immense tragedy, of pain and betrayal. Stopping where he stood, he gasped, hand to his chest. What was happening? What was that dreadful feeling, that screaming he swore he could almost hear?
The Radiants. They walked away from their discarded weapons. They all seemed individuals now, each walking alone despite the crowd. Dalinar charged after them, tripping over discarded breastplates and chunks of armor. He finally stumbled free of it all.
"Wait!" he called.
None of them turned.
He could now see others in the distance, far off. A crowd of soldiers, not wearing Shardplate, waiting for the Radiants to return. Who were they, and why hadn't they come forward? Dalinar He caught up to the Radiants-they weren't walking very quickly-and grabbed one by the arm. The man turned; his skin was tan and his hair dark, like an Alethi. His eyes were of the palest blue. Unnaturally so, in fact-the irises were nearly white.
"Please," Dalinar said. "Tell me why you are doing this."
The former Shardbearer pulled his arm free and continued to walk away. Dalinar cursed, then ran into the midst of the Shardbearers. They were of all races and nationalities, dark skin and light, some with white Thaylen eyebrows, others with the skin ripples of the Selay. They walked with eyes forward, not speaking to one another, steps slow but resolute.
"Will someone tell me why?" Dalinar bellowed. "This is it, isn't it? The Day of Recreance, the day you betrayed mankind. But why?" None of them spoke. It was as if he didn't exist.
People spoke of betrayal, of the day the Knights Radiant turned their backs on their fellow men. What were they fighting, and why had they stopped? Two orders of knights were mentioned, Dalinar thought. But there were ten orders. What of the other eight?
Dalinar fell to his knees in the sea of solemn individuals. "Please. I must know." Nearby, some of the keep's soldiers had reached the Shardblades-but rather than chasing after the Radiants, these men were cautiously pulling the Blades free. A few officers scrambled out of the keep, calling for the Blades to be put down. They were soon outnumbered by men who began boiling out of side gates and rushing toward the weapons.
"They are the first," a voice said.
Dalinar looked up to see that one of the knights had stopped beside him. It was the man who looked Alethi. He looked over his shoulder at the crowd gathering around the blades. Men had begun to scream at one another, everyone scrambling to get a Blade before they were all claimed.
"They are the first," the Radiant said, turning to Dalinar. Dalinar recognized the depth of that voice. It was the voice that always spoke to him in these visions. "They were the first, and they were also the last."
"Is this the Day of Recreance?" Dalinar asked.
"These events will go down in history," the Radiant said. "They will be infamous. You will have many names for what happened here."
"But why?" Dalinar asked. "Please. Why did they abandon their duty?"
The figure seemed to study him. "I have said I that cannot be of much help to you. The Night of Sorrows will come, and the True Desolation. The Everstorm."
"Then answer my questions!" Dalinar said.
"Read the book. Unite them."
"The book? The Way of Kings?"
The figure turned and walked from him, joining the other Radiants as they crossed the stone plain, walking toward places unknown.
Dalinar looked back at the melee of soldiers rushing for Blades. Many had already been claimed. There weren't enough Blades for everyone, and some had begun raising theirs up, using them to fend off those who got too close. As he watched, a bellowing officer with a Blade was attacked by two men behind him.
The glow from within the weapons had completely vanished.
The killing of that officer made others bold. Other skirmishes started, men scrambling to attack those who had Blades, hoping to get one. Eyes began to burn. Screams, shouts, death. Dalinar watched until he found himself in his quarters, tied to his chair. Renarin and Adolin watched nearby, looking tense.
Dalinar blinked, listening to the rain of the passing highstorm on the roof. "I've returned," he said to his sons. "You may calm yourselves." Adolin helped untie the ropes while Renarin stood up and fetched Dalinar a cup of orange wine.
Once Dalinar was free, Adolin stood back. The youth folded his arms. Renarin came back, his face pale. He looked to be having one of his episodes of weakness; indeed, his legs were trembling. As soon as Dalinar took the cup, the youth sat down in a chair and rested his head in his hands.
Dalinar sipped the sweet wine. He had seen wars in his visions before. He had seen deaths and monsters, greatshells and nightmares. And yet, for some reason, this one disturbed him more than any. He found his own hand shaking as he raised the cup for a second sip.
Adolin was still looking at him.
"Am I that bad to watch?" Dalinar asked.
"The gibberish you speak is unnerving, Father," Renarin said. "Unearthly, strange. Skewed, like a wooden building pushed to a slant by the wind."
"You thrash about," Adolin said. "You nearly tipped over the chair. I had to hold it steady until you stilled."
Dalinar stood up, sighing as he walked over to refill his cup. "And you still think I don't need to abdicate?"
"The episodes are containable," Adolin said, though he sounded disturbed. "My point was never to get you to abdicate. I just didn't want you relying upon the delusions to make decisions about our house's future. So long as you accept that what you see isn't real, we can move on. No reason for you to give up your seat."
Dalinar poured the wine. He looked eastward, toward the wall, away from Adolin and Renarin. "I don't accept that what I see isn't real."
"What?" Adolin said. "But I thought I convinced-"
"I accept that I'm no longer reliable," Dalinar said. "And that there's a chance I might be going mad. I accept that something is happening to me." He turned around. "When I first began seeing these visions, I believed them to be from the Almighty. You have convinced me that I may have been too hasty in my judgment. I don't know enough to trust them. I could be mad. Or they could be supernatural without being of the Almighty."
"How could that happen?" Adolin said, frowning.
"The Old Magic," Renarin said softly, still sitting.
Dalinar nodded.
"What?" Adolin said pointedly. "The Old Magic is a myth."
"Unfortunately, it is not," Dalinar said, then took another drink of the cool wine. "I know this for a fact."
"Father," Renarin said. "For the Old Magic to have affected you, you'd have had to travel to the West and seek it. Wouldn't you?"
"Yes," he said, ashamed. The empty place in his memories where his wife had once existed had never seemed as obvious to him as it did at that moment. He tended to ignore it, with good reason. She'd vanished completely, and it was sometimes difficult for him to remember that he had been married.
"These visions are not in line with what I've understood about the Nightwatcher," Renarin said. "Most consider her to be just some kind of powerful spren. Once you've sought her out and been given your reward and your curse, she's supposed to leave you alone. When did you seek her?"
"It's been many years now," Dalinar said.
"Then this probably isn't due to her influence," Renarin said.
"I agree," Dalinar said.
"But what did you ask for?" Adolin said, frowning.
"My curse and boon are my own, son," Dalinar said. "The specifics are not important."
"But-"
"I agree with Renarin," Dalinar said, interrupting. "This is probably not the Nightwatcher."
"All right, fine. But why bring it up?"
"Because, Adolin," Dalinar said, feeling exasperated. "I don't know what is happening to me. These visions seem far too detailed to be products of my mind. But your arguments made me think. I could be wrong. Or you could be wrong, and it could be the Almighty. Or it could be something entirely different. We don't know, and that is why it is dangerous for me to be left in command."
"Well, what I said still holds," Adolin said stubbornly. "We can contain it."
"No, we can't," Dalinar said. "Just because it has come only during highstorms in the past doesn't mean it couldn't expand to other times of stress. What if I were struck with an episode on the battlefield?" That was the very same reason they didn't let Renarin ride into battle.
"If that happens," Adolin said, "we'll deal with it. For now, we could just ignore-"
Dalinar threw a hand up into the air. "Ignore? I cannot ignore something like this. The visions, the book, the things I feel-they're changing every aspect of me. How can I rule if I do not follow my conscience? If I continue as highprince, I second-guess my every decision. Either I decide to trust myself, or I step down. I cannot stomach the thought of something in-between."
The room fell silent.
"So what do we do?" Adolin said.
"We make the choice," Dalinar said. "I make the choice."
"Step down or keep heeding the delusions," Adolin spat. "Either way we're letting them rule us."
"And you have a better option?" Dalinar demanded. "You've been quick to complain, Adolin, which seems a habit of yours. But I don't see you offering a legitimate alternative."
"I gave you one," Adolin said. "Ignore the visions and move on!"
"I said a legitimate option!"
The two stared at one another. Dalinar fought to keep his anger contained. In many ways, he and Adolin were too similar. They understood one another, and that enabled them to push in places that hurt.
"Well," Renarin said, "what if we proved whether or not the visions were true?"
Dalinar glanced at him. "What?"
"You say these dreams are detailed," Renarin said, leaning forward with hands clasped in front of him. "What, exactly, do you see?"
Dalinar hesitated, then gulped down the rest of his wine. For once he wished he had intoxicating violet instead of orange. "The visions are often of the Knights Radiant. At the end of each episode, someone-I think one of the Heralds-comes to me and commands me to unite the highprinces of Alethkar."
The room fell silent, Adolin looking disturbed, Renarin just sitting quietly.
"Today, I saw the Day of Recreance," Dalinar continued. "The Radiants abandoned their Shards and walked away. The Plate and Blades…faded somehow when they were abandoned. It seems such an odd detail to have seen." He looked at Adolin. "If these visions are fantasies, then I am a great deal more clever than I once thought myself."
"Do you remember any specifics we could check on?" Renarin asked. "Names? Locations? Events that might be traced in history?"
"This last one was of a place called Feverstone Keep," Dalinar said.
"I've never heard of it," Adolin said.
"Feverstone Keep," Dalinar repeated. "In my vision, there was some kind of war going on near there. The Radiants had been fighting on the front lines. They withdrew to this fortress, then abandoned their Shards there."
"Perhaps we could find something in history," Renarin said. "Proof that either this keep existed or that the Radiants didn't do what you saw there. Then we'd know, wouldn't we? If the dreams are delusions or truth?"
Dalinar found himself nodding. Proving them had never occurred to him, in part because he had assumed they were real at the start. Once he'd started questioning, he'd been more inclined to keep the nature of the visions hidden and silent. But if he knew that he was seeing real events…well, that would at least rule out the possibility of madness. It wouldn't solve everything, but it would help a great deal.
"I don't know," Adolin said, more skeptical. "Father, you're talking about times before the Hierocracy. Will we be able to find anything in the histories?"
"There are histories from the time when the Radiants lived," Renarin said. "That's not as far back as the shadowdays or the Heraldic Epochs. We could ask Jasnah. Isn't this what she does? As a Veristitalian?"
Dalinar looked at Adolin. "It sounds like it's worth a try, son."
"Maybe," Adolin said. "But we can't take the existence of a single place as proof. You could have heard of this Feverstone Keep, and therefore included it."
"Well," Renarin said, "that may be true. But if what Father sees are just delusions, then certainly we'll be able to prove some parts of them untrue. It seems impossible that every detail he imagines is one that he got from a story or history. Some aspects of the delusions would have to be pure fancy."
Adolin nodded slowly. "I…You're right, Renarin. Yes, it's a good plan."
"We need to get one of my scribes," Dalinar said. "So I can dictate the vision I just had while it is fresh."
"Yes," Renarin said. "The more details we have, the easier it will be to prove-or disprove-the visions."
Dalinar grimaced, setting aside his cup and walking over to the others. He sat down. "All right, but who would we use to record the dictation?"
"You have a great number of clerks, Father," Renarin said.
"And they're all either wife or daughter to one of my officers," Dalinar said. How could he explain? It was painful enough for him to expose weakness to his sons. If news of what he saw got around to his officers, it could weaken morale. There might come a time to reveal these things to his men, but he would need to do so carefully. And he'd much rather know for himself whether or not he was mad before he approached others.
"Yes," Adolin said, nodding-though Renarin still looked perplexed. "I understand. But, Father, we can't afford to wait for Jasnah to return. It could be months yet."
"Agreed." Dalinar said. He sighed. There was another option. "Renarin, send a runner for your aunt Navani."
Adolin glanced at Dalinar, raising an eyebrow. "It's a good idea. But I thought you didn't trust her."
"I trust her to keep her word," Dalinar said, resigned. "And to keep confidence. I told her of my plans to abdicate, and she didn't tell a soul." Navani was excellent at keeping secrets. Far better than the women of his court. He trusted them to an extent, but keeping a secret like this would require someone supremely exacting in their words and thoughts.
That meant Navani. She would probably find a way to manipulate him using the knowledge, but at least the secret would be safe from his men.
"Go, Renarin," Dalinar said.
Renarin nodded and stood. He had apparently recovered from his fit, and walked surefooted to the door. As he left, Adolin approached Dalinar. "Father, what will you do if we prove that I'm right, and it's just your own mind?"
"A part of me wishes for that to happen," Dalinar said, watching the door swing closed after Renarin. "I fear madness, but at least it is something familiar, something that can be dealt with. I will give you the princedom, then seek help in Kharbranth. But if these things are not delusions, I face another decision. Do I accept what they tell me or not? It may very well be better for Alethkar if I prove to be mad. It will be easier, at the least."
Adolin considered that, his brow furrowed, his jaw tense. "And Sadeas? He seems to be nearing the completion of his investigation. What do we do?"
It was a legitimate question. Troubles over Dalinar trusting the visions in relation to Sadeas had been what had drawn Dalinar and Adolin to argument in the first place.
Unite them. That wasn't just a command from the visions. It had been Gavilar's dream. A unified Alethkar. Had Dalinar let that dream-combined with guilt over failing his brother-drive him to construct supernatural rationalizations for seeking his brother's will?
He felt uncertain. He hated feeling uncertain.
"Very well," Dalinar said. "I give you leave to prepare for the worst, just in case Sadeas moves against us. Prepare our officers and call back the companies sent to patrol for bandits. If Sadeas denounces me as having tried to kill Elhokar, we will lock down our warcamp and go on alert. I don't intend to let him bring me in for execution."
Adolin looked relieved. "Thank you, Father."
"Hope it doesn't come to that, son," Dalinar said. "The moment Sadeas and I go to war in earnest, Alethkar as a nation will shatter. Ours are the two princedoms that uphold the king, and if we turn to strife, the others will either pick sides or turn to wars of their own."
Adolin nodded, but Dalinar sat back, disturbed. I'm sorry, he thought to whatever force was sending the visions. But I have to be wise.
In a way, this seemed like a second test to him. The visions had told him to trust Sadeas. Well, he would see what happened. "…and then it faded," Dalinar said. "After that, I found myself back here."
Navani raised her pen, looking thoughtful. It hadn't taken him long to talk through the vision. She'd scribed expertly, picking out details from him, knowing when to prod for more. She hadn't said a thing about the irregularity of the request, nor had she seemed amused by his desire to write down one of his delusions. She'd been businesslike and careful. She sat at his writing desk now, hair bound up in curls and crossed with four hair-spikes. Her dress was red, matched by her lip paint, and her beautiful violet eyes were curious.
Stormfather, Dalinar thought, but she's beautiful.
"Well?" Adolin asked. He stood leaning against the door out of the chamber. Renarin had gone off to collect a highstorm damage report. The lad needed practice at that sort of activity.
Navani raised an eyebrow. "What was that, Adolin?"
"What do you think, Aunt?" Adolin asked.
"I have never heard of any of these places or events," Navani said. "But I believe you weren't expecting to me to know of them. Didn't you say you wished me to contact Jasnah?"
"Yes," Adolin said. "But surely you have analysis."
"I reserve judgment, dear," Navani said, standing up and folding the paper by pressing down with her safehand, holding it in place while she creased the fold tight. She smiled, walking by Adolin and patting him on the shoulder. "Let's see what Jasnah says before we do any analyzing, shall we?"
"I suppose," Adolin said. He sounded dissatisfied.
"I spent some time talking with that young lady of yours yesterday," Navani noted to him. "Danlan? I think you've made a wise choice. She's got a mind in that head of hers."
Adolin perked up. "You like her?"
"Quite a bit," Navani said. "I also discovered that she is very fond of avramelons. Did you know that?"
"I didn't, actually."
"Good. I would have hated to do all that work to find you a means of pleasing her, only to discover that you already knew it. I took the liberty of purchasing a basket of the melons on my way here. You'll find them in the antechamber, watched over by a bored soldier who didn't look like he was doing anything important. If you were to visit her with them this afternoon, I think you'd find yourself very well received."
Adolin hesitated. He probably knew that Navani was deflecting him from worrying over Dalinar. However, he relaxed, then started smiling. "Well, that might make for a pleasant change, considering events lately."
"I thought it might," Navani said. "I'd suggest going soon; those melons are perfectly ripe. Besides, I wish to speak with your father."
Adolin kissed Navani fondly on the cheek. "Thank you, Mashala." He allowed her to get away with some things that others could not; around his favored aunt, he was much like a child again. Adolin's smile widened as he made his way out the door.
Dalinar found himself smiling as well. Navani knew his son well. His smile didn't last long, however, as he realized that Adolin's departure left him alone with Navani. He stood up. "What is it you wished to ask of me?" he asked.
"I didn't say I wanted to ask anything of you, Dalinar," she said. "I just wanted to talk. We are family, after all. We don't spend enough time together."
"If you wish to speak, I shall fetch some soldiers to accompany us." He glanced at the antechamber outside. Adolin had shut the second door at the end, closing off his view of his guards-and their view of him.
"Dalinar," she said, walking up to him. "That would kind of defeat the point of sending Adolin away. I was after some privacy."
He felt himself growing stiff. "You should go now."
"Must I?"
"Yes. People will think this is inappropriate. They will talk."
"You imply that something inappropriate could happen, then?" Navani said, sounding almost girlishly eager.
"Navani, you are my sister."
"We aren't related by blood," she replied. "In some kingdoms, a union between us would be mandated by tradition, once your brother died."
"We aren't in other countries. This is Alethkar. There are rules."
"I see," she said, strolling closer to him. "And what will you do if I don't go? Will you call for help? Have me hauled away?"
"Navani," he said sufferingly. "Please. Don't do this again. I'm tired."
"Excellent. That might make it easier to get what I want."
He closed his eyes. I can't take this right now. The vision, the confrontation with Adolin, his own uncertain emotions…He didn't know what to make of things any longer.
Testing the visions was a good decision, but he couldn't shake the disorientation he felt from being unable to decide what to do next. He liked to make decisions and stick to them. He couldn't do that.
It grated on him.
"I thank you for your scribing and for your willingness to keep this quiet," he said, opening his eyes. "But I really must ask you to leave now, Navani."
"Oh, Dalinar," she said softly. She was close enough that he could smell her perfume. Stormfather, but she was beautiful. Seeing her brought to his mind thoughts of days long past, when he'd desired her so strongly that he'd nearly grown to hate Gavilar for winning her affection.
"Can't you just relax," she asked him, "just for a little while?"
"The rules-"
"Everyone else-"
"I cannot be everyone else!" Dalinar said, more sharply than he intended. "If I ignore our code and ethics, what am I, Navani? The other highprinces and lighteyes deserve recrimination for what they do, and I have let them know it. If I abandon my principles, then I become something far worse than they. A hypocrite!"
She froze.
"Please," he said, tense with emotion. "Just go. Do not taunt me today."
She hesitated, then walked away without a word.
She would never know how much he wished her to have made one more objection. In his state, he likely would have been unable to argue further. Once the door shut, he let himself sit down in his chair, exhaling. He closed his eyes.
