"He wants to send me to Kharbranth," Kal said, perched atop his rock. "To train to become a surgeon."
"What, really?" Laral asked, as she walked across the edge of the rock just in front of him. She had golden streaks in her otherwise black hair. She wore it long, and it streamed out behind her in a gust of wind as she balanced, hands out to the sides.
The hair was distinctive. But, of course, her eyes were more so. Bright, pale green. So different from the browns and blacks of the townspeople. There really was something different about being a lighteyes.
"Yes, really," Kal said with a grunt. "He's been talking about it for a couple of years now."
"And you didn't tell me?"
Kal shrugged. He and Laral were atop a low ridge of boulders to the east of Hearthstone. Tien, his younger brother, was picking through rocks at the base. To Kal's right, a grouping of shallow hillsides rolled to the west. They were sprinkled with lavis polyps, a planting halfway to being harvested.
He felt oddly sad as he looked over those hillsides, filled with working men. The dark brown polyps would grow like melons filled with grain. After being dried, that grain would feed the entire town and their highprince's armies. The ardents who passed through town were careful to explain that the Calling of a farmer was a noble one, one of the highest save for the Calling of a soldier. Kal's father whispered under his breath that he saw far more honor in feeding the kingdom than he did in fighting and dying in useless wars.
"Kal?" Laral said, voice insistent. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Sorry," he said. "I wasn't sure if Father was serious or not. So I didn't say anything."
That was a lie. He'd known his father was serious. Kal just hadn't wanted to mention leaving to become a surgeon, particularly not to Laral.
She placed her hands on her hips. "I thought you were going to go become a soldier."
Kal shrugged.
She rolled her eyes, hopping down off her ridge onto a stone beside him. "Don't you want to become a lighteyes? Win a Shardblade?"
"Father says that doesn't happen very often."
She knelt down before him. "I'm sure you could do it." Those eyes, so bright and alive, shimmering green, the color of life itself.
More and more, Kal found that he liked looking at Laral. Kal knew, logically, what was happening to him. His father had explained the process of growing with the precision of a surgeon. But there was so much feeling involved, emotions that his father's sterile descriptions hadn't explained. Some of those emotions were about Laral and the other girls of the town. Other emotions had to do with the strange blanket of melancholy that smothered him at times when he wasn't expecting.
"I…" Kal said.
"Look," Laral said, standing up again and climbing atop her rock. Her fine yellow dress ruffled in the wind. One more year, and she'd start wearing a glove on her left hand, the mark that a girl had entered adolescence. "Up, come on. Look."
Kal hauled himself to his feet, looking eastward. There, snarlbrush grew in dense thickets around the bases of stout markel trees.
"What do you see?" Laral demanded.
"Brown snarlbrush. Looks like it's probably dead."
"The Origin is out there," she said, pointing. "This is the stormlands. Father says we're here to be a windbreak for more timid lands to the west." She turned to him. "We've got a noble heritage, Kal, darkeyes and light-eyes alike. That's why the best warriors have always been from Alethkar. Highprince Sadeas, General Amaram…King Gavilar himself."
"I suppose."
She sighed exaggeratedly. "I hate talking to you when you're like this, you know."
"Like what?"
"Like you are now. You know. Moping around, sighing."
"You're the one who just sighed, Laral."
"You know what I mean."
She stepped down from the rock, walking over to go pout. She did that sometimes. Kal stayed where he was, looking eastward. He wasn't sure how he felt. His father really wanted him to be a surgeon, but he wavered. It wasn't just because of the stories, the excitement and wonder of them. He felt that by being a soldier, he could change things. Really change them. A part of him dreamed of going to war, of protecting Alethkar, of fighting alongside heroic lighteyes. Of doing good someplace other than a little town that nobody important ever visited.
He sat down. Sometimes he dreamed like that. Other times, he found it hard to care about anything. His dreary feelings were like a black eel, coiled inside of him. The snarlbrush out there survived the storms by growing together densely about the bases of the mighty markel trees. Their bark was coated with stone, their branches thick as a man's leg. But now the snarlbrush was dead. It hadn't survived. Pulling together hadn't been enough for it.
"Kaladin?" a voice asked from behind him.
He turned to find Tien. Tien was ten years old, two years Kal's junior, though he looked much younger. While other kids called him a runt, Lirin said that Tien just hadn't hit his height yet. But, well, with those round, flushed cheeks and that slight build, Tien did look like a boy half his age. "Kaladin," he said, eyes wide, hands cupped together. "What are you looking at?"
"Dead weeds," Kal said.
"Oh. Well, you need to see this."
"What is it?"
Tien opened his hands to reveal a small stone, weathered on all sides but with a jagged break on the bottom. Kal picked it up, looking it over. He couldn't see anything distinctive about it at all. In fact, it was dull.
"It's just a rock," Kal said.
"Not just a rock," Tien said, taking out his canteen. He wetted his thumb, then rubbed it on the flat side of the stone. The wetness darkened the stone, and made visible an array of white patterns in the rock. "See?" Tien asked, handing it back.
The strata of the rock alternated white, brown, black. The pattern was remarkable. Of course, it was still just a rock. But for some reason, Kal found himself smiling. "That's nice, Tien." He moved to hand the rock back.
Tien shook his head. "I found it for you. To make you feel better."
"I…" It was just a stupid rock. Yet, inexplicably, Kal did feel better. "Thanks. Hey, you know what? I'll bet there's a lurg or two hiding in these rocks somewhere. Want to see if we can find one?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" Tien said. He laughed and began moving down the rocks. Kal moved to follow, but paused, remembering something his father had said.
He poured some water on his hand from his own canteen and flung it at the brown snarlbrush. Wherever sprayed droplets fell, the brush grew instantly green, as if he were throwing paint. The brush wasn't dead; it just dried out, waiting for the storms to come. Kal watched the patches of green slowly fade back to tan as the water was absorbed.
"Kaladin!" Tien yelled. He often used Kal's full name, even though Kal had asked him not to. "Is this one?"
Kal moved down across the boulders, pocketing the rock he'd been given. As he did so, he passed Laral. She was looking westward, toward her family's mansion. Her father was the citylord of Hearthstone. Kal found his eyes lingering on her again. That hair of hers was beautiful, with the two stark colors.
She turned to Kal and frowned.
"We're going to hunt some lurgs," he explained, smiling and gesturing toward Tien. "Come on."
"You're cheerful suddenly."
"I don't know. I feel better."
"How does he do that? I wonder."
"Who does what?"
"Your brother," Laral said, looking toward Tien. "He changes you."
Tien's head popped up behind some stones and he waved eagerly, bouncing up and down with excitement.
"It's just hard to be gloomy when he's around," Kal said. "Come on. Do you want to watch the lurg or not?"
"I suppose," Laral said with a sigh. She held out a hand toward him.
"What's that for?" Kal asked, looking at her hand.
"To help me down."
"Laral, you're a better climber than me or Tien. You don't need help."
"It's polite, stupid," she said, proffering her hand more insistently. Kal sighed and took it, then she proceeded to hop down without even leaning on it or needing his help. She, he thought, has been acting very strange lately.
The two of them joined Tien, who jumped down into a hollow between some boulders. The younger boy pointed eagerly. A silky patch of white grew in a crevice on the rock. It was made of tiny threads spun together into a ball about the size of a boy's fist.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Tien asked. "That is one?"
Kal lifted the flask and poured water down the side of the stone onto the patch of white. The threads dissolved in the simulated rainwater, the cocoon melting to reveal a small creature with slick brown and green skin. The lurg had six legs that it used to grip the stone, and its eyes were in the center of its back. It hopped off the stone, searching for insects. Tien laughed, watching it bounce from rock to rock, sticking to the stones. It left behind patches of mucus wherever it landed.
Kal leaned back against the stone, watching his brother, remembering days-not so long ago-when chasing lurgs had been more exciting.
"So," Laral said, folding her arms. "What are you going to do? If your father tries to send you to Kharbranth?"
"I don't know," Kal said. "The surgeons won't take anyone before their sixteenth Weeping, so I've got time to think." The best surgeons and healers trained in Kharbranth. Everyone knew that. The city was said to have more hospitals than taverns.
"It sounds like your father is forcing you to do what he wants, not what you want," Laral said.
"That's the way everyone does it," Kal said, scratching his head. "The other boys don't mind becoming farmers because their fathers were farmers, and Ral just became the new town carpenter. He didn't mind that it was what his father did. Why should I mind being a surgeon?"
"I just-" Laral looked angry. "Kal, if you go to war and find a Shardblade, then you'd be a lighteyes… I mean…Oh, this is useless." She settled back, folding her arms even more tightly.
Kal scratched his head. She really was acting oddly. "I wouldn't mind going to war, winning honor and all that. Mostly, I'd like to travel. See what other lands are like." He'd heard tales of exotic animals, like enormous crustaceans or eels that sang. Of Rall Elorim, City of Shadows, or Kurth, City of Lightning.
He'd spent a lot of time studying these last few years. Kal's mother said he should be allowed to have a childhood, rather than focusing so much on his future. Lirin argued that the tests to be admitted by the Kharbranthian surgeons were very rigorous. If Kal wanted a chance with them, he'd have to begin learning early.
And yet, to become a soldier…The other boys dreamed of joining the army, of fighting with King Gavilar. There was talk of going to war with Jah Keved, once and for all. What would it be like, to finally see some of the heroes from stories? To fight with Highprince Sadeas, or Dalinar the Blackthorn?
Eventually, the lurg realized that it had been tricked. It settled down on a rock to spin its cocoon again. Kal grabbed a small, weathered stone off the ground, then laid a hand on Tien's shoulder, stopping the boy from prodding the tired amphibian. Kal moved forward and nudged the lurg with two fingers, making it hop off the boulder and onto his stone. He handed this to Tien, who watched with wide eyes as the lurg spun its cocoon, spitting out the wet silk and using tiny hands to shape it. That cocoon would be watertight from the inside, sealed by dried mucus, but rainwater outside would dissolve the sack.
Kal smiled, then lifted the flask and drank. This was cool, clean water, which had already had the crem settled out. Crem-the sludgy brown material that fell with rainwater-could make a man sick. Everybody knew that, not just surgeons. You always let water sit for a day, then poured off the fresh water on top and used the crem to make pottery.
The lurg eventually finished its cocoon. Tien immediately reached for the flask.
Kal held the flask high. "It'll be tired, Tien. It won't jump around anymore."
"Oh."
Kal lowered the flask, patting his brother's shoulder. "I put it on that stone so you could carry it around. You can get it out later." He smiled. "Or you could drop it in Father's bathwater through the window."
Tien grinned at that prospect. Kal ruffled the boy's dark hair. "Go see if you can find another cocoon. If we catch two, you'll have one to play with and one to slip into the bathwater."
Tien carefully set the rock aside, then scampered up over the boulders. The hillside here had broken during a highstorm several months back. Shattered, as if it had been hit by the fist of some enormous creature. People said that it could have been a home that got destroyed. They burned prayers of thanks to the Almighty while at the same time whispering of dangerous things that moved in the darkness at full storm. Were the Voidbringers behind the destruction, or had it been the shades of the Lost Radiants?
Laral was looking toward the mansion again. She smoothed her dress nervously-lately she took far more care, not getting her clothes dirty as she once had.
"You still thinking about war?" Kal asked.
"Um. Yes. I am."
"Make sense," he said. An army had come through recruiting just a few weeks back and had picked up a few of the older boys, though only after Citylord Wistiow had given permission. "What do you think broke the rocks here, during the highstorm?"
"I couldn't say."
Kal looked eastward. What sent the storms? His father said no ship had ever sailed for the Origin of Storms and returned safely. Few ships ever even left the coast. Being caught on the open seas during a storm meant death, so the stories said.
He took another sip from his flask, then capped it, saving the rest in case Tien found another lurg. Distant men worked the fields, wearing overalls, laced brown shirts, and sturdy boots. It was worming season. A single worm could ruin an entire polyp's worth of grain. It would incubate inside, slowly eating as the grain grew. When you finally opened up the polyp in the fall, all you'd find was a big fat slug the size of two men's hands. And so they searched in the spring, going over each polyp. Where they found a burrow, they'd stick in a reed tipped with sugar, which the worm would latch on to. You pulled it out and squished it under your heel, then patched the hole with crem.
