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most furious here, around the chrysalis. Dalinar rested back against a shelf of rock and pulled his helm off, exposing a sweaty head to the cool breeze. The sun was high overhead; the battle had lasted two hours or so. Adolin worked efficiently, using his Shardblade with care to shave off a section of the outside of the chrysalis. Then he expertly plunged it in, killing the pupating creature but avoiding the region with the gemheart. Just like that, the creature was dead. Now the Shardblade could cut it, and Adolin carved away sections of flesh. Purple ichor spurted out as he reached in, questing for the gemheart. The soldiers cheered as he pulled it free, gloryspren hovering above the entire army like hundreds of spheres of light. Dalinar found himself walking away, helm held in his left hand. He crossed the battlefield, passing surgeons tending the wounded and teams who were carrying his dead back to the bridges. There were sleds behind the chull carts for them, so they could be burned properly back at camp. There were a lot of Parshendi corpses. Looking at them now, he was neither disgusted nor excited. Just exhausted. He’d gone to battle dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. Never before had he felt as he had this day. That revulsion had distracted him, and that could have gotten him killed. Battle was no time for reflection; you had to keep your mind on what you were doing. The Thrill had seemed subdued the entire battle, and he hadn’t fought nearly as well as he once had. This battle should have brought him clarity. Instead, his troubles seemed magnified. Blood of my fathers, he thought, stepping up to the top of a small rock hill. What is happening to me? His weakness today seemed the latest, and most potent, argument to fuel what Adolin—and, indeed, what many others—said about him. He stood atop the hill, looking eastward, toward the Origin. His eyes went that direction so often. Why? What was— He froze, noticing a group of Parshendi on a nearby plateau. His scouts watched them warily; it was the army that Dalinar’s people had driven off. Though they’d killed a lot of Parshendi today, the vast majority had still escaped, retreating when they realized the battle was lost to them. That was one of the reasons the war was lasting so long. The Parshendi understood strategic retreat. This army stood in ranks, grouped in warpairs. A commanding figure stood at their head, a large Parshendi in glittering armor. Shardplate. Even at a distance, it was easy to tell the difference between it and something more mundane. That Shardbearer hadn’t been here during the battle itself. Why come now? Had he arrived too late? The armored figure and the rest of the Parshendi turned and left, leaping across the chasm behind them and fleeing back toward their unseen haven at the center of the Plains. Kaladin pushed his way into the apothecary’s shop, the door banging shut behind him. As before, the aged man pretended to be
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feeble, feeling his way with a cane until he recognized Kaladin. Then he stood up straighter. “Oh. It’s you.” It had been two more long days. Daytime spent working and training—Teft and Rock now practiced with him—evenings spent at the first chasm, retrieving the reeds from their hiding place in a crevice and then milking for hours. Gaz had seen them go down last night, and the bridge sergeant was undoubtedly suspicious. There was no helping that. Bridge Four had been called out on a bridge run today. Thankfully, they’d arrived before the Parshendi, and none of the bridge crews had lost any men. Things hadn’t gone so well for the regular Alethi troops. The Alethi line had eventually buckled before the Parshendi assault, and the bridge crews had been forced to lead a tired, angry, and defeated troop of soldiers back to the camp. Kaladin was bleary-eyed with fatigue from staying up late working on the reeds. His stomach growled perpetually from being given a fraction of the food it needed, as he shared his meals with two wounded. That all ended today. The apothecary walked back behind his counter, and Kaladin stepped up to it. Syl darted into the room, her small ribbon of light turning into a woman midtwist. She flipped like an acrobat, landing on the table in a smooth motion. “What do you need?” the apothecary asked. “More bandages? Well, I might just—” He cut off as Kaladin slapped a medium-sized liquor bottle down on the table. It had a cracked top, but would still hold a cork. He pulled this free, revealing the milky white knobweed sap inside. He’d used the first of what they’d harvested to treat Leyten, Dabbid, and Hobber. “What’s this?” the elderly apothecary asked, adjusting his spectacles and leaning down. “Offering me a drink? I don’t take the stuff these days. Unsettles the stomach, you know.” “It’s not liquor. It’s knobweed sap. You said it was expensive. Well, how much will you give me for this?” The apothecary blinked, then leaned in closer, giving the contents a whiff. “Where’d you get this?” “I harvested it from the reeds growing outside of camp.” The apothecary’s expression darkened. He shrugged. “Worthless, I’m afraid.” “What?” “The wild weeds aren’t potent enough.” The apothecary replaced the cork. A strong wind buffeted the building, blowing under the door, stirring the scents of the many powders and tonics he sold. “This is practically useless. I’ll give you two clearmarks for it, which is being generous. I’ll have to distill it, and will be lucky to get a couple of spoonfuls.” Two marks! Kaladin thought with despair. After three days of work, three of us pushing ourselves, getting only a few hours of sleep each night? All for something worth only a couple days’ wage? But no. The sap had worked on Leyten’s wound, making the rotspren flee and the infection retreat. Kaladin narrowed his eyes as the apothecary fished two marks out of his money pouch, setting them on the table. Like many spheres, these were flattened slightly
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on one side to keep them from rolling away. “Actually,” the apothecary said, rubbing his chin. “I’ll give you three.” He took out one more mark. “Hate to see all of your effort go to waste.” “Kaladin,” Syl said, studying the apothecary. “He’s nervous about something. I think he’s lying!” “I know,” Kaladin said. “What’s that?” the apothecary said. “Well, if you knew it was worthless, why did you spend so much effort on it?” He reached for the bottle. Kaladin caught his hand. “We got two or more drops from each reed, you know.” The apothecary frowned. “Last time,” Kaladin said, “you told me I’d be lucky to get one drop per reed. You said that was why knobweed sap was so expensive. You said nothing about ‘wild’ plants being weaker.” “Well, I didn’t think you’d go and try gathering them, and…” He trailed off as Kaladin locked eyes with him. “The army doesn’t know, do they?” Kaladin asked. “They aren’t aware how valuable those plants outside are. You harvest them, you sell the sap, and you make a killing, since the military needs a lot of antiseptic.” The old apothecary cursed, pulling his hand back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Kaladin took his jar. “And if I go to the healing tent and tell them where I got this?” “They’d take it from you!” the man said urgently. “Don’t be a fool. You’ve a slave brand, boy. They’ll think you stole it.” Kaladin moved to walk away. “I’ll give a skymark,” the apothecary said. “That’s half what I’d charge the military for this much.” Kaladin turned. “You charge them two skymarks for something that only takes a couple of days to gather?” “It’s not just me,” the apothecary said, scowling. “Each of the apothecaries charges the same. We got together, decided on a fair price.” “How is that a fair price?” “We have to make a living here, in this Almighty-forsaken land! It costs us money to set up shop, to maintain ourselves, to hire guards.” He fished in his pouch, pulling out a sphere that glowed deep blue. A sapphire sphere was worth about twenty-five times a diamond one. As Kaladin made one diamond mark a day, a skymark was worth as much as Kaladin made in half a month. Of course, a common darkeyed soldier earned five clearmarks a day, which would make this a week’s wages to them. Once, this wouldn’t have seemed like much money to Kaladin. Now it was a fortune. Still, he hesitated. “I should expose you. Men die because of you.” “No they don’t,” the apothecary said. “The highprinces have more than enough to pay this, considering what they make on the plateaus. We supply them with bottles of sap as often as they need them. All you’d do by exposing us is let monsters like Sadeas keep a few more spheres in their pockets!” The apothecary was sweating. Kaladin was threatening to topple his entire business on the Shattered Plains. And so much money was being earned on the sap
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that this could grow very dangerous. Men killed to keep such secrets. “Line my pocket or line the brightlords’,” Kaladin said. “I guess I can’t argue with that logic.” He set the bottle back on the counter. “I’ll take the deal, provided you throw in some more bandages.” “Very well,” the apothecary said, relaxing. “But stay away from those reeds. I’m surprised you found any nearby that hadn’t already been harvested. My workers are having an increasingly difficult time.” They don’t have a windspren guiding them, Kaladin thought. “Then why would you want to discourage me? I could get more of this for you.” “Well, yes,” the apothecary said. “But—” “It’s cheaper if you do it yourself,” Kaladin said, leaning down. “But this way you have a clean trail. I provide the sap, charging one skymark. If the lighteyes ever discover what the apothecaries have been doing, you can claim ignorance—all you know is that some bridgeman was selling you sap, and you resold it to the army at a reasonable markup.” That seemed to appeal to the old man. “Well, perhaps I won’t ask too many questions about how you harvested this. Your business, young man. Your business indeed….” He shuffled to the back of his store, returning with a box of bandages. Kaladin accepted it and left the shop without a word. “Aren’t you worried?” Syl said, floating up beside his head as he entered the afternoon sunlight. “If Gaz discovers what you’re doing, you could get into trouble.” “What more could they do to me?” Kaladin asked. “I doubt they’d consider this a crime worth stringing me up for.” Syl looked backward, forming into little more than a cloud with the faint suggestion of a female form. “I can’t decide if it’s dishonest or not.” “It’s not dishonest; it’s business.” He grimaced. “Lavis grain is sold the same way. Grown by the farmers and sold at a pittance to merchants, who carry it to the cities and sell it to other merchants, who sell it to people for four or five times what it was originally bought for.” “So why did it bother you?” Syl asked, frowning as they avoided a troop of soldiers, one of whom tossed the pit of a palafruit at Kaladin’s head. The soldiers laughed. Kaladin rubbed his temple. “I’ve still got some strange scruples about charging for medical care because of my father.” “He sounds like he’s a very generous man.” “For all the good it did him.” Of course, in a way, Kaladin was just as bad. During his early days as a slave, he’d have done almost anything for a chance to walk around unsupervised like this. The army perimeter was guarded, but if he could sneak the knobweed in, he could probably find a way to sneak himself out. With that sapphire mark, he even had money to aid him. Yes, he had the slave brand, but some quick if painful work with a knife could turn that into a “battle scar” instead. He could talk and fight like a soldier,
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so it would be plausible. He’d be taken for a deserter, but he could live with that. That had been his plan for most of the later months of his enslavement, but he’d never had the means. It took money to travel, to get far enough away from the area where his description would be in circulation. Money to buy lodging in a seedy section of town, a place where nobody asked questions, while he healed from his self-inflicted wound. In addition, there had always been the others. So he’d stayed, trying to get as many out as he could. Failing every time. And he was doing it again. “Kaladin?” Syl asked from his shoulder. “You look very serious. What are you thinking?” “I’m wondering if I should run. Escape this storm-cursed camp and find myself a new life.” Syl fell silent. “Life is hard here,” she finally said. “I don’t know if anyone would blame you.” Rock would, he thought. And Teft. They’d worked for that knobweed sap. They didn’t know what it was worth; they thought it was only for healing the sick. If he ran, he’d be betraying them. He’d be abandoning the bridgemen. Shove over, you fool, Kaladin thought to himself. You won’t save these bridgemen. Just like you didn’t save Tien. You should run. “And then what?” he whispered. Syl turned to him. “What?” If he ran, what good would it do? A life working for chips in the underbelly of some rotting city? No. He couldn’t leave them. Just like he’d never been able to leave anyone who he’d thought needed him. He had to protect them. He had to. For Tien. And for his own sanity. “Chasm duty,” Gaz said, spitting to the side. The spittle was colored black from the yamma plant he chewed. “What?” Kaladin had returned from selling the knobweed to discover that Gaz had changed Bridge Four’s work detail. They weren’t scheduled to be on duty for any bridge runs—their run the day before exempted them. Instead, they were supposed to be assigned to Sadeas’s smithy to help lift ingots and other supplies. That sounded like difficult work, but it was actually among the easiest jobs bridgemen got. The blacksmiths felt they didn’t need the extra hands. That, or they presumed that clumsy bridgemen would just get in the way. On smithy duty, you usually only worked a few hours of the shift and could spend the rest lounging. Gaz stood with Kaladin in the early afternoon sunlight. “You see,” Gaz said, “you got me thinking the other day. Nobody cares if Bridge Four is given unfair work details. Everyone hates chasm duty. I figured you wouldn’t care.” “How much did they pay you?” Kaladin asked, stepping forward. “Storm off,” Gaz said, spitting again. “The others resent you. It’ll do your crew good to be seen paying for what you did.” “Surviving?” Gaz shrugged. “Everyone knows you broke the rules in bringing back those men. If the others do what you did, we’d have each barrack filled with the dying before
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the leeward side of a month was over!” “They’re people, Gaz. If we don’t ‘fill the barracks’ with wounded, it’s because we’re leaving them out there to die.” “They’ll die here anyway.” “We’ll see.” Gaz watched him, eyes narrow. It seemed like he suspected that Kaladin had somehow tricked him in taking the stone-gathering duty. Earlier, Gaz had apparently gone down to the chasm, probably trying to figure out what Kaladin and the other two had been doing. Damnation, Kaladin thought. He’d thought he had Gaz cowed enough to stay in line. “We’ll go,” Kaladin snapped, turning away. “But I’m not taking the blame among my men for this one. They’ll know you did it.” “Fine,” Gaz called after him. Then, to himself, he continued, “Maybe I’ll get lucky and a chasmfiend will eat the lot of you.” Chasm duty. Most bridgemen would rather spend all day hauling stones than get assigned to the chasms. With an unlit oil-soaked torch tied to his back, Kaladin climbed down the precarious rope ladder. The chasm was shallow here, only about fifty feet down, but that was enough to take him into a different world. A world where the only natural light came from the rift high in the sky. A world that stayed damp on even the hottest days, a drowned landscape of moss, fungus, and hardy plants that survived in even dim light. The chasms were wider at the bottom, perhaps a result of highstorms. They caused enormous floods to crash through the chasms; to be caught in a chasm during a highstorm was death. A sediment of hardened crem smoothed the pathway on the floor of the chasms, though it rose and fell with the varying erosion of the underlying rock. In some few places, the distance from the chasm floor to the edge of the plateau above was only about forty feet. In most places, however, it was closer to a hundred or more. Kaladin jumped off the ladder, falling a few feet and landing with a splash in a puddle of rainwater. After lighting the torch, he held it high, peering along the caliginous rift. The sides were slick with a dark green moss, and several thin vines he didn’t recognize trailed down from intermediate ledges above. Bits of bone, wood, and torn cloth lay strewn about or wedged into clefts. Someone splashed to the ground beside him. Teft cursed, looking down at his soaked legs and trousers as he stepped out of the large puddle. “Storms take that cremling Gaz,” the aging bridgeman muttered. “Sending us down here when it isn’t our turn. I’ll have his beans for this.” “I am certain that he is very scared of you,” Rock said, stepping down off the ladder onto a dry spot. “Is probably back in camp crying in fear.” “Storm off,” Teft said, shaking the water from his left leg. The two of them carried unlit torches. Kaladin lit his with a flint and steel, but the others did not. They needed to ration the torches. The other men of