Almighty above, he thought. Please. Just let me know what I am to do. "He must pick it up, the fallen title! The tower, the crown, and the spear!" -Dated Vevahach, 1173, 8 seconds pre-death. Subject: a prostitute. Back ground unknown. A razor-edged arrow snapped into the wood next to Kaladin's face. He could feel warm blood seep from a gash on his cheek, creeping down his face, mixing with the sweat dripping from his chin.
"Stay firm!" he bellowed, charging over the uneven ground, the bridge's familiar weight on his shoulders. Nearby-just ahead and to the left-Bridge Twenty floundered, four men at the front falling to arrows, their corpses tripping up those behind.
The Parshendi archers knelt on the other side of the chasm, singing calmly despite the hail of arrows from Sadeas's side. Their black eyes were like shards of obsidian. No whites. Just that emotionless black. In those moments-listening to men scream, cry, yell, howl-Kaladin hated the Parshendi as much as he hated Sadeas and Amaram. How could they sing while they killed?
The Parshendi in front of Kaladin's crew pulled and aimed. Kaladin screamed at them, feeling a strange surge of strength as the arrows were loosed.
The shafts zipped through the air in a focused wave. Ten shafts struck the wood near Kaladin's head, their force throwing a shudder through it, chips of wood splintering free. But not a one struck flesh.
Across the chasm, several of the Parshendi lowered their bows, breaking off their chanting. Their demonic faces bore looks of stupefaction.
"Down!" Kaladin yelled as the bridge crew reached the chasm. The ground was rough here, covered in bulbous rockbuds. Kaladin stepped on the vine from one of them, causing the plant to retract. The bridgemen heaved the bridge up and off their shoulders, then expertly stepped aside, lowering it to the ground. Sixteen other bridge crews lined up with them, setting their bridges down. Behind, Sadeas's heavy cavalry thundered across the plateau toward them.
The Parshendi drew again.
Kaladin gritted his teeth, throwing his weight against one of the wooden bars on the side, helping shove the massive construction across the chasm. He hated this part; the bridgemen were so exposed.
Sadeas's archers kept firing, moving to a focused, disruptive attack intended to force back the Parshendi. As always, the archers didn't seem to mind if they hit bridgemen, and several of those shafts flew dangerously close to Kaladin. He continued to push-sweating, bleeding-and felt a stab of pride for Bridge Four. They were already beginning to move like warriors, light on their feet, moving erratically, making it more difficult for the archers to draw a bead on them. Would Gaz or Sadeas's men notice?
The bridge thumped into place, and Kaladin bellowed the retreat. Bridgemen ducked out of the way, dodging between thick-shafted black Parshendi arrows and lighter green-fletched ones from Sadeas's archers. Moash and Rock hoisted themselves up onto the bridge and ran across it, leaping down beside Kaladin. Others scattered around the back of the bridge, ducking in front of the oncoming cavalry charge.
Kaladin lingered, waving for his men to get out of the way. Once they were all free, he glanced back at the bridge, which bristled with arrows. Not a single man down. A miracle. He turned to run Someone stumbled to his feet on the other side of the bridge. Dunny. The youthful bridgeman had a white and green fletched arrow sprouting from his shoulder. His eyes were wide, dazed.
Kaladin cursed, running back. Before he'd taken two steps, a black-hafted arrow took the youth in the other side. He fell to the deck of the bridge, blood spraying the dark wood.
The charging horses did not slow. Frantic, Kaladin reached the side of the bridge, but something pulled him back. Hands on his shoulder. He stumbled, spinning to find Moash there. Kaladin snarled at him, trying to shove the man aside, but Moash-using a move Kaladin himself had taught him-yanked Kaladin sideways, tripping him. Moash threw himself down, holding Kaladin to the ground as heavy cavalry thundered across the bridge, arrows cracking against their silvery armor.
Broken bits of arrow sprinkled to the ground. Kaladin struggled for a moment, but then let himself fall still.
"He's dead," Moash said, harshly. "There's nothing you could have done. I'm sorry."
There's nothing you could have done…
There isn't ever anything I can do. Stormfather, why can't I save them?
The bridge stopped shaking, the cavalry smashing into the Parshendi and making space for the foot soldiers, who clanked across next. The cavalry would retreat after the foot soldiers gained purchase, the horses too valuable to risk in extended fighting.
Yes, Kaladin thought. Think about the tactics. Think about the battle. Don't think about Dunny.
He pushed Moash off him, rising. Dunny's corpse was mangled beyond recognition. Kaladin set his jaw and turned, striding away without looking back. He brushed past the watching bridgemen and stepped up to the lip of the chasm, clasping his hands to his forearms behind his back, feet spread. It wasn't dangerous, so long as he stood far down from the bridge. The Parshendi had put away bows and were falling back. The chrysalis was a towering, oval stone mound on the far left side of the plateau.
Kaladin wanted to watch. It helped him think like a soldier, and thinking like a soldier helped him get over the deaths of those near him. The other bridgemen tentatively approached and filled in around him, standing at parade rest. Even Shen the parshman joined them, silently imitating the others. He'd joined every bridge run so far without complaint. He didn't refuse to march against his cousins; he didn't try to sabotage the assault. Gaz was disappointed, but Kaladin wasn't surprised. That was how parshmen were.
Except the ones on the other side of the chasm. Kaladin stared at the fighting, but had difficulty focusing on the tactics. Dunny's death tore at him too much. The lad had been a friend, one of the first to support him, one of the best of the bridgemen.
Each bridgeman dead edged them closer to disaster. It would take weeks to train the men properly. They'd lose half of their number-perhaps even more-before they were anywhere near ready to fight. That wasn't good enough.
Well, you'll have to find a way to fix it, Kaladin thought. He'd made his decision, and had no room for despair. Despair was a luxury.
He broke parade rest and stalked away from the chasm. The other bridgemen turned to look after him, surprised. Kaladin had recently taken to watching entire battles standing like that. Sadeas's soldiers had noticed. Many saw it as bridgemen behaving above their station. A few, however, seemed to respect Bridge Four for the display. He knew there were rumors about him because of the storm; these were adding to those.
Bridge Four followed, and Kaladin led them across the rocky plateau. He pointedly did not look again at the broken, mangled body on the bridge. Dunny had been one of the only bridgemen to retain any hint of innocence. And now he was dead, trampled by Sadeas, struck by arrows from both sides. Ignored, forgotten, abandoned.
There was nothing Kaladin could do for him. So instead, Kaladin made his way to where the members of Bridge Eight lay, exhausted, on a patch of open stone. Kaladin remembered lying like that after his first bridge runs. Now he barely felt winded.
As usual, the other bridge crews had left their wounded behind as they retreated. One poor man from Eight was crawling toward the others, an arrow through his thigh. Kaladin walked up to him. He had dark brown skin and brown eyes, his thick black hair pulled back into a long, braided tail. Painspren crawled around him. He looked up with as Kaladin and the members of Bridge Four loomed over him.
"Hold still," Kaladin said softly, kneeling and gently turning the man to get a good look at the wounded thigh. Kaladin prodded at it, thoughtful. "Teft, we'll need a fire. Get out your tinder. Rock, you still have my needle and thread? I'll need that. Where's Lopen with the water?"
The members of Bridge Four were silent. Kaladin looked up from the confused, wounded man.
"Kaladin," Rock said. "You know how the other bridge crews have treated us."
"I don't care," Kaladin said.
"We don't have any money left," Drehy said. "Even pooling our income, we barely have enough for bandages for our own men."
"I don't care."
"If we care for the wounded of other bridge crews," Drehy said, shaking a blond head, "we'll have to feed them, tend them…"
"I will find a way," Kaladin said.
"I-" Rock began.
"Storm you!" Kaladin said, standing and sweeping his hand over the plateau. The bodies of bridgemen lay scattered, ignored. "Look at that! Who cares for them? Not Sadeas. Not their fellow bridgemen. I doubt even the Heralds themselves spare a thought for these.
"I won't stand there and watch while men die behind me. We have to be better than that! We can't look away like the lighteyes, pretending we don't see. This man is one of us. Just like Dunny was.
"The lighteyes talk about honor. They spout empty claims about their nobility. Well, I've only known one man in my life who was a true man of honor. He was a surgeon who would help anyone, even those who hated him. Especially those who hated him. Well, we're going to show Gaz, and Sadeas, Hashal, and any other sodden fool who cares to watch, what he taught me. Now go to work and stop complaining!"
Bridge Four stared at him with wide, ashamed eyes, then burst into motion. Teft organized a triage unit, sending some men to search for other wounded bridgemen and others to gather rockbud bark for a fire. Lopen and Dabbid rushed off to fetch their litter.
Kaladin knelt down and felt at the wounded man's leg, checking to see how quickly the blood leaked, and determined that he wouldn't need to cauterize. He broke the shaft and wiped the wound with some conicshell mucus for numbing. Then he pulled the wood free, eliciting a grunt, and used his personal set of bandages to wrap the wound.
"Hold this with your hands," Kaladin instructed. "And don't walk on it. I'll check on you before we march back to camp."
"How…" the man said. He didn't have even a hint of an accent. Kaladin had expected him to be Azish because of the dark skin. "How will I get back if I can't walk on the leg?"
"We will carry you," Kaladin said.
The man looked up, obviously shocked. "I…" Tears formed in his eyes. "Thank you."
Kaladin nodded curtly, turning as Rock and Moash brought over another wounded man. Teft had a fire growing; it smelled of pungent wet rockbud. The new man had hit his head and had a long gash in his arm. Kaladin held out a hand for his thread.
"Kaladin, lad," Teft said with a soft voice, handing him the thread and kneeling. "Now, don't mark this as complaining, because it ain't. But how many men can we really carry back with us?"
"We've done three before," Kaladin said. "Lashed to the top of the bridge. I'll bet we could fit three more and carry another in the water litter."
"And if we have more than seven?"
"If we bandage them right, some might be able to walk."
"And if there are still more?"
"Storm it, Teft," Kaladin said, beginning to sew. "Then we bring the ones we can and haul the bridge back out again to fetch those we left behind. We'll bring Gaz with us if the soldiers worry that we'll run away."
Teft was silent, and Kaladin steeled himself for incredulity. Instead, however, the grizzled soldier smiled. He actually seemed a little watery-eyed. "Kelek's breath. It's true. I never thought…"
Kaladin frowned, looking up at Teft and holding a hand to the wound to stanch the bleeding. "What was that?"
"Oh, nothing." He scowled. "Get back to work! That lad needs you."
Kaladin turned back to his sewing.
"You still carrying a full pouch of spheres with you, like I told you?" Teft asked.
"I can't very well leave them behind in the barracks. But we'll need to spend them soon."
"You'll do nothing of the sort," Teft said. "Those spheres are luck, you hear me? Keep them with you and always keep them infused."
Kaladin sighed. "I think there's something wrong with this batch. They won't hold their Stormlight. They fall dun after just a few days, every time. Perhaps it's something to do with the Shattered Plains. It has happened to the other bridgemen too."
"Odd, that," Teft said, rubbing his chin. "This was a bad approach. Three bridges down. Lots of bridgemen dead. Interesting how we didn't lose anyone."
"We lost Dunny."
"But not on the approach. You always run point, and the arrows always seem to miss us. Odd, eh?"
Kaladin looked up again, frowning. "What are you saying, Teft?"
"Nothing. Get back to that sewing! How many times do I have to tell you?"
Kaladin raised an eyebrow, but turned back to his work. Teft had been acting very strange lately. Was it the stress? A lot of people were superstitious about spheres and Stormlight.
Rock and his team brought three more wounded, then said that was all they'd found. Bridgemen who fell often ended up like Dunny, getting trampled. Well, at least Bridge Four wouldn't have to make a return trip to the plateau.
The three had bad arrow wounds, and so Kaladin left the man with the gash on his arm to them, instructing Skar to keep pressure on the unfinished sewing job. Teft heated a dagger for cauterization; these newcomers had obviously lost a lot of blood. One probably wouldn't make it.
So much of the world is at war, he thought as he worked. The dream had highlighted what others already spoke of. Kaladin hadn't known, growing up in remote Hearthstone, how fortunate his town had been to avoid battle.
The entire world warred, and he struggled to save a few impoverished bridgemen. What good did it do? And yet he continued searing flesh, sewing, saving lives as his father had taught him. He began to understand the sense of futility he'd seen in his father's eyes on those occasional darkened nights when Lirin had turned to his wine in solitude.
You're trying to make up for failing Dunny, Kaladin thought. Helping these others won't bring him back.
He lost the one he'd suspected would die, but saved the other four, and the one who'd taken a knock to the head was beginning to wake up. Kaladin sat back on his knees, weary, hands covered in blood. He washed them off with a stream of water from Lopen's waterskins, then reached up, finally remembering his own wound, where the arrow had sliced his cheek.
He froze. He prodded at his skin, but couldn't find the wound. He had felt blood on his cheek and chin. He'd felt the arrow slice him, hadn't he?
He stood up, feeling a chill, and raised his hand to his forehead. What was happening?
Someone stepped up beside him. Moash's now-clean-shaven face exposed a faded scar along his chin. He studied Kaladin. "About Dunny…"
"You were right to do what you did," Kaladin said. "You probably saved my life. Thank you."
Moash nodded slowly. He turned to look at the four wounded men; Lopen and Dabbid were giving them drinks of water, asking their names "I was wrong about you," Moash said suddenly, holding out a hand to Kaladin.
Kaladin took the hand, hesitant. "Thank you."
"You're a fool and an instigator. But you're an honest one." Moash chuckled to himself. "If you get us killed, it won't be on purpose. Can't say that for some I've served under. Anyway, let's get these men ready for moving." "The burdens of nine become mine. Why must I carry the madness of them all? Oh, Almighty, release me." -Dated Palaheses, 1173, unknown seconds pre-death. Subject: a wealthy lighteyes. Sample collected secondhand. The cold night air threatened that a stretch of winter might soon be coming. Dalinar wore a long, thick uniform coat over trousers and shirt. It buttoned stiffly up the chest and to the collar, and was long in the back and on the sides, coming down to his ankles, flowing at the waist like a cloak. In earlier years, it might have been worn with a takama, though Dalinar had never liked the skirtlike garments.
The purpose of the uniform was not fashion or tradition, but to distinguish him easily for those who followed him. He wouldn't have nearly the problem with the other lighteyes if they would at least wear their colors.
He stepped onto the king's feasting island. Stands had been set up at the sides where the braziers normally stood, each one bearing one of those new fabrials that gave off heat. The stream between the islands had slowed to a trickle; ice had stopped melting in the highlands.
Attendance at the feast tonight was small, though that was mostly manifest on the four islands that were not the king's. Where there was access to Elhokar and the highprinces, people would attend even if the feast were held in the middle of a highstorm. Dalinar walked down the central pathway, and Navani-sitting at a women's dining table-caught his eyes. She turned away, perhaps still remembering his abrupt words to her at their last meeting.
Wit wasn't at his customary place insulting those who walked onto the king's island; in fact, he wasn't to be seen at all. Not surprising, Dalinar thought. Wit didn't like to grow predictable; he'd spent several recent feasts on his pedestal doling out insults. Likely he felt he'd played out that tactic.
All nine other highprinces were in attendance. Their treatment of Dalinar had grown stiff and cold since refusing his requests to fight together. As if they were offended by the mere offer. Lesser lighteyes made alliances, but the highprinces were like kings themselves. Other highprinces were rivals, to be kept at arm's length.
Dalinar sent a servant to fetch him food and sat down at the table. His arrival had been delayed while he took reports from the companies he'd called back, so he was one of the last to eat. Most of the others had turned to mingling. To the right, an officer's daughter was playing a serene flute melody to a group of onlookers. To the left, three women had set up sketchpads and were each drawing the same man. Women were known to challenge each other to duels in the way of men with Shardblades, though they rarely used the word. These were always "friendly competitions" or "games of talent."
His food arrived, steamed stagm-a brownish tuber that grew in deep puddles-atop a bed of boiled tallew. The grain was puffed with water, and the entire meal was drenched in a thick, peppery, brown gravy. He slid out his knife and sliced a disk off the end of the stagm. Using his knife to spread tallew over the top, he grasped the vegetable disk between two fingers and began eat. It had been prepared both spicy and hot this night, probably because of the chill, and tasted good as he chewed, the steam from his plate fogging the air in front of him.
So far, Jasnah had not replied regarding his vision, though Navani claimed she might be able to find something on her own. She was a renowned scholar herself, though her interests had always been more in fabrials. He glanced at her. Was he a fool to off end her as he had? Would it make her use the knowledge of his visions against him?
No, he thought. She wouldn't be that petty. Navani did seem to care for him, though her affection was inappropriate.
The chairs around him were left empty. He was becoming a pariah, first because of his talk of the Codes, then because of his attempts to get the highprinces to work with him, and finally because of Sadeas's investigation. No wonder Adolin was worried.
Suddenly, someone slid right into the seat beside Dalinar, wearing a black cloak against the chill. It wasn't one of the highprinces. Who would dare The figure lowered his hood, revealing Wit's hawklike face. All lines and peaks, with a sharp nose and jaw, delicate eyebrows, and keen eyes. Dalinar sighed, waiting for the inevitable stream of too-clever quips.
Wit, however, didn't speak. He inspected the crowd, his expression intense.
Yes, Dalinar thought. Adolin is right about this one too. Dalinar himself had judged the man too harshly in the past. He was not the fool some of his predecessors had been. Wit continued in silence, and Dalinar decided that-perhaps-the man's prank this night was to sit down beside people and unnerve them. It wasn't much of a prank, but Dalinar often missed the point of what Wit did. Perhaps it was terribly clever if one had the mind for it. Dalinar returned to his meal.
"Winds are changing," Wit whispered.
Dalinar glanced at him.
Wit's eyes narrowed, and he scanned the night sky. "It's been happening for months now. A whirlwind. Shifting and churning, blowing us round and around. Like a world spinning, but we can't see it because we're too much a part of it."
"World spinning. What foolishness is this?"
"The foolishness of men who care, Dalinar," Wit said. "And the brilliance of those who do not. The second depend on the first-but also exploit the first-while the first misunderstand the second, hoping that the second are more like the first. And all of their games steal our time. Second by second."
"Wit," Dalinar said with a sigh. "I haven't the mind for this tonight. I'm sorry if I'm missing your intent, but I have no idea what you mean."
"I know," Wit said, then looked directly at him. "Adonalsium."
Dalinar frowned more deeply. "What?"
Wit searched his face. "Have you ever heard the term, Dalinar?"
"Ado…what?"
"Nothing," Wit said. He seemed preoccupied, unlike his usual self. "Nonsense. Balderdash. Figgldygrak. Isn't it odd that gibberish words are often the sounds of other words, cut up and dismembered, then stitched into something like them-yet wholly unlike them at the same time?"
Dalinar frowned.
"I wonder if you could do that to a man. Pull him apart, emotion by emotion, bit by bit, bloody chunk by bloody chunk. Then combine them back together into something else, like a Dysian Aimian. If you do put a man together like that, Dalinar, be sure to name him Gibberish, after me. Or perhaps Gibletish."
"Is that your name, then? Your real name?"
"No, my friend," Wit said, standing up. "I've abandoned my real name. But when next we meet, I'll think of a clever one for you to call me. Until then, Wit will suffice-or if you must, you may call me Hoid. Watch yourself; Sadeas is planning a revelation at the feast tonight, though I know not what it is. Farewell. I'm sorry I didn't insult you more."