It could take weeks to properly worm a field, and farmers usually went over their hills three or four times, fertilizing as they went. Kal had heard the process described a hundred times over. You didn't live in a town like Hearthstone without listening to men gripe about worms.
Oddly, he noticed a group older boys gathering at the foot of one of the hills. He recognized all of them, of course. Jost and Jest, brothers. Mord, Tift, Naget, Khav, and others. They each had solid, Alethi darkeyes names. Not like Kaladin's own name. It was different.
"Why aren't they worming?" he asked.
"I don't know," Laral said, shifting her attention to the boys. She got an odd look in her eyes. "Let's go see." She started down the hillside before Kal had a chance to object.
He scratched his head, looking toward Tien. "We're going down to the hillside there."
A youthful head popped up behind a boulder. Tien nodded energetically, then turned back to his searching. Kal slipped off the boulder and walked down the slope after Laral. She reached the boys, and they regarded her with uncomfortable expressions. She'd never spent much time with them, not like she had with Kal and Tien. Her father and his were pretty good friends, for all that one was lighteyed and the other dark.
Laral took a perch on a nearby rock, waiting and saying nothing. Kal walked up. Why had she wanted to come down here, if she wasn't going to talk to the other boys?
"Ho, Jost," Kal said. Senior among the boys at fourteen, Jost was nearly a man-and he looked it too. His chest was broad beyond his years, his legs thick and stocky, like those of his father. He was holding a length of wood from a sapling that had been shaved into a rough approximation of a quarterstaff. "Why aren't you worming?"
It was the wrong thing to say, and Kal knew it immediately. Several of the boys' expressions darkened. It was a sore point to them that Kal never had to work the hills. His protests-that he spent hours upon hours memorizing muscles, bones, and cures-fell on uncaring ears. All they saw was a boy who got to spend his days in the shade while they toiled in the burning sun.
"Old Tarn found a patch of polyps that ain't growing right," Jost finally said, shooting a glance at Laral. "Let us go for the day while they talked over whether to try another planting there, or just let them grow and see what comes of it."
Kal nodded, feeling awkward as he stood before the nine boys. They were sweaty, the knees of their trousers stained with crem and patched from rubbing stone. But Kal was clean, wearing a fine pair of trousers his mother had purchased just a few weeks before. His father had sent him and Tien out for the day while he tended to something at the citylord's manor. Kal would pay for the break with late-night studying by Stormlight, but no use explaining that to the other boys.
"So, er," Kal said, "what were you all talking about?"
Rather than answering, Naget said, "Kal, you know things." Light haired and spindly, he was the tallest of the bunch. "Don't you? About the world and the like?"
"Yeah," Kal said, scratching his head. "Sometimes."
"You ever heard of a darkeyes becoming a lighteyes?" Naget asked.
"Sure," Kal said. "It can happen, Father says. Wealthy darkeyed merchants marry lowborn lighteyes and join their family. Then maybe have lighteyed children. That sort of thing."
"No, not like that," Khav said. He had low eyebrows and always seemed to have a perpetual scowl on his face. "You know. Real darkeyes. Like us."
Not like you, the tone seemed to imply. Kal's family were the only one of second nahn in the town. Everyone else was fourth or fifth, and Kal's rank made them uncomfortable around him. His father's strange profession didn't help either.
It all left Kal feeling distinctly out-of-place.
"You know how it can happen," Kal said. "Ask Laral. She was just talking about it. If a man wins a Shardblade on the battlefield, his eyes become light."
"That's right," Laral said. "Everybody knows it. Even a slave could become a lighteyes if he won a Shardblade."
The boys nodded; they all had brown, black, or other dark-colored eyes. Winning a Shardblade was one of the main reasons common men went to war. In Vorin kingdoms, everyone had a chance to rise. It was, as Kal's father would say, a fundamental tenet of their society.
"Yeah," Naget said impatiently. "But have you ever heard of it happening? Not just in stories, I mean. Does it happen for real?"
"Sure," Kal said. "It must. Otherwise, why would so many men go to war?"
"Because," Jest said, "we've gotta prepare men to fight for the Tranquiline Halls. We've gotta send soldiers to the Heralds. The ardents are always talking of it."
"In the same breaths that they tell us it's all right to be a farmer too," Khav said. "Like, farming's some lonely second place or something."
"Hey," Tift said. "My fah's a farmer, and he's right good at it. It's a noble Calling! All your fahs are farmers."
"All right, fine," Jost said. "But we ain't talking of that. We're talking of Shardbearers. You go to war, you can win a Shardblade and become a light-eyes. My fah, see, he should have been given that Shardblade. But the man who was with him, he took it while my fah was knocked out. Told the officer that he'd been the one to kill the Shardbearer, so he got the Blade, and my fah-"
He was cut off by Laral's tinkling laughter. Kal frowned. That was a different kind of laughter than he normally heard from her, much more subdued and kind of annoying. "Jost, you're claiming your father won a Shardblade?" she said.
"No. It was taken from him," the larger boy said.
"Didn't your father fight in the wastescum skirmishes up north?" Laral said. "Tell him, Kaladin."
"She's right, Jost. There weren't any Shardbearers there-just Reshi raiders who thought they'd take advantage of the new king. They've never had any Shardblades. If your father saw one, he must be remembering incorrectly."
"Remembering incorrectly?" Jost said.
"Er, sure," Kal said quickly. "I'm not saying he's lying, Jost. He just might have some trauma-induced hallucinations, or something like that."
The boys grew silent, looking at Kal. One scratched his head.
Jost spat to the side. He seemed to be watching Laral from the corner of his eye. She pointedly looked at Kal and smiled at him.
"You always got to make a man feel like an idiot, don't you, Kal?" Jost said.
"What? No, I-"
"You want to make my fah sound like a fool," Jost said, face red. "And you want to make me sound stupid. Well, some of us ain't lucky enough to spend our days eating fruit and laying about. We've got to work."
"I don't-"
Jost tossed the quarterstaff to Kal. He caught it awkwardly. Then Jost took the other staff from his brother. "You insult my fah, you get a fight. That's honor. You have honor, lordling?"
"I'm no lordling," Kal spat. "Stormfather, Jost, I'm only a few nahn higher than you are."
Jost's eyes grew angrier at the mention of nahn. He held up his quarterstaff. "You going to fight me or not?" Angerspren began to appear in small pools at his feet, bright red.
Kal knew what Jost was doing. It wasn't uncommon for the boys to look for a way to make themselves look better than him. Kal's father said it had to do with their insecurity. He'd have told Kal to just drop the quarterstaff and walk away.
But Laral was sitting right there, smiling at him. And men didn't become heroes by walking away. "All right. Sure." Kal held up his quarterstaff.
Jost swung immediately, more quickly than Kal had anticipated. The other boys watched with a mixture of glee, shock, and amazement. Kal barely managed to get his staff up. The lengths of wood cracked together, sending a jolt up Kal's arms.
Kal was knocked off balance. Jost moved quickly, stepping to the side and swinging his staff down and hitting Kal in the foot. Kal cried out as a flash of agony lanced up his leg, and he released the staff with one hand and reached down.
Jost swung his staff around and hit Kal's side. Kal gasped, letting the staff clatter to the stones and grabbing his side as he fell to his knees. He breathed out in huffing breaths, straining against the pain. Small, spindly painspren-glowing pale orange hand shapes, like stretching sinew or muscles-crawled from the stone around him.
Kal dropped one hand to the stones, leaning forward as he held his side. You'd better not have broken any of my ribs, you cremling, he thought.
To the side, Laral pursed her lips. Kal felt a sudden, overpowering shame.
Jost lowered his staff, looking abashed. "Well," he said. "You can see that my fah trained me right good. Maybe that will show you. The things he says are true, and-"
Kal growled in anger and pain, snatching his quarterstaff from the ground and leaping at Jost. The older boy cursed, stumbling backward as he raised his weapon. Kal bellowed, slamming his weapon forward.
Something changed in that moment. Kal felt an energy as he held the weapon, an excitement that washed away his pain. He spun, smashing the staff into one of Jost's hands.
Jost let go with that hand, screaming. Kal brought his weapon around and slammed it into the boy's side. Kal had never held a weapon before, never been in a fight any more dangerous than a wrestling match with Tien. But the length of wood felt right in his fingers. He was amazed by how wonderful the moment felt.
Jost grunted, stumbling again, and Kal brought his weapon back around, preparing to smash Jost's face. He raised his staff, but then froze. Jost was bleeding from the hand Kal had hit. Just a little, but it was blood.
He'd hurt someone.
Jost growled and lurched upright. Before Kal could protest, the larger boy swept Kal's legs from underneath him, sending him to the ground, knocking the breath from his lungs. That set afire the wound in his side, and the painspren scampered across the ground, latching on to Kal's side, looking like an orange scar as they fed on Kal's agony.
Jost stepped back. Kal lay on his back, breathing. He didn't know what to feel. Holding the staff in that moment had felt wonderful. Incredible. At the same time, he could see Laral to the side. She stood up and, instead of kneeling to help him, turned and walked away, toward her father's mansion.
Tears welled in Kal's eyes. With a shout, he rolled over and grabbed the quarterstaff again. He would not give in!
"None of that now," Jost said from behind. Kal felt something hard on his back, a boot shoving him down to the stone. Jest took the staff from Kal's fingers.
I failed. I…lost. He hated the feeling, hated it far more than the pain.
"You did well," Jost said grudgingly. "But leave off. I don't want to have to hurt you for real."
Kal bowed his head down, letting his forehead rest on the warm, sunlit rock. Jost removed his foot, and the boys withdrew, chatting, their boots scraping on rock. Kal forced himself to his hands and knees, then up onto his feet.
Jost turned back, wary, holding his quarterstaff in one hand.
"Teach me," Kal said.
Jost blinked in surprise. He glanced at his brother.
"Teach me," Kal pled, stepping forward. "I'll worm for you, Jost. My father gives me two hours off each afternoon. I'll do your work then if you'll teach me, in the evenings, what your father is teaching you with that staff."
He had to know. Had to feel the weapon in his hands again. Had to see if that moment he'd felt had been a fluke. Jost considered, then finally shook his head. "Can't. Your fah would kill me. Get those surgeon's hands of yours all covered with calluses? Wouldn't be right." He turned away. "You go be what you are, Kal. I'll be what I am."
Kal stood for a long while, watching them go. He sat down on the rock. Laral's figure was growing distant. There were some servants coming down the hillside to fetch her. Should he chase after her? His side still hurt, and he was annoyed at her for leading him down to the others in the first place. And, above all, he was still embarrassed.
He lay back down, emotions welling inside of him. He had trouble sorting through them.
"Kaladin?"
He turned, ashamed to find tears in his eyes, and saw Tien sitting on the ground behind him. "How long have you been there?" Kal snapped.
Tien smiled, then set a rock on the ground. He climbed to his feet and hurried away, not stopping when Kal called after him. Grumbling, Kal forced himself to his feet and walked over to pick up the rock.
It was another dull, ordinary stone. Tien had a habit of finding those and thinking they were incredibly precious. He had an entire collection of them back in the house. He knew where he'd found each one, and could tell you what was special about it.
With a sigh, Kal began walking back toward the town.
You go be what you are. I'll be what I am.
His side smarted. Why hadn't he hit Jost when he'd had the chance? Could he train himself out of freezing in battle like that? He could learn to hurt. Couldn't he?
Did he want to?
You go be what you are.
What did a man do if he didn't know what he was? Or even what he wanted to be?
Eventually, he reached Hearthstone proper. The hundred or so buildings were set in rows, each one shaped like a wedge with the low side pointing stormward. The roofs were of thick wood, tarred to seal out the rain. The northern and southern sides of the buildings rarely had windows, but the fronts-facing west away from the storms-were nearly all window. Like the plants of the stormlands, the lives of men here were dominated by the highstorms.
Kal's home was near the outskirts. It was larger than most, built wide to accommodate the surgery room, which had its own entrance. The door was ajar, so Kal peeked in. He'd expected to see his mother cleaning, but instead found that his father had returned from Brightlord Wistiow's manor. Lirin sat on the edge of the operating table, hands in his lap, bald head bowed. He held his spectacles in his hand, and he looked exhausted.
"Father?" Kal asked. "Why are you sitting in the dark?"