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Bridge Four began to gather near the bottom of the ladder, staying in a clump. Every fourth man lit his torch, but the light didn’t do much to dispel the gloom; it just allowed Kaladin to see more of the unnatural landscape. Strange, tube-shaped fungi grew in cracks. They were a wan yellow, like the skin of a child with jaundice. Scuttling cremlings moved away from the light. The tiny crustaceans were a translucent reddish color; as one scrambled past on the wall, he realized that he could see its internal organs through its shell. The light also revealed a twisted, broken figure at the base of the chasm wall a short distance away. Kaladin raised his torch and stepped up to it. It was beginning to stink already. He raised a hand, unconsciously covering his nose and mouth as he knelt down. It was a bridgeman, or had been, from one of the other crews. He was fresh. If he’d been here longer than a few days, the highstorm would have washed him away to some distant place. Bridge Four gathered behind Kaladin, looking silently at the one who had chosen to throw himself into the chasm. “May you someday find a place of honor in the Tranquiline Halls, fallen brother,” Kaladin said, his voice echoing. “And may we find a better end than you.” He stood, holding his torch high, and led the way past the dead sentry. His crew followed nervously. Kaladin had quickly understood the basic tactics of fighting on the Shattered Plains. You wanted to advance forcefully, pressing your enemy to the plateau’s edge. That was why the battles often turned bloody for the Alethi, who usually arrived after the Parshendi. The Alethi had bridges, while these odd Eastern parshmen could leap most chasms, given a running start. But both had trouble when squeezed toward the cliffs, and that generally resulted in soldiers losing their footing and tumbling into the void. The numbers were significant enough for the Alethi to want to recover lost equipment. And so bridgemen were sent on chasm duty. It was like barrow robbing, only without the barrows. They carried sacks, and would spend hours walking around, looking for the corpses of the fallen, searching for anything of value. Spheres, breastplates, caps, weapons. Some days, when a plateau run was recent, they could try to make their way all the way out to where it had happened and scavenge from those bodies. But highstorms generally made that futile. Wait even a few days, and the bodies would be washed someplace else. Beyond that, the chasms were a bewildering maze, and getting to a specific contested plateau and then returning in a reasonable time was near impossible. General wisdom was to wait for a highstorm to push the bodies toward the Alethi side of the Plains—highstorms always came east to west, after all—and then send bridgemen down to search them out. That meant a lot of random wandering. But over the years, enough bodies had fallen that it wasn’t too difficult to find places
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to harvest. The crew was required to bring up a specific amount of salvage or face docked pay for the week, but the quota wasn’t onerous. Enough to keep the bridgemen working, but not enough to force them to fully exert themselves. Like most bridgeman work, this was meant to keep them occupied as much as anything else. As they walked down the first chasm, some of his men got out their sacks and picked up pieces of salvage they passed. A helmet here, a shield there. They kept a keen watch for spheres. Finding a valuable fallen sphere would result in a small reward for the whole crew. They weren’t allowed to bring their own spheres or possessions into the chasm, of course. And on their way out, they were searched thoroughly. The humiliation of that search—which included any place a sphere might be hidden—was part of the reason chasm duty was so loathed. But only a part. As they walked, the chasm floor widened to about fifteen feet. Here, marks scarred the walls, gashes where the moss had been scraped away, the stone itself scored. The bridgemen tried not to look at those marks. Occasionally, chasmfiends stalked these pathways, searching for either carrion or a suitable plateau to pupate upon. Encountering one of them was uncommon, but possible. “Kelek, but I hate this place,” Teft said, walking beside Kaladin. “I heard that once an entire bridge crew got eaten by a chasmfiend, one at a time, after it backed them into a dead end. It just sat there, picking them off as they tried to run past.” Rock chuckled. “If they were all eaten, then who was returning to tell this story?” Teft rubbed his chin. “I dunno. Maybe they just never returned.” “Then perhaps they fled. Deserting.” “No,” Teft said. “You can’t get out of these chasms without a ladder.” He glanced upward, toward the narrow rift of blue seventy feet above, following the curve of the plateau. Kaladin glanced up as well. That blue sky seemed so distant. Unreachable. Like the light of the Halls themselves. And even if you could climb out at one of the shallower areas, you’d either be trapped on the Plains without a way to cross chasms, or you’d be close enough to the Alethi side that the scouts would spot you crossing the permanent bridges. You could try going eastward, toward where the plateaus were worn away to the point that they were just spires. But that would take weeks of walking, and would require surviving multiple highstorms. “You ever been in a slot canyon when rains come, Rock?” Teft asked, perhaps thinking along the same lines. “No,” Rock replied. “On the Peaks, we have not these things. They only exist where foolish men choose to live.” “You live here, Rock,” Kaladin noted. “And I am foolish,” the large Horneater said, chuckling. “Did you not notice this thing?” These last two days had changed him a great deal. He was more affable, returning in some measure to what Kaladin assumed was his
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normal personality. “I was talking,” Teft said, “about slot canyons. You want to guess what will happen if we get trapped down here in a highstorm?” “Lots of water, I guess,” Rock said. “Lots of water, looking to go any place it can,” Teft said. “It gathers into enormous waves and goes crashing through these confined spaces with enough force to toss boulders. In fact, an ordinary rain will feel like a highstorm down here. A highstorm…well, this would probably be the worst place in Roshar to be when one hits.” Rock frowned at that, glancing upward. “Best not to be caught in the storm, then.” “Yeah,” Teft said. “Though, Teft,” Rock added, “it would give you bath, which you very much need.” “Hey,” Teft grumbled. “Is that a comment on how I smell?” “No,” Rock said. “Is comment on what I have to smell. Sometimes, I am thinking that a Parshendi arrow in the eye would be better than smelling entire bridge crew enclosed in barrack at night!” Teft chuckled. “I’d take offense at that if it weren’t true.” He sniffed at the damp, moldy chasm air. “This place ain’t much better. It smells worse than a Horneater’s boots in winter down here.” He hesitated. “Er, no offense. I mean personally.” Kaladin smiled, then glanced back. The thirty or so other bridgemen followed like ghosts. A few seemed to be edging close to Kaladin’s group, as if trying to listen in without being obvious. “Teft,” Kaladin said. “‘Smells worse than a Horneater’s boots’? How in the Halls isn’t he supposed to take offense at that phrase?” “It’s just an expression,” Teft said, scowling. “It was out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying.” “Alas,” Rock said, pulling a tuft of moss off the wall, inspecting it as they walked. “Your insult has offended me. If we were at the Peaks, we would have to duel in the traditional alil’tiki’i fashion.” “Which is what?” Teft asked. “With spears?” Rock laughed. “No, no. We upon the Peaks are not barbarians like you down here.” “How then?” Kaladin asked, genuinely curious. “Well,” Rock said, dropping the moss and dusting off his hands, “is involving much mudbeer and singing.” “How’s that a duel?” “He who can still sing after the most drinks is winner. Plus, soon, everyone is so drunk that they probably forget what argument was about.” Teft laughed. “Beats knives at dawn, I suppose.” “I guess that depends,” Kaladin said. “Upon what?” Teft asked. “On whether or not you’re a knife merchant. Eh, Dunny?” The other two glanced to the side, where Dunny had moved up close to listen. The spindly youth jumped and blushed. “Er—I—” Rock chuckled at Kaladin’s words. “Dunny,” he said to the youth. “Is odd name. What is meaning of it?” “Meaning?” Dunny asked. “I don’t know. Names don’t always have a meaning.” Rock shook his head, displeased. “Lowlanders. How are you to know who you are if your name has no meaning?” “So your name means something?” Teft asked. “Nu…ma…nu…” “Numuhukumakiaki’aialunamor,” Rock said, the native
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Horneater sounds flowing easily from his lips. “Of course. Is description of very special rock my father discovered the day before my birth.” “So your name is a whole sentence?” Dunny asked, uncertain—as if he wasn’t sure he belonged. “Is poem,” Rock said. “On the Peaks, everyone’s name is poem.” “Is that so?” Teft said, scratching at his beard. “Must make calling the family at mealtime a bit of a chore.” Rock laughed. “True, true. Is also making for some interesting arguments. Usually, the best insults on the Peaks are in the form of a poem, one which is similar in composition and rhyme to the person’s name.” “Kelek,” Teft muttered. “Sounds like a lot of work.” “Is why most arguments end in drinking, perhaps,” Rock said. Dunny smiled hesitantly. “Hey you big buffoon, you smell like a wet hog, so go out by the moon, and jump yourself in the bog.” Rock laughed riotously, his booming voice echoing down the chasm. “Is good, is good,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Simple, but good.” “That almost had the sound of a song to it, Dunny,” Kaladin said. “Well, it was the first thing that came to mind. I put it to the tune of ‘Mari’s Two Lovers’ to get the beat right.” “You can sing?” Rock asked. “I must be hearing.” “But—” Dunny said. “Sing!” Rock commanded, pointing. Dunny yelped, but obeyed, breaking into a song that wasn’t familiar to Kaladin. It was an amusing tale involving a woman and twin brothers who she thought were the same person. Dunny’s voice was a pure tenor, and he seemed to have more confidence when he sang than when he spoke. He was good. Once he moved to the second verse, Rock began humming in a deep voice, providing a harmony. The Horneater was obviously very practiced at song. Kaladin glanced back at the other bridgemen, hoping to pull some more into the conversation or the song. He smiled at Skar, but got only a scowl in return. Moash and Sigzil—the dark-skinned Azish man—wouldn’t even look at him. Peet looked only at his feet. When the song was finished, Teft clapped appreciatively. “That’s a better performance than I’ve heard at many an inn.” “Is good to meet a lowlander who can sing,” Rock said, stooping down to pick up a helm and stuff it in his bag. This particular chasm didn’t seem to have much in the way of salvage this time. “I had begun thinking you were all as tone deaf as my father’s old axehound. Ha!” Dunny blushed, but seemed to walk more confidently. They continued, occasionally passing turns or rifts in the stone where the waters had deposited large clusters of salvage. Here, the work turned more gruesome, and they’d often have to pull out corpses or piles of bones to get what they wanted, gagging at the scent. Kaladin told them to leave the more sickening or rotted bodies for now. Rotspren tended to cluster around the dead. If they didn’t find enough salvage later, they could get those on
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the way back. At every intersection or branch, Kaladin made a white mark on the wall with a piece of chalk. That was the bridgeleader’s duty, and he took it seriously. He wouldn’t have his crew getting lost out in these rifts. As they walked and worked, Kaladin kept the conversation going. He laughed—forced himself to laugh—with them. If that laugher felt hollow to him, the others didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps they felt as he did, that even forced laughter was preferable to going back to the self-absorbed, mournful silence that cloaked most bridgemen. Before long, Dunny was laughing and talking with Teft and Rock, his shyness faded. A few others hovered just behind—Yake, Maps, a couple of others—like wild creatures drawn to the light and warmth of a fire. Kaladin tried to draw them into the conversation, but it didn’t work, so eventually he just let them be. Eventually, they reached a place with a significant number of fresh corpses. Kaladin wasn’t sure what combination of waterflow had made this section of chasm a good place for that—it looked the same as other stretches. A little narrower perhaps. Sometimes they could go to the same nooks and find good salvage there; other times, those were empty, but other places would have dozens of corpses. These bodies looked like they’d floated in the wash of the highstorm flood, then been deposited as the water slowly receded. There were no Parshendi among them, and they were broken and torn from either their fall or the crush of the flood. Many were missing limbs. The stink of blood and viscera hung in the humid air. Kaladin held his torch aloft as his companions fell silent. The dank chill kept the bodies from rotting too quickly, though the dampness counteracted some of that. The cremlings had begun chewing the skin off hands and gnawing out the eyes. Soon the stomachs would bloat with gas. Some rotspren—tiny, red, translucent—scrambled across the corpses. Syl floated down and landed on his shoulder, making disgusted noises. As usual, she offered no explanation for her absence. The men knew what to do. Even with the rotspren, this was too rich a place to pass up. They went to work, pulling the corpses into a line so they could be inspected. Kaladin waved for Rock and Teft to join him as he picked up some stray bits of salvage that lay on the ground around the corpses. Dunny tagged along. “Those bodies wear the highprince’s colors,” Rock noted as Kaladin picked up a dented steel cap. “I’ll bet they’re from that run a few days back,” Kaladin said. “It went badly for Sadeas’s forces.” “Brightlord Sadeas,” Dunny said. Then he ducked his head in embarrassment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to correct you. I used to forget to say the title. My master beat me when I did.” “Master?” Teft asked, picking up a fallen spear and pulling some moss off its shaft. “I was an apprentice. I mean, before…” Dunny trailed off, then looked away. Teft had been right; bridgemen