"Wait, you're leaving?"
"I must. I hope to return. I'll do so if I'm not killed. Probably will anyway. Apologize to your nephew for me."
"He won't be happy," Dalinar said. "He's fond of you."
"Yes, it's one of his more admirable traits," Wit said. "Alongside that of paying me, letting me eat his expensive food, and giving me opportunity to make sport of his friends. The cosmere, unfortunately, takes precedence over free food. Watch yourself, Dalinar. Life becomes dangerous, and you're at the center of it."
Wit nodded once, then ducked into the night. He put his hood up, and soon Dalinar couldn't separate him from the darkness.
Dalinar turned back to his meal. Sadeas is planning a revelation at the feast tonight, though I know not what it is. Wit was rarely wrong-though he was almost always odd. Was he really leaving, or would he still be in camp the next morning, laughing at the prank he had played on Dalinar?
No, Dalinar thought. That wasn't a prank. He waved over a master-servant in black and white. "Fetch my elder son for me."
The servant bowed and withdrew. Dalinar ate the rest of his food in silence, glancing occasionally at Sadeas and Elhokar. They weren't at the dining table any longer, and so Sadeas's wife had joined them. Ialai was a curvaceous woman who reportedly dyed her hair. That indicated foreign blood in her family's past-Alethi hair always bred true, proportionate to how much Alethi blood you had. Foreign blood would mean stray hairs of another color. Ironically, mixed blood was far more common in lighteyes than darkeyes. Darkeyes rarely married foreigners, but the Alethi houses often needed alliances or money from outside.
Food finished, Dalinar stepped down from the king's table onto the island proper. The woman was still playing her melancholy song. She was quite good. A few moments later, Adolin strode onto the king's island. He hurried over to Dalinar. "Father? You sent for me?"
"Stay close. Wit told me that Sadeas plans to make a storm of something tonight."
Adolin's expression darkened. "Time to go, then."
"No. We need to let this play out."
"Father-"
"But you may prepare," Dalinar said softly. "Just in case. You invited officers of our guard to the feast tonight?"
"Yes," Adolin said. "Six of them."
"They have my further invitation to the king's island. Pass the word. What of the King's Guard?"
"I've made sure that some of the ones guarding the island tonight are among those most loyal to you." Adolin nodded toward a space in the darkness to the side of the feasting basin. "I think we should position them over there. It'll make a good line of retreat in case the king tries to have you arrested."
"I still don't think it will come to that."
"You can't be sure. Elhokar allowed this investigation in the first place, after all. He's growing more and more paranoid."
Dalinar glanced over at the king. The younger man almost always wore his Shardplate these days, though he didn't have it on now. He seemed continually on edge, glancing over his shoulder, eyes darting from side to side.
"Let me know when the men are in position," Dalinar said.
Adolin nodded, walking away quickly.
The situation gave Dalinar little stomach for mingling. Still, standing alone and looking awkward was no better, so he made his way to where Highprince Hatham was speaking with a small group of lighteyes beside the main firepit. They nodded to Dalinar as he joined them; regardless of the way they were treating him in general, they would never turn him away at a feast like this. That simply wasn't done to one of his rank.
"Ah, Brightlord Dalinar," Hatham said in his smooth, overly polite way. The long-necked, slender man wore a ruffled green shirt underneath a robelike coat, with a darker green silk scarf around the neck. A faintly glowing ruby sat on each of his fingers; they'd each had some of their Stormlight drained away by a fabrial made for the purpose.
Of Hatham's four companions, two were lesser lighteyes and one was a short white-robed ardent Dalinar didn't know. The last was a red-gloved Natan man with bluish skin and stark white hair, two locks dyed a deep red and braided down to hang alongside his cheeks. He was a visiting dignitary; Dalinar had seen him at the feasts. What was his name again?
"Tell me, Brightlord Dalinar," Hatham said. "Have you been paying much attention to the conflict between the Tukari and the Emuli?"
"It's a religious conflict, isn't it?" Dalinar asked. Both were Makabaki kingdoms, on the southern coast where trade was plentiful and profitable.
"Religious?" the Natan man said. "No, I wouldn't say that. All conflicts are essentially economic in nature."
Au-nak, Dalinar recalled. That's his name. He spoke with an airy accent, overextending all of his "ah" and "oh" sounds.
"Money is behind every war," Au-nak continued. "Religion is but an excuse. Or perhaps a justification."
"There's a difference?" the ardent said, obviously taking offense at Au-nak's tone.
"Of course," Au-nak said. "An excuse is what you make after the deed is done, while a justification is what you offer before."
"I would say an excuse is something you claim, but do not believe, Nak-ali." Hatham was using the high form of Au-nak's name. "While a justification is something you actually believe." Why such respect? The Natan must have something that Hatham wanted.
"Regardless," Au-nak said. "This particular war is over the city of Sesemalex Dar, which the Emuli have made their capital. It's an excellent trade city, and the Tukari want it."
"I've heard of Sesemalex Dar," Dalinar said, rubbing his chin. "The city is quite spectacular, filling rifts cut into the stone."
"Indeed," Au-nak said. "There's a particular composition of the stone there that lets water drain. The design is amazing. It's obviously one of the Dawncities."
"My wife would have something to say on that," Hatham said. "She makes the Dawncities her study."
"The city's pattern is central to the Emuli religion," the ardent said. "They claim it is their ancestral homeland, a gift to them from the Heralds. And the Tukari are led by that god-priest of theirs, Tezim. So the conflict is religious in nature."
"And if the city weren't such a fantastic port," Au-nak said, "would they be as persistent about proclaiming the city's religious significance? I think not. They're pagans, after all, so we can't presume their religion has any real importance."
Talk of the Dawncities had been popular lately among the lighteyes-the idea that certain cities could trace their origins back to the Dawnsingers. Perhaps…
"Have any of you heard of a place known as Feverstone Keep?" Dalinar asked.
The others shook their heads; even Au-nak had nothing to say.
"Why?" Hatham asked.
"Just curious."
The conversation continued, though Dalinar let his attention wander back toward Elhokar and his circle of attendants. When would Sadeas make his announcement? If he intended to suggest that Dalinar be arrested, he wouldn't do it at a feast, would he?
Dalinar forced his attention back to the conversation. He really should pay more heed to what was happening in the world. Once, news of which kingdoms were in conflict had fascinated him. So much had changed since the visions began.
"Perhaps it's not economic or religious in nature," Hatham said, trying to bring an end to the argument. "Everyone knows that the Makabaki tribes have odd hatreds of one another."
"Perhaps," Au-nak said.
"Does it matter?" Dalinar asked.
The others turned to him.
"It's just another war. If they weren't fighting one another, they'd find others to attack. It's what we do. Vengeance, honor, riches, religion-the reasons all just produce the same result."
The others fell still, the silence quickly growing awkward.
"Which devotary do you credit, Brightlord Dalinar?" Hatham asked, thoughtful, as if trying to remember something he'd forgotten.
"The Order of Talenelat."
"Ah," Hatham said. "Yes, it makes sense. They do hate arguing over religion. You must find this discussion terribly boring."
A safe out from the conversation. Dalinar smiled, nodding in thanks to Hatham's politeness.
"The Order of Talenelat?" Au-nak said. "I always considered that a devotary for the lesser people."
"This from a Natan," the Ardent said, stuffily.
"My family has always been devoutly Vorin."
"Yes," the ardent replied, "conveniently so, since your family has used its Vorin ties to trade favorably in Alethkar. One wonders if you are equally devout when not standing on our soil."
"I don't have to be insulted like this," Au-nak snapped.
He turned and strode way, causing Hatham to raise a hand. "Nak-ali!" Hatham called, rushing after him anxiously. "Please, ignore him!"
"Insufferable bore," the ardent said softly, taking a sip of his wine-orange, of course, as he was a man of the clergy.
Dalinar frowned at him. "You are bold, ardent," he said sternly. "Perhaps foolishly so. You insult a man Hatham wants to do business with."
"Actually, I belong to Brightlord Hatham," the ardent said. "He asked me to insult his guest-Brightlord Hatham wants Au-nak to think that he is shamed. Now, when Hatham agrees quickly to Au-nak's demands, the foreigner will assume it was because of this-and won't delay the contract signing out of suspicion that it is proceeding too easily."
Ah, of course. Dalinar looked after the fleeing pair. They go to such lengths.
Considering that, what was Dalinar to think of Hatham's politeness earlier, when he had given Dalinar a reason to explain his apparent distaste for conflict? Was Hatham preparing Dalinar for some covert manipulation?
The ardent cleared his throat. "I would appreciate it if you did not repeat to anyone what I just told you, Brightlord." Dalinar noticed Adolin returning to the king's island, accompanied by six of Dalinar's officers, in uniform and wearing their swords.
"Why did you tell me in the first place, then?" Dalinar asked, turning his attention back to the white-robed man.
"Just as Hatham wishes his partner in negotiations to know of his goodwill, I wish you to know of our goodwill toward you, Brightlord."
Dalinar frowned. He'd never had much to do with the ardents-his devotary was simple and straightforward. Dalinar got his fill of politics with the court; he had little desire to find more in religion. "Why? What should it matter if I have goodwill toward you?"
The ardent smiled. "We will speak with you again." He bowed low and withdrew.
Dalinar was about to demand more, but Adolin arrived, looking after Highprince Hatham. "What was that all about?"
Dalinar just shook his head. Ardents weren't supposed to engage in politics, whatever their devotary. They'd been officially forbidden to do so since the Hierocracy. But, as with most things in life, the ideal and the reality were two separate things. The lighteyes couldn't help but use the ardents in their schemes, and so-more and more-the devotaries found themselves a part of the court.
"Father?" Adolin asked. "The men are in place."
"Good," Dalinar said. He set his jaw and then crossed the small island. He would see this fiasco finished with, once and for all.
He passed the firepit, a wave of dense heat making the left side of his face prickle with sweat while the right side was still chilled by the autumn cold. Adolin hurried up to walk by him, hand on his side sword. "Father? What are we doing?"
"Being provocative," Dalinar said, striding right up to where Elhokar and Sadeas were chatting. Their crowd of sycophants reluctantly parted for Dalinar.
"…and I think that-" The king cut off, glancing at Dalinar. "Yes, Uncle?"
"Sadeas," Dalinar said. "What is the status of your investigation of the cut girth strap?"
Sadeas blinked. He held a cup of violet wine in his right hand, his long, red velvet robe open at the front to expose a ruffled white shirt. "Dalinar, are you-"
"Your investigation, Sadeas," Dalinar said firmly.
Sadeas sighed, looking at Elhokar. "Your Majesty. I was actually planning to make an announcement regarding this very subject tonight. I was going to wait until later, but if Dalinar is going to be so insistent…"
"I am," Dalinar said.
"Oh, go ahead, Sadeas," the king said. "You have me curious now." The king waved to a servant, who rushed to quiet the flutist while another servant tapped the chimes to call for silence. In moments, the people on the island stilled.
Sadeas gave Dalinar a grimace that somehow conveyed the message, "You demanded this, old friend."
Dalinar folded his arms, keeping his gaze fixed on Sadeas. His six Cobalt Guardsmen stepped up behind him, and Dalinar noticed that a group of similar lighteyed officers from Sadeas's warcamp were listening nearby.
"Well, I wasn't planning to have such an audience," Sadeas said. "Mostly, this was planned for Your Majesty only."
Unlikely, Dalinar thought, trying to suppress his anxiety. What would he do if Adolin was right and Sadeas charged him with trying to assassinate Elhokar?
It would, indeed, be the end of Alethkar. Dalinar would not go quietly, and the warcamps would turn against one another. The nervous peace that had held them together for the last decade would come to an end. Elhokar would never be able to hold them together.
Also, if it turned to battle, Dalinar would not fare well. The others were alienated from him; he'd have enough trouble facing Sadeas-if several of the others joined against him, he would fall, horribly outnumbered. He could see now Adolin thought it an incredible act of foolishness to have listened to the visions. And yet, in a powerfully surreal moment, Dalinar felt that he'd done the correct thing. He'd never felt it as strongly as at that moment, preparing to be condemned.
"Sadeas, don't weary me with your sense of drama," Elhokar said. "They're listening. I'm listening. Dalinar looks like he's ready to burst a vein in his forehead. Speak."
"Very well," Sadeas said, giving his wine to a servant. "My very first task as Highprince of Information was to discover the true nature of the attempt on His Majesty's life during the greatshell hunt." He waved a hand, motioning to one of his men, who hurried away. Another stepped forward, handing Sadeas the broken leather strap.
"I took this strap to three separate leatherworkers in three different warcamps. Each came to the same conclusion. It was cut. The leather is relatively new, and has been well cared for, as proven by the lack of cracking and flaking in other areas. The tear is too even. Someone slit it."
Dalinar felt a sense of dread. That was near what he had discovered, but it was presented in the worst possible light. "For what purpose-" Dalinar began.
Sadeas held up a hand. "Please, Highprince. First you demand I report, then you interrupt me?"
Dalinar fell still. Around them, more and more of the important light-eyes were gathering. He could sense their tension.
"But when was it cut?" Sadeas said, turning to address the crowd. He did have a flair for the dramatic. "That was pivotal, you see. I took leave to interview numerous men who were on that hunt. None reported seeing anything specific, though all remembered that there was one odd event. The time when Brightlord Dalinar and His Majesty raced to a rock formation. A time when Dalinar and the king were alone."
There were whispers from behind.
"There was a problem, however," Sadeas said. "One Dalinar himself raised. Why cut the strap on a Shardbearer's saddle? A foolish move. A horseback fall wouldn't be of much danger to a man wearing Shardplate." To the side, the servant Sadeas had sent away returned, leading a youth with sandy hair bearing only a few hints of black.
Sadeas fished something out of a pouch at his waist, holding it up. A large sapphire. It wasn't infused. In fact, looking closely, Dalinar could see that it was cracked-it wouldn't hold Stormlight now. "The question drove me to investigate the king's Shardplate," Sadeas said. "Eight of the ten sapphires used to infuse his Plate were cracked following the battle."
"It happens," Adolin said, stepping up beside Dalinar, hand on his side sword. "You lose a few in every battle."
"But eight?" Sadeas asked. "One or two is normal. But have you ever lost eight in one battle before, young Kholin?"
Adolin's only reply was a glare.
Sadeas tucked away the gemstone, nodding to the youth his men had brought. "This is one of the grooms in the king's employ. Fin, isn't it?"
"Y…Yes, brightlord," the boy stammered. He couldn't be older than twelve.
"What is it you told me earlier, Fin? Please, say it again so that all may hear."
The darkeyed youth cringed, looking sick. "Well, Brightlord sir, it was just this: Everyone spoke of the saddle being checked over in Brightlord Dalinar's camp. And I suppose it was, right as that. But I'm the one who prepared His Majesty's horse afore it was turned over to Brightlord Dalinar's men. And I did it, I promise I did. Put on his favorite saddle and everything. But…"
Dalinar's heart raced. He had to hold himself back from summoning his Blade.
"But what?" Sadeas said to Fin.
"But when the king's head grooms took the horse past on its way to the Highprince Dalinar's camp, it was wearing a different saddle. I swear it."
Several of those standing around them seemed confused by this admission.
"Aha!" Adolin said, pointing. "But that happened in the king's palace complex!"
"Indeed," Sadeas said, raising an eyebrow at Adolin. "How keen-minded of you, young Kholin. This discovery-mixed with the cracked gemstones-means something. I suspect that whoever attempted to kill His Majesty planted in his Shardplate flawed gemstones that would crack when strained, losing their Stormlight. Then they weakened the saddle girth with a careful slit. The hope would be that His Majesty would fall while fighting a great-shell, allowing it to attack him. The gemstones would fail, the Plate would break, and His Majesty would fall to an 'accident' while hunting."
Sadeas raised a finger as the crowd began to whisper again. "However, it is important to realize that these events-the switching of the saddle or the planting of the gemstones-must have happened before His Majesty met up with Dalinar. I feel that Dalinar is a very unlikely suspect. In fact, my present guess is that the culprit is someone that Brightlord Dalinar has offended; that someone wanted us all to think he might be involved. It may not have actually been intended to kill His Majesty, just to cast suspicion upon Dalinar."
The island fell silent, even the whispers dying.
Dalinar stood, stunned. I…I was right!
Adolin finally broke the quiet. "What?"
"All evidence points to your father being innocent, Adolin," Sadeas said sufferingly. "You find this surprising?"
"No, but…" Adolin's brow furrowed.
Around them, the lighteyes began talking, sounding disappointed. They began to disperse. Dalinar's officers remained standing behind him, as if expecting a surprise strike.
Blood of my fathers… Dalinar thought. What does it mean?
Sadeas waved for his men to take the groom away, then nodded to Elhokar and withdrew in the direction of the evening trays, where warmed wine sat in pitchers next to toasted breads. Dalinar caught up to Sadeas as the shorter man was filling a small plate. Dalinar took him by the arm, the fabric of Sadeas's robe soft beneath his fingers.
Sadeas looked at him, raising an eyebrow.
"Thank you," Dalinar said quietly. "For not going through with it." Behind them, the flutist resumed her playing.
"For not going through with what?" Sadeas said, setting down his small plate, then prying Dalinar's fingers free. "I had hoped to make this presentation after I'd discovered more concrete proof that you weren't involved. Unfortunately, pressed as I was, the best I could do was to indicate that it was unlikely you were involved. There will still be rumors, I'm afraid."
"Wait. You wanted to prove me innocent?"
Sadeas scowled, picking up his plate again. "Do you know what your problem is, Dalinar? Why everyone has begun finding you so tiresome?"
Dalinar didn't reply.
"The presumption. You've grown despicably self-righteous. Yes, I asked Elhokar for this position so I could prove you innocent. Is it so storming difficult for you to believe someone else in this army might do something honest?"
"I…" Dalinar said.
"Of course it is," Sadeas said. "You've been looking down on us like a man standing atop a single sheet of paper, who therefore thinks himself so high as to see for miles. Well, I think that book of Gavilar's is crem, and the Codes are lies people pretended to follow so that they could justify their shriveled consciences. Damnation, I've got one of those shriveled consciences myself. But I didn't want to see you maligned for this bungled attempt to kill the king. If you'd wanted him dead, you'd have just burned out his eyes and been done with it!"
Sadeas took a drink of his steaming violet wine. "The problem is, Elhokar kept on and on about that blasted strap. And people started talking, since he was under your protection and you two rode off together like that. Stormfather only knows how they could think you would try to have Elhokar assassinated. You can barely bring yourself to kill Parshendi these days." Sadeas stuffed a small piece of toasted bread in his mouth, then moved to walk away.
Dalinar caught him by the arm again. "I…I owe you a debt. I shouldn't have treated you as I have these six years."
Sadeas rolled his eyes, chewing his bread. "This wasn't for you alone. So long as everyone thought you were behind the attempt, nobody would figure out who really tried to have Elhokar killed. And someone did, Dalinar. I don't accept eight gemstones cracking in one fight. The strap alone would have been a ridiculous way to attempt an assassination, but with weakened Shardplate…I'm half tempted to believe that the surprise arrival of the chasmfiend was orchestrated too. How someone would manage that though, I have no idea."