Lirin looked up. His face was somber, distant.
"Father?" Kal asked, growing more concerned.
"Brightlord Wistiow has been carried by the winds."
"He's dead?" Kal was so shocked he forgot his side. Wistiow had always been there. He couldn't be gone. What of Laral? "He was healthy just last week!"
"He has always been frail, Kal," Lirin said. "The Almighty calls all men back to the Spiritual Realm eventually."
"You didn't do anything?" Kal blurted out; he regretted the words immediately.
"I did all I could," his father said, rising. "Perhaps a man with more training than I…Well, there is no use in regrets." He walked to the side of the room, removing the black covering from the goblet lamp filled with diamond spheres. It lit the room immediately, blazing like a tiny sun.
"We have no citylord then," Kal said, raising a hand to his head. "He had no son…"
"Those in Kholinar will appoint us a new citylord," Lirin said. "Almighty send them wisdom in the choice." He looked at the goblet lamp. Those were the citylord's spheres. A small fortune.
Kal's father put the covering right back on the goblet, as if he hadn't just removed it. The motion plunged the room back into darkness, and Kal blinked as his eyes adjusted.
"He left these to us," Kal's father said.
Kal started. "What?"
"You're to be sent to Kharbranth when you turn sixteen. These spheres will pay your way-Brightlord Wistiow requested it be done, a last act to care for his people. You will go and become a true master surgeon, then return to Hearthstone."
In that moment, Kal knew his fate had been sealed. If Brightlord Wistiow had demanded it, Kal would go to Kharbranth. He turned and walked from the surgery room, passing out into the sunlight, not saying another word to his father.
He sat down on the steps. What did he want? He didn't know. That was the problem. Glory, honor, the things Laral had said…none of those really mattered to him. But there had been something there when he'd held the quarterstaff. And now, suddenly, the decision had been taken from him.
The rocks Tien had given him were still in his pocket. He pulled them out, then took his canteen off his belt and washed them with water. The first one he'd been given showed the white swirls and strata. It appeared the other one had a hidden design too.
It looked like a face, smiling at him, made of white bits in the rock. Kal smiled despite himself, though it quickly faded. A rock wasn't going to solve his problems.
Unfortunately, though he sat for a long while thinking, it didn't look like anything would solve his problems. He wasn't sure he wanted to be a surgeon, and he felt suddenly constricted by what life was forcing him to become.
But that one moment holding the quarterstaff sang to him. A single moment of clarity in an otherwise confusing world. Might I be quite frank? Before, you asked why I was so concerned. It is for the following reason: "He's old," Syl said with awe, flitting around the apothecary. "Really old. I didn't know men got this old. You sure he's not decayspren wearing a man's skin?"
Kaladin smiled as the apothecary shuffled forward with his cane, oblivious of the invisible windspren. His face was as full of chasms as the Shattered Plains themselves, weaving out in a pattern from his deeply recessed eyes. He wore a pair of thick spectacles on the tip of his nose, and was dressed in dark robes.
Kaladin's father had told him of apothecaries-men who walked the line between herbalists and surgeons. Common people regarded the healing arts with enough superstition that it was easy for an apothecary to cultivate an arcane air. The wooden walls were draped with cloth glyphwards styled in cryptic patterns, and behind the counter were shelves with rows of jars. A full human skeleton hung in the far corner, held together by wires. The windowless room was lit with bundles of garnet spheres hanging from the corners.
Despite all that, the place was clean and tidy. It had the familiar scent of antiseptic Kaladin associated with his father's surgery.
"Ah, young bridgeman." The short apothecary adjusted his spectacles. He stooped forward, running his fingers through his wispy white beard. "Come for a ward against danger, perhaps? Or maybe a young washwoman in the camp has caught your eye? I have a potion which, if slipped into her drink, will make her regard you with favor."
Kaladin raised an eyebrow.
Syl, however, opened her mouth in an amazed expression. "You should give that to Gaz, Kaladin. It would be nice if he liked you more."
I doubt that's what it's intended for, Kaladin thought with a smile.
"Young bridgeman?" the apothecary asked. "Is it a charm against evil you desire?"
Kaladin's father had spoken of these things. Many apothecaries purveyed supposed love charms or potions to cure all manner of ailments. They'd contain nothing more than some sugar and a few pinches of common herbs to give a spike of alertness or drowsiness, depending on the purported effect. It was all nonsense, though Kaladin's mother had put great stock in glyphwards. Kaladin's father had always expressed disappointment in her stubborn way of clinging to "superstitions."
"I need some bandages," Kaladin said. "And a flask of lister's oil or knobweed sap. Also, a needle and gut, if you have any."
The apothecary's eyes opened wide in surprise.
"I'm the son of a surgeon," Kaladin admitted. "Trained by his hand. He was trained by a man who had studied in the Great Concourse of Kharbranth."
"Ah," the apothecary said. "Well." He stood up straighter, setting aside his cane and brushing his robes. "Bandages, you said? And some antiseptic? Let me see…" He moved back behind the counter.
Kaladin blinked. The man's age hadn't changed, but he didn't seem nearly as frail. His step was firmer, and his voice had lost its whispering raspiness. He searched through his bottles, mumbling to himself as he read off his labels. "You could just go to the surgeon's hall. They would charge you far less."
"Not for a bridgeman," Kaladin said, grimacing. He'd been turned away. The supplies there were for real soldiers.
"I see," the apothecary said, setting a jar on the counter, then bending down to poke in some drawers.
Syl flitted over to Kaladin. "Every time he bends I think he'll snap like a twig." She was growing able to understand abstract thought, and at a surprisingly rapid pace.
I know what death is… He still wasn't certain whether to feel sorry for her or not.
Kaladin picked up the small bottle and undid the cork, smelling what was inside. "Larmic mucus?" He grimaced at the foul smell. "That's not nearly as effective as the two I asked for."
"But it's far cheaper," the old man said, coming up with a large box. He opened the lid, revealing sterile white bandages. "And you, as has been noted, are a bridgeman."
"How much for the mucus, then?" He'd been worried about this; his father had never mentioned how much his supplies cost.
"Two bloodmarks for the bottle."
"That's what you consider cheap?"
"Lister's oil costs two sapphire marks."
"And knobweed sap?" Kaladin said. "I saw some of reeds of it growing just outside of camp! It can't be that rare."
"And do you know how much sap comes from a single plant?" the apothecary asked, pointing.
Kaladin hesitated. It wasn't true sap, but a milky substance that you could squeeze from the stalks. Or so his father had said. "No," Kaladin admitted.
"A single drop," the man said. "If you're lucky. It's cheaper than lister's oil, sure, but more expensive than the mucus. Even if the mucus does stink like the Nightwatcher's own backside."
"I don't have that much," Kaladin said. It was five diamond marks to a garnet. Ten days' pay to buy one small jar of antiseptic. Stormfather!
The apothecary sniffed. "The needle and gut will cost two clearmarks. Can you afford that, at least?"
"Barely. How much for the bandages? Two full emeralds?"
"They're just old scraps that I bleached and boiled. Two clearchips an arm length."
"I'll give a mark for the box."
"Very well." Kaladin reached into his pocket to get the spheres as the old apothecary continued, "You surgeons, all the same. Never give a blink to consider where your supplies come from. You just use them like there will be no end."
"You can't put a price on a person's life," Kaladin said. One of his father's sayings. It was the main reason that Lirin had never charged for his services.
Kaladin brought out his four marks. He hesitated when he saw them, however. Only one was still glowing with its soft crystal light. The other three were dull, the bits of diamond barely visible at the center of the drops of glass.
"Here now," the apothecary said, squinting. "You trying to pass dun spheres off on me?" He snatched one before Kaladin could complain, then fished around under his counter. He brought up a jeweler's loupe, removing his spectacles and holding the sphere up toward the light. "Ah. No, that's a real gemstone. You should get your spheres infused, bridgeman. Not everyone is as trusting as I am."
"They were glowing this morning," Kaladin protested. "Gaz must have paid me with run-down spheres."
The apothecary removed his loupe and replaced the spectacles. He selected three marks, including the glowing one.
"Could I have that one?" Kaladin asked.
The apothecary frowned.
"Always keep a glowing sphere in your pocket," Kaladin said. "It's good luck."
"You certain you don't want a love potion?"
"If you get caught in the dark, you'll have light," Kaladin said tersely. "Besides, as you said, most people aren't as trusting as you."
Reluctantly, the apothecary traded the infused sphere for the dead one-though he did check it with the loupe to be certain. A dun sphere was worth just as much as an infused one; all you had to do was leave it out in a highstorm, and it would recharge and give off light for a week or so.
Kaladin pocketed the infused sphere and picked up his purchase. He nodded farewell to the apothecary, and Syl joined him as he stepped out into the camp's street.
He'd spent some of the afternoon listening to soldiers at the mess hall, and he'd learned some things about the warcamps. Things he should have learned weeks ago, but had been too despondent to care about. He now knew about the chrysalises on the plateaus, the gemhearts they contained, and the competition between the highprinces. He understood why Sadeas pushed his men so hard, and he was beginning to see why Sadeas turned around if they got to the plateau later than another army. That wasn't very common. More often, Sadeas arrived first, and the other Alethi armies that came up behind them had to turn back.
The warcamps were enormous. All told, there were over a hundred thousand troops in the various Alethi camps, many times the population of Hearthstone. And that wasn't counting the civilians. A mobile warcamp attracted a large array of camp followers; stationary warcamps like these on the Shattered Plains brought even more.
Each of the ten warcamps filled its own crater, and was filled with an incongruous mix of Soulcast buildings, shanties, and tents. Some merchants, like the apothecary, had the money to build a wooden structure. Those who lived in tents took them down for storms, then paid for shelter elsewhere. Even within the crater, the stormwinds were strong, particularly where the outer wall was low or broken. Some places-like the lumberyard-were completely exposed.
The street bustled with the usual crowd. Women in skirts and blouses-the wives, sisters, or daughters of the soldiers, merchants, or craftsmen. Workers in trousers or overalls. A large number of soldiers in leathers, carrying spear and shield. All were Sadeas's men. Soldiers of one camp didn't mix with those of another, and you stayed away from another brightlord's crater unless you had business there.
Kaladin shook his head in dismay.
"What?" Syl asked, settling on his shoulder.
"I hadn't expected there to be so much discord among the camps here. I thought it would all be one king's army, unified."
"People are discord," Syl said.
"What does that mean?"
"You all act differently and think differently. Nothing else is like that-animals act alike, and all spren are, in a sense, virtually the same individual. There's harmony in that. But not in you-it seems that no two of you can agree on anything. All the world does as it is supposed to, except for humans. Maybe that's why you so often want to kill each other."
"But not all windspren act alike," Kaladin said, opening the box and tucking some of the bandages into the pocket he'd sewn into the inside of his leather vest. "You're proof of that."
"I know," she said softly. "Maybe now you can see why it bothers me so."
Kaladin didn't know how to respond to that. Eventually, he reached the lumberyard. A few members of Bridge Four lounged in the shade on the east side of their barrack. It would be interesting to see one of those barracks get made-they were Soulcast directly from air into stone. Unfortunately, Soulcastings happened at night, and under strict guard to keep the holy rite from being witnessed by anyone other than ardents or very high-ranking lighteyes.
The first afternoon bell sounded right as Kaladin reached the barrack, and he caught a glare from Gaz for nearly being late for bridge duty. Most of that "duty" would be spent sitting around, waiting for the horns to blow. Well, Kaladin didn't intend to waste time. He couldn't risk tiring himself by carrying the plank, not when a bridge run could be imminent, but perhaps he could do some stretches or A horn sounded in the air, crisp and clean. It was like the mythical horn that was said to guide the souls of the brave to heaven's battlefield. Kaladin froze. As always, he waited for the second blast, an irrational part of him needing to hear confirmation. It came, sounding a pattern indicating the location of the pupating chasmfiend.
Soldiers began to scramble toward the staging area beside the lumberyard; others ran into camp to fetch their gear. "Line up!" Kaladin shouted, dashing up to the bridgemen. "Storm you! Every man in a line!"
They ignored him. Some of the men weren't wearing their vests, and they clogged the barrack doorway, all trying to get in. Those who had their vests ran for the bridge. Kaladin followed, frustrated. Once there, the men gathered around the bridge in a carefully prearranged manner. Each man got a chance to be in the best position: running in front up to the chasm, then moving to the relative safety of the back for the final approach.