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didn’t like talking about their pasts. Anyway, Dunny was probably right to correct him. Kaladin would be punished if he were heard omitting a lighteyes’s honorific. Kaladin put the cap in his sack, then rammed his torch into a gap between two moss-covered boulders and started helping the others get the bodies into a line. He didn’t prod the men toward conversation. The fallen deserved some reverence—if that was possible while robbing them. Next, the bridgemen stripped the fallen of their armor. Leather vests from the archers, steel breastplates from the foot soldiers. This group included a lighteyes in fine clothing beneath even finer armor. Sometimes the bodies of fallen lighteyes would be recovered from the chasms by special teams so the corpse could be Soulcast into a statue. Darkeyes, unless they were very wealthy, were burned. And most soldiers who fell into the chasms were ignored; the men in camp spoke of the chasms being hallowed resting places, but the truth was that the effort to get the bodies out wasn’t worth the cost or the danger. Regardless, to find a lighteyes here meant that his family hadn’t been wealthy enough, or concerned enough, to send men out to recover him. His face was crushed beyond recognition, but his rank insignia identified him as seventh dahn. Landless, attached to a more powerful officer’s retinue. Once they had his armor, they pulled daggers and boots off everyone in line—boots were always in demand. They left the fallen their clothing, though they took off the belts and cut free many shirt buttons. As they worked, Kaladin sent Teft and Rock around the bend to see if there were any other bodies nearby. Once the armor, weapons, and boots had been separated, the most grisly task began: searching pockets and pouches for spheres and jewelry. This pile was the smallest of the lot, but valuable. They didn’t find any broams, which meant no pitiful reward for the bridgemen. As the men performed their morbid task, Kaladin noticed the end of a spear poking out of a nearby pool. It had gone unnoticed in their initial sweep. Lost in thought, he fetched it, shaking off the water, carrying it over to the weapons pile. He hesitated there, holding the spear over the pile with one hand, cold water dripping from it. He rubbed his finger along the smooth wood. He could tell from the heft, balance, and sanding that it was a good weapon. Sturdy, well made, well kept. He closed his eyes, remembering days as a boy holding a quarterstaff. Words spoken by Tukks years ago returned to him, words spoken on that bright summer day when he’d first held a weapon in Amaram’s army. The first step is to care, Tukks’s voice seemed to whisper. Some talk about being emotionless in battle. Well, I suppose it’s important to keep your head. But I hate that feeling of killing while calm and cold. I’ve seen that those who care fight harder, longer, and better than those who don’t. It’s the difference between mercenaries and
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real soldiers. It’s the difference between fighting to defend your homeland and fighting on foreign soil. It’s good to care when you fight, so long as you don’t let it consume you. Don’t try to stop yourself from feeling. You’ll hate who you become. The spear quivered in Kaladin’s fingers, as if begging him to swing it, spin it, dance with it. “What are you planning to do, lordling?” a voice called. “Going to ram that spear into your own gut?” Kaladin glanced up at the speaker. Moash—still one of Kaladin’s biggest detractors—stood near the line of corpses. How had he known to call Kaladin “lordling”? Had he been talking to Gaz? “He claims he’s a deserter,” Moash said to Narm, the man working next to him. “Says he was some important soldier, a squadleader or the like. But Gaz says that’s all stupid boasting. They wouldn’t send a man to the bridges if he actually knew how to fight.” Kaladin lowered the spear. Moash smirked, turning back to his work. Others, however, had now noticed Kaladin. “Look at him,” Sigzil said. “Ho, bridgeleader! You think that you’re grand? That you are better than us? You think pretending that we’re your own personal troop of soldiers will change anything?” “Leave him alone,” Drehy said. He shoved Sigzil as he passed. “At least he tries.” Earless Jacks snorted, pulling a boot free from a dead foot. “He cares about looking important. Even if he was in the army, I’ll bet he spent his days cleaning out latrines.” It appeared that there was something that would pull the bridgemen out of their silent stupors: loathing for Kaladin. Others began talking, calling gibes. “…his fault we’re down here…” “…wants to run us ragged during our only free time, just so he can feel important…” “…sent us to carry rocks to show us he could shove us around…” “…bet he’s never held a spear in his life.” Kaladin closed his eyes, listening to their scorn, rubbing his fingers on the wood. Never held a spear in his life. Maybe if he’d never picked up that first spear, none of this would have happened. He felt the smooth wood, slick with rainwater, memories jumbling in his head. Training to forget, training to get vengeance, training to learn and make sense of what had happened. Without thinking about it, he snapped the spear up under his arm into a guard position, point down. Water droplets from its length sprayed across his back. Moash cut off in the middle of another gibe. The bridgemen sputtered to a stop. The chasm became quiet. And Kaladin was in another place. He was listening to Tukks chide him. He was listening to Tien laugh. He was hearing his mother tease him in her clever, witty way. He was on the battlefield, surrounded by enemies but ringed by friends. He was listening to his father tell him with a sneer in his voice that spears were only for killing. You could not kill to protect. He was alone in a chasm deep beneath
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the earth, holding the spear of a fallen man, fingers gripping the wet wood, a faint dripping coming from somewhere distant. Strength surged through him as he spun the spear up into an advanced kata. His body moved of its own accord, going through the forms he’d trained in so frequently. The spear danced in his fingers, comfortable, an extension of himself. He spun with it, swinging it around and around, across his neck, over his arm, in and out of jabs and swings. Though it had been months since he’d even held a weapon, his muscles knew what to do. It was as if the spear itself knew what to do. Tension melted away, frustration melted away, and his body sighed in contentment even as he worked it furiously. This was familiar. This was welcome. This was what it had been created to do. Men had always told Kaladin that he fought like nobody else. He’d felt it on the first day he’d picked up a quarterstaff, though Tukks’s advice had helped him refine and channel what he could do. Kaladin had cared when he fought. He’d never fought empty or cold. He fought to keep his men alive. Of all the recruits in his cohort, he had learned the quickest. How to hold the spear, how to stand to spar. He’d done it almost without instruction. That had shocked Tukks. But why should it have? You were not shocked when a child knew how to breathe. You were not shocked when a skyeel took flight for the first time. You should not be shocked when you hand Kaladin Stormblessed a spear and he knows how to use it. Kaladin spun through the last motions of the kata, chasm forgotten, bridgemen forgotten, fatigue forgotten. For a moment, it was just him. Him and the wind. He fought with her, and she laughed. He snapped the spear back into place, holding the haft at the one-quarter position, spearhead down, bottom of the haft tucked underneath his arm, end rising back behind his head. He breathed in deeply, shivering. Oh, how I’ve missed that. He opened his eyes. Sputtering torchlight revealed a group of stunned bridgemen standing in a damp corridor of stone, the walls wet and reflecting the light. Moash dropped a handful of spheres in stunned silence, staring at Kaladin with mouth agape. Those spheres plopped into the puddle at his feet, causing it to glow, but none of the bridgemen noticed. They just stared at Kaladin, who was still in a battle stance, half crouched, trails of sweat running down the sides of his face. He blinked, realizing what he’d done. If word got back to Gaz that he was playing around with spears…Kaladin stood up straight and dropped the spear into the pile of weapons. “Sorry,” he whispered to it, though he didn’t know why. Then, louder, he said, “Back to work! I don’t want to be caught down here when night falls.” The bridgemen jumped into motion. Down the chasm corridor, he saw Rock and Teft. Had they
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seen the entire kata? Flushing, Kaladin hurried up to them. Syl landed on his shoulder, silent. “Kaladin, lad,” Teft said reverently. “That was—” “It was meaningless,” Kaladin said. “Just a kata. Meant to work the muscles and make you practice the basic jabs, thrusts, and sweeps. It’s a lot showier than it is useful.” “But—” “No, really,” Kaladin said. “Can you imagine a man swinging a spear around his neck like that in combat? He’d be gutted in a second.” “Lad,” Teft said. “I’ve seen katas before. But never one like that. The way you moved…The speed, the grace…And there was some sort of spren zipping around you, between your sweeps, glowing with a pale light. It was beautiful.” Rock started. “You could see that?” “Sure,” Teft said. “Never seen a spren like that. Ask the other men—I saw a few of them pointing.” Kaladin glanced at his shoulder, frowning at Syl. She sat primly, legs crossed and hands folded atop her knee, pointedly not looking at him. “It was nothing,” Kaladin repeated. “No,” Rock said. “That it certainly was not. Perhaps you should challenge Shardbearer. You could become brightlord!” “I don’t want to be a brightlord,” Kaladin snapped, perhaps more harshly than he should have. The other two jumped. “Besides,” he added, looking away from them. “I tried that once. Where’s Dunny?” “Wait,” Teft said, “you—” “Where is Dunny?” Kaladin said firmly, punctuating each word. Stormfather. I need to keep my mouth shut. Teft and Rock shared a glance, then Teft pointed. “We found some dead Parshendi around the bend. Thought you’d want to know.” “Parshendi,” Kaladin said. “Let’s go look. Might have something valuable.” He’d never looted Parshendi bodies before; fewer of them fell into the chasms than Alethi. “Is true,” Rock said, leading the way, carrying a lit torch. “Those weapons they have, yes, very nice. And gemstones in their beards.” “Not to mention the armor,” Kaladin said. Rock shook his head. “No armor.” “Rock, I’ve seen their armor. They always wear it.” “Well, yes, but we cannot use this thing.” “I don’t understand,” Kaladin said. “Come,” Rock said, gesturing. “Is easier than explaining.” Kaladin shrugged, and they rounded the corner, Rock scratching at his red-bearded chin. “Stupid hairs,” he muttered. “Ah, to have it right again. A man is not proper man without proper beard.” Kaladin rubbed his own beard. One of these days, he’d save up and buy a razor and be rid of the blasted thing. Or, well, probably not. His spheres would be needed elsewhere. They rounded the corner and found Dunny pulling the Parshendi bodies into a line. There were four of them, and they looked like they’d been swept in from another direction. There were a few more Alethi bodies here too. Kaladin strode forward, waving Rock to bring the light, and knelt to inspect one of the Parshendi dead. They were like parshmen, with skin in marbled patterns of black and crimson. Their only clothing was knee-length black skirts. Three wore beards, which was unusual for parshmen, and those were woven with
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uncut gemstones. Just as Kaladin had expected, they wore armor of a pale red color. Breastplates, helms on the heads, guards on the arms and legs. Extensive armor for regular foot soldiers. Some of it was cracked from the fall or the wash. It wasn’t metal, then. Painted wood? “I thought you said they weren’t armored,” Kaladin said. “What are you trying to tell me? That you don’t dare take it off the dead?” “Don’t dare?” Rock said. “Kaladin, Master Brightlord, brilliant bridgeleader, spinner of spear, perhaps you will get it off them.” Kaladin shrugged. His father had instilled in him a familiarity with the dead and dying, and though it felt bad to rob the dead, he was not squeamish. He prodded the first Parshendi, noting the man’s knife. He took it and looked for the strap that held the shoulder guard in place. There was no strap. Kaladin frowned and peered underneath the guard, trying to pry it up. The skin lifted with it. “Stormfather!” he said. He inspected the helm. It was grown into the head. Or grown from the head. “What is this?” “Do not know,” Rock said, shrugging. “It is looking like they grow their own armor, eh?” “That’s ridiculous,” Kaladin said. “They’re just people. People—even parshmen—don’t grow armor.” “Parshendi do,” Teft said. Kaladin and the other two turned to him. “Don’t look at me like that,” the older man said with a scowl. “I worked in the camp for a few years before I ended up as a bridgeman—no, I’m not going to tell you how, so storm off. Anyway, the soldiers talk about it. The Parshendi grow carapaces.” “I’ve known parshmen,” Kaladin said. “There were a couple of them in my hometown, serving the citylord. None of them grew armor.” “Well, these are a different kind of parshman,” Teft said with a scowl. “Bigger, stronger. They can jump chasms, for Kelek’s sake. And they grow armor. That’s just how it is.” There was no disputing it, so they just moved on to gathering what they could. Many Parshendi used heavy weapons—axes, hammers—and those hadn’t been carried along with the bodies like many of the spears and bows Alethi soldiers had. But they did find several knives and one ornate sword, still in a sheath at the Parshendi’s side. The skirts didn’t have pockets, but the corpses did have pouches tied to their waists. These just carried flint and tinder, whetstones, or other basic supplies. So, they knelt to begin pulling the gemstones from the beards. Those gemstones had holes drilled through them to facilitate weaving, and Stormlight infused them, though they didn’t glow as brightly as they would have if they’d been properly cut. As Rock pulled the gemstones out of the final Parshendi’s beard, Kaladin held one of the knives up near Dunny’s torch, inspecting the detailed carving. “Those look like glyphs,” he said, showing it to Teft. “I can’t read glyphs, boy.” Oh, right, Kaladin thought. Well, if they were glyphs, they weren’t ones he was familiar with. Of course, you could draw
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most glyphs in complex ways that made it hard to read them, unless you knew exactly what to look for. There was a figure at the center of the hilt, nicely carved. It was a man in fine armor. Shardplate, certainly. A symbol was etched behind him, surrounding him, spreading out from his back like wings. Kaladin showed it to Rock, who had walked up to see what he found so fascinating. “The Parshendi out here are supposed to be barbarians,” Kaladin said. “Without culture. Where did they get knives like these? I’d swear this is a picture of one of the Heralds. Jezerezeh or Nalan.” Rock shrugged. Kaladin sighed and returned the knife to its sheath, then dropped it into his sack. Then they rounded the curve back to the others. The crew had gathered up sacks full of armor, belts, boots, and spheres. Each took up a spear to carry back to the ladder, holding them like walking sticks. They’d left one for Kaladin, but he tossed it to Rock. He didn’t trust himself to hold one of them again, worried he’d be tempted to fall into another kata. The walk back was uneventful, though with the darkening sky, the men began jumping at every sound. Kaladin engaged Rock, Teft, and Dunny in conversation again. He was able to get Drehy and Torfin to talk a little as well. They safely reached the first chasm, much to the relief of his men. Kaladin sent the others up the ladder first, waiting to go up last. Rock waited with him, and as Dunny finally started up—leaving Rock and Kaladin alone—the tall Horneater put a hand on Kaladin’s shoulder, speaking in a soft voice. “You do good work here,” Rock said. “I am thinking that in a few weeks, these men will be yours.” Kaladin shook his head. “We’re bridgemen, Rock. We don’t have a few weeks. If I take that long winning them over, half of us will be dead.” Rock frowned. “Is not a happy thought.” “That’s why we have to win over the other men now.” “But how?” Kaladin looked up at the dangling ladder, shaking as the men climbed up. Only four could go at a time, lest they overload it. “Meet me after we’re searched. We’re going to the camp market.” “Very well,” Rock said, swinging onto the ladder as Earless Jaks reached the top. “What will be our purpose in this thing?” “We’re going to try out my secret weapon.” Rock laughed as Kaladin held the ladder steady for him. “And what weapon is this?” Kaladin smiled. “Actually, it’s you.” Two hours later, at Salas’s first violet light, Rock and Kaladin walked back into the lumberyard. It was just past sunset, and many of the bridgemen would soon be going to sleep. Not much time, Kaladin thought, gesturing for Rock to carry his burden to a place near the front of Bridge Four’s barrack. The large Horneater set his burden down next to Teft and Dunny, who had done as Kaladin had ordered, building a small