"And the talk of me being framed?" Dalinar asked.
"Mostly to give the others something to gossip about while I sort through what's really happening." Sadeas looked down at Dalinar's hand on his arm. "Would you let go?"
Dalinar released his grip.
Sadeas set down his plate, straightening his robe and dusting off the shoulder. "I haven't give up on you yet, Dalinar. I'm probably going to need you before this is all through. I do have to say, though, I don't know what to make of you lately. That talk of you wanting to abandon the Vengeance Pact. Is there any truth to that?"
"I mentioned it, in confidence, to Elhokar as a means of exploring options. So yes, there's truth to it, if you must know. I'm tired of this fighting. I'm tired of these Plains, of being away from civilization, of killing Parshendi a handful at a time. However, I've given up on getting us to retreat. Instead, I want to win. But the highprinces won't listen! They all assume that I'm trying to dominate them with some crafty trick."
Sadeas snorted. "You'd sooner punch a man in the face than stab him in the back. Blessedly straightforward."
"Ally with me," Dalinar said after him.
Sadeas froze.
"You know I'm not going to betray you, Sadeas," Dalinar said. "You trust me as the others never can. Try what I've been trying to get the other highprinces to agree to. Jointly assault plateaus with me."
"Won't work," Sadeas said. "There's no reason to bring more than one army on an assault. I leave half my troops behind each time as it is. There isn't room for more to maneuver."
"Yes, but think," Dalinar said. "What if we tried new tactics? Your quick bridge crews are fast, but my troops are stronger. What if you pushed quickly to a plateau with an advance force to hold off the Parshendi? You could hold until my stronger, but slower, forces arrive."
That gave Sadeas pause.
"It could mean a Shardblade, Sadeas."
Sadeas's eyes grew hungry.
"I know you've fought Parshendi Shardbearers," Dalinar said, seizing on that thread, "But you've lost. Without a Blade, you're at a disadvantage." Parshendi Shardbearers had a habit of escaping after entering battles. Regular spearmen couldn't kill one, of course. It took a Shardbearer to kill a Shardbearer. "I've slain two in the past. I don't often have the opportunity, however, because I can't get to the plateaus quickly enough. You can. Together, we can win more often, and I can get you a Blade. We can do this, Sadeas. Together. Like the old days."
"The old days," he said idly. "I'd like to see the Blackthorn in battle again. How would we split the gemhearts?"
"Two-thirds to you," Dalinar said. "As you've got twice as good a record at winning assaults as I have."
Sadeas looked thoughtful. "And the Shardblades?"
"If we find a Shardbearer, Adolin and I will take him. You win the Blade." He raised a finger. "But I win the Plate. To give to my son, Renarin."
"The invalid?"
"What would you care?" Dalinar said. "You already have Plate. Sadeas, this could mean winning the war. If we start to work together, we could bring the others in, prepare for a large-scale assault. Storms! We might not even need that. We two have the largest armies; if we could find a way to catch the Parshendi on a large enough plateau with the bulk of our troops-surrounding them so they couldn't escape-we might be able to damage their forces enough to bring an end to this all."
Sadeas mulled it over. Then he shrugged. "Very well. Send me details via messenger. But do it later. I've already missed too much of tonight's feast."
"A woman sits and scratches out her own eyes. Daughter of kings and winds, the vandal." -Dated Palahevan, 1173, 73 seconds pre-death. Subject: a beggar of some renown, known for his elegant songs. One week after losing Dunny, Kaladin stood on another plateau, watching a battle proceed. This time, however, he didn't have to save the dying. They'd actually arrived before the Parshendi. A rare but welcome event. Sadeas's army was now holding out at the center of the plateau, protecting the chrysalis while some of his soldiers cut into it.
The Parshendi kept leaping over the line and attacking the men working on the chrysalis. He's getting surrounded, Kaladin thought. It didn't look good, which would mean a miserable return trip. Sadeas's men were bad enough when, arriving second, they were rebuffed. Losing the gemheart after arriving first…would leave them even more frustrated.
"Kaladin!" a voice said. Kaladin spun to see Rock trotting up. Was someone wounded? "Have you seen this thing?" The Horneater pointed.
Kaladin turned, following his gesture. Another army was approaching on an adjacent plateau. Kaladin raised eyebrows; the banners flapped blue, and the soldiers were obviously Alethi.
"A little late, aren't they?" Moash asked, standing beside Kaladin.
"It happens," Kaladin said. Occasionally another highprince would arrive after Sadeas got to the plateau. More often, Sadeas arrived first, and the other Alethi army had to turn around. Usually they didn't get this close before doing so.
"That's the standard of Dalinar Kholin," Skar said, joining them.
"Dalinar," Moash said appreciatively. "They say he doesn't use bridgemen."
"How does he cross the chasms, then?" Kaladin asked.
The answer soon became obvious. This new army had enormous, siege-tower-like bridges pulled by chulls. They rumbled across the uneven plateaus, often having to pick their way around rifts in the stone. They must be terribly slow, Kaladin thought. But, in trade, the army wouldn't have to approach the chasm while being fired on. They could hide behind those bridges.
"Dalinar Kholin," Moash said. "They say he's a true lighteyes, like the men from the old days. A man of honor and of oaths."
Kaladin snorted. "I've seen plenty of lighteyes with that same reputation, and I've been disappointed by them every time. I'll tell you about Brightlord Amaram sometime."
"Amaram?" Skar asked. "The Shardbearer?"
"You've heard of that?" Kaladin asked.
"Sure," Skar said. "He's supposed to be on his way here. Everyone's talking about it in the taverns. Were you with him when he won his Shards?"
"No," Kaladin said softly. "Nobody was."
Dalinar Kholin's army approached across the plateau to the south. Amazingly, Dalinar's army came right up to the battlefield plateau.
"He's attacking?" Moash said, scratching his head. "Maybe he figures that Sadeas will lose, and wants to take a stab at it after he retreats."
"No," Kaladin said, frowning. "He's joining the battle."
The Parshendi army sent over some archers to fire on Dalinar's army, but their arrows bounced off the chulls without causing any harm. A group of soldiers unhooked the bridges and pushed them into place while Dalinar's archers set up and exchanged fire with the Parshendi.
"Does it seem Sadeas took fewer soldiers with him this run?" Sigzil asked, joining the group watching Dalinar's army. "Perhaps he planned for this. Could be why he was willing to commit like he did, letting himself get surrounded."
The bridges could be cranked to lower and extend; there was some marvelous engineering at work. As they began to work, something decidedly strange happened: Two Shardbearers, likely Dalinar and his son, leaped across the chasm and began attacking the Parshendi. The distraction let the soldiers get the large bridges into place, and some heavy cavalry charged across to help. It was a completely different method of doing a bridge assault, and Kaladin found himself considering the implications.
"He really is joining the battle," Moash said. "I think they're going to work together."
"It's bound to be more effective," Kaladin said. "I'm surprised they haven't tried it before."
Teft snorted. "That's because you don't understand how lighteyes think. Highprinces don't just want to win the battle, they want to win it by themselves."
"I wish I'd been recruited in his army instead," Moash said, almost reverent. The soldiers' armor gleamed, their ranks obviously well-practiced. Dalinar-the Blackthorn-had done an even better job than Amaram at cultivating a reputation for honesty. People knew of him all the way back in Hearthstone, but Kaladin understood the kinds of corruption a well-polished breastplate could hide.
Though, he thought, that man who protected the whore on the street, he wore blue. Adolin, Dalinar's son. He seemed genuinely selfless in his defense of the woman.
Kaladin set his jaw, casting aside those thoughts. He would not be taken in again.
He would not.
The fighting grew brutal for a short time, but the Parshendi were overwhelmed-smashed between two opposing forces. Soon, Kaladin's team led a victorious group of soldiers back to the camps for celebration. Kaladin rolled the sphere between his fingers. The otherwise pure glass had cooled with a thin line of bubbles permanently frozen along one side. The bubbles were tiny spheres of their own, catching light.
He was on chasm scavenging duty. They'd gotten back from the plateau assault so quickly that Hashal, in defiance of logic or mercy, had sent them down into the chasm that very day. Kaladin continued to turn the sphere in his fingers. Hanging in the very center of it was a large emerald cut in a round shape, with dozens of tiny facets along the sides. A small rim of suspended bubbles clung to the side of gemstone, as if longing to be near its brilliance.
Bright, crystalline green Stormlight shone from inside the glass, lighting Kaladin's fingers. An emerald broam, the highest denomination of sphere. Worth hundreds of lesser spheres. To bridgemen, this was a fortune. A strangely distant one, for spending it was impossible. Kaladin thought he could see some of the storm's tempest inside that rock. The light was like…it was like part of the storm, captured by the emerald. The light wasn't perfectly steady; it just seemed that way compared with the flickering of candles, torches, or lamps. Holding it close, Kaladin could see the light swirling, raging.
"What do we do with it?" Moash asked from Kaladin's side. Rock stood at Kaladin's other side. The sky was overcast, making it darker than usual here at the bottom. The cold weather of late had drawn back to spring, though it was uncomfortably chilly.
The men worked efficiently, quickly gathering spears, armor, boots, and spheres from the dead. Because of the short time given them-and because of the exhausting bridge run earlier-Kaladin had decided to forgo spear practice for the day. They'd load up on salvage instead and stow some of it down beneath, to be used for avoiding punishment next time.
As they'd worked, they'd found a lighteyed officer. He had been quite wealthy. This single emerald broam was worth what a bridgeman slave would make in two hundred days. In the same pouch with it, they'd found a collection of chips and marks that totaled slightly more than another emerald broam. Wealth. A fortune. Simply pocket change to a lighteyes.
"With this we could feed those wounded bridgemen for months," Moash said. "We could buy all the medical supplies we could want. Stormfather! We could probably bribe the camp's perimeter guards to let us sneak away.'
"This thing will not happen," Rock said. "Is impossible to get spheres out of the chasms."
"We could swallow them," Moash said.
"You would choke. Spheres are too big, eh?"
"I'll bet I could do it," Moash said. His eyes glittered, reflecting the verdant Stormlight. "That's more money than I've ever seen. It's worth the risk."
"Swallowing won't work," Kaladin said. "You think those guards who watch us in the latrines are there to keep us from fleeing? I'll bet some sodden parshman has to go through our droppings, and I've seen them keep record of who visits and how often. We aren't the first to think of swallowing spheres."
Moash hesitated, then sighed, crestfallen. "You're probably right. Storm you, but you are. But we can't just give it to them, can we?"
"Yes, we can," Kaladin said, closing his fist around the sphere. The glow was bright enough to make his hand shine. "We'd never be able to spend it. A bridgeman with a full broam? It would give us away."
"But-" Moash began.
"We give it to them, Moash." Then he held up the pouch containing the other spheres. "But we find a way to keep these."
Rock nodded. "Yes. If we give up this expensive sphere, they will think us honest, eh? It will disguise the theft, and they will even give us small reward. But how can we do this thing, keeping the pouch?"
"I'm working on that," Kaladin said.
"Work fast, then," Moash said, glancing at Kaladin's torch, rammed between two rocks at the side of the chasm. "We'll need to head back up soon."
Kaladin opened his hand and rolled the emerald sphere between his fingers. How? "Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?" Moash asked, staring at the emerald.
"It's just a sphere," Kaladin said absently. "A tool. I once held a goblet full of a hundred diamond broams and was told they were mine. Since I never got to spend them, they were as good as worthless."
"A hundred diamonds?" Moash asked. "Where…how?"
Kaladin closed his mouth, cursing himself. I shouldn't keep mentioning things like that. "Go on," he said, tucking the emerald broam back into the black pouch. "We need to be quick."
Moash sighed, but Rock thumped him on the back good-naturedly and they joined the rest of the bridgemen. Rock and Lopen-using Syl's directions-had led them to a large mass of corpses in red-and-brown uniforms. He didn't know which highprince's men they were, but the bodies were pretty fresh. There were no Parshendi among them.
Kaladin glanced to the side, where Shen-the parshman bridgeman-worked. Quiet, obedient, stalwart. Teft still didn't trust him. A part of Kaladin was glad for that. Syl landed on the wall beside him, standing with her feet planted against the surface and looking up at the sky.
Think, Kaladin told himself. How do we keep these spheres? There has to be a way. But each possibility seemed too much of a risk. If they were caught stealing, they'd probably be given a different work detail. Kaladin wasn't willing to risk that.
Silent green lifespren began to fade into existence around him, bobbing around the moss and haspers. A few frillblooms opened up fronds of red and yellow beside his head. Kaladin had thought again and again about Dunny's death. Bridge Four was not safe. True, they'd lost a remarkably small number of men lately, but they were still dwindling. And each bridge run was a chance for total disaster. All it took was one time, with the Parshendi focusing on them. Lose three or four men, and they'd topple. The waves of arrows would redouble, cutting every one of them down.
It was the same old problem, the one Kaladin had beaten his head against day after day. How did you protect bridgemen when everyone wanted them exposed and endangered?
"Hey Sig," Maps said, walking by carrying an armload of spears. "You're a Worldsinger, right?" Maps had grown increasingly friendly in the last few weeks, and had proven good at getting the others talking. The balding man reminded Kaladin of an innkeeper, always quick to make his patrons feel at ease.
Sigzil-who was pulling the boots off a line of corpses-gave Kaladin a straight-lipped glance that seemed to say, "This is your fault." He didn't like that others had discovered he was a Worldsinger.
"Why don't you give us a tale?" Maps said, setting down his armload. "Help us pass the time."
"I am not a foolish jester or storyteller," Sigzil said, yanking off a boot. "I do not 'give tales.' I spread knowledge of cultures, peoples, thoughts, and dreams. I bring peace through understanding. It is the holy charge my order received from the Heralds themselves."
"Well why not start spreading then?" Maps said, standing and wiping his hands on his trousers.
Sigzil signed audibly. "Very well. What is it you wish to hear about?"
"I don't know. Something interesting."
"Tell us about Brightking Alazansi and the hundred-ship fleet," Leyten called.
"I am not a storyteller!" Sigzil repeated. "I speak of nations and peoples, not tavern stories. I-"
"Is there a place where people live in gouges in the ground?" Kaladin said. "A city built in an enormous complex of lines, all set into the rock as if carved there?"
"Sesemalex Dar," Sigzil said, nodding, pulling off another boot. "Yes, it is the capital of the kingdom of Emul, and is one of the most ancient cities in the world. It is said that the city-and, indeed, the kingdom-were named by Jezrien himself."
"Jezrien?" Malop said, standing and scratching his head. "Who's that?" Malop was a thick-haired fellow with a bushy black beard and a glyphward tattoo on each hand. He also wasn't the brightest sphere in the goblet, so to speak.
"You call him the Stormfather, here in Alethkar," Sigzil said. "Or Jezerezeh'Elin. He was king of the Heralds. Master of the storms, bringer of water and life, known for his fury and his temper, but also for his mercy."
"Oh," Malop said.
"Tell me more of the city," Kaladin said.
"Sesemalex Dar. It is, indeed, built in giant troughs. The pattern is quite amazing. It protects against highstorms, as each trough has a lip at the side, keeping water from streaming in off the stone plain around it. That, mixed with a drainage system of cracks, protects the city from flooding.
"The people there are known for their expert crem pottery; the city is a major waypoint in the southwest. The Emuli are a certain tribe of the Askarki people, and they're ethnically Makabaki-dark-skinned, like myself. Their kingdom borders my own, and I visited there many times in my youth.
"It is a wondrous place, filled with exotic travelers." Sigzil grew more relaxed as he continued to talk. "Their legal system is very lenient toward foreigners. A man who is not of their nationality cannot own a home or shop, but when you visit, you are treated as a 'relative who has traveled from afar, to be shown all kindness and leniency.' A foreigner can take dinner at any residence he calls upon, assuming he is respectful and offers a gift of fruit. The people are most interested in exotic fruits. They worship Jezrien, though they don't accept him as a figure from the Vorin religion. They name him the only god."
"The Heralds aren't gods," Teft scoffed.
"To you they aren't," Sigzil said. "Others regard them differently. The Emuli have what your scholars like to call a splinter religion-containing some Vorin ideas. But to the Emuli, you would be the splinter religion." Sigzil seemed to find that amusing, though Teft just scowled.
Sigzil continued in more and more detail, talking of the flowing gowns and head-wraps of the Emuli women, the robes favored by the men. The taste of the food-salty-and the way of greeting an old friend-by holding the left forefinger to the forehead and bowing in respect. Sigzil knew an impressive amount about them. Kaladin noticed him smiling wistfully at times, probably recalling his travels.
The details were interesting, but Kaladin was more taken aback by the fact that this city-which he had flown over in his dream weeks ago-was actually real. And he could no longer ignore the strange speed at which he recovered from wounds. Something odd was happening to him. Something supernatural. What if it was related to the fact that everyone around him always seemed to die?
He knelt down to begin rifling the pockets of the dead men, a duty the other bridgemen avoided. Spheres, knives, and other useful objects were kept. Personal mementoes like unburned prayers were left with the bodies. He found a few zircon chips, which he added to the pouch.
Maybe Moash was right. If they could get this money out, could they bribe their way free of the camp? That would certainly be safer than fighting. So why was he so insistent on teaching the bridgemen to fight? Why hadn't he given any thought to sneaking the bridgemen out?
He had lost Dallet and the others of his original squad in Amaram's army. Did he think to compensate for that by training a new group of spearmen? Was this about saving men he'd grown to love, or was it just about proving something to himself?
His experience told him that men who could not fight were at a severe disadvantage in this world of war and storms. Perhaps sneaking out would have been the better option, but he knew little of stealth. Besides, if they sneaked away, Sadeas would send troops after them. Trouble would track them down. Whatever their path, the bridgemen would have to kill to remain free.
He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering one of his escape attempts, when he'd kept his fellow slaves free for an entire week, hiding in the wilderness. They'd finally been caught by their master's hunters. That was when he'd lost Nalma. None of that has to do with saving them here and now, Kaladin told himself. I need these spheres.
Sigzil was still talking about the Emuli. "To them," the Worldsinger said, "the need to strike a man personally is crass. They wage war in the opposite way from you Alethi. The sword is not a weapon for a leader. A halberd is better, then a spear, and best of all a bow and arrow."
Kaladin pulled another handful of spheres-skychips-from a soldier's pocket. They were stuck to an aged hunk of sow's cheese, fragrant and moldy. He grimaced, picking the spheres out and washing them in a puddle.
"Spears, used by lighteyes?" Drehy said. "That's ridiculous."
"Why?" Sigzil said, sounding offended. "I find the Emuli way to be interesting. In some countries, it is seen as displeasing to fight at all. To the Shin, for instance, if you must fight a man, then you have already failed. Killing is, at best, a brutish way of solving problems."
"You're not going be like Rock and refuse to fight, are you?" Skar asked, shooting a barely-veiled glare at the Horneater. Rock sniffed and turned his back on the shorter man, kneeling down to shove boots into a large sack.
"No," Sigzil said. "I think we can all agree that other methods have failed. Perhaps if my master knew I still lived…but no. That is foolish. Yes, I will fight. And if I have to, the spear seems a favorable weapon, though I honestly would prefer to put more distance between myself and my enemies."