There was a strict rotation, and errors were neither made nor tolerated. Bridge crews had a brutal system of self-management: If a man tried to cheat, the others forced him to run the final approach in front. That sort of thing was supposed to be forbidden, but Gaz turned a blind eye toward cheaters. He also refused bribes to let men change positions. Perhaps he knew that the only stability-the only hope-the bridgemen had was in their rotation. Life wasn't fair, being a bridgeman wasn't fair, but at least if you ran the deathline and survived, the next time you got to run at the back.
There was one exception. As bridgeleader, Kaladin got to run in the front most of the way, then move to the back for the assault. His was the safest position in the group, though no bridgeman was truly safe. Kaladin was like a moldy crust on a starving man's plate; not the first bite, but still doomed.
He got into position. Yake, Dunny, and Malop were the last stragglers. Once they'd taken their places, Kaladin commanded the men to lift. He was half surprised to be obeyed, but there was almost always a bridgeleader to give commands during a run. The voice changed, but the simple orders did not. Lift, run, lower.
Twenty bridges charged down from the lumberyard and toward the Shattered Plains. Kaladin noticed a group of bridgemen from Bridge Seven watching with relief. They'd been on duty until the first afternoon bell; they'd avoided this run by mere moments.
The bridgemen worked hard. It wasn't just because of threats of beatings-they ran so hard because they wanted to arrive at the target plateau before the Parshendi did. If they did so, there would be no arrows, no death. And so running their bridges was the one thing the bridgemen did without reservation or laziness. Though many hated their lives, they still clung to them with white-knuckled fervor.
They clomped across the first of the permanent bridges. Kaladin's muscles groaned in protest at being worked again so soon, but he tried not to dwell on his fatigue. The highstorm's rains from the night before meant that most plants were still open, rockbuds spewing out vines, flowering branzahs reaching clawlike branches out of crevices toward the sky. There were also occasional prickletacs: the needly, stone-limbed little shrubs Kaladin had noticed his first time through the area. Water pooled in the numerous crevices and depressions on the surface of the uneven plateau.
Gaz called out directions, telling them which pathway to take. Many of the nearby plateaus had three or four bridges, creating branching paths across the Plains. The running became rote. It was exhausting, but it was also familiar, and it was nice to be at the front, where he could see where he was going. Kaladin fell into his usual step-counting mantra, as he'd been advised to do by that nameless bridgeman whose sandals he still wore.
Eventually, they reached the last of the permanent bridges. They crossed a short plateau, passing the smoldering ruins of a bridge the Parshendi had destroyed during the night. How had the Parshendi managed that, during a highstorm? Earlier, while listening to the soldiers, he'd learned that the soldiers regarded the Parshendi with hatred, anger, and not a little awe. These Parshendi weren't like the lazy, nearly mute parshmen who worked throughout Roshar. These Parshendi were warriors of no small skill. That still struck Kaladin as incongruous. Parshmen? Fighting? It was just so strange.
Bridge Four and the other crews got their bridges down, spanning a chasm where it was narrowest. His men collapsed to the ground around their bridge, relaxing while the army crossed. Kaladin nearly joined them-in fact, his knees nearly buckled in anticipation.
No, he thought, steadying himself. No. I stand.
It was a foolish gesture. The other bridgemen barely paid him any heed. One man, Moash, even swore at him. But now that Kaladin had made the decision, he stubbornly stuck to it, clasping his hands behind his back and falling into parade rest while watching the army cross.
"Ho, little bridgeman!" a soldier called from among those waiting their turn. "Curious at what real soldiers look like?"
Kaladin turned toward the man, a solid, brown-eyed fellow with arms the size of many men's thighs. He was a squadleader, by the knots on the shoulder of his leather jerkin. Kaladin had borne those knots once.
"How do you treat your spear and shield, squadleader?" Kaladin called back.
The man frowned, but Kaladin knew what he was thinking. A soldier's gear was his life; you cared for your weapon as you'd care for your children, often seeing to its upkeep before you took food or rest.
Kaladin nodded to the bridge. "This is my bridge," he said in a loud voice. "It is my weapon, the only one allowed me. Treat her well."
"Or you'll do what?" called one of the other soldiers, prompting laughter among the ranks. The squadleader said nothing. He looked troubled.
Kaladin's words were bravado. In truth, he hated the bridge. Still, he remained standing.
A few moments later, Highprince Sadeas himself crossed on Kaladin's bridge. Brightlord Amaram had always seemed so heroic, so distinguished. A gentleman general. This Sadeas was a different creature entirely, with that round face, curly hair, and lofty expression. He rode as if he were in a parade, one hand lightly holding the reins before him, the other carrying his helm under his arm. His armor was painted red, and the helm bore frivolous tassels. There was so much pointless pomp that it nearly overshadowed the wonder of the ancient artifact.
Kaladin forgot his fatigue and formed his hands into fists. Here was a lighteyes he could hate even more than most, a man so callous that he threw away the lives of hundreds of bridgemen each month. A man who had expressly forbidden his bridgemen to have shields for reasons Kaladin still didn't understand.
Sadeas and his honor guard soon passed, and Kaladin realized that he probably should have bowed. Sadeas hadn't noticed, but it could have made trouble if he had. Shaking his head, Kaladin roused his bridge crew, though it took special prodding to get Rock-the large Horneater-up and moving. Once across the chasm, his men picked up their bridge and jogged toward the next chasm.
The process was repeated enough times that Kaladin lost count. At each crossing, he refused to lie down. He stood with hands behind his back, watching the army pass. More soldiers took note of him, jeering. Kaladin ignored them, and by the fifth or sixth crossing, the jeers faded. The one other time he saw Brightlord Sadeas, Kaladin gave a bow, though it made his stomach twist to do so. He did not serve this man. He did not give this man allegiance. But he did serve his men of Bridge Four. He would save them, and that meant he had to keep himself from being punished for insolence.
"Reverse runners!" Gaz called. "Cross and reverse!"
Kaladin turned sharply. The next crossing would be the assault. He squinted, looking into the distance, and could just barely make out a line of dark figures gathering on another plateau. The Parshendi had arrived and were forming up. Behind them, a group worked on breaking open the chrysalis.
Kaladin felt a spike of frustration. Their speed hadn't been enough. And-tired though they were-Sadeas would want to attack quickly, before the Parshendi could get the gemheart out of its shell.
The bridgemen rose from their rest, silent, haunted. They knew what was coming. They crossed the chasm and pulled the bridge over, then rearranged themselves in reverse order. The soldiers formed ranks. It was all so silent, like men preparing to carry a casket to the pyre.
The bridgemen left a space for Kaladin at the back, sheltered and protected. Syl alighted on the bridge, looking at the spot. Kaladin walked up to it, so tired, mentally and physically. He'd pushed himself too hard in the morning, then again by standing instead of resting. What had possessed him to do such a thing? He could barely walk.
He looked over the bridgemen. His men were resigned, despondent, terrified. If they refused to run, they'd be executed. If they did run, they'd face the arrows. They didn't look toward the distant line of Parshendi archers. Instead, they looked down.
They are your men, Kaladin told himself. They need you to lead them, even if they don't know it.
How can you lead from the rear?
He stepped out of line and rounded the bridge; two of the men-Drehy and Teft-looked up in shock as he passed. The deathpoint-the spot in the very center of the front-was being held by Rock, the beefy, tan-skinned Horneater. Kaladin tapped him on the shoulder. "You're in my spot, Rock."
The man glanced at him, surprised. "But-"
"To the back with you."
Rock frowned. Nobody ever tried to jump ahead in the order. "You're airsick, lowlander," he said with his thick accent. "You wish to die? Why do you not just go leap into the chasm? That would be easier."
"I'm bridgeleader. It's my privilege to run at the front. Go."
Rock shrugged, but did as ordered, taking Kaladin's position at the back. Nobody said a word. If Kaladin wanted to get himself killed, who were they to complain?
Kaladin looked over the bridgemen. "The longer we take to get this bridge down, the more arrows they can loose at us. Stay firm, stay determined, and be quick. Raise bridge!"
The men lifted, inner rows moving underneath and situating themselves in rows of five across. Kaladin stood at the very front with a tall, stout man named Leyten to his left, a spindly man named Murk to his right. Adis and Corl were at the edges. Five men in front. The deathline.
Once all of the crews had their bridges up, Gaz gave the command. "Assault!"
They ran, dashing alongside the standing ranks of the army, passing soldiers holding spears and shields. Some watched with curiosity, perhaps amused at the sight of the lowly bridgemen running so urgently to their deaths. Others looked away, perhaps ashamed of the lives it would cost to get them across that chasm.
Kaladin kept his eyes forward, squelching that incredulous voice in the back of his mind, one that screamed he was doing something very stupid. He barreled toward the final chasm, focused on the Parshendi line. Figures with black and crimson skin holding bows.
Syl flitted close to Kaladin's head, no longer in the form of a person, streaking like a ribbon of light. She zipped in front of him.
The bows came up. Kaladin hadn't been at the deathpoint during a charge this bad since his first day on the crew. They always put new men into rotation at the deathpoint. That way, if they died, you didn't have to worry about training them.
The Parshendi archers drew, aiming at five or six of the bridge crews. Bridge Four was obviously in their sights.
The bows loosed.
"Tien!" Kaladin screamed, nearly mad with fatigue and frustration. He bellowed the name aloud-uncertain why-as a wall of arrows zipped toward him. Kaladin felt a jolt of energy, a surge of sudden strength, unanticipated and unexplained.
The arrows landed.
Murk fell without a sound, four or five arrows striking him, spraying his blood across the stones. Leyten dropped as well, and with him both Adis and Corl. Shafts struck the ground at Kaladin's feet, shattering, and a good half dozen hit the wood around Kaladin's head and hands.
Kaladin didn't know if he'd been hit. He was too flush with energy and alarm. He continued running, screaming, holding the bridge on his shoulders. For some reason, a group of Parshendi archers ahead lowered their bows. He saw their marbled skin, strange reddish or orange helms, and simple brown clothing. They appeared confused.
Whatever the reason, it gained Bridge Four a few precious moments. By the time the Parshendi raised their bows again, Kaladin's team had reached the chasm. His men fell into line with the other bridge crews-there were only fifteen bridges now. Five had fallen. They closed the gaps as they arrived.
Kaladin screamed for the bridgemen to drop amid another spray of arrows. One sliced open the skin near his ribs, deflecting off the bone. He felt it hit, but didn't feel any pain. He scrambled around the side of the bridge, helping push. Kaladin's team slammed the bridge into place as a wave of Alethi arrows distracted the enemy archers.
A troop of cavalry charged across the bridges. The bridgemen were soon forgotten. Kaladin fell to his knees beside the bridge as the others of his crew stumbled away, bloodied and hurt, their part in the battle over.
Kaladin held his side, feeling the blood there. Straight laceration, only about an inch long, not wide enough to be of danger.
It was his father's voice.
Kaladin panted. He needed to get to safety. Arrows zipped over his head, fired by the Alethi archers.
Some people take lives. Other people save lives.
He wasn't done yet. Kaladin forced himself to his feet and staggered to where someone lay beside the bridge. It was a bridgeman named Hobber; he had an arrow through the leg. The man moaned, holding his thigh.
Kaladin grabbed him under the arms and pulled him away from the bridge. The man cursed at the pain, dazed, as Kaladin towed him to a cleft behind a small bulge in the rock where Rock and some of the other bridgemen had sought shelter.
After dropping off Hobber-the arrow hadn't hit any major arteries, and he would be fine for a time yet-Kaladin turned and tried to rush back out onto the battlefield proper. He slipped, however, stumbling in his fatigue. He hit the ground hard, grunting.
Some take lives. Some save lives.
He pushed himself to his feet, sweat dripping from his brow, and scrambled back toward the bridge, his father's voice in his ears. The next bridgeman he found, a man named Koorm, was dead. Kaladin left the body.
Gadol had a deep wound in the side where an arrow had passed completely through him. His face was covered with blood from a gash on his temple, and he'd managed to crawl a short distance from the bridge. He looked up with frenzied black eyes, orange painspren waving around him. Kaladin grabbed him under the arms and towed him away just before a thundering charge of cavalry trampled the place where he'd been lying.