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ring of stones and setting up some stumps of wood from the lumberyard scrap pile. That wood was free for anyone to take. Even bridgemen were allowed; some liked to take chunks to whittle. Kaladin got out a sphere for light. The thing Rock had been carrying was an old iron cauldron. Even though it was secondhand, it had cost Kaladin a fair chunk of the knobweed sap money. The Horneater began to unpack supplies from inside the cauldron as Kaladin arranged some wood scraps inside the ring of stones. “Dunny, water, if you please,” Kaladin said, getting out his flint. Dunny ran off to fetch a bucket from one of the rain barrels. Rock finished emptying the cauldron, laying out small packages that had cost another substantial portion of Kaladin’s spheres. He had only a handful of clearchips left. As they worked, Hobber limped out of the barrack. He was mending quickly, though the other two wounded that Kaladin had treated were still in bad shape. “What are you up to, Kaladin?” Hobber asked just as Kaladin got a flame started. Kaladin smiled, standing. “Have a seat.” Hobber did just that. He hadn’t lost the near-devotion he’d shown Kaladin for saving his life. If anything, his loyalty had grown stronger. Dunny returned with a bucket of water, which he poured into the cauldron. Then he and Teft ran off to get more. Kaladin built up the flames and Rock began to hum to himself as he diced tubers and unwrapped some seasonings. In under a half hour, they had a roaring flame and a simmering pot of stew. Teft sat down on one of the stumps, warming his hands. “This is your secret weapon?” Kaladin sat down next to the older man. “Have you known many soldiers in your life, Teft?” “A few.” “You ever known any who could turn down a warm fire and some stew at the end of a hard day?” “Well, no. But bridgemen ain’t soldiers.” That was true. Kaladin turned to the barrack doorway. Rock and Dunny started up a song together and Teft began to clap along. Some of the men from other bridge crews were up late, and they gave Kaladin and the others nothing more than scowls. Figures shifted inside the barrack, shadows moving. The door was open, and the scents of Rock’s stew grew strong. Inviting. Come on, Kaladin thought. Remember why we live. Remember warmth, remember good food. Remember friends, and song, and evenings spent around the hearth. You aren’t dead yet. Storm you! If you don’t come out… It all suddenly seemed so contrived to Kaladin. The singing was forced, the stew an act of desperation. It was all just an attempt to briefly distract from the pathetic life he had been forced into. A figure moved in the doorway. Skar—short, square-bearded, and keen-eyed—stepped out into the firelight. Kaladin smiled at him. A forced smile. Sometimes that was all one could offer. Let it be enough, he prayed, standing up, dipping a wooden bowl into Rock’s stew. Kaladin held the
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bowl toward Skar. Steam curled from the surface of the brownish liquid. “Will you join us?” Kaladin asked. “Please.” Skar looked at him, then back down at the stew. He laughed, taking the stew. “I’d join the Nightwatcher herself around a fire if there was stew involved!” “Be careful,” Teft said. “That’s Horneater stew. Might be snail shells or crab claws floating in it.” “There is not!” Rock barked. “Is unfortunate that you have unrefined lowlander tastes, but I prepare the food such as I am ordered by our dear bridgeleader.” Kaladin smiled, letting out a deep breath as Skar sat down. Others trailed out after him, taking bowls, sitting. Some stared into the fire, not saying much, but others began to laugh and sing. At one point, Gaz walked past, eyeing them with his single eye, as if trying to decide if they were breaking any camp regulations. They weren’t. Kaladin had checked. Kaladin dipped out a bowl of stew and held it toward Gaz. The bridge sergeant snorted in derision and stalked away. Can’t expect too many miracles in one night, Kaladin thought with a sigh, settling back down and trying the stew. It was quite good. He smiled, joining in the next verse of Dunny’s song. The next morning, when Kaladin called for the bridgemen to rise, three-quarters of them piled out of the barrack—everyone but the loudest complainers: Moash, Sigzil, Narm, and a couple of others. The ones who came to his call looked surprisingly refreshed, despite the long evening spent singing and eating. When he ordered them to join him in practice carrying the bridge, almost all of those who had risen joined him. Not everyone, but enough. He had a feeling that Moash and the others would give in before too long. They’d eaten his stew. Nobody had turned that down. And now that he had so many, the others would feel foolish not joining in. Bridge Four was his. Now he had to keep them alive long enough for that to mean something. Adolin was frightened. He stood beside his father on the staging ground. Dalinar looked…weathered. Creases running back from his eyes, furrows in his skin. Black hair going white like bleached rock along the sides. How could a man standing in full Shardplate—a man who yet retained a warrior’s frame despite his age—look fragile? In front of them, two chulls followed their handler, stepping up onto the bridge. The wooden span linked two piles of cut stones, a mock chasm only a few feet deep. The chulls’ whiplike antennae twitched, mandibles clacking, fist-size black eyes glancing about. They pulled a massive siege bridge, rolling on creaking wooden wheels. “That’s much wider than the bridges Sadeas uses,” Dalinar said to Teleb, who stood beside them. “It’s necessary to accommodate the siege bridge, Brightlord.” Dalinar nodded absently. Adolin suspected that he was the only one who could see that his father was distressed. Dalinar maintained his usual confident front, his head high, his voice firm when he spoke. Yet, those eyes. They were too red,
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too strained. And when Adolin’s father felt strained, he grew cold and businesslike. When he spoke to Teleb, his tone was too controlled. Dalinar Kholin was suddenly a man laboring beneath great weight. And Adolin had helped put him there. The chulls advanced. Their boulderlike shells were painted blue and yellow, the colors and pattern indicating the island of their Reshi handlers. The bridge beneath them groaned ominously as the larger siege bridge rolled onto it. All around the staging area, soldiers turned to look. Even the workmen cutting a latrine into the stony ground on the eastern side stopped to watch. The groans from the bridge grew louder. Then they became sharp cracks. The handlers halted the chulls, glancing toward Teleb. “It’s not going to hold, is it?” Adolin asked. Teleb sighed. “Storm it, I was hoping…Bah, we made the smaller bridge too thin when we widened it. But if we make it thicker, it will get too heavy to carry.” He glanced at Dalinar. “I apologize for wasting your time, Brightlord. You are correct; this is akin to the ten fools.” “Adolin, what do you think?” Dalinar asked. Adolin frowned. “Well…I think perhaps we should keep working with it. This is only the first attempt, Teleb. Perhaps there’s still a way. Design the siege bridges to be narrower, maybe?” “That could be very costly, Brightlord,” Teleb said. “If it helps us win one extra gemheart, the effort would be paid for several times over.” “Yes,” Teleb said, nodding. “I will speak with Lady Kalana. Perhaps she can devise a new design.” “Good,” Dalinar said. He stared at the bridge for an extended moment. Then, oddly, he turned to look toward the other side of the staging area, where the workers had been cutting the latrine ditch. “Father?” Adolin asked. “Why do you suppose,” Dalinar said, “there are no Shardplate-like suits for workmen?” “What?” “Shardplate gives awesome strength, but we rarely use it for anything other than war and slaughter. Why did the Radiants fashion only weapons? Why didn’t they make productive tools for use by ordinary men?” “I don’t know,” Adolin said. “Perhaps because war was the most important thing around.” “Perhaps,” Dalinar said, voice growing softer. “And perhaps that’s a final condemnation of them and their ideals. For all of their lofty claims, they never gave their Plate or its secrets to the common people.” “I…I don’t understand why that’s important, Father.” Dalinar shook himself slightly. “We should get on with our inspections. Where’s Ladent?” “Here, Brightlord.” A short man stepped up to Dalinar. Bald and bearded, the ardent wore thick, blue-grey layered robes from which his hands barely extended. The effect was of a crab who was too small for his shell. It looked terribly hot, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Send a messenger to the Fifth Battalion,” Dalinar told him. “We’ll be visiting them next.” “Yes, Brightlord.” Adolin and Dalinar began to walk. They’d chosen to wear their Shardplate for this day’s inspections. That wasn’t uncommon; many Shardbearers found any excuse they could to wear Plate.
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Plus, it was good for the men to see their highprince and his heir in their strength. They drew attention as they left the staging area and entered the warcamp proper. Like Adolin, Dalinar went about unhelmed, though the gorget of his armor was tall and thick, rising like a metal collar up to his chin. He nodded to soldiers who saluted. “Adolin,” Dalinar said. “In combat, do you feel the Thrill?” Adolin started. He knew immediately what his father meant, but he was shocked to hear the words. This wasn’t often discussed. “I…Well, of course. Who doesn’t?” Dalinar didn’t reply. He had been so reserved lately. Was that pain in his eyes? The way he was before, Adolin thought, deluded but confident. That was actually better. Dalinar said nothing more, and the two of them continued through the camp. Six years had let the soldiers settle in thoroughly. Barracks were painted with company and squad symbols, and the space between them was outfitted with firepits, stools, and canvas-shaded dining areas. Adolin’s father had forbidden none of this, though he had set guidelines to discourage sloppiness. Dalinar had also approved most requests for families to be brought to the Shattered Plains. The officers already had their wives, of course—a good lighteyes officer was really a team, the man to command and fight, the woman to read, write, engineer, and manage camp. Adolin smiled, thinking of Malasha. Would she prove to be the one for him? She’d been a little cold to him lately. Of course, there was Danlan. He’d only just met her, but he was intrigued. Regardless, Dalinar had also approved requests by darkeyed common soldiers to bring their families. He even paid half of the cost. When Adolin had asked why, Dalinar had replied that he didn’t feel right forbidding them. The warcamps were never attacked anymore, so there was no danger. Adolin suspected his father felt that since he was living in a luxurious near-palace, his men might as well have the comfort of their families. And so it was that children played and ran through the camp. Women hung wash and painted glyphwards as men sharpened spears and polished breastplates. Barrack interiors had been partitioned to create rooms. “I think you were right,” Adolin said as they walked, trying to draw his father out of his contemplations. “To let so many bring their families here, I mean.” “Yes, but how many will leave when this is over?” “Does it matter?” “I’m not certain. The Shattered Plains are now a de facto Alethi province. How will this place appear in a hundred years? Will those rings of barracks become neighborhoods? The outer shops become markets? The hills to the west become fields for planting?” He shook his head. “The gemhearts will always be here, it seems. And so long as they are, there will be people here as well.” “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? So long as those people are Alethi.” Adolin chuckled. “Perhaps. And what will happen to the value of gemstones if we continue to capture
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gemhearts at the rate we have?” “I…” That was a good question. “What happens, I wonder, when the scarcest, yet most desirable, substance in the land suddenly becomes commonplace? There’s much going on here, son. Much we haven’t considered. The gemhearts, the Parshendi, the death of Gavilar. You will have to be ready to consider these things.” “Me?” Adolin said. “What does that mean?” Dalinar didn’t answer, instead nodding as the commander of the Fifth Battalion hastened up to them and saluted. Adolin sighed and saluted back. The Twenty-first and Twenty-second Companies were doing close order drill here—an essential exercise whose true value few outside the military ever appreciated. The Twenty-third and Twenty-fourth Companies were doing extended order—or combat—drill, practicing the formations and movements used on the battlefield. Fighting on the Shattered Plains was very different from regular warfare, as the Alethi had learned from some embarrassing early losses. The Parshendi were squat, muscular, and had that strange, skin-grown armor of theirs. It didn’t cover as fully as plate, but it was far more efficient than what most foot soldiers had. Each Parshendi was essentially an extremely mobile heavy infantryman. The Parshendi always attacked in pairs, eschewing a regular line of battle. That should have made it easy for a disciplined line to defeat them. But each pair of Parshendi had such momentum—and was so well armored—that they could break right through a shield wall. Alternatively, their jumping prowess could suddenly deposit entire ranks of Parshendi behind Alethi lines. Beyond all that, there was that distinctive way they moved as a group in combat. They maneuvered with an inexplicable coordination. What had seemed at first to be mere barbarian savagery turned out to disguise something more subtle and dangerous. They’d found only two reliable ways to defeat the Parshendi. The first was to use a Shardblade. Effective, but of limited application. The Kholin army had only two Blades, and while Shards were incredibly powerful, they needed proper support. An isolated, outnumbered Shardbearer could be tripped and toppled by his adversaries. In fact, the one time Adolin had seen a full Shardbearer fall to a regular soldier, it had happened because he had been swarmed by spearmen who broke his breastplate. Then a lighteyed archer had slain him from fifty paces, winning the Shards for himself. Not exactly a heroic end. The other reliable way to fight Parshendi depended on quick-moving formations. Flexibility mixed with discipline: flexibility to respond to the uncanny way Parshendi fought, discipline to maintain lines and make up for individual Parshendi strength. Havrom, Fifth Battalionlord, waited for Adolin and Dalinar with his companylords in a line. They saluted, right fists to right shoulders, knuckles outward. Dalinar nodded to them. “Have my orders been seen to, Brightlord Havrom?” “Yes, Highprince.” Havrom was built like a tower, and wore a beard with long sides after the Horneater fashion, chin clean-shaven. He had relatives among the Peakfolk. “The men you wanted are waiting in the audience tent.” “What’s this?” Adolin asked. “I’ll show you in a moment,” Dalinar said. “First, review the