Kaladin frowned. "You mean with a bow?"
Sigzil nodded. "Among my people, the bow is a noble weapon."
"Do you know how to use one?"
"Alas, no," Sigzil said. "I would have mentioned it before now if I had such proficiency."
Kaladin stood up, opening the pouch and depositing the spheres in with the others. "Were there any bows among the bodies?"
The men glanced at each other, several of them shaking heads. Storm it, Kaladin thought. The seed of an idea had begun to sprout in his mind, but that killed it.
"Gather up some of those spears," he said. "Set them aside. We'll need them for training."
"But we have to turn them in," Malop said.
"Not if we don't take them with us up out of the chasm," Kaladin said. "Each time we come scavenging, we'll save a few spears and stash them down here. It shouldn't take long to gather enough to practice with."
"How will we get them out when it's time to escape?" Teft asked, rubbing his chin. "Spears left down here won't do these lads much good once the real fighting starts."
"I'll find a way to get them up," Kaladin said.
"You say things like that a lot," Skar noted.
"Leave off, Skar," Moash said. "He knows what he's doing."
Kaladin blinked. Had Moash just defended him?
Skar flushed. "I didn't mean it like that, Kaladin. I'm just asking, that's all."
"I understand. It's…" Kaladin trailed off as Syl flitted down into the chasm in the form of a curling ribbon.
She landed on a rock outcropping on the wall, taking on her female form. "I found another group of bodies. They're mostly Parshendi."
"Any bows?" Kaladin asked. Several of the bridgemen gawked at him until they saw him staring into the air. Then they nodded knowingly to one another.
"I think so," Syl said. "It's just down this way. Not too far."
The bridgemen had mostly finished with these bodies. "Gather up the things," Kaladin said. "I've found us another place to scavenge. We need to gather as much as we can, then stash some in a chasm where it has a good chance of not being washed away."
The bridgemen picked up their findings, slinging sacks over their shoulders and each man hefting a spear or two. Within moments, they headed down the dank chasm bottom, following Syl. They passed clefts in the ancient rock walls where old, storm-washed bones had gotten lodged, creating a mound of moss-covered femurs, tibia, skulls, and ribs. There wasn't much salvage among them.
After about a quarter-hour, they came to the place Syl had found. A scattered group of Parshendi dead lay in heaps, mixed with the occasional Alethi in blue. Kaladin knelt beside one of the human bodies. He recognized Dalinar Kholin's stylized glyphpair sewn on the coat. Why had Dalinar's army joined Sadeas's in battle? What had changed?
Kaladin pointed for the men to begin scavenging from the Alethi while he walked over to one of the Parshendi corpses. It was much fresher than Dalinar's man. They didn't find nearly as many Parshendi corpses as they did Alethi. Not only were there fewer of them in any given battle, but they were less likely to fall to their deaths into the chasms. Sigzil also guessed that their bodies were more dense than human ones, and didn't float or wash away as easily.
Kaladin rolled the body onto its side, and the action elicited a sudden hiss from the back of the group of bridgemen. Kaladin turned to see Shen pushing forward in an uncharacteristic display of passion.
Teft moved quickly, grabbing Shen from behind, placing him in a choke hold. The other bridgemen stood, aghast, though several fell into their stances by reflex.
Shen struggled weakly against Teft's grip. The parshman looked different from his dead cousins; close together, the differences were much more obvious. Shen-like most parshmen-was short and a little plump. Stout, strong, but not threatening. The corpse at Kaladin's feet, however, was muscled and built like a Horneater, easily as tall as Kaladin and far broader at the shoulders. While both had the marbled skin, the Parshendi had those strange, deep-red growths of armor on the head, chest, arms, and legs.
"Let him go," Kaladin said, curious.
Teft glanced at him, then reluctantly did as commanded. Shen scrambled over the uneven ground and gently, but firmly, pushed Kaladin away from the corpse. Shen stood back, as if protecting it from Kaladin.
"This thing," Rock noted, stepping up beside Kaladin, "he has done it before. When Lopen and I take him scavenging."
"He's protective of the Parshendi bodies, gancho," Lopen added. "Like he'd stab you a hundred times for moving one, sure."
"They're all like that," Sigzil said from behind.
Kaladin turned, raising an eyebrow.
"Parshman workers," Sigzil explained. "They're allowed to care for their own dead; it's one of the few things they seem passionate about. They grow irate if anyone else handles the bodies. They wrap them in linen and carry them out into the wilderness and leave them on slabs of stone."
Kaladin regarded Shen. I wonder…
"Scavenge from the Parshendi," Kaladin said to his men. "Teft, you'll probably have to hold Shen the whole time. I can't have him trying to stop us."
Teft shot Kaladin a suffering glance; he still thought they should set Shen at the front of the bridge and let him die. But he did as told, pushing Shen away and getting Moash's help to hold him.
"And men," Kaladin noted. "be respectful of the dead."
"They're Parshendi!" Leyten objected.
"I know," Kaladin said. "But it bothers Shen. He's one of us, so let's keep his irritation to a minimum."
The parshman lowered his arms reluctantly and let Teft and Moash pull him away. He seemed resigned. Parshmen were slow of thought. How much did Shen comprehend?
"Didn't you wish to find a bow?" Sigzil asked, kneeling and slipping a horned Parshendi shortbow out from underneath a body. "The bowstring is gone."
"There's another in this fellow's pouch," Maps said, pulling something out of another Parshendi corpse's belt pouch. "Might still be good."
Kaladin accepted the weapon and string. "Does anyone know how to use one of these?"
The bridgemen glanced at one another. Bows were useless for hunting most shellbeasts; slings worked far better. The bow was really only good for killing other men. Kaladin glanced at Teft, who shook his head. He hadn't been trained on a bow; neither had Kaladin.
"Is simple," Rock said, rolling over a Parshendi corpse, "put arrow on string. Point away from self. Pull very hard. Let go."
"I doubt it will be that easy," Kaladin said.
"We barely have time to train the lads in the spear, Kaladin," Teft said. "You mean to teach some of them the bow as well? And without a teacher who can use one himself?"
Kaladin didn't respond. He tucked the bow and string away in his bag, added a few arrows, then helped the others. An hour later, they marched through the chasms toward the ladder, their torches sputtering, dusk approaching. The darker it grew, the more unpleasant the chasms became. Shadows deepened, and distant sounds-water dripping, rocks falling, wind calling-took on an ominous cast. Kaladin rounded a corner, and a group of many-legged cremlings scuttling along the wall and slipped into a fissure.
Conversation was subdued, and Kaladin didn't take part. Occasionally, he glanced over his shoulder toward Shen. The silent parshman walked head down. Robbing the Parshendi corpses had seriously disturbed him.
I can use that, Kaladin thought. But dare I? It would be a risk. A great one. He had already been sentenced once for upsetting the balance of the chasm battles.
First the spheres, he thought. Getting the spheres out would mean he might be able to get out other items. Eventually he saw a shadow above, spanning the chasm. They had reached the first of the permanent bridges. Kaladin walked with the others a little further, until they reached a place where the chasm floor was closer to the top of the plateaus above.
He stopped here. The bridgemen gathered around him.
"Sigzil," Kaladin said, pointing. "You know something about bows. How hard do you think it would be to hit that bridge with an arrow?"
"I've occasionally held a bow, Kaladin, but I would not call myself an expert. It shouldn't be too hard, I'd imagine. The distance is what, fifty feet?"
"What's the point?" Moash asked.
Kaladin pulled out the pouch full of spheres, then raised an eyebrow at them. "We tie the bag to the arrow, then launch it up so that it sticks to the bottom of the bridge. Then when we're on a bridge run, Lopen and Dabbid can hang back to get a drink near that bridge up there. They reach under the wood and pull the arrow off. We get the spheres."
Teft whistled. "Clever."
"We could get all of the spheres," Moash said eagerly. "Even the-"
"No," Kaladin said firmly. "The lesser ones will be dangerous enough; people might begin wondering where bridgemen are getting so much money." He would have to buy his supplies from several different apothecaries to hide his influx of money.
Moash looked crestfallen, but the other bridgemen were eager. "Who wants to try?" Kaladin asked. "Maybe we should shoot a few practice shots first, then try with the bag. Sigzil?"
"I don't know if I want this on me," Sigzil said. "Maybe you should try, Teft."
Teft rubbed his chin. "Sure. I guess. How hard can it be?"
"How hard?" Rock asked suddenly.
Kaladin glanced to the side. Rock stood at the back of the group, though his height made him easy to see. He had his arms folded.
"How hard, Teft?" Rock continued. "Fifty feet is not too far, but is not easy shot. And to do it with bag of heavy spheres tied to it? Ha! You also need to get arrow close to side of bridge, so Lopen can reach. If you miss with this thing, you could lose all spheres. And what if scouts near bridges above see arrow come from chasm? Will think it suspicious, eh?"
Kaladin eyed the Horneater. Is simple, he'd said. Point away from self…let go…
"Well," Kaladin said, watching Rock from the corner of his eye. "I guess we'll just have to take that chance. Without these spheres, the wounded die."
"We could wait until the next bridge run," Teft said. "Tie a rope to the bridge and toss it over, then tie the bag to it next time…"
"Fifty feet of rope?" Kaladin said flatly. "It would draw enough attention to buy something like that."
"Nah, gancho," Lopen said. "I have a cousin who works in a place that sells rope. I could get some for you easy, with money."
"Perhaps," Kaladin said. "But you'd still have to hide it in the litter, then hang it down into the chasm without anyone seeing. And to leave it dangling there for several days? It would be noticed."
The others nodded. Rock seemed very uncomfortable. Sighing, Kaladin took out the bow and several arrows. "We'll just have to chance this. Teft, why don't you…"
"Oh, Kali'kalin's ghost," Rock muttered. "Here, give me bow." He shoved his way through the bridgemen, taking the bow from Kaladin. Kaladin hid a smile.
Rock glanced upward, judging the distance in the waning light. He strung the bowstring, then held out a hand. Kaladin handed him an arrow. He leveled the bow back down the chasm and launched. The arrow flew swiftly, clattering against chasm walls.
Rock nodded to himself, then pointed at Kaladin's pouch. "We take only five spheres," Rock said. "Any more would be too heavy. Is crazy to try with even five. Airsick lowlanders."
Kaladin smiled, then counted out five sapphire marks-together about two and a half months' worth of pay for a bridgeman-and placed them in a spare pouch. He handed that to Rock, who pulled out a knife and dug a notch into an arrow's wood next to the arrowhead.
Skar folded his arms and leaned against the mossy wall. "This is stealing, you know."
"Yes," Kaladin said, watching Rock. "And I don't feel the least bit bad about it. Do you?"
"Not at all," Skar said, grinning. "I figure once someone is trying to get you killed, all expectations of your loyalty are tossed to the storm. But if someone were to go to Gaz…"
The other bridgemen suddenly grew nervous, and more than a few eyes darted toward Shen, though Kaladin could see that Skar wasn't thinking of the Parshman. If one of the bridgemen were to betray the rest of them, he might earn himself a reward.
"Maybe we should post a watch," Drehy said. "You know, make sure nobody sneaks off to talk to Gaz."
"We'll do no such thing," Kaladin said. "What are we going to do? Lock ourselves in the barrack, so suspicious of each other that we never get anything done?" He shook his head. "No. This is just one more danger. It's a real one, but we can't waste energy spying on each other. So we keep on going."
Skar didn't look convinced.
"We're Bridge Four," Kaladin said firmly. "We've faced death together. We have to trust each other. You can't run into battle wondering if your companions are going to switch sides suddenly." He met the eyes of each man in turn. "I trust you. All of you. We'll make it through this, and we'll do it together."
There were several nods; Skar seemed placated. Rock finished his work cutting the arrow, then proceeded to tie the pouch tightly around the shaft.
Syl still sat on Kaladin's shoulder. "You want me to watch the others? Make sure nobody does what Skar thinks they might?"
Kaladin hesitated, then nodded. Best to be safe. He just didn't want the men to have to think that way.
Rock hefted the arrow, judging the weight. "Near impossible shot," he complained. Then, in a smooth motion, he nocked the arrow and drew to his cheek, positioning himself directly beneath the bridge. The small pouch hung down, dangling against the wood of the arrow. The bridgemen held their breath.
Rock loosed. The arrow streaked up the side of the chasm wall, almost too fast to follow. A faint click sounded as arrow met wood, and Kaladin held his breath, but the arrow did not pull free. It remained hanging there, precious spheres tied to its shaft, right next to the side of the bridge where it could be reached.
Kaladin clapped Rock on the shoulder as the bridgemen cheered him.
Rock eyed Kaladin. "I will not use bow to fight. You must know this thing."
"I promise," Kaladin said. "I'll take you if you agree, but I won't force you."
"I will not fight," Rock said. "Is not my place." He glanced up at the spheres, then smiled faintly. "But shooting bridge is all right."
"How did you learn?" Kaladin asked.
"Is secret," Rock said firmly. "Take bow. Bother me no more."
"All right," Kaladin said, accepting the bow. "But I don't know if I can promise not to bother you. I may need a few more shots in the future." He eyed Lopen. "You really think you can buy some rope without drawing attention?"
Lopen lounged back against the wall. "My cousin's never failed me."
"How many cousins do you have, anyway?" Earless Jaks asked.
"A man can never have enough cousins," Lopen said.
"Well, we need that rope," Kaladin said, the plan beginning to sprout in his mind. "Do it, Lopen. I'll make change from those spheres above to pay for it." "Light grows so distant. The storm never stops. I am broken, and all around me have died. I weep for the end of all things. He has won. Oh, he has beaten us." -Dated Palahakev, 1173, 16 seconds pre-death. Subject: a Thaylen sailor. Dalinar fought, the Thrill pulsing within him, swinging his Shardblade from atop Gallant's back. Around him, Parshendi fell with eyes burning black.
They came at him in pairs, each team trying to hit him from a different direction, keeping him busy and-they hoped-disoriented. If a pair could rush at him while he was distracted, they might be able to shove him off his mount. Those axes and maces-swung repeatedly-could crack his Plate. It was a very costly tactic; corpses lay scattered around Dalinar. But when fighting against a Shardbearer, every tactic was costly.
Dalinar kept Gallant moving, dancing from side to side, swinging his Blade in broad sweeps. He stayed just a little ahead of the line of his men. A Shardbearer needed space to fight; the Blades were so long that hurting one's companions was a very real danger. His honor guard would approach only if he fell or encountered trouble.
The Thrill excited him, strengthened him. He hadn't experienced the weakness again, the nausea he had on the battlefield that day weeks ago. Perhaps he'd been worried about nothing.
He turned Gallant just in time to confront two pairs of Parshendi coming at him from behind, singing softly. He directed Gallant with his knees, performing an expert sweeping side-swing, cutting through the necks of two Parshendi, then the arm of a third. Eyes burned out in the first two, and they collapsed. The third dropped his weapon from a hand that grew suddenly lifeless, flopping down, its nerves all severed.
The fourth member of that squad scrambled away, glaring at Dalinar. This was one of the Parshendi who didn't wear a beard, and it seemed that there was something odd about his face. The cheek structure was just a little off…
Was that a woman? Dalinar thought with amazement. It couldn't have been. Could it?
Behind him, his soldiers let out cheers as a large number of Parshendi scattered away to regroup. Dalinar lowered his Shardblade, the metal gleaming, gloryspren winking into the air around him. There was another reason for him to stay out ahead of his men. A Shardbearer wasn't just a force of destruction; he was a force of morale and inspiration. The men fought more vigorously as they saw their brightlord felling foe after foe. Shardbearers changed battles.
Since the Parshendi were broken for the moment, Dalinar climbed free of Gallant and dropped to the rocks. Corpses lay unbloodied all around him, though once he approached the place where his men had been fighting, orange-red blood stained the rocks. Cremlings scuttled about on the ground, lapping up the liquid, and painspren wriggled between them. Wounded Parshendi lay staring up into the air, faces masks of pain, singing a quiet, haunting song to themselves. Often just as whispers. They never yelled as they died.
Dalinar felt the Thrill retreat as he joined his honor guard. "They're getting too close to Gallant," Dalinar said to Teleb, handing over the reins. The massive Ryshadium's coat was flecked with frothy sweat. "I don't want to risk him. Have a man run him to the back lines."
Teleb nodded, waving a soldier to obey the order. Dalinar hefted his Shardblade, scanning the battlefield. The Parshendi force was regrouping. As always, the two-person teams were the focus of their strategy. Each pair would have different weapons, and often one was clean-shaven while the other had a beard woven with gemstones. His scholars had suggested this was some kind of primitive apprenticeship.
Dalinar inspected the clean-shaven ones for signs of any stubble. There was none, and more than a few had a faintly feminine shape to their faces. Could the ones without beards all be women? They didn't appear to have much in the way of breasts, and their builds were like those of men, but the strange Parshendi armor could be masking things. The beardless ones did seem smaller by a few fingers, and the shapes of the faces…studying them, it seemed possible. Could the pairs be husbands and wives fighting together? That struck him as strangely fascinating. Was it possible that, despite six years of war, nobody had taken the time to investigate the genders of those they fought?
Yes. The contested plateaus were so far out, nobody ever brought back Parshendi bodies; they just set men to pulling the gemstones out of their beards or gathering their weapons. Since Gavilar's death, very little effort had been given to studying the Parshendi. Everyone just wanted them dead, and if there was one thing the Alethi were good at, it was killing.
And you're supposed to be killing them now, Dalinar told himself, not analyzing their culture. But he did decide to have his soldiers collect a few bodies for the scholars.
He charged toward another section of the battlefield, Shardblade before him in two hands, making certain not to outpace his soldiers. To the south, he could see Adolin's banner flying as he led his division against the Parshendi there. The lad had been uncharacteristically reserved lately. Being wrong about Sadeas seemed to have made him more contemplative.
On the west side, Sadeas's own banner flew proudly, Sadeas's forces keeping the Parshendi from the chrysalis. He'd arrived first, as before, engaging the Parshendi so Dalinar's companies could arrive. Dalinar had considered cutting out the gemheart so the Alethi could retreat, but why end the battle that quickly? He and Sadeas both felt the real point of their alliance was to crush as many Parshendi as possible.
The more they killed, the faster this war would be through. And so far, Dalinar's plan was working. The two armies complemented one another. Dalinar's assaults had been too slow, and he'd allowed the Parshendi to position themselves too well. Sadeas was fast-more so now that he could leave men behind and concentrate fully on speed-and he was frighteningly effective at getting men onto the plateaus to fight, but his men weren't trained as well as Dalinar's. So if Sadeas could arrive first, then hold out long enough for Dalinar to get his men across, the superior training-and superior Shards-of his forces worked like a hammer against the Parshendi, smashing them against Sadeas's anvil.
It was still by no means easy. The Parshendi fought like chasmfiends.
Dalinar crashed against them, swinging out with his blade, slaying Parshendi on all sides. He couldn't help but feel a grudging respect for the Parshendi. Few men dared assault a Shardbearer directly-at least not without the entire weight of their army forcing them forward, almost against their will.