Kaladin dragged Gadol over to the cleft, noting two more dead. He did a quick count. That made twenty-nine bridgemen, including the dead he'd seen. Five were missing. Kaladin stumbled back out onto the battlefield.
Soldiers had bunched up around the back of the bridge, archers forming at the sides and firing into the Parshendi lines as the heavy cavalry charge-led by Highprince Sadeas himself, virtually indestructible in his Shardplate-tried to push the enemy back.
Kaladin wavered, dizzy, dismayed at the sight of so many men running, shouting, firing arrows and throwing spears. Five bridgemen, probably dead, lost in all of that He spotted a figure huddled just beside the chasm lip with arrows flying back and forth over his head. It was Dabbid, one of the bridgemen. He curled up, arm twisted at an awkward angle.
Kaladin charged in. He threw himself to the ground and crawled beneath the zipping arrows, hoping that the Parshendi would ignore a couple of unarmed bridgemen. Dabbid didn't even notice when Kaladin reached him. He was in shock, lips moving soundlessly, eyes dazed. Kaladin grabbed him awkwardly, afraid to stand up too high lest an arrow hit him.
He dragged Dabbid away from the edge in a clumsy half crawl. He kept slipping on blood, falling, abrading his arms on the rock, hitting his face against the stone. He persisted, towing the younger man out from underneath the flying arrows. Finally, he got far enough away that he risked standing. He tried to pick up Dabbid. But his muscles were so weak. He strained and slipped, exhausted, falling to the stones.
He lay there, gasping, the pain of his side finally washing over him. So tired…
He stood up shakily, then tried again to grab Dabbid. He blinked away tears of frustration, too weak to even pull the man.
"Airsick lowlander," a voice growled.
Kaladin turned as Rock arrived. The massive Horneater grabbed Dabbid under the arms, pulling him. "Crazy," he grumbled to Kaladin, but easily lifted the wounded bridgeman and carried him back to the hollow.
Kaladin followed. He collapsed in the hollow, his back to the rock. The surviving bridgemen huddled around him, eyes haunted. Rock set Dabbid down.
"Four more," Kaladin said between gasps. "We have to find them…"
"Murk and Leyten," Teft said. The older bridgeman had been near the back this run, and hadn't taken any wounds. "And Adis and Corl. They were in the front."
That's right, Kaladin thought, exhausted. How could I forget… "Murk is dead," he said. "The others might live." He tried to stumble to his feet.
"Idiot," Rock said. "Stay here. Is all right. I will do this thing." He hesitated. "Guess I'm an idiot too." He scowled, but went back out onto the battlefield. Teft hesitated, then chased after him.
Kaladin breathed in and out, holding his side. He couldn't decide if the pain of the arrow impact hurt more than the cut.
Save lives…
He crawled over to the three wounded. Hobber-with an arrow through the leg-would wait, and Dabbid had only a broken arm. Gadol was the worst off, with that hole in his side. Kaladin stared at the wound. He didn't have an operating table; he didn't even have antiseptic. How was he supposed to do anything?
He shoved despair aside. "One of you go fetch me a knife," he told the bridgemen. "Take it off the body of a soldier who has fallen. Someone else build a fire!"
The bridgemen looked at each other.
"Dunny, you get the knife," Kaladin said as he held his hand to Gadol's wound, trying to stanch the blood. "Narm, can you make a fire?"
"With what?" the man asked.
Kaladin pulled off his vest and shirt, then handed the shirt to Narm. "Use this as tinder and gather some fallen arrows for wood. Does anyone have flint and steel?"
Moash did, fortunately. You carried anything valuable you had with you on a bridge run; other bridgemen might steal it if you left it behind.
"Move quickly!" Kaladin said. "Someone else, go rip open a rockbud and get me the watergourd inside."
They stood for a few moments. Then, blessedly, they did as he demanded. Perhaps they were too stunned to object. Kaladin tore open Gadol's shirt, exposing the wound. It was bad, terribly bad. If it had cut the intestines or some of the other organs…
He ordered one of the bridgemen to hold a bandage to Gadol's forehead to stanch the smaller blood flow there-anything would help-and inspected the wounded side with the speed his father had taught him. Dunny returned quickly with a knife. Narm was having trouble with the fire, though. The man cursed, trying his flint and steel again.
Gadol was spasming. Kaladin pressed bandages to the wound, feeling helpless. There wasn't a place he could make a tourniquet for a wound like this. There wasn't anything he could do but Gadol spit up blood, coughing. "They break the land itself!" he hissed, eyes wild. "They want it, but in their rage they will destroy it. Like the jealous man burns his rich things rather than let them be taken by his enemies! They come!"
He gasped. And then he fell still, his dead eyes staring upward, bloody spittle running in a trail down his cheek. His final, haunting words hung over them. Not far away, soldiers fought and screamed, but the bridgemen were silent.
Kaladin sat back, stunned-as always-by the pain of losing someone. His father had always said that time would dull his sensitivity.
In this, Lirin had been wrong.
He felt so tired. Rock and Teft were hurrying back toward the cleft in the rock, bearing a body between them.
They wouldn't have brought anyone unless he was still alive, Kaladin told himself. Think of the ones you can help. "Keep that fire going!" he said, pointing at Narm. "Don't let it die! Someone heat the blade in it."
Narm jumped, noticing as if for the first time that he'd actually managed to get a small flame started. Kaladin turned away from the dead Gadol and made room for Rock and Teft. They deposited a very bloody Leyten on the ground. He was breathing shallowly and had two arrows sticking from him, one from the shoulder, the other from the opposite arm. Another had grazed his stomach, and the cut there had been widened by movement. It looked like his left leg had been trampled by a horse; it was broken, and he had a large gash where the skin had split.
"The other three are dead," Teft said. "He nearly is too. Nothing much we can do. But you said to bring him, so-"
Kaladin knelt down immediately, working with careful, efficient speed. He pressed a bandage against the side, holding it in place with his knee, then tied a quick bandage on the leg, ordering one of the soldiers to hold it firm and elevate the limb. "Where's that knife!" Kaladin yelled, hurriedly tying a loose tourniquet around the arm. He needed to stop the blood right now; he'd worry about saving the arm later.
Youthful Dunny rushed over with the heated blade. Kaladin lifted the side bandage and quickly cauterized the wound there. Leyten was unconscious, his breathing growing more shallow.
"You will not die," Kaladin muttered. "You will not die!" His mind was numb, but his fingers knew the motions. For a moment, he was back in his father's surgery room, listening to careful instruction. He cut the arrow from Leyten's arm, but left the one in his shoulder, then sent the knife back to be reheated.
Peet finally returned with the watergourd. Kaladin snatched it, using it to clean the leg wound, which was the nastiest, as it had been caused by trampling. When the knife came back, Kaladin pulled the arrow free of the shoulder and cauterized the wound as best he could, then used another of his quickly disappearing bandages to tie the wound.
He splinted the leg with arrow shafts-the only thing they had. With a grimace, he cauterized the wound there too. He hated to cause so many scars, but he couldn't afford to let any more blood be lost. He was going to need antiseptic. How soon could he get some of that mucus?
"Don't you dare die!" Kaladin said, barely conscious that he was speaking. He quickly tied off the leg wound, then used his needle and thread to sew the arm wound. He bandaged it, then untied the tourniquet most of the way.
Finally, he settled back, looking at the wounded man, completely drained. Leyten was still breathing. How long would that last? The odds were against him.
The bridgemen stood or sat around Kaladin, looking strangely reverent. Kaladin tiredly moved over to Hobber and saw to the man's leg wound. It didn't need to be cauterized. Kaladin washed it out, cut away some splinters, then sewed it. There were painspren all around the man, tiny orange hands stretching up from the ground.
Kaladin sliced off the cleanest portion of bandage he'd used on Gadol and tied it around Hobber's wound. He hated the uncleanliness of it, but there was no other choice. Then he set Dabbid's arm with some arrows he had the other bridgemen fetch, using Dabbid's shirt to tie them in place. Then, finally, Kaladin sat back against the lip of stone, letting out a long, fatigued breath.
Bangs of metal on metal and shouts of soldiers rang from behind. He felt so tired. Too tired to even close his eyes. He just wanted to sit and stare at the ground forever.
Teft settled down beside him. The grizzled man had the watergourd, which still had some liquid in the bottom. "Drink, lad. You need it."
"We should clean the wounds of the other men," Kaladin said numbly. "They took scrapes-I saw some had cuts-and they should-"
"Drink," Teft said, his crackly voice insistent.
Kaladin hesitated, then drank the water. It tasted strongly bitter, like the plant from which it had been taken.
"Where'd you learn to heal men like that?" Teft asked. Several of the nearby bridgemen turned toward him at the question.
"I wasn't always a slave," Kaladin whispered.
"These things you did, they won't make a difference," Rock said, walking up. The massive Horneater squatted down. "Gaz makes us leave behind wounded who cannot walk. Is standing order from above."
"I'll deal with Gaz," Kaladin said, resting his head back against the stone. "Go return that knife to the body you took it off. I don't want to be accused of thievery. Then, when the time comes to leave, I want two men in charge of Leyten and two men in charge of Hobber. We'll tie them to the top of the bridge and carry them. At the chasms, you'll have to move quickly and untie them before the army crosses, then retie them at the end. We'll also need someone to lead Dabbid, if his shock hasn't passed."
"Gaz won't stand for this thing," Rock said.
Kaladin closed his eyes, declining further argument.
The battle was a long one. As evening approached, the Parshendi finally retreated, jumping away across the chasms with their unnaturally powerful legs. There was a chorus of shouts from the Alethi soldiers, who had won the day. Kaladin forced himself to his feet and went looking for Gaz. It would be a while yet before they could get the chrysalis open-it was like pounding on stone-but he needed to deal with the bridge sergeant.
He found Gaz watching from well behind the battle lines. He glanced at Kaladin with his one eye. "How much of that blood is yours?"
Kaladin looked down, realizing for the first time that he was crusted with dark, flaking blood, most belonging to the men he'd worked on. He didn't answer the question. "We're taking our wounded with us."
Gaz shook his head. "If they can't walk, they stay behind. Standing orders. Not my choice."
"We're taking them," Kaladin said, no more firm, no more loud.
"Brightlord Lamaril won't stand for it." Lamaril was Gaz's immediate superior.
"You'll send Bridge Four last, to lead the wounded soldiers back to camp. Lamaril won't go with that troop; he'll go on ahead with the main body, as he won't want to miss Sadeas's victory feast."
Gaz opened his mouth.
"My men will move quickly and efficiently," Kaladin said, interrupting him. "They won't slow anyone." He took the last sphere from his pocket and handed it over. "You won't say anything."
Gaz took the sphere, snorting. "One clearmark? You think that will make me take a risk this big?"
"If you don't," Kaladin said, voice calm, "I will kill you and let them execute me."
Gaz blinked in surprise. "You'd never-"
Kaladin took a single step forward. He must have looked a dreadful sight, covered in blood. Gaz paled. Then he cursed, holding up the dark sphere. "And a dun sphere at that."
Kaladin frowned. He was sure it had still glowed before the bridge run. "That's your fault. You gave it to me."
"Those spheres were newly infused last night," Gaz said. "They came straight from Brightlord Sadeas's treasurer. What did you do with them?"
Kaladin shook his head, too exhausted to think. Syl landed on his shoulder as he turned to walk back to the bridgemen.
"What are they to you?" Gaz called after him. "Why do you even care?"
"They're my men."
He left Gaz behind. "I don't trust him," Syl said, looking over her shoulder. "He could just say you threatened him and send men to arrest you."
"Maybe he will," Kaladin said. "I guess I just have to count on him wanting more of my bribes."
Kaladin continued on, listening to the shouts of the victors and the groans of their wounded. The plateaus were littered with corpses, bunched up along the edges of the chasm, where the bridges had made a focus for the battle. The Parshendi-as always-had left their dead behind. Even when they won, they reportedly left their dead. The humans sent back bridge crews and soldiers to burn their dead and send their spirits to the afterlife, where the best among them would fight in the Heralds' army.
"Spheres," Syl said, still looking at Gaz. "That doesn't seem like much to count on."