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troops.” Adolin frowned, but the soldiers were waiting. One company at a time, Havrom had the men fall in. Adolin walked before them, inspecting their lines and uniforms. They were neat and orderly, though Adolin knew that some of the soldiers in their army grumbled at the level of polish required of them. He happened to agree with them on that point. At the end of the inspection, he questioned a few random men, asked their rank and if they had any specific concerns. None had any. Were they satisfied or just intimidated? When he was done, Adolin returned to his father. “You did that well,” Dalinar said. “All I did was walk down a line.” “Yes, but the presentation was good. The men know you care for their needs, and they respect you.” He nodded, as if to himself. “You’ve learned well.” “I think you’re reading too much into a simple inspection, Father.” Dalinar nodded to Havrom, and the battalionlord led the two of them to an audience tent near the side of the practice field. Adolin, puzzled, glanced at his father. “I had Havrom gather the soldiers that Sadeas spoke to the other day,” Dalinar said. “The ones he interviewed while we were on our way to the plateau assault.” “Ah,” Adolin said. “We’ll want to know what he asked them.” “Yes,” Dalinar said. He gestured for Adolin to enter before him, and they walked in—tailed by a few of Dalinar’s ardents. Inside, a group of ten soldiers waited on benches. They rose and saluted. “At ease,” Dalinar said, clasping plated hands behind his back. “Adolin?” Dalinar nodded toward the men, indicating that Adolin should take the lead in the questioning. Adolin stifled a sigh. Again? “Men, we need to know what Sadeas asked you and how you responded.” “Don’t worry, Brightlord,” said one of the men, speaking with a rural northern Alethi accent. “We didn’t tell him nothing.” The others nodded vigorously. “He’s an eel, and we know it,” another added. “He is a highprince,” Dalinar said sternly. “You will treat him with respect.” The soldier paled, then nodded. “What, specifically, did he ask you?” Adolin asked. “He wanted to know our duties in the camp, Brightlord,” the man said. “We’re grooms, you see.” Each soldier was trained in one or two additional skills beyond those of combat. Having a group of soldiers who could care for horses was useful, as it kept civilians from plateau assaults. “He asked around,” said one of the men. “Or, well, his people did. Found out we were in charge of the king’s horse during the chasmfiend hunt.” “But we didn’t say nothing,” the first soldier repeated. “Nothing to get you into trouble, sir. We’re not going to give that ee—er, that highprince, Brightlord sir, the rope to hang you, sir.” Adolin closed his eyes. If they had acted this way around Sadeas, it would have been more incriminating than the cut girth itself. He couldn’t fault their loyalty, but they acted as if they assumed Dalinar had done something wrong, and needed
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to defend him. He opened his eyes. “I spoke to some of you before, I recall. But let me ask again. Did any of you see a cut strap on the king’s saddle?” The men looked at each other, shaking heads. “No, Brightlord,” one of the men replied. “If we’d seen it, we’d have changed it, right we would.” “But, Brightlord,” one of the men added, “there was a lot of confusion that day, and a lot of people. Wasn’t a right regular plateau assault or nothing like that. And, well, to be honest, sir, who’d have thought that we’d need to protect the king’s saddle, of all things under the Halls?” Dalinar nodded to Adolin, and they stepped out of the tent. “Well?” “They probably didn’t do much to help our cause,” Adolin said with a grimace. “Despite their ardor. Or, rather, because of it.” “Agreed, unfortunately.” Dalinar let out a sigh. He waved to Tadet; the short ardent was standing to the side of the tent. “Interview them separately,” Dalinar told him softly. “See if you can tease specifics from them. Try to find out the exact words Sadeas used, and what their exact responses were.” “Yes, Brightlord.” “Come, Adolin,” Dalinar said. “We’ve still got a few inspections to do.” “Father,” Adolin said, taking Dalinar’s arm. Their armor clinked softly. Dalinar turned to him, frowning, and Adolin made a quick gesture toward the Cobalt Guard. A request for space to speak. The guards moved efficiently and quickly, clearing a private space around the two men. “What is this about, Father?” Adolin demanded softly. “What? We’re doing inspections and seeing to camp business.” “And in each case, you shove me out into the lead,” Adolin said. “Awkwardly, in a few cases, I might add. What’s wrong? What’s going on inside that head of yours?” “I thought you had a distinct problem with the things going on inside my head.” Adolin winced. “Father, I—” “No, it’s all right, Adolin. I’m just trying to make a difficult decision. It helps me to move about while I do it.” Dalinar grimaced. “Another man might find a place to sit and brood, but that never seems to help me. I’ve got too much to do.” “What is it you’re trying to decide?” Adolin asked. “Perhaps I can help.” “You already have. I—” Dalinar cut off, frowning. A small force of soldiers was walking up to the Fifth Battalion’s practice yards. They were escorting a man in red and brown. Those were Thanadal’s colors. “Don’t you have a meeting with him this evening?” Adolin asked. “Yes,” Dalinar said. Niter—head of the Cobalt Guard—ran to intercept the newcomers. He could be overly suspicious at times, but that wasn’t a terrible trait for a bodyguard to have. He returned to Dalinar and Adolin shortly. Tanfaced, Niter bore a black beard, cut short. He was a lighteyes of very low rank, and had been with the guard for years. “He says that Highprince Thanadal will be unable to meet with you today as planned.” Dalinar’s expression grew dark. “I
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will speak to the runner myself.” Reluctantly, Niter waved the spindly fellow forward. He approached and dropped to one knee before Dalinar. “Brightlord.” This time, Dalinar didn’t ask for Adolin to take the lead. “Deliver your message.” “Brightlord Thanadal regrets that he is unable to attend you this day.” “And did he offer another time to meet?” “He regrets to say that he has grown too busy. But he would be happy to speak with you at the king’s feast one evening.” In public, Adolin thought, where half the men nearby will be eavesdropping while the other half—likely including Thanadal himself—will probably be drunk. “I see,” Dalinar said. “And did he give any indication of when he’d no longer be so busy?” “Brightlord,” the messenger said, growing uncomfortable. “He said that if you pressed, I should explain that he has spoken with several of the other highprinces, and feels he knows the nature of your inquiry. He said to tell you he does not wish to form an alliance, nor does he have any intention of going on a joint plateau assault with you.” Dalinar’s expression grew darker. He dismissed the messenger with a wave, then turned to Adolin. The Cobalt Guard still kept a space open around them so they could talk. “Thanadal was the last of them,” Dalinar said. Each highprince had turned him down in his own way. Hatham with exceeding politeness, Bethab by letting his wife give the explanation, Thanadal with hostile civility. “All of them but Sadeas, at least.” “I doubt it would be wise to approach him with this, Father.” “You’re probably right.” Dalinar’s voice was cold. He was angry. Furious, even. “They’re sending me a message. They’ve never liked the influence I have over the king, and they’re eager to see me fall. They don’t want to do something I ask them to, just in case it might help me regain my footing.” “Father, I’m sorry.” “Perhaps it’s for the best. The important point is that I have failed. I can’t get them to work together. Elhokar was right.” He looked to Adolin. “I would like you to continue inspections for me, son. There’s something I want to do.” “What?” “Just some work I see needs to be done.” Adolin wanted to object, but he couldn’t think of the words to say. Finally, he sighed and gave a nod. “You’ll tell me what this is about, though?” “Soon,” Dalinar promised. “Very soon.” Dalinar watched his son leave, striding purposefully away. He would make a good highprince. Dalinar’s decision was a simple one. Was it time to step aside, and let his son take his place? If he took this step, Dalinar would be expected to stay out of politics, retiring to his lands and leaving Adolin to rule. It was a painful decision to contemplate, and he had to be careful not to make it hastily. But if he really was going mad, as everyone in the camp seemed to believe, then he had to step down. And soon, before his condition progressed to the
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point that he no longer had the presence of mind to let go. A monarch is control, he thought, remembering a passage from The Way of Kings. He provides stability. It is his service and his trade good. If he cannot control himself, then how can he control the lives of men? What merchant worth his Stormlight won’t partake of the very fruit he sells? Odd, that those quotes still came to him, even as he was wondering if they had—in part—driven him to madness. “Niter,” he said. “Fetch my warhammer. Have it waiting for me at the staging field.” Dalinar wanted to be moving, working, as he thought. His guards hastened to keep up as he strode down the pathway between the barracks of Battalions Six and Seven. Niter sent several men to fetch the weapon. His voice sounded strangely excited, as if he thought Dalinar was going to do something impressive. Dalinar doubted he would think it so. He eventually strode out onto the staging field, cape fluttering behind him, plated boots clanking against the stones. He didn’t have to wait long for the hammer; it came pulled by two men on a small cart. Sweating, the soldiers heaved it from the cart, the haft as thick as a man’s wrist and the front of the head larger than an outspread palm. Two men together could barely lift it. Dalinar grabbed the hammer with one gauntleted hand, swinging it up to rest on his shoulder. He ignored the soldiers performing exercises on the field, walking to where the group of dirty workers chipped at the latrine ditch. They looked up at him, horrified to see the highprince himself looming over them in full Shardplate. “Who’s in charge here?” Dalinar asked. A scruffy civilian in brown trousers raised a nervous hand. “Brightlord, how may we serve you?” “By relaxing for a little while,” Dalinar said. “Out with you.” The worried workers scrambled out. Lighteyed officers gathered behind, confused by Dalinar’s actions. Dalinar gripped the haft of his warhammer in a gauntleted hand; the metal shaft was wrapped tightly with leather. Taking a deep breath, he leaped down into the half-finished ditch, lifted the hammer, then swung, slamming the weapon down against the rock. A powerful crack rang across the practice field, and a wave of shock ran up Dalinar’s arms. The Shardplate absorbed most of the recoil, and he left a large crack in the stones. He hefted and swung again, this time breaking free a large section of rock. Though it would have been difficult for two or three regular men to lift, Dalinar grabbed it with one hand and tossed it aside. It clattered across the stones. Where were the Shards for regular men? Why hadn’t the ancients, who were so wise, created anything to help them? As Dalinar continued to work, beats of his hammer throwing chips and dust into the air, he easily did the work of twenty men. Shardplate could be used for so many things to ease the lives of workers and darkeyes across Roshar.
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It felt good to be working. To be doing something useful. Lately, he felt as if his efforts had been akin to running about in circles. The work helped him think. He was losing his thirst for battle. That worried him, as the Thrill—the enjoyment and longing for war—was part of what drove the Alethi as a people. The grandest of masculine arts was to become a great warrior, and the most important Calling was to fight. The Almighty himself depended on the Alethi to train themselves in honorable battle so that when they died, they could join the Heralds’ army and win back the Tranquiline Halls. And yet, thinking about killing was starting to sicken him. It had grown worse since that last bridge assault. What would happen next time he went into battle? He could not lead this way. That was a major reason that abdicating in favor of Adolin looked right. He continued to swing. Again and again, beating against the stones. Soldiers gathered above and—despite his orders—the workers did not leave to relax. They watched, dumbfounded, as a Shardbearer did their work. Occasionally, he summoned his Blade and used it to cut the rock, slicing out sections before returning to the hammer to break them apart. He probably looked ridiculous. He couldn’t do the work of all of the laborers in camp, and he had important tasks to fill his time. There was no reason for him to get down in a trench and toil. And yet it felt so good. So wonderful to pitch in directly with the needs of the camp. The results of what he did to protect Elhokar were often difficult to gauge; it was fulfilling to be able to do something where his progress was obvious. But even in this, he was acting according to the ideals that had infected him. The book spoke of a king carrying the burdens of his people. It said that those who led were the lowest of men, for they were required to serve everyone. It all swirled around in him. The Codes, the teachings of the book, the things the visions—or delusions—showed. Never fight other men except when forced to in war. Bang! Let your actions defend you, not your words. Bang! Expect honor from those you meet, and give them the chance to live up to it. Bang! Rule as you would be ruled. Bang! He stood waist-deep in what would eventually be a latrine, his ears filled with the groans of breaking stone. He was coming to believe those ideals. No, he’d already come to believe them. Now he was living them. What would the world be like if all men lived as the book proclaimed? Someone had to start. Someone had to be the model. In this, he had a reason not to abdicate. Whether or not he was mad, the way he now did things was better than the way Sadeas or the others did them. One needed only look at the lives of his soldiers and his people to see that
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was true. Bang! Stone could not be changed without pounding. Was it the same with a man like him? Was that why everything was so hard for him suddenly? But why him? Dalinar wasn’t a philosopher or idealist. He was a soldier. And—if he admitted the truth—in earlier years, he’d been a tyrant and a warmonger. Could twilight years spent pretending to follow the precepts of better men erase a lifetime of butchery? He had begun to sweat. The swath he had cut through the ground was as wide as a man was tall, as deep as his chest, and some thirty yards long. The longer he worked, the more people gathered to watch and whisper. Shardplate was sacred. Was the highprince really digging a latrine with it? Had the stress affected him that profoundly? Frightened of highstorms. Growing cowardly. Refusing to duel or defend himself from slurs. Afraid of fighting, wishing to give up the war. Suspected of trying to kill the king. Eventually, Teleb decided that letting all the people stare down at Dalinar wasn’t respectful, and he ordered the men back to their separate duties. He cleared away the workers, taking Dalinar’s order to heart and commanding them to sit in the shade and “converse in a lighthearted manner.” From someone else, that command might have been said with a smile, but Teleb was as literal as the rocks themselves. Still Dalinar worked. He knew where the latrine was supposed to end; he’d approved the work order. A long, sloping trough was to be cut, then covered with oiled and tarred boards to seal in the scent. A latrine house would be set at the high end, and the contents could be Soulcast to smoke once every few months. The work felt even better once he was alone. One man, breaking rocks, pounding beat after beat. Like the drums the Parshendi had played on that day so long past. Dalinar could feel those beats still, could hear them in his mind, shaking him. I’m sorry, brother. He had spoken to the ardents about his visions. They felt that the visions were most likely a product of an overtaxed mind. He had no reason to believe the truth of anything the visions showed him. In following them, he had done more than just ignore Sadeas’s maneuvers; he’d depleted his resources precariously. His reputation was on the brink of ruin. He was in danger of dragging down the entire Kholin house. And that was the most important point in favor of him abdicating. If he continued, his actions could very well lead to the deaths of Adolin, Renarin, and Elhokar. He would risk his own life for his ideals, but could he risk the lives of his sons? Chips sprayed, bouncing off his Plate. He was beginning to feel worn and tired. The Plate didn’t do the work for him—it enhanced his strength, so each strike of the hammer was his own. His fingers were growing numb from the repeated vibration of the hammer’s haft. He was close to a decision.