These Parshendi attacked with bravery. Dalinar spun, laying about him, the Thrill surging within. With an ordinary sword, a fighter focused on controlling his blows, striking and expecting recoil. You wanted quick, rapid strikes with small arcs. A Shardblade was different. The Blade was enormous, yet remarkably light. There was never recoil; landing a blow felt nearly like passing the blade through the air itself. The trick was to control momentum and keep the blade moving.
Four Parshendi threw themselves at him; they seemed to know that working into close quarters was one of the best ways to drop him. If they got too close, the length of his Blade's hilt and the nature of his armor would make fighting more difficult for him. Dalinar spun in a long, waist-high attack, and noted the deaths of Parshendi by the slight tug on the Blade as it passed through their chests. He got all four of them, and felt a surge of satisfaction.
It was followed immediately by nausea.
Damnation! he thought. Not again! He turned toward another group of Parshendi as the eyes of the dead burned out and smoked.
He threw himself into another attack-raising Blade in a twisting swing over his head, then bringing it down parallel to the ground. Six Parshendi died. He felt a spike of regret along with displeasure at the Thrill. Surely these Parshendi-these soldiers-deserved respect, not glee, as they were slaughtered.
He remembered the times when the Thrill had been the strongest. Subduing the highprinces with Gavilar during their youths, forcing back the Vedens, fighting the Herdazians and destroying the Akak Reshi. Once, the thirst for battle had nearly led him to attack Gavilar himself. Dalinar could remember the jealousy on that day some ten years ago, when the itch to attack Gavilar-the only worthy opponent he could see, the man who had won Navani's hand-had nearly consumed him.
His honor guard cheered as his foes dropped. He felt hollow, but he seized the Thrill and got a tight grip on his feelings and emotions. He let the Thrill pulse through him. Blessedly, the sickness went away, which was good, for another group of Parshendi charged him from the side. He executed a Windstance turn, shifting his feet, lowering his shoulder, and throwing his weight behind his Blade as he swung.
He got three in the sweep, but the fourth and final Parshendi shoved past his wounded comrades, getting inside Dalinar's reach, swinging his hammer. His eyes were wide with anger and determination, though he did not yell or bellow. He just continued his song.
His blow cracked into Dalinar's helm. It pushed his head to the side but the Plate absorbed most of the hit, a few tiny weblike lines cracking along its length. Dalinar could see them glowing faintly, releasing Stormlight at the edges of his vision.
The Parshendi was in too close. Dalinar dropped his Blade. The weapon puffed away to mist as Dalinar raised an armored arm and blocked the next hammer blow. Then he swung with his other arm, smashing his fist into the Parshendi's shoulder. The blow tossed the man to the ground. The Parshendi's song cut off. Gritting his teeth, Dalinar stepped up and kicked the man in the chest, throwing the body a good twenty feet through the air. He'd learned to be wary of Parshendi who weren't fully incapacitated.
Dalinar lowered his hands and began to resummon his Shardblade. He felt strong again, passion for battle returning to him. I shouldn't feel bad for killing the Parshendi, he thought. This is right.
He paused, noticing something. What was that on the next plateau over? It looked like…
Like a second Parshendi army.
Several groups of his scouts were dashing toward the main battle lines, but Dalinar could guess the news they brought. "Stormfather!" he cursed, pointing with his Shardblade. "Pass the warning! A second army approaches!"
Several men scattered in accordance to his command. We should have expected this, Dalinar thought. We started bringing two armies to a plateau, so they have done the same.
But that implied that they had limited themselves before. Did they do it because they realized that the battlefields left little room for maneuvering? Or was it for speed? But that didn't make sense-the Alethi had to worry about bridges as choke points, slowing them more and more if they brought more troops. But the Parshendi could jump the chasms. So why commit fewer troops than their all?
Curse it all, he thought with frustration. We know so little about them!
He shoved his Shardblade into the rock beside him, placing it intentionally so that it didn't vanish. He began calling out orders. His honor guard formed around him, ushering in scouts and sending out runners. For a short time, he became a tactical general rather than an advance warrior.
It took time to change their battlefield strategy. An army was like a massive chull at times, lumbering along, slow to react. Before his orders could be executed, the new Parshendi force began crossing over onto the north side. That was where Sadeas was fighting. Dalinar couldn't get a good view, and scout reports were taking too long.
He glanced to the side; there was a tall rock formation nearby. It had uneven sides, making it look a little like a pile of boards stacked one atop another. He grabbed his Shardblade in the middle of a report and ran across the stony ground, smashing a few Rockbuds beneath his plated boots. The Cobalt Guard and the messengers followed quickly.
At the rock formation, Dalinar tossed his Blade aside, letting it dissolve to smoke. He threw himself up and grabbed the rock, scaling the formation. Seconds later, he heaved himself up onto its flat top.
The battlefield stretched out below him. The main Parshendi army was a mass of red and black at the center of the plateau, now pressed on two sides by the Alethi. Sadeas' bridge crews waited on a western plateau, ignored, while the new force of Parshendi crossed from the north onto the battlefield.
Stormfather, but they can jump, Dalinar thought, watching the Parshendi span the gap in powerful leaps. Six years of fighting had shown Dalinar that human soldiers-particularly if lightly armored-could outrun Parshendi troops if they had to go more than a few dozen yards. But those thick, powerful Parshendi legs could send them far when they leaped.
Not a single Parshendi lost his footing as they crossed the chasm. They approached the chasm at a trot, then dashed with a burst of speed for about ten feet, launching themselves forward. The new force pushed south, directly into Sadeas's army. Raising a hand against the bright white sunlight, Dalinar found he could make out Sadeas's personal banner.
It was directly in the path of the oncoming Parshendi force; he tended to remain at the back of his armies, in a secure position. Now, that position suddenly became the front lines, and Sadeas's other troops were too slow to disengage and react. He didn't have any support.
Sadeas! Dalinar thought, stepping right up to the lip of the stone, his cape streaming behind him in the breeze. I need to send him my reserve spearmen But no, they'd be too slow.
The spearmen couldn't get to him. But someone mounted might be able to.
"Gallant!" Dalinar bellowed, throwing himself off the rock formation. He fell to the rocks below, Plate absorbing the shock as he hit, cracking the stone. Stormlight puffed up around him, rising from his armor, and the greaves cracked slightly.
Gallant pulled away from his minders, galloping across the stones at Dalinar's call. As the horse approached, Dalinar grabbed the saddle-holds and heaved himself up and into place. "Follow if you can," he bellowed at his honor guard, "and send a runner to tell my son he now commands our army!"
Dalinar reared Gallant and galloped alongside the perimeter of the battlefield. His guard called for their horses, but they'd have difficulty keeping up with a Ryshadium.
So be it.
Fighting soldiers became a blur to Dalinar's right. He leaned low in the saddle, wind hissing as it blew over his Shardplate. He held a hand out and summoned Oathbringer. It dropped into his hand, steaming and frosted, as he turned Gallant around the western tip of the battlefield. By design, the original Parshendi army lay between his force and Sadeas's. He didn't have time to round them. So, taking a deep breath, Dalinar struck out through the middle of it. Their ranks were spread out because of how they fought.
Gallant galloped through them, and Parshendi threw themselves out of the massive stallion's way, cursing in their melodic language. Hooves beat a thunder upon the rocks; Dalinar urged Gallant on with his knees. They had to keep momentum. Some Parshendi fighting on the front against Sadeas's force turned and ran at him. They saw the opportunity. If Dalinar fell, he'd land alone, surrounded by thousands of enemies.
Dalinar's heart thumped as he held his Blade out, trying to swipe at Parshendi who came too close. Within minutes, he approached the northwestern Parshendi line. There, his enemies formed up, raising spears and setting them against the ground.
Blast! Dalinar thought. Parshendi had never set spears like that against heavy cavalry before. They were starting to learn.
Dalinar charged the formation, then wheeled Gallant at the last moment, turning parallel to the Parshendi spear wall. He swung his Shardblade out to the side, shearing the tips from their weapons and hitting a few arms. A patch of Parshendi just ahead wavered, and Dalinar took a deep breath, urging Gallant directly into them, shearing off a few spear tips. Another one bounced off his shoulder armor, and Gallant took a long gash on the left flank.
Their momentum carried them forward, trampling over the Parshendi, and with a whinny, Gallant burst free of the Parshendi line just to the side of where Sadeas's main force was engaging the enemy.
Dalinar's heart pumped. He passed Sadeas's force in a blur, galloping toward the back lines, where a churning, disorganized chaos of men tried to react to the new Parshendi force. Men screamed and died, a mess of forest green Alethi and Parshendi in black and red.
There! Dalinar saw Sadeas's banner flap for a moment before falling. He threw himself from Gallant's saddle and hit the stones. The horse turned away, understanding. His wound was bad, and Dalinar would not risk him any further.
It was time for the slaughter to begin again.
He tore into the Parshendi force from the side, and some turned, looks of surprise in their usually stoic black eyes. At times the Parshendi seemed alien, but their emotions were so human. The Thrill rose and Dalinar did not force it down. He needed it too much. An ally was in danger.
It was time to let the Blackthorn loose.
Dalinar punched through the Parshendi ranks. He felled Parshendi like a man sweeping crumbs from the table after a meal. There was no controlled precision here, no careful engagement of a few squads with his honor guard at the back. This was a full-out attack, with all the power and deadly force of a life-long killer enhanced by Shards. He was like a tempest, slashing through legs, torsos, arms, necks, killing, killing, killing. He was a maelstrom of death and steel. Weapons bounced off his armor, leaving tiny cracks. He killed dozens, always moving, forcing his way toward where Sadeas's banner had fallen.
Eyes burned, swords flashed in the sky, and Parshendi sang. The close press of their own troops-bunching up as they hit Sadeas's line-inhibited them. But not Dalinar. He didn't have to worry about striking friends, nor did he have to worry about his weapon getting caught in flesh or stuck in armor. And if corpses got in his way, he sheared through them-dead flesh would cut like steel and wood.
Soon, Parshendi blood splashed in the air as he killed, then hacked, then shoved his way through the press. Blade from shoulder to side, back and forth, occasionally turning to sweep at those trying to kill him from behind.
He stumbled on a swath of green cloth. Sadeas's banner. Dalinar spun, searching. Behind him, he'd left a line of corpses that was quickly yet carefully being stepped past by more Parshendi focused on him. Except just to his left. None of the Parshendi there turned toward him.
Sadeas! Dalinar thought, leaping forward, cutting down Parshendi from behind. That revealed a group of them bunched in a circle, beating on something below them. Something leaking Stormlight.
Just to the side lay a large Shardbearer's hammer, fallen where Sadeas had apparently dropped it. Dalinar leaped forward, dropping his Blade and grabbing the hammer. He roared as he slammed it into the group, tossing a dozen Parshendi away from him, then turned and swung again on the other side. Bodies sprayed into the air, hurled backward.
The hammer worked better in such close quarters; the Blade would simply have killed the men, dropping their corpses to the ground, leaving him still pressed and pinned. The hammer, however, flung the bodies away. He leaped into the middle of the area he'd just cleared, positioning himself with one foot on either side of the fallen Sadeas. He began the process of summoning his Blade again and laid about him with the hammer, scattering his enemies.
At the ninth beat of his heart, he threw the hammer into the face of a Parshendi, then let Oathbringer reform in his hands. He fell immediately into Windstance, glancing downward. Sadeas's armor leaked Stormlight from a dozen different breaks and rifts. The breastplate had been shattered completely; broken, jagged bits of metal jutted out, revealing the uniform underneath. Wisps of radiant smoke trailed from the holes.
There was no time to check if he still lived. The Parshendi now saw not one, but two Shardbearers within their grasp, and they threw themselves at Dalinar. Warrior after warrior fell as Dalinar slaughtered them in sweeps, protecting the space just around him.
He couldn't stop them all. His armor took hits, mostly on the arms and back. The armor cracked, like a crystal under too much stress.
He roared, striking down four Parshendi as two more hit him from behind, making his armor vibrate. He spun and killed one, the other barely dancing out of range. Dalinar began to pant, and when he moved quickly, he left trails of blue Stormlight in the air. He felt like a bloodied prey beast trying to fend off a thousand different snapping predators at once.
But he was no chull, whose only protection was to hide. He killed, and the Thrill rose to a crescendo within him. He sensed real danger, a chance of falling, and that made the Thrill surge. He nearly choked on it, the joy, the pleasure, the desire. The danger. More and more blows got through; more and more Parshendi were able to duck or dodge out of the way of his Blade.
He felt a breeze through the back of his breastplate. Cooling, terrible, frightening. The cracks were widening. If the breastplate burst…
He screamed, slamming his blade down through a Parshendi, burning out his eyes, dropping the man without a mark on his skin. Dalinar brought his Blade up, spinning, cutting through the legs of another foe. His insides were a tempest of emotions, and his brow beneath the helm streamed with sweat. What would happen to the Alethi army if both he and Sadeas fell here? Two highprinces dead in the same battle, two sets of Plate and one Blade lost?
It couldn't happen. He wouldn't fall here. He didn't yet know if he was mad or not. He couldn't die until he knew!
Suddenly, a wave of Parshendi died that he hadn't attacked. A figure in brilliant blue Shardplate burst through them. Adolin held his massive Shardblade in a single hand, the metal gleaming.
Adolin swung again, and the Cobalt Guard rushed forward, pouring into the gap Adolin created. The Parshendi song changed tempo, becoming frantic, and they fell back as more and more troops punched through, some in green, others in blue.
Dalinar knelt down, exhausted, letting his Blade vanish. His guard surrounded him, and Adolin's army washed over them all, overrunning the Parshendi, forcing them back. In a few minutes, the area was secure.
The danger was past.
"Father," Adolin said, kneeling beside him, pulling his helm off. The youth's blond and black hair was disheveled and sweat-slick. "Storms! You gave me a fright! Are you well?"
Dalinar pulled his own helm free, sweet cooling air washing across his damp face. He took a deep breath, then nodded. "Your timing is…quite good, son."
Adolin helped Dalinar back to his feet. "I had to punch through the entire Parshendi army. No disrespect, Father, but what in the storms made you pull a stunt like that?"
"The knowledge that you could handle the army if I fell," Dalinar said, clapping his son on the arm, their Plate clinking.
Adolin caught sight of the back of Dalinar's Shardplate, and his eyes opened wide.
"Bad?" Dalinar asked.
"Looks like it's held together with spit and twine," Adolin said. "You're leaking Light like a wineskin used for archery practice."
Dalinar nodded, sighing. Already his Plate was feeling sluggish. He'd probably have to remove it before they returned to the camp, lest it freeze on him.
To the side, several soldiers were pulling Sadeas free of his Plate. It was so far gone that the Light had stopped save for a few tiny wisps. It could be fixed, but it would be expensive-regenerating Shardplate generally shattered the gemstones it drew Light from.
The soldiers pulled Sadeas's helm off, and Dalinar was relieved to see his former friend blinking, looking disoriented but largely uninjured. He had a cut on his thigh where one of the Parshendi had gotten him with a sword, and a few scrapes on his chest.
Sadeas looked up at Dalinar and Adolin. Dalinar stiffened, expecting recrimination-this had only happened because Dalinar had insisted on fighting with two armies on the same plateau. That had goaded the Parshendi into bringing another army. Dalinar should have set proper scouts to watch for that.
Sadeas, however, smiled a wide grin. "Stormfather, but that was close! How goes the battle?"
"The Parshendi are routed," Adolin said. "The last force resisting was the one around you. Our men are cutting the gemheart free at this moment. The day is ours."
"We win again!" Sadeas said triumphantly. "Dalinar, once in a while, it appears that senile old brain of yours can come up with a good idea or two!"
"We're the same age, Sadeas." Dalinar noted as messengers approached, bearing reports from the rest of the battlefield.
"Spread the word," Sadeas proclaimed. "Tonight, all my soldiers will feast as if they were lighteyes!" He smiled as his soldiers helped him to his feet, and Adolin moved over to take the scout reports. Sadeas waved away the help insisting he could stand despite his wound, and began calling for his officers.
Dalinar turned to seek out Gallant and make sure the horse's wound was cared for. As he did, however, Sadeas caught his arm.
"I should be dead," Sadeas said softly.
"Perhaps."
"I didn't see much. But I thought I saw you alone. Where was your honor guard?"
"I had to leave it behind," Dalinar said. "It was the only way to get to you in time."
Sadeas frowned. "That was a terrible risk, Dalinar. Why?"
"You do not abandon your allies on the battlefield. Not unless there's no recourse. It is one of the Codes."
Sadeas shook his head. "That honor of yours is going to get you killed, Dalinar." He seemed bemused. "Not that I feel like offering a complaint about it this day!"
"If I should die," Dalinar said, "then I would do so having lived my life right. It is not the destination that matters, but how one arrives there."
"The Codes?"
"No. The Way of Kings."
"That storming book."
"That storming book saved your life today, Sadeas," Dalinar said. "I think I'm starting to understand what Gavilar saw in it."
Sadeas scowled at that, though he glanced at his armor, lying in pieces nearby. He shook his head. "Perhaps I shall let you tell me what you mean. I'd like to understand you again, old friend. I'm beginning to wonder if I ever really did." He let go of Dalinar's arm. "Someone bring me my storming horse! Where are my officers?"
Dalinar left, and quickly found several members of his guard seeing to Gallant. As he joined them, he was struck by the sheer number of corpses on the ground. They ran in a line where he had punched through the Parshendi ranks to get to Sadeas, a trail of death.
He looked back to where he'd made his stand. Dozens dead. Perhaps hundreds.
Blood of my fathers, Dalinar thought. Did I do that? He hadn't killed in such numbers since the early days of helping Gavilar unite Alethkar. And he hadn't grown sick at the sight of death since his youth.
Yet now he found himself revolted, barely able to keep his stomach under control. He would not retch on the battlefield. His men should not see that.
He stumbled away, one hand to his head, the other carrying his helm. He should be exulting. But he couldn't. He just…couldn't.
You will need luck trying to understand me, Sadeas, he thought. Because I'm having Damnation's own trouble trying to do so myself.
"I hold the suckling child in my hands, a knife at his throat, and know that all who live wish me to let the blade slip. Spill its blood upon the ground, over my hands, and with it gain us further breath to draw." -Dated Shashanan, 1173, 23 seconds pre-death. Subject: a darkeyed youth of sixteen years. Sample is of particular note. "And all the world was shattered!" Maps yelled, back arching, eyes wide, flecks of red spittle on his cheeks. "The rocks trembled with their steps, and the stones reached toward the heavens. We die! We die!"
He spasmed one last time, and the light faded from his eyes. Kaladin sat back, crimson blood slick on his hands, the dagger he'd been using as a surgical knife slipping from his fingers and clicking softly against the stone. The affable man lay dead on the stones of a plateau, arrow wound in his left breast open to the air, splitting the birthmark he'd claimed looked like Alethkar.
It's taking them, Kaladin thought. One by one. Open them up, bleed them out. We're nothing more than pouches to carry blood. Then we die, rain it down on the stones like a highstorm's floods.
Until only I remain. I always remain.
A layer of skin, a layer of fat, a layer of muscle, a layer of bone. That was what men were.
The battle raged across the chasm. It might as well have been another kingdom, for all the attention anyone gave the bridgemen. Die die die, then get out of our way.