"Maybe. Maybe not. I've seen the way he looks at them. He wants the money I give him. Perhaps badly enough to keep him in line." Kaladin shook his head. "What you said earlier is right; men are unreliable in many things. But if there's one thing you can count on, it's their greed."
It was a bitter thought. But it had been a bitter day. A hopeful, bright beginning, and a bloody, red sunset.
Just like every day.
Map of Alethi warcamps by the painter Vandonas, who visited the warcamps once and painted perhaps an idealized representation of them.
Ati was once a kind and generous man, and you saw what became of him. Rayse, on the other hand, was among the most loathsome, crafty, and dangerous individuals I had ever met. "Yeah, this was cut," the portly leatherworker said, holding up the straps as Adolin watched. "Wouldn't you agree, Yis?"
The other leatherworker nodded. Yis was a yellow-eyed Iriali, with stark golden hair. Not blond, golden. There was even a metallic sheen to it. He kept it short and wore a cap. Obviously, he didn't want to draw attention to it. Many considered a lock of Iriali hair to be a ward of good luck.
His companion, Avaran, was an Alethi darkeyes who wore an apron over his vest. If the two men worked in the traditional way, one would labor on the larger, more robust pieces-like saddles-while the other specialized in fine detail. A group of apprentices toiled in the background, cutting or sewing hogshide.
"Sliced," Yis agreed, taking the straps from Avaran. "I concur."
"Well hie me to Damnation," Adolin muttered. "You mean Elhokar was actually right?"
"Adolin," a feminine voice said from behind. "You said we'd be going on a walk."
"That's what we're doing," he said, turning to smile. Janala stood with arms folded, wearing a sleek yellow dress of impeccable fashion, buttoning up the sides, cupping around the neck with a stiff collar embroidered with crimson thread.
"I had imagined," she said, "that a walk would involve more walking."
"Hm," he said. "Yes. We'll be getting right to that soon. It'll be grand. Lots of prancing, sauntering, and, er…"
"Promenading?" Yis the leatherworker offered.
"Isn't that a type of drink?" Adolin asked.
"Er, no, Brightlord. I'm fairly certain it's another word for walking."
"Well, then," Adolin said. "We'll do plenty of it too. Promenading. I always love a good promenading." He rubbed his chin, taking the strap back. "How certain are you about this strap?"
"There's really no room for question, Brightlord," Avaran said. "That's not a simple tear. You should be more careful."
"Careful?"
"Yes," Avaran said. "Make sure that no loose buckles are scraping the leather, cutting into it. This looks like it came from a saddle. Sometimes, people let the girth straps hang down when setting the saddle for the night, and they get pinched underneath something. I'd guess that caused the slice."
"Oh," Adolin said. "You mean it wasn't cut intentionally?"
"Well, it could have been that," Avaran said. "But why would someone cut a girth like this?"
Why indeed, Adolin thought. He bid farewell to the two leatherworkers, tucked the strap into his pocket, then held out his elbow to Janala. She took it with her freehand, obviously happy to finally be free of the leather-working shop. It had a faint odor about it, though not nearly as bad as a tannery. He'd seen her reaching for her handkerchief a few times, acting as if she wanted to hold it up to her nose.
They stepped out into the midday sunlight. Tibon and Marks-two lighteyed members of the Cobalt Guard-waited outside with Janala's handmaiden, Falksi, who was a young Azish darkeyes. The three fell into step behind Adolin and Janala as they walked out onto the street of the warcamp, Falksi muttering under her breath in an accented voice about the lack of a proper palanquin for her mistress.
Janala didn't seem to mind. She breathed deeply of the open air and clung to his arm. She was quite beautiful, even if she did like to talk about herself. Talkativeness was normally an attribute he was fond of in a woman, but today he had trouble paying attention as Janala began telling him about the latest court gossip.
The strap had been cut, but the leatherworkers had both assumed that it was the result of an accident. That implied they'd seen cuts like this before. A loose buckle or other mishap slicing the leather.
Except this time, that cut had thrown the king in the middle of a fight. Could there be something to it?
"…wouldn't you say, Adolin?" Janala asked.
"Undoubtedly," he said, listening with half an ear.
"So you'll talk to him?"
"Hum?"
"Your father. You'll ask him about letting the men abandon that dreadfully unfashionable uniform once in a while?"
"Well, he's rather set on the idea," Adolin said. "Besides, it's really not that unfashionable."
Janala gave him a flat stare.
"All right," he admitted. "It is a little drab." Like every other high-ranked lighteyed officer in Dalinar's army, Adolin wore a simple blue out-fit of militaristic cut. A long coat of solid blue-no embroidery-and stiff trousers in a time when vests, silk accents, and scarves were the fashion. His father's Kholin glyphpair was emblazoned quite obtrusively on the back and breast, and the front fastened with silver buttons up both sides. It was simple, distinctly recognizable, but awfully plain.
"Your father's men love him, Adolin," Janala said. "But his requirements are growing tiresome."
"I know. Trust me. But I don't think I can change his mind." How to explain? Despite six years at war, Dalinar wasn't weakening in his resolve to hold to the Codes. If anything, his dedication to them was strengthening.
At least now Adolin understood somewhat. Dalinar's beloved brother had made one last request: Follow the Codes. True, that request had been in reference to a single event, but Adolin's father was known to take things to extremes.
Adolin just wished he wouldn't make the same requirement of everyone else. Individually, the Codes were only minor inconveniences-always be in uniform when in public, never be drunken, avoid dueling. In aggregate, however, they were burdensome.
His response to Janala was cut off as a set of horns blared through the camp. Adolin perked up, spinning, looking eastward toward the Shattered Plains. He counted off the next series of horns. A chrysalis had been spotted on plateau one-forty-seven. That was within striking distance!
He held his breath, waiting for a third series of horns to blare, calling Dalinar's armies to battle. That would only happen if his father ordered it.
Part of him knew those horns wouldn't come. One-forty-seven was close enough to Sadeas's warcamp that the other highprince would certainly try for it.
Come on, Father, Adolin thought. We can race him for it!
No horns came.
Adolin glanced at Janala. She'd chosen music as her Calling and paid little attention to the war, though her father was one of Dalinar's cavalry officers. From her expression, Adolin could tell that even she understood what the lack of a third horn meant.
Once again, Dalinar Kholin had chosen not to fight.
"Come on," Adolin said, turning and moving in another direction, practically towing Janala along by her elbow. "There's something else I want to check into." Dalinar stood with hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the Shattered Plains. He was on one of the lower terraces outside Elhokar's elevated palace-the king didn't reside in one of the ten warcamps, but in a small compound elevated along a hillside nearby. Dalinar's climb to the palace had been interrupted by the horns.
He stood long enough see Sadeas's army gathering inside his camp. Dalinar could have sent a soldier to prepare his own men. He was close enough.
"Brightlord?" a voice asked from the side. "Do you wish to continue?"
You protect him your way, Sadeas, Dalinar thought. I'll protect him my way.
"Yes, Teshav," he said, turning to continue walking up the switchbacks.
Teshav joined him. She had streaks of blond in her otherwise black Alethi hair, which she wore up in an intricate crossing weave. She had violet eyes, and her pinched face bore a concerned expression. That was normal; she always seemed to need something to worry about.
Teshav and her attendant scribe were both wives of his officers. Dalinar trusted them. Mostly. It was hard to trust anyone completely. Stop it, he thought. You're starting to sound as paranoid as the king.
Regardless, he'd be very glad for Jasnah's return. If she ever decided to return. Some of his higher officers hinted to him that he should marry again, if only to have a woman who could be his primary scribe. They thought he rejected their suggestions because of love for his first wife. They didn't know that she was gone, vanished from his mind, a blank patch of fog in his memory. Though, in a way, his officers were right. He hesitated to remarry because he hated the idea of replacing her. He'd had everything of his wife taken from him. All that remained was the hole, and filling it to gain a scribe seemed callous.
Dalinar continued on his way. Other than the two women, he was attended by Renarin and three members of the Cobalt Guard. The latter wore deep blue felt caps and cloaks over silvery breastplates and deep blue trousers. They were lighteyes of low rank, able to carry swords for close fighting.
"Well, Brightlord," Teshav said, "Brightlord Adolin asked me to report the progress of the saddle girth investigation. He's speaking with leatherworkers at this very moment, but so far, there is very little to say. Nobody witnessed anyone interfering with the saddle or His Majesty's horse. Our spies say there are no whispers of anyone in the other warcamps bragging, and nobody in our camp has suddenly received large sums of money, so far as we've discovered."
"The grooms?"
"Say they checked over the saddle," she said, "but when pressed, they admit that they can't specifically remember checking the girth." She shook her head. "Carrying a Shardbearer places great strain on both horse and saddle. If there were only some way to tame more Ryshadium…"
"I think you'll sooner tame the highstorms, Brightness. Well, this is good news, I suppose. Better for us all that this strap business turns out to be nothing. Now, there is another item I wish you to look into."
"It is my pleasure to serve, Brightlord."
"Highprince Aladar has begun to talk of taking a short vacation back to Alethkar. I want to know if he's serious."
"Yes, Brightlord." Teshav nodded. "Would that be a problem?"
"I'm honestly not sure." He didn't trust the highprinces, but at least with them all here, he could watch them. If one of them returned to Alethkar, the man could scheme unchecked. Of course, even brief visits might help stabilize their homeland.
Which was more important? Stability or the ability to watch over the others? Blood of my fathers, he thought. I wasn't made for this politicking and scheming. I was made to wield a sword and ride down enemies.
He'd do what needed to be done anyway. "I believe you said you had information on the king's accounts, Teshav?"
"Indeed," she said as they continued the short hike. "You were correct to have me look into the ledgers, as it appears that three of the highprinces-Thanadal, Hatham, and Vamah-are well behind in their payments. Other than yourself, only Highprince Sadeas has actually paid ahead on what is owed, as the tenets of war require."
Dalinar nodded. "The longer this war stretches, the more comfortable the highprinces are getting. They're starting to question. Why pay high war time rates for Soulcasting? Why not move farmers out here and start growing their own food?"
"Pardon, Brightlord," Teshav said as they turned around a switchback. Her attendant scribe walked behind, several ledgers clipped to boards carried in a satchel. "But do we really wish to discourage that? A second stream of supplies could be valuable as a redundancy."
"The merchants already provide redundancy," Dalinar said. "Which is one of the reasons I haven't chased them off. I wouldn't mind another, but the Soulcasters are the only hold we have on the highprinces. They owed Gavilar loyalty, but they feel little of that for his son." Dalinar narrowed his eyes. "This is a vital point, Teshav. Have you read the histories I suggested?"
"Yes, Brightlord."
"Then you know. The most fragile period in a kingdom's existence comes during the lifetime of its founder's heir. During the reign of a man like Gavilar, men stay loyal because of their respect for him. During subsequent generations, men begin to see themselves as part of a kingdom, a united force that holds together because of tradition.
"But the son's reign…that's the dangerous point. Gavilar isn't here to hold everyone together, but there isn't yet a tradition of Alethkar being a kingdom. We've got to carry on long enough for the highprinces to begin seeing themselves as part of a greater whole."
"Yes, Brightlord."
She didn't question. Teshav was deeply loyal to him, as were most of his officers. They didn't question why it was so important to him that the ten princedoms regard themselves as one nation. Perhaps they assumed it was because of Gavilar. Indeed, his brother's dream of a united Alethkar was part of it. There was something else, though.
The Everstorm comes. The True Desolation. The Night of Sorrows.
He suppressed a shiver. The visions certainly didn't make it sound like he had a great deal of time to prepare.
"Draft a missive in the king's name," Dalinar said, "decreasing Soulcasting costs for those who have made their payments on time. That should wake up the others. Give it to Elhokar's scribes and have them explain it to him. Hopefully he will agree with the need."
"Yes, Brightlord," Teshav said. "If I might note, I was quite surprised that you suggested I read those histories. In the past, such things haven't been particular to your interests."
"I do a lot of things lately that aren't particular to my interests or my talents," Dalinar said with a grimace. "My lack of capacity doesn't change the kingdom's needs. Have you gathered reports of banditry in the area?"
"Yes, Brightlord." She hesitated. "The rates are quite alarming."