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His mind was calm, clear. He swung the hammer again. “Wouldn’t the Blade be more efficient?” asked a dry, feminine voice. Dalinar froze, the hammer’s head resting on broken stone. He turned to see Navani standing beside the trough, wearing a gown of blue and soft red, her grey-sprinkled hair reflecting light from a sun that was unexpectedly close to setting. She was attended by two young women—not her own wards, but ones she had “borrowed” from other lighteyed women in the camp. Navani stood with her arms folded, the sunlight behind her like a halo. Dalinar hesitantly raised an armored forearm to block the light. “Mathana?” “The rockwork,” Navani said, nodding to the trough. “Now, I wouldn’t presume to make judgments; hitting things is a masculine art. But are you not in the possession of a sword that can cut through stone as easily as—I once had it described to me—a highstorm blows over a Herdazian?” Dalinar looked back at the rocks. Then he raised his hammer again and slammed it into the stones, making a satisfying crunch. “Shardblades are too good at cutting.” “Curious,” she said. “I’ll do my best to pretend there was sense in that. As an aside, has it ever struck you that most masculine arts deal with destroying, while feminine arts deal with creation?” Dalinar swung again. Bang! Remarkable how much easier it was to have a conversation with Navani while not looking directly at her. “I do use the Blade to cut down the sides and middle. But I still have to break up the rocks. Have you ever tried to lift out a chunk of stone that has been sliced by a Shardblade?” “I can’t say that I have.” “It’s not easy.” Bang! “Blades make a very thin cut. The rocks still press against one another. It’s hard to grasp or move them.” Bang! “It’s more complicated than it seems.” Bang! “This is the best way.” Navani dusted a few chips of stone from her dress. “And more messy, I see.” Bang! “So, are you going to apologize?” she asked. “For?” “For missing our appointment.” Dalinar froze in midswing. He’d completely forgotten that, at the feast when she’d first returned, he’d agreed to have Navani read for him today. He hadn’t told his scribes of the appointment. He turned toward her, chagrined. He’d been angered because Thanadal had canceled their appointment, but at least he had thought to send a messenger. Navani stood with arms folded, safehand tucked away, sleek dress seeming to burn with sunlight. She bore a hint of a smile on her lips. By standing her up, he’d put himself—by honor—in her power. “I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I’ve had some difficult things to consider lately, but that doesn’t excuse forgetting you.” “I know. I’ll ponder a way to let you make up for the lapse. But for now, you should know that one of your spanreeds is flashing.” “What? Which one?” “Your scribes say it is the one bound to my daughter.” Jasnah! It had been weeks since they’d last
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communicated; the messages he’d sent her had prompted only the tersest of answers. When Jasnah was deeply immersed in one of her projects, she often ignored all else. If she was sending to him now, either she’d discovered something or she was taking a break to renew her contacts. Dalinar turned to look down the latrine. He’d nearly completed it; and he realized he’d been unconsciously planning to make his final decision once he reached the end. He itched to continue working. But if Jasnah wanted to converse… He needed to talk with her. Perhaps he could persuade her to return to the Shattered Plains. He would feel a lot more secure about abdicating if he knew that she would come watch over Elhokar and Adolin. Dalinar tossed aside his hammer—his pounding had bent the haft a good thirty degrees and the head was a misshapen lump—and jumped out of the ditch. He’d have a new weapon forged; that was not unusual for Shardbearers. “Your pardon, Mathana,” Dalinar said, “but I fear I must beg your leave so soon after begging your forgiveness. I must receive this communication.” He bowed to her and turned to hurry away. “Actually,” Navani said from behind, “I think I’ll beg something of you. It has been months since I’ve spoken with my daughter. I’ll join you, if you’ll permit it.” He hesitated, but he couldn’t deny her so soon after giving her offense. “Of course.” He waited as Navani walked to her palanquin and settled herself. The bearers lifted it, and Dalinar struck out again, the bearers and Navani’s borrowed wards walking close. “You are a kind man, Dalinar Kholin,” Navani said, that same sly smile on her lips as she sat back in the cushioned chair. “I’m afraid that I’m compelled to find you fascinating.” “My sense of honor makes me easy to manipulate,” Dalinar said, eyes forward. Dealing with her was not something he needed right now. “I know it does. No need to toy with me, Navani.” She laughed softly. “I’m not trying to take advantage of you, Dalinar, I—” She paused. “Well, perhaps I am taking advantage of you just a little. But I’m not ‘toying’ with you. This last year in particular, you’ve begun to be the person the others all claim that they are. Can’t you see how intriguing that makes you?” “I don’t do it to be intriguing.” “If you did, it wouldn’t work!” She leaned toward him. “Do you know why I picked Gavilar instead of you all those years ago?” Blast. Her comments—her presence—were like a goblet of darkwine poured into the middle of his crystal thoughts. The clarity he’d sought in hard labor was quickly vanishing. Did she have to be so forward? He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he picked up his pace and hoped that she’d see he didn’t want to discuss the topic. It was no use. “I didn’t pick him because he would become king, Dalinar. Though that’s what everyone says. I chose him because you frightened me. That intensity of yours…it
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scared your brother too, you know.” He said nothing. “It’s still in there,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes. But you’ve wrapped armor around it, a glistening set of Shardplate to contain it. That is part of what I find fascinating.” He stopped, looking at her. The palanquin bearers halted. “This would not work, Navani,” he said softly. “Wouldn’t it?” He shook his head. “I will not dishonor my brother’s memory.” He regarded her sternly, and she eventually nodded. When he continued walking, she said nothing, though she did eye him slyly from time to time. Eventually, they reached his personal complex, marked by fluttering blue banners with the glyphpair khokh and linil, the former drawn in the shape of a crown, the second forming a tower. Dalinar’s mother had drawn the original design, the same his signet ring bore, though Elhokar used a sword and crown instead. The soldiers at the entrance to his complex saluted, and Dalinar waited for Navani to join him before entering. The cavernous interior was lit by infused sapphires. Once they reached his sitting chamber, he was again struck by just how lavish it had gotten over the months. Three of his clerks waited with their attending girls. All six stood up when he entered. Adolin was also there. Dalinar frowned at the youth. “Shouldn’t you be seeing to the inspections?” Adolin started. “Father, I finished those hours ago.” “You did?” Stormfather! How long did I spend pounding on those stones? “Father,” Adolin said, stepping up to him. “Can we speak privately for a moment?” As usual, Adolin’s black-peppered blond hair was an unruly mop. He’d changed from his Plate and bathed, and now he wore a fashionable—though battle-worthy—uniform with a long blue coat, buttoned at the sides, and straight, stiff brown trousers beneath. “I’m not ready to discuss that as yet, son,” Dalinar said softly. “I need a little more time.” Adolin studied him, eyes concerned. He will make a fine highprince, Dalinar thought. He’s been reared to it in a way that I never was. “All right then,” Adolin said. “But there’s something else I want to ask you.” He pointed toward one of the clerks, a woman with auburn hair and only a few strands of black. She was lithe and long-necked, wearing a green dress, her hair arranged high on her head in a complex set of braids held together with four traditional steel hair-spikes. “This is Danlan Morakotha,” Adolin said softly to Dalinar. “She came into camp yesterday to spend a few months with her father, Brightlord Morakotha. She has been calling on me recently, and I took the liberty of offering her a position among your clerks while she is here.” Dalinar blinked. “What about…” “Malasha?” Adolin sighed. “Didn’t work out.” “And this one?” Dalinar asked, voice hushed, yet incredulous. “How long did you say she’s been in camp? Since yesterday? And you’ve already got her calling on you?” Adolin shrugged. “Well, I do have a reputation to maintain.” Dalinar sighed, eyeing Navani, who stood close enough
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to hear. She pretended—for propriety—that she wasn’t listening in. “You know, it is customary to eventually choose just one woman to court.” You’re going to need a good wife, son. Perhaps very soon. “When I’m old and boring, perhaps,” Adolin said, smiling at the young woman. She was pretty. But only in camp one day? Blood of my ancestors, Dalinar thought. He’d spent three years courting the woman who’d eventually become his wife. Even if he couldn’t remember her face, he did remember how persistently he’d pursued her. Surely he’d loved her. All emotion regarding her was gone, wiped from his mind by forces he should never have tempted. Unfortunately, he did remember how much he’d desired Navani, years before meeting the woman who would become his wife. Stop that, he told himself. Moments ago, he’d been on the brink of deciding to abdicate his seat as highprince. It was no time to let Navani distract him. “Brightness Danlan Morakotha,” he said to the young woman. “You are welcome among my clerks. I understand that I’ve received a communication?” “Indeed, Brightlord,” the woman said, curtsying. She nodded to the line of five spanreeds sitting on his bookshelf, set upright in pen holders. The spanreeds looked like ordinary writing reeds, except that each had a small infused ruby affixed. The one on the far right pulsed slowly. Litima was there, and though she had seniority, she nodded for Danlan to fetch the spanreed. The young woman hurried to the bookshelf and moved the still-blinking reed to the small writing desk beside the lectern. She carefully clipped a piece of paper onto the writing board and put the ink vial into its hole, twisting it snugly into place and then pulling the stopper. Lighteyed women were very proficient at working with just their freehand. She sat down, looking up at him, seeming slightly nervous. Dalinar didn’t trust her, of course—she could easily be a spy for one of the other highprinces. Unfortunately, there weren’t any women in camp he trusted completely, not with Jasnah gone. “I am ready, Brightlord,” Danlan said. She had a breathy, husky voice. Just the type that attracted Adolin. He hoped she wasn’t as vapid as those he usually picked. “Proceed,” Dalinar said, waving Navani toward one of the room’s plush easy chairs. The other clerks sat back down on their bench. Danlan turned the spanreed’s gemstone one notch, indicating that the request had been acknowledged. Then she checked the levels on the sides of the writing board—small vials of oil with bubbles at the center, which allowed her to make the board perfectly flat. Finally, she inked the reed and placed it on the dot at the top left of the page. Holding it upright, she twisted the gemstone setting one more time with her thumb. Then she removed her hand. The reed remained in place, tip against the paper, hovering as if held in a phantom hand. Then it began to write, mimicking the exact movements Jasnah made miles away, writing with a reed conjoined to this one.
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Dalinar stood beside the writing table, armored arms folded. He could see that his proximity made Danlan nervous, but he was too anxious to sit. Jasnah had elegant handwriting, of course—Jasnah rarely did anything without taking the time to perfect it. Dalinar leaned forward as the familiar—yet indecipherable—lines appeared on the page in stark violet. Faint wisps of reddish smoke floated up from the gemstone. The pen stopped writing, freezing in place. “‘Uncle,’” Danlan read, “‘I presume that you are well.’” “Indeed,” Dalinar replied. “I am well cared for by those around me.” The words were code indicating that he didn’t trust—or at least didn’t know—everyone listening. Jasnah would be careful not to send anything too sensitive. Danlan took the pen and twisted the gemstone, then wrote out the words, sending them across the ocean to Jasnah. Was she still in Tukar? After Danlan finished writing, she returned it to the dot at the top left—the spot where the pens were both to be placed so Jasnah could continue the conversation—then turned the gemstone back to the previous setting. “‘As I expected, I have found my way to Kharbranth,’” Danlan read. “‘The secrets I seek are too obscure to be contained even in the Palanaeum, but I find hints. Tantalizing fragments. Is Elhokar well?’” Hints? Fragments? Of what? She had a penchant for drama, Jasnah did, though she wasn’t as flamboyant about it as the king. “Your brother tried very hard to get himself killed by a chasmfiend a few weeks back,” Dalinar replied. Adolin smiled at that, leaning with his shoulder against the bookcase. “But evidently the Heralds watch over him. He is well, though your presence here is sorely missed. I’m certain he could use your counsel. He is relying heavily on Brightness Lalai to act as clerk.” Perhaps that would make Jasnah return. There was little love lost between herself and Sadeas’s cousin, who was the king’s head scribe in the queen’s absence. Danlan scratched away, writing the words. To the side, Navani cleared her throat. “Oh,” Dalinar said, “add this: Your mother is here in the warcamps again.” A short time later, the pen wrote of its own volition. “‘Send my mother my respect. Keep her at arm’s length, Uncle. She bites.’” From the side, Navani sniffed, and Dalinar realized he hadn’t signaled that Navani was actually listening. He blushed as Danlan continued speaking. “‘I cannot speak of my work via spanreed, but I’m growing increasingly concerned. There is something here, hidden by the sheer number of accrued pages in the historical record.’” Jasnah was a Veristitalian. She’d explained it to him once; they were an order of scholars who tried to find the truth in the past. They wished to create unbiased, factual accounts of what had happened in order to extrapolate what to do in the future. He wasn’t clear on why they thought themselves different from regular historians. “Will you be returning?” Dalinar asked. “‘I cannot say,’” Danlan read after the reply came. “‘I do not dare stop my research. But a time may soon
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come when I dare not stay away either.’” What? Dalinar thought. “‘Regardless,’” Danlan continued, “‘I have some questions for you. I need you to describe for me again what happened when you met that first Parshendi patrol seven years ago.’” Dalinar frowned. Despite the Plate’s augmentation, his digging had left him feeling tired. But he didn’t dare sit on one of the room’s chairs while wearing his Plate. He took off one of his gauntlets, though, and ran his hand through his hair. He wasn’t fond of this topic, but part of him was glad of the distraction. A reason to hold off on making a decision that would change his life forever. Danlan looked at him, prepared to dictate his words. Why did Jasnah want this story again? Hadn’t she written an account of these very events in her biography of her father? Well, she would eventually tell him why, and—if her past revelations were any indication—her current project would be of great worth. He wished Elhokar had received a measure of his sister’s wisdom. “These are painful memories, Jasnah. I wish I’d never convinced your father to go on that expedition. If we’d never discovered the Parshendi, then they couldn’t have assassinated him. The first meeting happened when we were exploring a forest that wasn’t on the maps. This was south of the Shattered Plains, in a valley about two weeks’ march from the Drying Sea.” During Gavilar’s youth, only two things had thrilled him—conquest and hunting. When he hadn’t been seeking one, it had been the other. Suggesting the hunt had seemed rational at the time. Gavilar had been acting oddly, losing his thirst for battle. Men had started to say that he was weak. Dalinar had wanted to remind his brother of the good times in their youth. Hence the hunt for a legendary chasmfiend. “Your father wasn’t with me when I ran across them,” Dalinar continued, thinking back. Camping on humid, forested hills. Interrogating Natan natives via translators. Looking for scat or broken trees. “I was leading scouts up a tributary of the Deathbend River while your father scouted downstream. We found the Parshendi camped on the other side. I didn’t believe it at first. Parshmen. Camped, free and organized. And they carried weapons. Not crude ones, either. Swords, spears with carved hafts…” He trailed off. Gavilar hadn’t believed either, when Dalinar told him. There was no such thing as a free parshman tribe. They were servants, and always had been servants. “‘Did they have Shardblades then?’” Danlan said. Dalinar hadn’t realized that Jasnah had made a response. “No.” A scratched reply eventually came. “‘But they have them now. When did you first see a Parshendi Shardbearer?’” “After Gavilar’s death,” Dalinar said. He made the connection. They’d always wondered why Gavilar had wanted a treaty with the Parshendi. They wouldn’t have needed one just to harvest the greatshells on the Shattered Plains; the Parshendi hadn’t lived on the Plains then. Dalinar felt a chill. Could his brother have known that these Parshendi had access to Shardblades? Had
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he made the treaty hoping to get out of them where they’d found the weapons? Is it his death? Dalinar wondered. Is that the secret Jasnah’s looking for? She’d never shown Elhokar’s dedication to vengeance, but she thought differently from her brother. Revenge wouldn’t drive her. But questions. Yes, questions would. “‘One more thing, Uncle,’” Danlan read. “‘Then I can go back to digging through this labyrinth of a library. At times, I feel like a cairn robber, sifting through the bones of those long dead. Regardless. The Parshendi, you once mentioned how quickly they seemed to learn our language.’” “Yes,” Dalinar said. “In a matter of days, we were speaking and communicating quite well. Remarkable.” Who would have thought that parshmen, of all people, had the wit for such a marvel? Most he’d known didn’t do much speaking at all. “‘What were the first things they spoke to you about?’” Danlan said. “‘The very first questions they asked? Can you remember?’” Dalinar closed his eyes, remembering days with the Parshendi camped just across the river from them. Gavilar had become fascinated by them. “They wanted to see our maps.” “Did they mention the Voidbringers?” Voidbringers? “Not that I recall. Why?” “‘I’d rather not say right now. However, I want to show you something. Have your scribe get out a new sheet of paper.’” Danlan affixed a new page to the writing board. She put the pen to the corner and let go. It rose and began to scratch back and forth in quick, bold strokes. It was a drawing. Dalinar stood up and stepped closer, and Adolin crowded near. Reed and ink wasn’t the best medium, and drawing across spans wasn’t precise. The pen leaked tiny globs of ink in places it wouldn’t have on the other side, and though the inkwell was in the exact same place—allowing Jasnah to re-ink both her reed and Dalinar’s at the same time—his reed sometimes ran out before the one on the other side. Still, the picture was marvelous. This isn’t Jasnah, Dalinar realized. Whoever was doing the drawing was far, far more talented than his niece. The picture resolved into a depiction of a tall shadow looming over some buildings. Hints of carapace and claws showed in the thin ink lines, and shadows were made by drawing finer lines close together. Danlan set it aside, getting out a third sheet of paper. Dalinar held the drawing up, Adolin at his side. The nightmarish beast in the lines and shadows was faintly familiar. Like… “It’s a chasmfiend,” Adolin said, pointing. “It’s distorted—far more menacing in the face and larger at the shoulders, and I don’t see its second set of foreclaws—but someone was obviously trying to draw one of them.” “Yes,” Dalinar said, rubbing his chin. “‘This is a depiction from one of the books here,’” Danlan read. “‘My new ward is quite skilled at drawing, and so I had her reproduce it for you. Tell me. Does it remind you of anything?’” A new ward? Dalinar thought. It had been years since Jasnah