The members of Bridge Four stood in a solemn ring around Kaladin. "What was that he said at the end?" Skar asked. "The rocks trembled?"
"It was nothing," said thick-armed Yake. "Just dying delirium. It happens to men, sometimes."
"More often lately, it seems," Teft said. He held his hand to his arm, where he'd hastily wrapped a bandage around an arrow wound. He wouldn't be carrying a bridge anytime soon. Maps's death and Arik's death left them with only twenty-six members now. It was barely enough to carry a bridge. The greater heaviness was very noticeable, and they had difficulty keeping up with the other bridge crews. A few more losses, and they'd be in serious trouble.
I should have been faster, Kaladin thought, looking down at Maps splayed open, his insides exposed for the sun to dry. The arrowhead had pierced his lung and lodged in his spine. Could Lirin have saved him? If Kaladin had studied in Kharbranth as his father had wished, would he have learned enough-known enough-to prevent deaths like this?
This happens sometimes, son…
Kaladin raised shaking bloody hands to his face, gripping his head, as memory consumed him. A young girl, a cracked head, a broken leg, an angry father.
Despair, hate, loss, frustration, horror. How could any man live this way? To be a surgeon, to live knowing that you would be too weak to save some? When other men failed, a field of crops got worms in them. When a surgeon failed, someone died.
You have to learn when to care…
As if he could choose. Banish it, like snuffing a lantern. Kaladin bowed beneath the weight. I should have saved him, I should have saved him, I should have saved him.
Maps, Dunny, Amark, Goshel, Dallet, Nalma. Tien.
"Kaladin." Syl's voice. "Be strong."
"If I were strong," he hissed, "they would live."
"The other bridgemen still need you. You promised them, Kaladin. You gave your oath."
Kaladin looked up. The bridgemen seemed anxious and worried. There were only eight of them; Kaladin had sent the others to look for fallen bridgemen from other crews. They'd found three initially, minor wounds that Skar could care for. No runners had come for him. Either the bridge crews had no other wounded, or those wounded were beyond help.
Maybe he should have gone to look, just in case. But-numb-he could not face yet another dying man he could not save. He stumbled to his feet and walked away from the corpse. He stepped up to the chasm and forced himself to fall into the old stance Tukks had taught him.
Feet apart, hands behind his back, clasping forearms. Straight-backed, staring forward. The familiarity brought him strength.
You were wrong, Father, he thought. You said I'd learn to deal with the deaths. And yet here I am. Years later. Same problem.
The bridgemen fell in around him. Lopen approached with a waterskin. Kaladin hesitated, then accepted the skin, washing off his face and hands. The warm water splashed across his skin, then brought welcome coolness as it evaporated. He let out a deep breath, nodding thanks to the short Herdazian man.
Lopen raised an eyebrow, then gestured to the pouch tied to his waist. He had recovered the newest pouch of spheres they'd stuck to the bridge with an arrow. This was the fourth time they'd done that, and had recovered them each without incident.
"Did you have any trouble?" Kaladin asked.
"No, gancho," Lopen said, smiling widely. "Easy as tripping a Horneater."
"I heard that," Rock said gruffly, standing in parade rest a short distance away.
"And the rope?" Kaladin asked.
"I dropped the whole coil right over the side," Lopen said. "But I didn't tie the end to anything. Just like you said."
"Good," Kaladin said. A rope dangling from a bridge would have just been too obvious. If Hashal or Gaz caught scent of what Kaladin was planning…
And where is Gaz? Kaladin thought. Why didn't he come on the bridge run?
Lopen gave Kaladin the pouch of spheres, as if eager to be rid of the responsibility. Kaladin accepted it, stuffing it into his trouser pocket.
Lopen retreated, and Kaladin fell back into parade rest. The plateau on the other side of the chasm was long and thin, with steep slopes on the sides. Just as in the last few battles, Dalinar Kholin helped Sadeas's force. He always arrived late. Perhaps he blamed his slow, chull-pulled bridges. Very convenient. His men often had the luxury of crossing without archery fire.
Sadeas and Dalinar won more battles this way. Not that it mattered to the bridgemen.
Many people were dying on the other side of the chasm, but Kaladin didn't feel a thing for them. No itch to heal them, no desire to help. Kaladin could thank Hav for that, for training him to think in terms of "us" and "them." In a way, Kaladin had learned what his father had talked about. In the wrong way, but it was something. Protect the "us," destroy the "them." A soldier had to think like that. So Kaladin hated the Parshendi. They were the enemy. If he hadn't learned to divide his mind like that, war would have destroyed him.
Perhaps it had done so anyway.
As he watched the battle, he focused on one thing in particular to distract himself. How did the Parshendi treat their dead? Their actions seemed irregular. The Parshendi soldiers rarely disturbed their dead after they fell; they'd take roundabout paths of attack to avoid dead bodies. And when the Alethi marched over the Parshendi dead, they formed points of terrible conflict.
Did the Alethi notice? Probably not. But he could see that the Parshendi revered their dead-revered them to the extent that they would endanger the living to preserve the corpses of the fallen. Kaladin could use that. He would use that. Somehow.
The Alethi eventually won the battle. Before long, Kaladin and his team were slogging back across the plateau, carrying their bridge, three wounded lashed to the top. They had found only those three, and a part of Kaladin felt sick inside as he realized another part of him was glad. He had already rescued some fifteen men from other bridge crews, and it was straining their resources-even with the money from the pouches-to feed them. Their barrack was crowded with the wounded.
Bridge Four reached a chasm, and Kaladin moved to lower his burden. The process was rote to him now. Lower the bridge, quickly untie the wounded, push the bridge across the chasm. Kaladin checked on the three wounded. Every man he rescued this way seemed bemused at what he'd done, even though he'd been doing it for weeks now. Satisfied that they were all right, he moved to stand at parade rest while the soldiers crossed.
Bridge Four fell in around him. Increasingly, they earned scowls from the soldiers-both darkeyed and lighteyed-who crossed. "Why do they do that?" Moash said quietly as a passing soldier tossed an overripe pile-vine fruit at the bridgemen. Moash wiped the stringy, red fruit from his face, then sighed and fell back into his stance. Kaladin had never asked them to join him, but they did it each time.
"When I fought in Amaram's army," Kaladin said, "I dreamed about joining the troops at the Shattered Plains. Everyone knew that the soldiers left in Alethkar were the dregs. We imagined the real soldiers, off fighting in the glorious war to bring retribution to those who had killed our king. Those soldiers would treat their fellows with fairness. Their discipline would be firm. Each would be an expert with the spear, and he would not break rank on the battlefield."
To the side, Teft snorted quietly.
Kaladin turned to Moash. "Why do they treat us so, Moash? Because they know they should be better than they are. Because they see discipline in bridgemen, and it embarrasses them. Rather than bettering themselves, they take the easier road of jeering at us."
"Dalinar Kholin's soldiers don't act like that," Skar said from just behind Kaladin. "His men march in straight ranks. There is order in their camp. If they're on duty, they don't leave their coats unbuttoned or lounge about."
Will I never stop hearing about Dalinar storming Kholin? Kaladin thought.
Men had spoken that way of Amaram. How easy it was to ignore a blackened heart if you dressed it in a pressed uniform and a reputation for honesty.
Several hours later, the sweaty and exhausted group of bridgemen tramped up the incline to the lumberyard. They dumped their bridge in its resting place. It was getting late; Kaladin would have to purchase food immediately if they were going to have supplies for the evening stew. He wiped his hands on his towel as the members of Bridge Four lined up.
"You're dismissed for evening activities," he said. "We have chasm duty early tomorrow. Morning bridge practice will have to be moved to late afternoon."
The bridgemen nodded, then Moash raised a hand. As one, the bridgemen raised their arms and crossed them, wrists together, hands in fists. It had the look of a practiced effort. After that, they trotted away.
Kaladin raised an eyebrow, tucking his towel into his belt. Teft hung back, smiling.
"What was that?" Kaladin asked.
"The men wanted a salute," Teft said. "We can't use a regular military salute-not with the spearmen already thinking we're too bigheaded. So I taught them my old squad salute."
"When?"
"This morning. While you were getting our schedule from Hashal."
Kaladin smiled. Odd, how he could still do that. Nearby, the other nineteen bridge crews on today's run dropped off their bridges, one by one. Had Bridge Four once looked like them, with those ragged beards and haunted expressions? None of them spoke to one another. Some few glanced at Kaladin as they passed, but they looked down as soon as they saw he was watching. They'd stopped treating Bridge Four with the contempt they'd once shown. Curiously, they now seemed to regard Kaladin's crew as they did everyone else in camp-as people above them. They hastened to avoid his notice.
Poor sodden fools, Kaladin thought. Could he, maybe, persuade Hashal to let him take a few into Bridge Four? He could the use extra men, and seeing those slumped figures twisted his heart.
"I know that look, lad," Teft said. "Why is it you always have to help everyone?"
"Bah," Kaladin said. "I can't even protect Bridge Four. Here, let me look at that arm of yours."
"It's not that bad."
Kaladin grabbed his arm anyway, peeling away the blood-crusted bandage. The cut was long, but shallow.
"We need antiseptic on this," Kaladin said, noting a few red rotspren crawling around on the wound. "I should probably sew it up."
"It's not that bad!"
"Still," Kaladin said, waving for Teft to follow as he approached one of the rain barrels alongside the lumberyard. The wound was shallow enough that Teft would probably be able to show the others spear thrusts and blocks tomorrow during chasm duty, but that was no excuse for leaving it alone to fester or scar.
At the rain barrel, Kaladin washed out the wound, then called for Lopen-who was standing in the shade beside the barrack-to bring his medical equipment. The Herdazian man gave that salute again, though he did it with one arm, and sauntered away to get the pack.
"So, lad," Teft said. "How do you feel? Any odd experiences lately?"
Kaladin frowned, looking up from the arm. "Storm it, Teft! That's the fifth time in two days you've asked me that. What are you getting at?"
"Nothing, nothing!"
"It is something," Kaladin said. "What is it you're digging for, Teft? I-"
"Gancho," Lopen said, walking up, carrying the medical supply pack over his shoulder. "Here you go."
Kaladin glanced at him, then reluctantly accepted the pack. He pulled the drawstrings open. "We'll want to-"
A quick motion came from Teft. Like a punch being thrown.
Kaladin moved by reflex, taking in a sharp breath, moving to a defensive stance, arms up, one hand a fist, the other back to block.
Something blossomed within Kaladin. Like a deep breath drawn in, like a burning liquor injected directly into his blood. A powerful wave pulsed through his body. Energy, strength, awareness. It was like the body's natural alert response to danger, only it was a hundredfold more intense.
Kaladin caught Teft's fist, moving blurringly quick. Teft froze.
"What are you doing?" Kaladin demanded.
Teft was smiling. He stepped back, pulling his fist free. "Kelek," he said, shaking his hand. "That's some grip you've got."
"Why did you try to strike me?"
"I wanted to see something," Teft said. "You're holding that pouch of spheres Lopen gave you, you see, and your own pouch with what we've gathered lately. More Stormlight than you've probably ever carried, at least recently."
"What does that have to do with anything?" Kaladin demanded. What was that heat inside of him, that burning in his veins?
"Gancho," Lopen said, his voice awed. "You're glowing."
Kaladin frowned. What is he And then he noticed it. It was very faint, but it was there, wisps of luminescent smoke curling up from his skin. Like steam coming off a bowl of hot water on a cold winter night.
Shaking, Kaladin put the medical pack on the broad rim of the water barrel. He felt a moment of coldness on his skin. What was that? Shocked, he raised his other hand, looking at the wisps streaming off of it.
"What did you do to me?" he demanded, looking up at Teft.
The older bridgeman was still smiling.
"Answer me!" Kaladin said, stepping forward, grabbing the front of Teft's shirt. Stormfather, but I feel strong!
"I didn't do anything, lad," Teft said. "You've been doing this for a while now. I caught you feeding off Stormlight when you were sick."
Stormlight. Kaladin hastily released Teft, fishing at the pouch of spheres in his pocket. He yanked it free and pulled it open.
It was dark inside. All five gemstones had been drained. The white light streaming from Kaladin's skin faintly illuminated the inside of the bag.
"Now that's something," Lopen said from the side. Kaladin spun to find the Herdazian man bending down and looking at the medical pack. Why was that so important?
Then Kaladin saw it. He thought he'd set the pack on the rim of the barrel, but in his haste he'd just pressed it against the side of the barrel. The pack now clung to the wood. Stuck there, hanging as if from an invisible hook. Faintly streaming light, just like Kaladin. As Kaladin watched, the light faded, and the pack slumped free and fell to the ground.
Kaladin raised a hand to his forehead, looking from the surprised Lopen to the curious Teft. Then he glanced around the lumberyard, frantic. Nobody else was looking at them; in the sunlight, the vapors were too faint to see from a distance.
Stormfather…what…how…
He caught sight of a familiar shape above. Syl moved like a blown leaf, tossed this way and that, leisurely, faint.
She did it! Kaladin thought. What has she done to me?
He stumbled away from Lopen and Teft, running toward Syl. His footsteps propelling him forward with too much speed. "Syl!" he bellowed, stopping beneath her.
She zipped down to hover before him, changing from a leaf to a young woman standing in the air. "Yes?"
Kaladin glanced around. "Come with me," he said, hurrying to one of the alleys between barracks. He pressed himself up against a wall, standing in the shade, breathing in and out. Nobody could see him here.
Syl alighted in the air before him, hands behind her back, looking closely at him. "You're glowing."
"What have you done to me?"
She cocked her head, then shrugged.
"Syl…" he said threateningly, though he wasn't certain what harm he could do a spren.
"I don't know, Kaladin," she said frankly, sitting down, her legs hanging over the side of the invisible platform. "I can…I can only faintly remember things I used to know so well. This world, interacting with men."
"But you did do something."
"We have done something. It wasn't me. It wasn't you. But together…" She shrugged again.
"That isn't very helpful."
She grimaced. "I know. I'm sorry."
Kaladin raised a hand. In the shade, the light streaming off of him was more obvious. If someone walked by…"How do I get rid of it?"
"Why do you want to get rid of it?"
"Well, because…I…Because."
Syl didn't respond.
Something occurred to Kaladin. Something, perhaps, he should have asked long ago. "You're not a windspren, are you?"
She hesitated, then shook her head. "No."
"What are you, then?"
"I don't know. I bind things."
Bind things. When she played pranks, she made items stick together. Shoes stuck to the ground and made men trip. People reached for their jackets hanging on hooks and couldn't pull them free. Kaladin reached down, picking a stone up off the ground. It was as big as his palm, weathered smooth by highstorm winds and rain. He pressed it against the wall of the barrack and willed his Light into the stone.
He felt a chill. The rock began to stream with luminescent vapors. When Kaladin pulled his hand away, the stone remained where it was, clinging to the side of the building.
Kaladin leaned close, squinting. He thought he could faintly make out tiny spren, dark blue and shaped like little splashes of ink, clustering around the place where the rock met the wall.
"Bindspren," Syl said, walking up beside his head; she was still standing in the air.
"They're holding the rock in place."
"Maybe. Or maybe they're attracted to what you've done in affixing the stone there."
"That's not how it works. Is it?"
"Do rotspren cause sickness," Syl said idly, "or are they attracted to it?"
"Everyone knows they cause it."
"And do windspren cause the wind? Rainspren cause the rain? Flamespren cause fires?"
He hesitated. No, they didn't. Did they? "This is pointless. I need to find out how to get rid of this light, not study it."
"And why," Syl repeated, "must you get rid of it? Kaladin, you've heard the stories. Men who walked on walls, men who bound the storms to them. Windrunners. Why would you want to be rid of something like this?"
Kaladin struggled to define it. The healing, the way he never got hit, running at the front of the bridge…Yes, he'd known something odd was happening. Why did it frighten him so? Was it because he feared being set apart, like his father always was as the surgeon in Hearthstone? Or was it something greater?
"I'm doing what the Radiants did," he said.
"That's what I just said."
"I've been wondering if I'm bad luck, or if I've run afoul of something like the Old Magic. Maybe this explains it! The Almighty cursed the Lost Radiants for betraying mankind. What if I'm cursed too, because of what I'm doing?"
"Kaladin," she said, "you are not cursed."
"You just said you don't know what's happening." He paced in the alleyway. To the side, the rock finally plopped free and clattered to the ground. "Can you say, with all certainty, that what I'm doing might not have drawn bad luck down upon me? Do you know enough to deny it completely, Syl?"
She stood in the air, her arms folded, saying nothing.
"This…thing," Kaladin said, gesturing toward the stone. "It isn't natural. The Radiants betrayed mankind. Their powers left them, and they were cursed. Everyone knows the legends." He looked down at his hands, still glowing, though more faintly than before. "Whatever we've done, whatever has happened to me, I've somehow brought upon myself their same curse. That's why everyone around me dies when I try to help them."
"And you think I'm a curse?" she asked him.
"I…Well, you said you're part of it, and…"
She strode forward, pointing at him, a tiny, irate woman hanging in the air. "So you think I've caused all of this? Your failures? The deaths?"
Kaladin didn't respond. He realized almost immediately that silence might be the worst response. Syl-surprisingly human in her emotions-spun in the air with a wounded look and zipped away, forming a ribbon of light.
I'm overreacting, he told himself. He was just so unsettled. He leaned back against the wall, hand to head. Before he had time to collect his thoughts, shadows darkened the entry to the alleyway. Teft and Lopen.
"Rock talkers!" Lopen said. "You really shine in shade, gancho!"
Teft gripped Lopen's shoulder. "He's not going to tell anyone, lad. I'll make certain of it."
"Yeah, gancho," Lopen said. "I swore I'd say nothing. You can trust a Herdazian."
Kaladin looked at the two, overwhelmed. He pushed past them, running out of the alley and across the lumberyard, fleeing from watching eyes. By the time night drew close, the light had long since stopped streaming from Kaladin's body. It had faded like a fire going out, and had only taken a few minutes to vanish.
Kaladin walked southward along the edge of the Shattered Plains, in that transitional area between the warcamps and the Plains themselves. In some areas-like at the staging area near Sadeas's lumbercamp-there was a soft slope leading down between the two. At other points, there was a short ridge, eight or so feet tall. He passed one of these now, rocks to his right, open Plains to his left.
Hollows, crevasses, and nooks scored the rock. Some shadowed sections here still hid pools of water from the highstorms days ago. Creatures still scuttled around the rocks, though the cooling evening air would soon drive them to hide. He passed a place pocked with small, water-filled holes; cremlings-multilegged, bearing tiny claws, their elongated bodies plated with carapace-lapped and fed at the edges. A small tentacle snapped out, yanking one down into the hole. Probably a grasper.
Grass grew up the side of the ridge beside him, and the blades peeked from their holes. Bunches of fingermoss sprouted like flowers amid the green. The bright pink and purple fingermoss tendrils were reminiscent of tentacles themselves, waving at him in the wind. When he passed, the timid grass pulled back, but the fingermoss was bolder. The clumps would only pull into their shells if he tapped the rock near them.
Above him, on the ridge, a few scouts stood watch over the Shattered Plains. This area beneath the ridge belonged to no specific highprince, and the scouts ignored Kaladin. He would only be stopped if he tried to leave the warcamps at the southern or northern sides.