"Tell your husband I give him command of the Fourth Battalion," Dalinar said. "I want the two of you to work out a better pattern of patrol in the Unclaimed Hills. So long as the Alethi monarchy has a presence here, I do not want it to be a land of lawlessness."
"Yes, Brightlord," Teshav said, sounding hesitant. "You realize that means you've committed two entire battalions to patrolling?"
"Yes," Dalinar said. He had asked for help from the other highprinces. Their reactions had ranged from shock to mirth. None had given him any soldiers.
"That is added to the battalion you assigned to peacekeeping in the areas between warcamps and the exterior merchant markets," Teshav added. "In total, that's over a quarter of your forces here, Brightlord."
"The orders stand, Teshav." he said. "See to it. But first, I have more to discuss with you regarding the ledgers. Go on ahead to the ledger room and wait for us there."
She nodded respect. "Of course, Brightlord." She withdrew with her ward.
Renarin stepped up to Dalinar. "She wasn't pleased about that, Father."
"She wishes her husband to be fighting," Dalinar said. "They all hope that I'll win another Shardblade out there, then give it to them." The Parshendi had Shards. Not many, but even a single one was surprising. Nobody had an explanation for where they'd gotten them. Dalinar had won a Parshendi Shardblade and Plate during his first year here. He'd given both to Elhokar to award to a warrior he felt would be the most useful to Alethkar and the war effort.
Dalinar turned and entered the palace proper. The guards at the doorway saluted him and Renarin. The young man kept his eyes forward, staring at nothing. Some people thought him emotionless, but Dalinar knew he was just preoccupied.
"I've been meaning to speak with you, son," Dalinar said. "About the hunt last week."
Renarin's eyes flickered downward in shame, the edges of his mouth pulling back in a grimace. Yes, he did have emotions. He just didn't show them as often as others.
"You realize that you shouldn't have rushed into battle as you did," Dalinar said sternly. "That chasmfiend could have killed you."
"What would you have done, Father, if it had been me in danger?"
"I don't fault your bravery; I fault your wisdom. What if you'd had one of your fits?"
"Then perhaps the monster would have swept me off the plateau," Renarin said bitterly, "and I would no longer be such a useless drain on everyone's time."
"Don't say such things! Not even in jest."
"Was it jest? Father, I can't fight."
"Fighting is not the only thing of value a man can do." The ardents were very specific about that. Yes, the highest Calling of men was to join the battle in the afterlife to reclaim the Tranquiline Halls, but the Almighty accepted the excellence of any man or woman, regardless of what they did.
You just did your best, picking a profession and an attribute of the Almighty to emulate. A Calling and a Glory, it was said. You worked hard at your profession, and you spent your life trying to live according to a single ideal. The Almighty would accept that, particularly if you were lighteyed-the better your blood as a lighteyes, the more innate Glory you had already.
Dalinar's Calling was to be a leader, and his chosen Glory was determination. He'd chosen both in his youth, though he now viewed them very differently than he once had.
"You are right, of course, Father," Renarin said. "I am not the first hero's son to be born without any talent for warfare. The others all got along. So shall I. Likely I will end up as citylord of a small town. Assuming I don't tuck myself away in the devotaries." The boy's eyes turned forward.
I still think of him as "the boy," Dalinar thought. Even though he's now in his twentieth year. Wit had been right. Dalinar underestimated Renarin. How would I react, if I were forbidden to fight? Kept back with the women and the merchants?
Dalinar would have been bitter, particularly against Adolin. In fact, Dalinar had often been envious of Gavilar during their boyhood. Renarin, however, was Adolin's greatest supporter. He all but worshipped his elder brother. And he was brave enough to dash heedless into the middle of a battlefield where a nightmare creature was smashing spearmen and tossing aside Shardbearers.
Dalinar cleared his throat. "Perhaps it is time to again try training you in the sword."
"My blood weakness-"
"Won't matter a bit if we get you into a set of Plate and give you a Blade," Dalinar said. "The armor makes any man strong, and a Shardblade is nearly as light as air itself."
"Father," Renarin said flatly, "I'll never be a Shardbearer. You yourself have said that the Blades and Plate we win from the Parshendi must go to the most skilled warriors."
"None of the other highprinces give up their spoils to the king," Dalinar said. "And who would fault me if, for once, I made a gift to my son?"
Renarin stopped in the hallway, displaying an unusual level of emotion, eyes opening wider, face eager. "You are serious?"
"I give you my oath, son. If I can capture another Blade and Plate, they will go to you." He smiled. "To be honest, I'd do it simply for the joy of seeing Sadeas's face when you become a full Shardbearer. Beyond that, if your strength is made equal to others, I expect that your natural skill will make you shine."
Renarin smiled. Shardplate wouldn't solve everything, but Renarin would have his chance. Dalinar would see to it. I know what it's like to be a second son, he thought as they continued walking toward the king's chambers, overshadowed by an older brother you love yet envy at the same time. Stormfather, but I do.
I still feel that way. "Ah, good Brightlord Adolin," the ardent said, walking forward with open arms. Kadash was a tall man in his later years, and wore the shaved head and square beard of his Calling. He also had a twisting scar that ran around the top of his head, a memento from his earlier days as an army officer.
It was uncommon to find a man such as him-a lighteyes who had once been a soldier-in the ardentia. In fact, it was odd for any man to change his Calling. But it wasn't forbidden, and Kadash had risen far in the ardentia considering his late start. Dalinar said it was a sign of either faith or perseverance. Perhaps both.
The warcamp's temple had started as a large Soulcast dome, then Dalinar had granted money and stonemasons to transform it into a more suitable house of worship. Carvings of the Heralds now lined the inside walls, and broad windows carved on the leeward side had been set with glass to let in the light. Diamond spheres blazed in bunches hung from the high ceiling, and stands had been set up for the instruction, practice, and testing of the various arts.
Many women were in at the moment, receiving instruction from the ardents. There were fewer men. Being at war, it was easy to practice the masculine arts in the field.
Janala folded her arms, scanning the temple with obvious dissatisfaction as she stood beside Adolin. "First a stinky leatherworker's shop, now the temple? I had assumed we would walk someplace at least faintly romantic."
"Religion's romantic," Adolin said, scratching his head. "Eternal love and all that, right?"
She eyed him. "I'm going to go wait outside." She turned and walked out with her handmaiden. "And someone get me a storming palanquin."
Adolin frowned, watching her go. "I'll have to buy her something quite expensive to make up for this, I suspect."
"I don't see what the problem is," Kadash said. "I think religion is romantic."
"You're an ardent," Adolin said flatly. "Besides, that scar makes you a little too unsightly for my tastes." He sighed. "It's not so much the temple that has set her off, but my lack of attention. I haven't been a very good companion today."
"You have matters pressing upon your mind, bright one?" Kadash asked. "Is this about your Calling? You haven't made much progress lately."
Adolin grimaced. His chosen Calling was dueling. By working with the ardents to make personal goals and fulfill them, he could prove himself to the Almighty. Unfortunately, during war, the Codes said Adolin was supposed to limit his duels, as frivolous dueling could wound officers who might be needed in battle.
But Adolin's father avoided battle more and more. So what was the point of not dueling? "Holy one," Adolin said, "we need to speak somewhere we can't be overheard."
Kadash raised an eyebrow and led Adolin around the central apex. Vorin temples were always circular with a gently sloping mound at the center, by custom rising ten feet high. The building was dedicated to the Almighty, maintained by Dalinar and the ardents he owned. All devotaries were welcome to use it, though most would have their own chapter houses in one of the warcamps.
"What is it you wish to ask of me, bright one?" the ardent asked once they reached a more secluded section of the vast chamber. Kadash was deferential, though he had tutored and trained Adolin during his childhood.
"Is my father going mad?" Adolin asked. "Or could he really be seeing visions sent by the Almighty, as I think he believes?"
"That's a rather blunt question."
"You've known him longer than most, Kadash, and I know you to be loyal. I also know you to be one who keeps his ears open and notices things, so I'm sure you've heard the rumors." Adolin shrugged. "Seems like a time for bluntness if there ever was one."
"I take it, then, the rumors are not unfounded."
"Unfortunately, no. It happens during every highstorm. He raves and thrashes about, and afterward claims to have seen things."
"What sorts of things?"
"I'm not certain, precisely." Adolin grimaced. "Things about the Radiants. And perhaps…about what is to come."
Kadash looked disturbed. "This is dangerous territory, bright one. What you are asking me about risks tempting me to violate my oaths. I am an ardent, owned by and loyal to your father."
"But he is not your religious superior."
"No. But he is the Almighty's guardian of this people, set to watch me and make certain I don't rise above my station." Kadash pursed his lips. "It is a delicate balance we walk, bright one. Do you know much of the Hierocracy, the War of Loss?"
"The church tried to seize control," Adolin said, shrugging. "The priests tried to conquer the world-for its own good, they claimed."
"That was part of it," Kadash said. "The part we speak of most often. But the problem goes much deeper. The church back then, it clung to knowledge. Men were not in command of their own religious paths; the priests controlled the doctrine, and few members of the Church were allowed to know theology. They were taught to follow the priests. Not the Almighty or the Heralds, but the priests."
He began walking, leading Adolin around the back rim of the temple chamber. They passed statues of the Heralds, five male, five female. In truth, Adolin knew very little of what Kadash was saying. He'd never had much of a mind for history that didn't relate directly to the command of armies.
"The problem, bright one," Kadash said, "was mysticism. The priests claimed that common men could not understand religion or the Almighty. Where there should have been openness, there was smoke and whispers. The priests began to claim visions and prophecies, though such things had been denounced by the Heralds themselves. Voidbinding is a dark and evil thing, and the soul of it was to try to divine the future."
Adolin froze. "Wait, you're saying-"
"Don't get ahead of me please, bright one," Kadash assured, turning back toward him. "When the priests of the Hierocracy were cast down, the Sunmaker made a point of interrogating them and going through their correspondences with one another. It was discovered that there had been no prophecies. No mystical promises from the Almighty. That had all been an excuse, fabricated by the priests to placate and control the people."
Adolin frowned. "Where are you going with this, Kadash?"
"As close as I dare to the truth, bright one," the ardent said. "As I cannot be as blunt as you."
"You think my father's visions are fabrications, then."
"I would never accuse my highprince of lying," Kadash said. "Or even of feebleness. But neither can I condone mysticism or prophecy in any form. To do so would be to deny Vorinism. The days of the priests are gone. The days of lying to the people, of keeping them in darkness, are gone. Now, each man chooses his own path, and the ardents help him achieve closeness to the Almighty through it. Instead of shadowed prophecies and pretend powers held by a few, we have a population who understand their beliefs and their relationship with their God."
He stepped closer, speaking very softly. "Your father is not to be mocked or diminished. If his visions are true, then it is between him and the Almighty. All I can say is this: I know something of what it is to be haunted by the death and destruction of war. I see in your father's eyes much of what I have felt, but worse. My personal opinion is that the things he sees are likely more a reflection of his past than any mystical experience."
"So he is going mad," Adolin whispered.
"I did not say that."
"You implied that the Almighty probably wouldn't send visions like these."
"I did."
"And that his visions are a product of his own mind."
"Likely so," the ardent said, raising his finger. "A delicate balance, you see. One that is particularly difficult to keep when speaking to my highprince's own son." He reached out, taking Adolin's arm. "If any are to help him, it must be you. It would not be the place of any other, even myself."
Adolin nodded slowly. "Thank you."
"You should likely go see to that young woman now."
"Yes," Adolin said with a sigh. "I fear that even with the right gift, she and I are not long for courting. Renarin will mock me again."
Kadash smiled. "Best not to give up so easily, bright one. Go now. But do return sometime so we can speak of your goals in regard to your Calling. It has been too long since you've Elevated."
Adolin nodded and hurried from the chamber. After hours going over the ledgers with Teshav, Dalinar and Renarin reached the hallway before the king's chambers. They walked in silence, the soles of their boots clapping the marble flooring, the sound echoing against stone walls.
The corridors of the king's war palace were growing richer by the week. Once, this hallway had been just another Soulcast stone tunnel. As Elhokar settled in, he had ordered improvements. Windows were cut into the leeward side. Marble tiling was set into the floor. The walls were carved with reliefs, with mosaic trim at the corners. Dalinar and Renarin passed a group of stonemasons carefully cutting a scene of Nalan'Elin, emitting sunlight, the sword of retribution held over his head.