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had taken one. She always said she didn’t have the time. “This picture’s of a chasmfiend,” Dalinar said. Danlan wrote the words. A moment later, the reply came. “‘The book describes this as a picture of a Voidbringer.’” Danlan frowned, cocking her head. “‘The book is a copy of a text originally written in the years before the Recreance. However, the illustrations are copied from another text, even older. In fact, some think that picture was drawn only two or three generations after the Heralds departed.’” Adolin whistled softly. That would make it very old indeed. So far as Dalinar understood, they had few pieces of art or writing dating from the shadowdays, The Way of Kings being one of the oldest, and the only complete text. And even it had survived only in translation; they had no copies in the original tongue. “‘Before you jump to conclusions,’” Danlan read, “‘I’m not implying that the Voidbringers were the same thing as chasmfiends. I believe that the ancient artist didn’t know what a Voidbringer looked like, and so she drew the most horrific thing she knew of.’” But how did the original artist know what a chasmfiend looked like? Dalinar thought. We only just discovered the Shattered Plains— But of course. Though the Unclaimed Hills were now empty, they had once been an inhabited kingdom. Someone in the past had known about chasmfiends, known them well enough to draw one and label it a Voidbringer. “‘I must go now,’” Jasnah said via Danlan. “‘Care for my brother in my absence, Uncle.’” “Jasnah,” Dalinar sent, choosing his words very carefully. “Things are difficult here. The storm begins to blow unchecked, and the building shakes and moans. You may soon hear news that shocks you. It would be very nice if you could return and lend your aid.” He waited quietly for the reply, the spanreed scratching. “‘I should like to promise a date when I will come.’” Dalinar could almost hear Jasnah’s calm, cool voice. “‘But I cannot estimate when my research will be completed.’” “This is very important, Jasnah,” Dalinar said. “Please reconsider.” “‘Be assured, Uncle, that I am coming. Eventually. I just can’t say when.’” Dalinar sighed. “‘Note,’” Jasnah wrote, “‘that I am most eager to see a chasmfiend for myself.’” “A dead one,” Dalinar said. “I have no intention of letting you repeat your brother’s experience of a few weeks ago.” “‘Ah,’” Jasnah sent back, “‘dear, overprotective Dalinar. One of these years, you will have to admit that your favored niece and nephew have grown up.’” “I’ll treat you as adults so long as you act the part,” Dalinar said. “Come speedily, and we’ll get you a dead chasmfiend. Take care.” They waited to see if a further response came, but the gem stopped blinking, Jasnah’s transmission complete. Danlan put away the spanreed and the board, and Dalinar thanked the clerks for their aid. They withdrew; Adolin looked as if he wanted to linger, but Dalinar gestured for him to leave. Dalinar looked down at the picture of the chasmfiend again,
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unsatisfied. What had he gained from the conversation? More vague hints? What could be so important about Jasnah’s research that she would ignore threats to the kingdom? He would have to compose a more forthright letter to her once he’d made his announcement, explaining why he had decided to step down. Perhaps that would bring her back. And, in a moment of shock, Dalinar realized that he had made his decision. Sometime between leaving the trench and now, he’d stopped treating his abdication as an if and started thinking of it as a when. It was the right decision. He felt sick about it, but certain. A man sometimes needed to do things that were unpleasant. It was the discussion with Jasnah, he realized. The talk of her father. He was acting like Gavilar at the end. That had nearly undermined the kingdom. Well, he needed to stop himself before he got that far. Perhaps whatever was happening to him was some kind of disease of the mind, inherited from their parents. It— “You are quite fond of Jasnah,” Navani said. Dalinar started, turning away from the picture of the chasmfiend. He’d assumed she’d followed Adolin out. But she still stood there, looking at him. “Why is it,” Navani said, “that you encourage her so strongly to return?” He turned to face Navani, and realized that she’d sent her two youthful attendants out with the clerks. They were now alone. “Navani,” he said. “This is inappropriate.” “Bah. We’re family, and I have questions.” Dalinar hesitated, then walked to the center of the room. Navani stood near the door. Blessedly, her attendants had left open the door at the end of the antechamber, and beyond it were two guards in the hall outside. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but so long as Dalinar could see the guards and they him, his conversation with Navani was just barely, proper. “Dalinar?” Navani asked. “Are you going to answer me? Why is it you trust my daughter so much when others almost universally revile her?” “I consider their disdain for her to be a recommendation,” he said. “She is a heretic.” “She refused to join any of the devotaries because she did not believe in their teachings. Rather than compromise for the sake of appearances, she has been honest and has refused to make professions she does not believe. I find that a sign of honor.” Navani snorted. “You two are a pair of nails in the same doorframe. Stern, hard, and storming annoying to pull free.” “You should go now,” Dalinar said, nodding toward the hallway. He suddenly felt very exhausted. “People will talk.” “Let them. We need to plan, Dalinar. You are the most important highprince in—” “Navani,” he cut in. “I’m going to abdicate in favor of Adolin.” She blinked in surprise. “I’m stepping down as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements. It will be a few days at most.” Speaking the words felt odd, as if saying them made his decision real. Navani looked pained. “Oh, Dalinar,” she whispered. “This
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is a terrible mistake.” “It is mine to make. And I must repeat my request. I have many things to think about, Navani, and I can’t deal with you right now.” He pointed at the doorway. Navani rolled her eyes, but left as requested. She shut the door behind her. That’s it, Dalinar thought, letting out a long exhalation. I’ve made the decision. Too weary to remove his Plate unassisted, he sank down onto the floor, resting his head back against the wall. He would tell Adolin of his decision in the morning, then announce it at a feast within the week. From there, he would return to Alethkar and his lands. It was over. THE END OF Part Two Rysn hesitantly stepped down from the caravan’s lead wagon. Her feet fell on soft, uneven ground that sank down a little beneath her. That made her shiver, particularly since the too-thick grass didn’t move away as it should. Rysn tapped her foot a few times. The grass didn’t so much as quiver. “It’s not going to move,” Vstim said. “Grass here doesn’t behave the way it does elsewhere. Surely you’ve heard that.” The older man sat beneath the bright yellow canopy of the lead wagon. He rested one arm on the side rail, holding a set of ledgers with the other hand. One of his long white eyebrows was tucked behind his ear and he let the other trail down beside his face. He preferred stiffly starched robes—blue and red—and a flat-topped conical hat. It was classic Thaylen merchant’s clothing: several decades out of date, yet still distinguished. “I’ve heard of the grass,” Rysn said to him. “But it’s just so odd.” She stepped again, walking in a circle around the lead wagon. Yes, she’d heard of the grass here in Shinovar, but she’d assumed that it would just be lethargic. That people said it didn’t disappear because it moved too slowly. But no, that wasn’t it. It didn’t move at all. How did it survive? Shouldn’t it have all been eaten away by animals? She shook her head in wonder, looking up across the plain. The grass completely covered it. The blades were all crowded together, and you couldn’t see the ground. What a mess it was. “The ground is springy,” she said, rounding back to her original side of the wagon. “Not just because of the grass.” “Hmm,” Vstim said, still working on his ledgers. “Yes. It’s called soil.” “It makes me feel like I’m going to sink down to my knees. How can the Shin stand living here?” “They’re an interesting people. Shouldn’t you be setting up the device?” Rysn sighed, but walked to the rear of the wagon. The other wagons in the caravan—six in all—were pulling up and forming a loose circle. She took down the tailgate of the lead wagon and heaved, pulling out a wooden tripod nearly as tall as she was. She carried it over one shoulder, marching to the center of the grassy circle. She was more fashionable than her babsk; she wore
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the most modern of clothing for a young woman her age: a deep blue patterned silk vest over a light green long-sleeved shirt with stiff cuffs. Her ankle-length skirt—also green—was stiff and businesslike, utilitarian in cut but embroidered for fashion. She wore a green glove on her left hand. Covering the safehand was a silly tradition, just a result of Vorin cultural dominance. But it was best to keep up appearances. Many of the more traditional Thaylen people—including, unfortunately, her babsk—still found it scandalous for a woman to go about with her safehand uncovered. She set up the tripod. It had been five months since Vstim become her babsk and she his apprentice. He’d been good to her. Not all babsk were; by tradition, he was more than just her master. He was her father, legally, until he pronounced her ready to become a merchant on her own. She did wish he wouldn’t spend so much time traveling to such odd places. He was known as a great merchant, and she’d assumed that great merchants would be the ones visiting exotic cities and ports. Not ones who traveled to empty meadows in backward countries. Tripod set up, she returned to the wagon to fetch the fabrial. The wagon back formed an enclosure with thick sides and top to offer protection against highstorms—even the weaker ones in the West could be dangerous, at least until one got through the passes and into Shinovar. She hurried back to the tripod with the fabrial’s box. She slid off the wooden top and removed the large heliodor inside. The pale yellow gemstone, at least two inches in diameter, was fixed inside a metal framework. It glowed gently, not as bright as one might expect of such a sizable gem. She set it in the tripod, then spun a few of the dials underneath, setting the fabrial to the people in the caravan. Then she pulled a stool from the wagon and sat down to watch. She’d been astonished at what Vstim had paid for the device—one of the new, recently invented types that would give warning if people approached. Was it really so important? She sat back, looking up at the gemstone, watching to see if it grew brighter. The odd grass of the Shin lands waved in the wind, stubbornly refusing to withdraw, even at the strongest of gusts. In the distance rose the white peaks of the Misted Mountains, sheltering Shinovar. Those mountains caused the highstorms to break and fade, making Shinovar one of the only places in all of Roshar where highstorms did not reign. The plain around her was dotted with strange, straight-trunked trees with stiff, skeletal branches full of leaves that didn’t withdraw in the wind. The entire landscape had an eerie feel to it, as if it were dead. Nothing moved. With a start, Rysn realized she couldn’t see any spren. Not a one. No windspren, no lifespren, nothing. It was as if the entire land were slow of wit. Like a man who was born without all his brains,
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one who didn’t know when to protect himself, but instead just stared at the wall drooling. She dug into the ground with a finger, then brought it up to inspect the “soil,” as Vstim had called it. It was dirty stuff. Why, a strong gust could uproot this entire field of grass and blow it away. Good thing the highstorms couldn’t reach these lands. Near the wagons, the servants and guards unloaded crates and set up camp. Suddenly, the heliodor began to pulse with a brighter yellow light. “Master!” she called, standing. “Someone’s nearby.” Vstim—who had been going through crates—looked up sharply. He waved to Kylrm, head of the guards, and his six men got out their bows. “There,” one said, pointing. In the distance, a group of horsemen was approaching. They didn’t ride very quickly, and they led several large animals—like thick, squat horses—pulling wagons. The gemstone in the fabrial pulsed more brightly as the newcomers got closer. “Yes,” Vstim said, looking at the fabrial. “That is going to be very handy. Good range on it.” “But we knew they were coming,” Rysn said, rising from her stool and walking over to him. “This time,” he said. “But if it warns us of bandits in the dark, it’ll repay its cost a dozen times over. Kylrm, lower your bows. You know how they feel about those things.” The guards did as they were told, and the group of Thaylens waited. Rysn found herself tucking her eyebrows back nervously, though she didn’t know why she bothered. The newcomers were just Shin. Of course, Vstim insisted that she shouldn’t think of them as savages. He seemed to have great respect for them. As they approached, she was surprised by the variety in their appearance. Other Shin she’d seen had worn basic brown robes or other worker’s clothing. At the front of this group, however, was a man in what must be Shin finery: a bright, multicolored cloak that completely enveloped him, tied closed at the front. It trailed down on either side of his horse, drooping almost to the ground. Only his head was exposed. Four men rode on horses around him, and they wore more subdued clothing. Still bright, just not as bright. They wore shirts, trousers, and colorful capes. At least three dozen other men walked alongside them, wearing brown tunics. More drove the three large wagons. “Wow,” Rysn said. “He brought a lot of servants.” “Servants?” Vstim said. “The fellows in brown.” Her babsk smiled. “Those are his guards, child.” “What? They look so dull.” “Shin are a curious folk,” he said. “Here, warriors are the lowliest of men—kind of like slaves. Men trade and sell them between houses by way of little stones that signify ownership, and any man who picks up a weapon must join them and be treated the same. The fellow in the fancy robe? He’s a farmer.” “A landowner, you mean?” “No. As far as I can tell, he goes out every day—well, the days when he’s not overseeing a negotiation like this—and works the
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fields. They treat all farmers like that, lavish them with attention and respect.” Rysn gaped. “But most villages are filled with farmers!” “Indeed,” Vstim said. “Holy places, here. Foreigners aren’t allowed near fields or farming villages.” How strange, she thought. Perhaps living in this place has affected their minds. Kylrm and his guards didn’t look terribly pleased at being so heavily outnumbered, but Vstim didn’t seem bothered. Once the Shin grew close, he walked out from his wagons without a hint of trepidation. Rysn hurried after him, her skirt brushing the grass below. Bother, she thought. Another problem with its not retracting. If she had to buy a new hem because of this dull grass, it was going to make her very cross. Vstim met up with the Shin, then bowed in a distinctive way, hands toward the ground. “Tan balo ken tala,” he said. She didn’t know what it meant. The man in the cloak—the farmer—nodded respectfully, and one of the other riders dismounted and walked forward. “Winds of Fortune guide you, my friend.” He spoke Thaylen very well. “He who adds is happy for your safe arrival.” “Thank you, Thresh-son-Esan,” Vstim said. “And my thanks to he who adds.” “What have you brought for us from your strange lands, friend?” Thresh said. “More metal, I hope?” Vstim waved and some of the guards brought over a heavy crate. They set it down and pried off the top, revealing its peculiar contents. Pieces of scrap metal, mostly shaped like bits of shell, though some were formed like pieces of wood. It looked to Rysn like garbage that had—for some inexplicable reason—been Soulcast into metal. “Ah,” Thresh said, squatting down to inspect the box. “Wonderful!” “Not a bit of it was mined,” Vstim said. “No rocks were broken or smelted to get this metal, Thresh. It was Soulcast from shells, bark, or branches. I have a document sealed by five separate Thaylen notaries attesting to it.” “You needn’t have done such a thing as this,” Thresh said. “You have once earned our trust in this matter long ago.” “I’d rather be proper about it,” Vstim said. “A merchant who is careless with contracts is one who finds himself with enemies instead of friends.” Thresh stood up, clapping three times. The men in brown with the downcast eyes lowered the back of a wagon, revealing crates. “The others who visit us,” Thresh noted, walking to the wagon. “All they seem to care about are horses. Everyone wishes to buy horses. But never you, my friend. Why is that?” “Too hard to care for,” Vstim said, walking with Thresh. “And there’s too often a poor return on the investment, valuable as they are.” “But not with these?” Thresh said, picking up one of the light crates. There was something alive inside. “Not at all,” Vstim said. “Chickens fetch a good price, and they’re easy to care for, assuming you have feed.” “We brought you plenty,” Thresh said. “I cannot believe you buy these from us. They are not worth nearly so much as you
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outsiders think. And you give us metal for them! Metal that bears no stain of broken rock. A miracle.” Vstim shrugged. “Those scraps are practically worthless where I come from. They’re made by ardents practicing with Soulcasters. They can’t make food, because if you get it wrong, it’s poisonous. So they turn garbage into metal and throw it away.” “But it can be forged!” “Why forge the metal,” Vstim said, “when you can carve an object from wood in the precise shape you want, then Soulcast it?” Thresh just shook his head, bemused. Rysn watched with her own share of confusion. This was the craziest trade exchange she’d ever seen. Normally, Vstim argued and haggled like a crushkiller. But here, he freely revealed that his wares were worthless! In fact, as conversation proceeded, the two both took pains to explain how worthless their goods were. Eventually, they came to an agreement—though Rysn couldn’t grasp how—and shook hands on the deal. Some of Thresh’s soldiers began to unload their boxes of chickens, cloth, and exotic dried meats. Others began carting away boxes of scrap metal. “You couldn’t trade me a soldier, could you?” Vstim asked as they waited. “They cannot be sold to an outsider, I am afraid.” “But there was that one you traded me…” “It’s been nearly seven years!” Thresh said with a laugh. “And still you ask!” “You don’t know what I got for him,” Vstim said. “And you gave him to me for practically nothing!” “He was Truthless,” Thresh said, shrugging. “He wasn’t worth anything at all. You forced me to take something in trade, though to confess, I had to throw your payment into a river. I could not take money for a Truthless.” “Well, I suppose I can’t take offense at that,” Vstim said, rubbing his chin. “But if you ever have another, let me know. Best servant I ever had. I still regret that I traded him.” “I will remember, friend,” Thresh said. “But I do not think it likely we will have another like him.” He seemed to grow distracted. “Indeed, I should hope that we never do….” Once the goods were exchanged, they shook hands again, then Vstim bowed to the farmer. Rysn tried to mimic what he did, and earned a smile from Thresh and several of his companions, who chattered in their whispering Shin language. Such a long, boring ride for such a short exchange. But Vstim was right; those chickens would be worth good spheres in the East. “What did you learn?” Vstim said to her as they walked back toward the lead wagon. “That Shin are odd.” “No,” Vstim said, though he wasn’t stern. He never seemed to be stern. “They are simply different, child. Odd people are those who act erratically. Thresh and his kind, they are anything but erratic. They may be a little too stable. The world is changing outside, but the Shin seem determined to remain the same. I’ve tried to offer them fabrials, but they find them worthless. Or unholy. Or too holy to use.”