None of the bridgemen had come after him. He wasn't certain what Teft had told them. Perhaps he'd said Kaladin was distraught following Maps's death.
It felt odd to be alone. Ever since he'd been betrayed by Amaram and made a slave, he had been in the company of others. Slaves with whom he'd plotted. Bridgemen with whom he'd worked. Soldiers to guard him, slavemasters to beat him, friends to depend on him. The last time he'd been alone had been that night when he'd been tied up for the highstorm to kill him.
No, he thought. I wasn't alone that night. Syl was there. He lowered his head, passing small cracks in the ground to his left. Those lines eventually grew into chasms as they moved eastward.
What was happening to him? He wasn't delusional. Teft and Lopen had seen it too. Teft had actually seemed to expect it.
Kaladin should have died during that highstorm. And yet, he had been up and walking shortly afterward. His ribs should still be tender, but they hadn't ached in weeks. His spheres, and those of the other bridgemen near him, had consistently run out of Stormlight.
Had it been the highstorm that had changed him? But no, he'd discovered drained spheres before being hung out to die. And Syl…she'd as much as admitted responsibility for some of what had happened. This had been going on a long time.
He stopped beside a rock outcropping, resting against it, causing grass to shrink away. He looked eastward, over the Shattered Plains. His home. His sepulcher. This life on them was ripping him apart. The bridgemen looked up to him, thought him their leader, their savior. But he had cracks in him, like the cracks in the stone here at the edges of the Plains.
Those cracks were growing larger. He kept making promises to himself, like a man running a long distance with no energy left. Just a little farther. Run just to that next hill. Then you can give up. Tiny fractures, fissures in the stone.
It's right that I came here, he thought. We belong together, you and I. I'm like you. What had made the Plains break in the first place? Some kind of great weight?
A melody began playing distantly, carrying over the Plains. Kaladin jumped at the sound. It was so unexpected, so out of place, that it was startling despite its softness.
The sounds were coming from the Plains. Hesitant, yet unable to resist, he walked forward. Eastward, onto the flat, windswept rock. The sounds grew louder as he walked, but they were still haunting, elusive. A flute, though one lower in pitch than most he'd heard.
As he grew closer, Kaladin smelled smoke. A light was burning out there. A tiny campfire.
Kaladin walked out to the edge of this particular peninsula, a chasm growing from the cracks until it plunged down into darkness. At the very tip of the peninsula-surrounded on three sides by chasm-Kaladin found a man sitting on a boulder, wearing a lighteyes's black uniform. A small fire of rockbud shell burned in front of him. The man's hair was short and black, his face angular. He wore a thin, black-sheathed sword at his waist.
The man's eyes were a pale blue. Kaladin had never heard of a lighteyed man playing a flute. Didn't they consider music a feminine pursuit? Lighteyed men sang, but they didn't play instruments unless they were ardents.
This man was extremely talented. The odd melody he played was alien, almost unreal, like something from another place and time. It echoed down the chasm and came back; it almost sounded like the man was playing a duet with himself.
Kaladin stopped a short distance away, realizing that the last thing he wanted to do now was deal with a brightlord, particularly one who was eccentric enough to dress in black and wander out onto the Shattered Plains to practice his flute. Kaladin turned to go.
The music cut off. Kaladin paused.
"I always worry that I'll forget how to play her," a soft voice said from behind. "It's silly, I know, considering how long I've practiced. But these days I rarely give her the attention she deserves."
Kaladin turned toward the stranger. His flute was carved from a dark wood that was almost black. The instrument seemed too ordinary to belong to a lighteyes, yet the man held it reverently.
"What are you doing here?" Kaladin asked.
"Sitting. Occasionally playing."
"I mean, why are you here?"
"Why am I here?" the man asked, lowering his flute, leaning back and relaxing. "Why are any of us here? That's a rather deep question for a first meeting, young bridgeman. I generally prefer introductions before theology. Lunch too, if it can be found. Perhaps a nice nap. Actually, practically anything should come before theology. But especially introductions."
"All right," Kaladin said. "And you are…?"
"Sitting. Occasionally playing… with the minds of bridgemen."
Kaladin reddened, turning again to go. Let the fool lighteyes say, and do, what he wished. Kaladin had difficult decisions to think about.
"Well, off with you then," the lighteyes said from behind. "Glad you are going. Wouldn't want you too close. I'm rather attached to my Stormlight."
Kaladin froze. Then he spun. "What?"
"My spheres," the strange man said, holding up what appeared to be a fully infused emerald broam. "Everyone knows that bridgemen are thieves, or at least beggars."
Of course. He had been talking about spheres. He didn't know about Kaladin's… affliction. Did he? The man's eyes twinkled as if at a grand joke.
"Don't be insulted at being called a thief," the man said, raising a finger. Kaladin frowned. Where had the sphere gone? He had been holding it in that hand. "I meant it as a compliment."
"A compliment? Calling someone a thief?"
"Of course. I myself am a thief."
"You are? What do you steal?"
"Pride," the man said, leaning forward. "And occasionally boredom, if I may take the pride unto myself. I am the King's Wit. Or I was until recently. I think I shall probably lose the title soon."
"The king's what?"
"Wit. It was my job to be witty."
"Saying confusing things isn't the same as being witty."
"Ah," the man said, eyes twinkling. "Already you prove yourself more wise than most who have been my acquaintance lately. What is it to be witty, then?"
"To say clever things."
"And what is cleverness?"
"I…" Why was he having this conversation? "I guess it's the ability to say and do the right things at the right time."
The King's Wit cocked his head, then smiled. Finally, he held out his hand to Kaladin. "And what is your name, my thoughtful bridgeman?"
Kaladin hesitantly raised his own hand. "Kaladin. And yours?"
"I've many." The man shook Kaladin's hand. "I began life as a thought, a concept, words on a page. That was another thing I stole. Myself. Another time, I was named for a rock."
"A pretty one, I hope."
"A beautiful one," the man said. "And one that became completely worthless for my wearing it."
"Well, what do men call you now?"
"Many a thing, and only some of them polite. Almost all are true, unfortunately. You, however, you may call me Hoid."
"Your name?"
"No. The name of someone I should have loved. Once again, this is a thing I stole. It is something we thieves do." He glanced eastward, over the rapidly darkening Plains. The little fire burning beside Hoid's boulder shed a fugitive light, red from glimmering coals.
"Well, it was pleasant to meet you," Kaladin said. "I will be on my way…"
"Not before I give you something." Hoid picked up his flute. "Wait, please."
Kaladin sighed. He had a feeling that this odd man was not going to let him escape until he was done.
"This is a Trailman's flute," Hoid said, inspecting the length of dark wood. "It is meant to be used by a storyteller, for him to play while he is telling a story."
"You mean to accompany a storyteller. Being played by someone else while he speaks."
"Actually, I meant what I said."
"How would a man tell a story while playing the flute?"
Hoid raised an eyebrow, then lifted the flute to his lips. He played it differently from flutes Kaladin had seen-instead of holding it down in front of him, Hoid held it out to the side and blew across its top. He tested a few notes. They had the same melancholy tone that Kaladin had heard before.
"This story," Hoid said, "is about Derethil and the Wandersail."
He began to play. The notes were quicker, sharper, than the ones he'd played earlier. They almost seemed to tumble over one another, scurrying out of the flute like children racing one another to be first. They were beautiful and crisp, rising and falling scales, intricate as a woven rug.
Kaladin found himself transfixed. The tune was powerful, almost demanding. As if each note were a hook, flung out to spear Kaladin's flesh and hold him near.
Hoid stopped abruptly, but the notes continued to echo in the chasm, coming back as he spoke. "Derethil is well known in some lands, though I have heard him spoken of less here in the East. He was a king during the shadowdays, the time before memory. A powerful man. Commander of thousands, leader of tens of thousands. Tall, regal, blessed with fair skin and fairer eyes. He was a man to envy."
Just as the echoes faded below, Hoid began to play again, picking up the rhythm. He actually seemed to continue just where the echoing notes grew too soft, as if there had never been a break in the music. The notes grew more smooth, suggesting a king walking through court with his attendants. As Hoid played, eyes closed, he leaned forward toward the fire. The air he blew over the flute churned the smoke, stirring it.
The music grew softer. The smoke swirled, and Kaladin thought he could make out the face of a man in the patterns of smoke, a man with a pointed chin and lofty cheekbones. It wasn't really there, of course. Just imagination. But the haunting song and the swirling smoke seemed to encourage his imagination.
"Derethil fought the Voidbringers during the days of the Heralds and Radiants," Hoid said, eyes still closed, flute just below his lips, the song echoing in the chasm and seeming to accompany his words. "When there was finally peace, he found he was not content. His eyes always turned westward, toward the great open sea. He commissioned the finest ship men had ever known, a majestic vessel intended to do what none had dared before: sail the seas during a highstorm."
The echoes tapered off, and Hoid began playing again, as if alternating with an invisible partner. The smoke swirled, rising in the air, twisting in the wind of Hoid's breath. And Kaladin almost thought he could see an enormous ship in a shipyard, with a sail as large as a building, secured to an arrowlike hull. The melody became quick and clipped, as if to imitate the sounds of mallets pounding and saws cutting.
"Derethil's goal," Hoid paused and said, "was to seek the origin of the Voidbringers, the place where they had been spawned. Many called him a fool, yet he could not hold himself back. He named the vessel the Wandersail and gathered a crew of the bravest of sailors. Then, on a day when a highstorm brewed, this ship cast off. Riding out into the ocean, the sail hung wide, like arms open to the stormwinds…"
The flute was at Hoid's lips in a second and he stirred the fire by kicking at a piece of rockbud shell. Sparks of flame rose in the air and smoke puffed, swirling as Hoid rotated his head down and pointed the flute's holes at the smoke. The song became violent, tempestuous, notes falling unexpectedly and trilling with quick undulations. Scales rippled into high notes, where they screeched airily.
And Kaladin saw it in his mind's eye. The massive ship suddenly miniscule before the awesome power of a highstorm. Blown, carried out into the endless sea. What had this Derethil hoped or expected to find? A highstorm on land was terrible enough. But on the sea?
The sounds bounced off the echoing walls below. Kaladin found himself sinking down to the rocks, watching the swirling smoke and rising flames. Seeing the tiny ship captured and held within a furious maelstrom.
Eventually, Hoid's music slowed, and the violent echoes faded, leaving a much gentler song. Like lapping waves.
"The Wandersail was nearly destroyed in the crash, but Derethil and most of his sailors survived. They found themselves on a ring of small islands surrounding an enormous whirlpool, where, it is said, the ocean drains. Derethil and his men were greeted by a strange people with long, limber bodies who wore robes of single color and shells in their hair unlike any that grow back on Roshar.
"These people took the survivors in, fed them, and nursed them back to health. During his weeks of recovery, Derethil studied the strange people, who called themselves the Uvara, the People of the Great Abyss. They lived curious lives. Unlike the people in Roshar-who constantly argue- the Uvara always seemed to agree. From childhood, there were no questions. Each and every person went about his duty."
Hoid began the music again, letting the smoke rise unhindered. Kaladin thought he could see in it a people, industrious, always working. A building rose among them with a figure at the window, Derethil, watching. The music was calming, curious.
"One day," Hoid said, "while Derethil and his men were sparring to regain strength, a young serving girl brought them refreshment. She tripped on an uneven stone, dropping the goblets to the floor and shattering them. In a flash, the other Uvara descended on the hapless child and slaughtered her in a brutal way. Derethil and his men were so stunned that by the time they regained their wits, the child was dead. Angry, Derethil demanded to know the cause of the unjustified murder. One of the other natives explained. 'Our emperor will not suffer failure.'"
The music began again, sorrowful, and Kaladin shivered. He witnessed the girl being bludgeoned to death with rocks, and the proud form of Derethil bowing above her fallen body.
Kaladin knew that sorrow. The sorrow of failure, of letting someone die when he should have been able to do something. So many people he loved had died.
He had a reason for that now. He'd drawn the ire of the Heralds and the Almighty. It had to be that, didn't it?
He knew he should be getting back to Bridge Four. But he couldn't pull himself away. He hung on the storyteller's words.
"As Derethil began to pay more attention," Hoid said, his music echoing softly to accompany him, "he saw other murders. These Uvara, these People of the Great Abyss, were prone to astonishing cruelty. If one of their members did something wrong-something the slightest bit untoward or unfavorable-the others would slaughter him or her. Each time he asked, Derethil's caretaker gave him the same answer. 'Our emperor will not suffer failure.'"
The echoing music faded, but once again Hoid lifted his flute just as it grew too soft to hear. The melody grew solemn. Soft, quiet, like a lament for one who had passed. And yet it was edged with mystery, occasional quick bursts, hinting at secrets.
Kaladin frowned as he watched the smoke spin, making what appeared to be a tower. Tall, thin, with an open structure at the top.
"The emperor, Derethil discovered, resided in the tower on the eastern coast of the largest island among the Uvara."
Kaladin felt a chill. The smoke images were just from his mind, adding to the story, weren't they? Had he really seen a tower before Hoid mentioned it?
"Derethil determined that he needed to confront this cruel emperor. What kind of monster would demand that such an obviously peaceful people kill so often and so terribly? Derethil gathered his sailors, a heroic group, and they armed themselves. The Uvara did not try to stop them, though they watched with fright as the strangers stormed the emperor's tower."
Hoid fell silent, and didn't turn back to his flute. Instead, he let the music echo in the chasm. It seemed to linger this time. Long, sinister notes.
"Derethil and his men came out of the tower a short time later, carrying a desiccated corpse in fine robes and jewelry. 'This is your emperor?' Derethil demanded. 'We found him in the top room, alone.' It appeared that the man had been dead for years, but nobody had dared enter his tower. They were too frightened of him.
"When he showed the Uvara the dead body, they began to wail and weep. The entire island was cast into chaos, as the Uvara began to burn homes, riot, or fall to their knees in torment. Amazed and confused, Derethil and his men stormed the Uvara shipyards, where the Wandersail was being repaired. Their guide and caretaker joined them, and she begged to accompany them in their escape. So it was that Nafti joined the crew.
"Derethil and his men set sail, and though the winds were still, they rode the Wandersail around the whirlpool, using the momentum to spin them out and away from the islands. Long after they left, they could see the smoke rising from the ostensibly peaceful lands. They gathered on the deck, watching, and Derethil asked Nafti the reason for the terrible riots."
Hoid fell silent, letting his words rise with the strange smoke, lost to the night.
"Well?" Kaladin demanded. "What was her response?"
"Holding a blanket around herself, staring with haunted eyes at her lands, she replied, 'Do you not see, Traveling One? If the emperor is dead, and has been all these years, then the murders we committed are not his responsibility. They are our own.'"
Kaladin sat back. Gone was the taunting, playful tone Hoid had used earlier. No more mockery. No more quick tongue intended to confuse. This story had come from within his heart, and Kaladin found he could not speak. He just sat, thinking of that island and the terrible things that had been done.
"I think…" Kaladin finally replied, licking his dry lips, "I think that is cleverness."
Hoid raised an eyebrow, looking up from his flute.
"Being able to remember a story like that," Kaladin said, "to tell it with such care."
"Be wary of what you say," Hoid said, smiling. "If all you need for cleverness is a good story, then I'll find myself out of a job."
"Didn't you say you were already out of a job?"
"True. The king is finally without wit. I wonder what that makes him."
"Um… witless?" Kaladin said.
"I'll tell him you said that," Hoid noted, eyes twinkling. "But I think it's inaccurate. One can have a wit, but not a witless. What is a wit?"
"I don't know. Some kind of spren in your head, maybe, that makes you think?"
Hoid cocked his head, then laughed. "Why, I suppose that's as good an explanation as any." He stood up, dusting off his black trousers.
"Is the story true?" Kaladin asked, rising too.
"Perhaps."
"But how would we know it? Did Derethil and his men return?"
"Some stories say they did."
"But how could they? The highstorms only blow one direction."
"Then I guess the story is a lie."
"I didn't say that."
"No, I said it. Fortunately, it's the best kind of lie."
"And what kind is that?"
"Why, the kind I tell, of course." Hoid laughed, then kicked out the fire, grinding the last of the coals beneath his heel. It didn't really seem there had been enough fuel to make the smoke Kaladin had seen.
"What did you put in the fire?" Kaladin said. "To make that special smoke?"
"Nothing. It was just an ordinary fire."
"But, I saw-"
"What you saw belongs to you. A story doesn't live until it is imagined in someone's mind."
"What does the story mean, then?"
"It means what you want it to mean," Hoid said. "The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that."
Kaladin frowned, looking westward, back toward the warcamps. They were alight now with spheres, lanterns, and candles. "It means taking responsibility," Kaladin said. "The Uvara, they were happy to kill and murder, so long as they could blame the emperor. It wasn't until they realized there was nobody to take the responsibility that they showed grief."
"That's one interpretation," Hoid said. "A fine one, actually. So what is it you don't want to take responsibility for?"
Kaladin started. "What?"
"People see in stories what they're looking for, my young friend." He reached behind his boulder, pulling out a pack and slinging it on his shoulder. "I have no answers for you. Most days, I feel I never have had any answers. I've come to your land to chase an old acquaintance, but I end up spending most of my time hiding from him instead."
"You said… about me and responsibility…"
"Just an idle comment, nothing more." He reached over, laying a hand on Kaladin's shoulder. "My comments are often idle. I never can get them to do any solid work. Would that I could make my words carry stones. That would be something to see." He held out the dark wood flute. "Here. I've carried her for longer than you'd believe, were I to tell you the truth. Take her for yourself."
"But I don't know how to play it!"
"Then learn," Hoid said, pressing the flute into Kaladin's hand. "When you can make the music sing back at you, then you've mastered it." He began to walk away. "And take good care of that blasted apprentice of mine. He really should have let me know he was still alive. Perhaps he feared I'd come to rescue him again."
"Apprentice?"
"Tell him I graduate him," Hoid said, still walking. "He's a full Worldsinger now. Don't let him get killed. I spent far too long trying to force some sense into that brain of his."
Sigzil, Kaladin thought. "I'll give him the flute," he called after Hoid.
"No you won't," Hoid said, turning, walking backward as he left. "It's a gift to you, Kaladin Stormblessed. I expect you to be able to play it when next we meet!"
And with that, the storyteller turned and broke into a jog, heading off toward the warcamps. He didn't move to go up into them, however. His shadowed figure turned to the south, as if he were intending to leave the camps. Where was he going?
Kaladin looked down at the flute in his hand. It was heavier than he had expected. What kind of wood was it? He rubbed its smooth length, thinking.
"I don't like him," Syl's voice said suddenly, coming from behind. "He's strange."
Kaladin spun to find her on the boulder, sitting where Hoid had been a moment ago.
"Syl!" Kaladin said. "How long have you been here?"
She shrugged. "You were watching the story. I didn't want to interrupt." She sat with hands in her lap, looking uncomfortable.
"Syl-"
"I'm behind what is happening to you," she said, voice soft. "I'm doing it."
Kaladin frowned, stepping forward.
"It's both of us," she said. "But without me, nothing would be changing in you. I'm… taking something from you. And giving something in return. It's the way it used to work, though I can't remember how or when. I just know that it was."