They reached the king's antechamber, a large, open room guarded by ten members of the King's Guard, dressed in blue and gold. Dalinar recognized each face; he had personally organized the unit, handpicking its members.
Highprince Ruthar waited to see the king. He had brawny arms folded in front of him, and wore a short black beard that surrounded his mouth. The red silk coat was cut short and did not button; almost more of a sleeved vest, it was a mere token nod to traditional Alethi uniform. The shirt underneath was ruffled and white, and his blue trousers were loose, with wide cuffs.
Ruthar glanced Dalinar's way and nodded to him-a minor token of respect-then turned to chat with one of his attendants. He cut off, however, as the guards at the doorway stepped aside to let Dalinar enter. Ruthar sniffed in annoyance. Dalinar's easy access to the king galled the other highprinces.
The king wasn't in his wardroom, but the wide doors to his balcony were open. Dalinar's guardsmen waited behind as he stepped out onto the balcony, Renarin hesitantly following. The light outside was dimming as sunset neared. Setting the war palace up high like this was tactically sound, but it meant the place was mercilessly buffeted by storms. That was an old campaign conundrum. Did one choose the best position to weather storms, or did one seize the high ground?
Most would have chosen the former; their warcamps on the edge of the Shattered Plains were unlikely to be attacked, making the advantage of the high ground less important. But kings tended to prefer height. In this instance, Dalinar had encouraged Elhokar, just in case.
The balcony itself was a thick platform of rock cut onto the top of the small peak, edged with an iron railing. The king's rooms were a Soulcast dome sitting atop the natural formation, with covered ramps and stairways leading to tiers lower on the hillside. Those housed the king's various attendants: guards, stormwardens, ardents, and distant family members. Dalinar had his own bunker at his warcamp. He refused to call it a palace.
The king leaned against the railing, two guards watching from a distance. Dalinar motioned for Renarin to join them, so that he could speak with the king in private.
The air was cool-spring having come for a time-and it was sweet with the scents of evening: blooming rockbuds and wet stone. Below, the warcamps were starting to come alight, ten sparkling circles filled with watch-fires, cook fires, lamps, and the steady glow of infused gems. Elhokar stared over the camps and toward the Shattered Plains. They were utterly dark, save for the occasional twinkle of a watchpost.
"Do they watch us, from out there?" Elhokar asked as Dalinar joined him.
"We know their raiding bands move at night, Your Majesty," Dalinar said, resting one hand on the iron railing. "I can't help but think they watch us."
The king's uniform had the traditional long coat with buttons up the sides, but it was loose and relaxed, and ruffled lace poked out of the collar and cuffs. His trousers were solid blue, and were cut in the same baggy fashion as Ruthar's. It all looked so informal to Dalinar. Increasingly, their soldiers were being led by a slack group who dressed in lace and spent their evenings at feasts.
This is what Gavilar foresaw, Dalinar thought. This is why he grew so insistent that we follow the Codes.
"You look thoughtful, Uncle," Elhokar said.
"Just considering the past, Your Majesty."
"The past is irrelevant. I only look forward."
Dalinar was not certain he agreed with either statement.
"I sometimes think I should be able to see the Parshendi," Elhokar said. "I feel that if I stare long enough, I will find them, pin them down so I can challenge them. I wish they'd just fight me, like men of honor."
"If they were men of honor," Dalinar said, clasping his hands behind his back, "then they would not have killed your father as they did."
"Why did they do it, do you suppose?"
Dalinar shook his head. "That question has churned in my head, over and over, like a boulder tumbling down a hill. Did we off end their honor? Was it some cultural misunderstanding?"
"A cultural misunderstanding would imply that they have a culture. Primitive brutes. Who knows why a horse kicks or an axehound bites? I shouldn't have asked."
Dalinar didn't reply. He'd felt that same disdain, that same anger, in the months following Gavilar's assassination. He could understand Elhokar's desire to dismiss these strange, wildland parshmen as little more than animals.
But he'd seen them during those early days. Interacted with them. They were primitive, yes, but not brutes. Not stupid. We never really understood them, he thought. I guess that's the crux of the problem.
"Elhokar," he said softly. "It may be time to ask ourselves some difficult questions."
"Such as?"
"Such as how long we will continue this war."
Elhokar started. He turned, looking at Dalinar. "We'll keep fighting until the Vengeance Pact is satisfied and my father is avenged!"
"Noble words," Dalinar said. "But we've been away from Alethkar for six years now. Maintaining two far-flung centers of government is not healthy for the kingdom."
"Kings often go to war for extended periods, Uncle."
"Rarely do they do it for so long," Dalinar said, "and rarely do they bring every Shardbearer and Highprince in the kingdom with them. Our resources are strained, and word from home is that the Reshi border encroachments grow increasingly bold. We are still fragmented as a people, slow to trust one another, and the nature of this extended war-without a clear path to victory and with a focus on riches rather than capturing ground-is not helping at all."
Elhokar sniffed, wind blowing at them atop the peaked rock. "You say there's no clear path to victory? We've been winning! The Parshendi raids are coming less frequently, and aren't striking as far westward as they once did. We've killed thousands of them in battle."
"Not enough," Dalinar said. "They still come in strength. The siege is straining us as much as, or more than, it is them."
"Weren't you the one to suggest this tactic in the first place?"
"I was a different man, then, flush with grief and anger."
"And you no longer feel those things?" Elhokar was incredulous. "Uncle, I can't believe I'm hearing this! You aren't seriously suggesting that I abandon the war, are you? You'd have me slink home, like a scolded axehound?"
"I said they were difficult questions, Your Majesty," Dalinar said, keeping his anger in check. It was taxing. "But they must be considered."
Elhokar breathed out, annoyed. "It's true, what Sadeas and the others whisper. You're changing, Uncle. It has something to do with those episodes of yours, doesn't it?"
"They are unimportant, Elhokar. Listen to me! What are we willing to give, in order to get vengeance?"
"Anything."
"And if that means everything your father worked for? Do we honor his memory by undermining his vision for Alethkar, all to get revenge in his name?"
The king hesitated.
"You pursue the Parshendi," Dalinar said. "That is laudable. But you can't let your passion for just retribution blind you to the needs of our kingdom. The Vengeance Pact has kept the highprinces channeled, but what will happen once we win? Will we shatter? I think we need to forge them together, to unite them. We fight this war as if we were ten different nations, fighting beside one another but not with one another."
The king didn't respond immediately. The words, finally, seemed to be sinking in. He was a good man, and shared more with his father than others chose to admit.
He turned away from Dalinar, leaning against the railing. "You think I'm a poor king, don't you, Uncle?"
"What? Of course not!"
"You always talk about what I should be doing, and where I am lacking. Tell me truthfully, Uncle. When you look at me, do you wish you saw my father's face instead?"
"Of course I do," Dalinar said.
Elhokar's expression darkened.
Dalinar laid a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "I'd be a poor brother if I didn't wish that Gavilar had lived. I failed him-it was the greatest, most terrible failure of my life." Elhokar turned to him, and Dalinar held his gaze, raising a finger. "But just because I loved your father does not mean that I think you are a failure. Nor does it mean I do not love you in your own right. Alethkar itself could have collapsed upon Gavilar's death, but you organized and executed our counterattack. You are a fine king."
The king nodded slowly. "You've been listening to readings from that book again, haven't you?"
"I have."
"You sound like him, you know," Elhokar said, turning back to look eastward again. "Near the end. When he began to act…erratically."
"Surely I'm not so bad as that."
"Perhaps. But this is much like how he was. Talking about an end to war, fascinated by the Lost Radiants, insisting everyone follow the Codes…"
Dalinar remembered those days-and his own arguments with Gavilar. What honor can we find on a battlefield while our people starve? the king had once asked him. Is it honor when our lighteyes plot and scheme like eels in a bucket, slithering over one another and trying to bite each other's tails?
Dalinar had reacted poorly to his words. Just as Elhokar was reacting to his words now. Stormfather! I am starting to sound like him, aren't I?
That was troubling, yet somehow encouraging at the same time. Either way, Dalinar realized something. Adolin was right. Elhokar-and the highprinces with him-would never respond to a suggestion that they retreat. Dalinar was approaching the conversation in the wrong way. Almighty be blessed for sending me a son willing to speak his mind.
"Perhaps you are right, Your Majesty," Dalinar said. "End the war? Leave a battlefield with an enemy still in control? That would shame us."
Elhokar nodded in agreement. "I'm glad you see sense."
"But something does have to change. We need a better way to fight."
"Sadeas has a better way already. I spoke of his bridges to you. They work so well, and he's captured so many gemhearts."
"Gemhearts are meaningless," Dalinar said. "All of this is meaningless if we don't find a way to get the vengeance we all want. You can't tell me you enjoy watching the highprinces squabble, practically ignoring our real purpose in being here."
Elhokar fell silent, looking displeased.
Unite them. He remembered those words, booming in his head. "Elhokar," he said, an idea occurring to him. "Do you remember what Sadeas and I spoke of to you when we first came here to war? The specialization of the highprinces?"
"Yes," Elhokar said. In the distant past, each of the ten highprinces in Alethkar had been given a specific charge for the governing of the kingdom. One had been the ultimate law in regard to merchants, and his troops had patrolled the roadways of all ten princedoms. Another had administrated judges and magistrates.
Gavilar had been very taken by the idea. He claimed it was a clever device, meant to force the highprinces to work together. Once, this system had forced them to submit to one another's authority. Things hadn't been done that way in centuries, ever since the fragmenting of Alethkar into ten autonomous princedoms.
"Elhokar, what if you named me Highprince of War?" Dalinar asked.
Elhokar didn't laugh; that was a good sign. "I thought you and Sadeas decided that the others would revolt if we tried something like that."
"Perhaps I was wrong about that too."
Elhokar appeared to consider it. Finally, the king shook his head. "No. They barely accept my leadership. If I did something like this, they'd assassinate me."
"I'd protect you."
"Bah. You don't even take the present threats on my life seriously."
Dalinar sighed. "Your Majesty, I do take threats to your life seriously. My scribes and attendants are looking into the strap."
"And what have they discovered?"
"Well, so far we have nothing conclusive. Nobody has taken credit for trying to kill you, even in rumor. Nobody saw anything suspicious. But Adolin is speaking with leatherworkers. Perhaps he'll bring something more substantial."
"It was cut, Uncle."
"We will see."
"You don't believe me," Elhokar said, face growing red. "You should be trying to find out what the assassins' plan was, rather than pestering me with some arrogant quest to become overlord of the entire army!"
Dalinar gritted his teeth. "I do this for you, Elhokar."
Elhokar met his eyes for a moment, and his blue eyes flashed with suspicion again, as they had the week before.
Blood of my fathers! Dalinar thought. He's getting worse.
Elhokar's expression softened a moment later, and he seemed to relax. Whatever he'd seen in Dalinar's eyes had comforted him. "I know you try for the best, Uncle," Elhokar said. "But you have to admit that you've been erratic lately. The way you react to storms, your infatuation with my father's last words-"
"I'm trying to understand him."
"He grew weak at the end," Elhokar said. "Everyone knows it. I won't repeat his mistakes, and you should avoid them as well-rather than listening to a book that claims that lighteyes should be the slaves of the darkeyes."
"That's not what it says," Dalinar said. "It has been misinterpreted. It's mostly just a collection of stories which teach that a leader should serve those he leads."
"Bah. It was written by the Lost Radiants!"
"They didn't write it. It was their inspiration. Nohadon, an ordinary man, was its author."
Elhokar glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. See, it seemed to say. You defend it. "You are growing weak, Uncle. I will not exploit that weakness. But others will."
"I am not getting weak." Yet again, Dalinar forced himself to be calm. "This conversation has gone off the path. The highprinces need a single leader to force them to work together. I vow that if you name me Highprince of War, I will see you protected."
"As you saw my father protected?"
Dalinar's mouth snapped shut.
Elhokar turned away. "I should not have said that. It was uncalled for."
"No," Dalinar said. "No, it was one of the truest things you have said to me, Elhokar. Perhaps you are right to distrust my protection."
Elhokar glanced at him, curious. "Why do you react that way?"
"What way?"
"Once, if someone had said that to you, you'd have summoned your Blade and demanded a duel! Now you agree with them instead."