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“Those are rather different things, master.” “Yes,” he said. “But with the Shin, it’s often hard to distinguish among them. Regardless, what did you really learn?” “That they treat being humble like the Herdazians treat boasting,” she said. “You both went out of your way to show how worthless your wares were. I found it strange, but I think it might just be how they haggle.” He smiled widely. “And already you are wiser than half the men I’ve brought here. Listen. Here is your lesson. Never try to cheat the Shin. Be forthright, tell them the truth, and—if anything—undervalue your goods. They will love you for it. And they’ll pay you for it too.” She nodded. They reached the wagon, and he got out a strange little pot. “Here,” he said. “Use a knife and go cut out some of that grass. Be sure to cut down far and get plenty of the soil. The plants can’t live without it.” “Why am I doing this?” she asked, wrinkling her nose and taking the pot. “Because,” he said. “You’re going to learn to care for that plant. I want you to keep it with you until you stop thinking of it as odd.” “But why?” “Because it will make you a better merchant,” he said. She frowned. Must he be so strange so much of the time? Perhaps that was why he was one of the only Thaylens who could get a good deal out of the Shin. He was as odd as they were. She walked off to do as she was told. No use complaining. She did get out a rugged pair of gloves first, though, and roll up her sleeves. She was not going to ruin a good dress for a pot of drooling, wall-staring, imbecile grass. And that was that. Axies the Collector groaned, lying on his back, skull pounding with a headache. He opened his eyes and looked down the length of his body. He was naked. Blight it all, he thought. Well, best to check and see if he was hurt too badly. His toes pointed at the sky. The nails were a deep blue color, not uncommon for an Aimian man like himself. He tried to wiggle them and, pleasingly, they actually moved. “Well, that’s something,” he said, dropping his head back to the ground. It made a squishing sound as it touched something soft, likely a bit of rotting garbage. Yes, that was what it was. He could smell it now, pungent and rank. He focused on his nose, sculpting his body so that he could no longer smell. Ah, he thought. Much better. Now if he could only banish the pounding in his head. Really, did the sun have to be so garish overhead? He closed his eyes. “You’re still in my alley,” a gruff voice said from behind him. That voice had awakened him in the first place. “I shall vacate it presently,” Axies promised. “You owe me rent. One night’s sleep.” “In an alleyway?” “Finest alleyway in Kasitor.” “Ah. Is that
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where I am, then? Excellent.” A few heartbeats of mental focus finally banished the headache. He opened his eyes, and this time found the sunlight quite pleasant. Brick walls rose toward the sky on either side of him, overgrown with a crusty red lichen. Small heaps of rotting tubers were scattered around him. No. Not scattered. They looked to be arranged carefully. Odd, that. They were likely the source of the scents he’d noticed earlier. Best to leave his sense of smell inhibited. He sat up, stretching, checking his muscles. All seemed to be in working order, though he had quite a few bruises. He’d deal with those in a bit. “Now,” he said, turning, “you wouldn’t happen to have a spare pair of pants, would you?” The own er of the voice turned out to be a scraggly-bearded man sitting on a box at the end of the alleyway. Axies didn’t recognize him, nor did he recognize the location. That wasn’t surprising, considering that he’d been beaten, robbed, and left for dead. Again. The things I do in the name of scholarship, he thought with a sigh. His memory was returning. Kasitor was a large Iriali city, second in size only to Rall Elorim. He’d come here by design. He’d also gotten himself drunk by design. Perhaps he should have picked his drinking companions more carefully. “I’m going to guess that you don’t have a spare pair of pants,” Axies said, standing and inspecting the tattoos on his arm. “And if you did, I’d suggest that you wear them yourself. Is that a lavis sack you have on?” “You owe me rent,” the man grumbled. “And payment for destroying the temple of the northern god.” “Odd,” Axies said, looking over his shoulder toward the alleyway’s opening. There was a busy street beyond. The good people of Kasitor would likely not take well to his nudity. “I don’t recall destroying any temples. Normally I’m quite cognizant of that sort of thing.” “You took out half of Hapron Street,” the beggar said. “Number of homes as well. I’ll let that slide.” “Mighty kind of you.” “They’ve been wicked lately.” Axies frowned, looking back at the beggar. He followed the man’s gaze, looking down at the ground. The heaps of rotting vegetables had been placed in a very particular arrangement. Like a city. “Ah,” Axies said, moving his foot, which had been planted on a small square of vegetable. “That was a bakery,” the beggar said. “Terribly sorry.” “The family was away.” “That’s a relief.” “They were worshipping at the temple.” “The one I…” “Smashed with your head? Yes.” “I’m certain you’ll be kind to their souls.” The beggar narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m still trying to decide how you fit into things. Are you a Voidbringer or a Herald?” “Voidbringer, I’m afraid,” Axies said. “I mean, I did destroy a temple.” The beggar’s eyes grew more suspicious. “Only the sacred cloth can banish me,” Axies continued. “And since you don’t…I say, what is that you’re holding?” The beggar looked down at his
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hand, which was touching one of the ratty blankets draped over one of his equally ratty boxes. He perched atop them, like…well, like a god looking down over his people. Poor fool, Axies thought. It was really time to be moving on. Wouldn’t want to bring any bad luck down upon the addled fellow. The beggar held up the blanket. Axies shied back, raising his hands. That made the beggar smile a grin that could have used a few more teeth. He hopped off his box, holding the blanket up wardingly. Axies shied away. The beggar cackled and threw the blanket at him. Axies snatched it from the air and shook a fist at the beggar. Then he retreated from the alleyway while wrapping the blanket around his waist. “And lo,” the beggar said from behind, “the foul beast was banished!” “And lo,” Axies said, fixing the blanket in place, “the foul beast avoided imprisonment for public indecency.” Iriali were very particular about their chastity laws. They were very particular about a lot of things. Of course, that could be said for most peoples—the only difference were the things they were particular about. Axies the Collector drew his share of stares. Not because of his unconventional clothing—Iri was on the northwestern rim of Roshar, and its weather therefore tended to be much warmer than that of places like Alethkar or even Azir. A fair number of the golden-haired Iriali men went about wearing only waist wraps, their skin painted various colors and patterns. Even Axies’s tattoos weren’t that noteworthy here. Perhaps he drew stares because of his blue nails and crystalline deep blue eyes. Aimians—even Siah Aimians—were rare. Or perhaps it was because he cast a shadow the wrong way. Toward light, instead of away from it. It was a small thing, and the shadows weren’t long, with the sun so high. But those who noticed muttered or jumped out of the way. Likely they’d heard of his kind. It hadn’t been that long since the scouring of his homeland. Just long ago enough for stories and legends to have crept into the general knowledge of most peoples. Perhaps someone important would take exception to him and have him brought before a local magistrate. Wouldn’t be the first time. He’d learned long ago not to worry. When the Curse of Kind followed you, you learned to take what happened as it happened. He began to whistle softly to himself, inspecting his tattoos and ignoring those observant enough to gawk. I remember writing something somewhere… he thought, looking over his wrist, then twisting his arm over and trying to see if there were any new tattoos on the back. Like all Aimians, he could change the color and markings of his skin at will. That was convenient, as when you were very regularly robbed of everything you owned, it was blighted difficult to keep a proper notebook. And so, he kept his notes on his skin, at least until he could return to a safe location and transcribe them. Hopefully, he hadn’t gotten
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so drunk that he’d written his observations someplace inconvenient. He’d done that once, and reading the mess had required two mirrors and a very confused bathing attendant. Ah, he thought, discovering a new entry near the inside of his left elbow. He read it awkwardly, shuffling down the incline. Test successful. Have noted spren who appear only when one is severely intoxicated. Appear as small brown bubbles clinging to objects nearby. Further testing may be needed to prove they were more than a drunken hallucination. “Very nice,” he said out loud. “Very nice indeed. I wonder what I should call them.” The stories he’d heard called them sudspren, but that seemed silly. Intoxicationspren? No, too unwieldy. Alespren? He felt a surge of excitement. He’d been hunting this particular type of spren for years. If they proved real, it would be quite a victory. Why did they appear only in Iri? And why so infrequently? He’d gotten himself stupidly drunk a dozen times, and had only found them once. If, indeed, he had ever really found them. Spren, however, could be very elusive. Sometimes, even the most common types—flamespren, for instance—would refuse to appear. That made it particularly frustrating for a man who had made it his life’s work to observe, catalogue, and study every single type of spren in Roshar. He continued whistling as he made his way through the town to the dockside. Around him flowed large numbers of the golden-haired Iriali. The hair bred true, like black Alethi hair—the purer your blood was, the more locks of gold you had. And it wasn’t merely blond, it was truly gold, lustrous in the sun. He had a fondness for the Iriali. They weren’t nearly as prudish as the Vorin peoples to the east, and were rarely inclined to bickering or fighting. That made it easier to hunt spren. Of course, there were also spren you could find only during war. A group of people had gathered at the docks. Ah, he thought, excellent. I’m not too late. Most were crowding onto a purpose-built viewing platform. Axies found himself a place to stand, adjusted his holy blanket, and leaned back against the railing to wait. It wasn’t long. At precisely seven forty-six in the morning—the locals could use it to set their timepieces—an enormous, sea-blue spren surged from the waters of the bay. It was translucent, and though it appeared to throw out waves as it rose, that was illusory. The actual surface of the bay wasn’t disturbed. It takes the shape of a large jet of water, Axies thought, creating a tattoo along an open portion of his leg, scribing the words. The center is of the deepest blue, like the ocean depths, though the outer edges are a lighter shade. Judging by the masts of the nearby ships, I’d say that the spren has grown to a height of at least a hundred feet. One of the largest I’ve ever seen. The column sprouted four long arms that came down around the bay, forming fingers and thumbs. They landed on
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golden pedestals that had been placed there by the people of the city. The spren came at the same time every day, without fail. They called it by name, Cusicesh, the Protector. Some worshipped it as a god. Most simply accepted it as part of the city. It was unique. One of the few types of spren he knew of that seemed to have only a single member. But what kind of spren is it? Axies wrote, fascinated. It has formed a face, looking eastward. Directly toward the Origin. That face is shifting, bewilderingly quick. Different human faces appear on the end of its stumplike neck, one after another in blurred succession. The display lasted a full ten minutes. Did any of the faces repeat? They changed so quickly, he couldn’t tell. Some seemed male, others female. Once the display was finished, Cusicesh retreated down into the bay, sending up phantom waves again. Axies felt drained, as if something had been leeched from him. That was reported to be a common reaction. Was he imagining it because it was expected? Or was it real? As he considered, a street urchin scrambled past and grabbed his wrap, yanking it free and laughing to himself. He tossed it to some friends and they scrambled away. Axies shook his head. “What a bother,” he said as people around him began to gasp and mutter. “There are guards nearby, I assume? Ah yes. Four of them. Wonderful.” The four were already stalking toward him, golden hair falling around their shoulders, expressions stern. “Well,” he said to himself, making a final notation as one of the guards grabbed him on the shoulder. “It appears I’ll have another chance to search for captivityspren.” Odd, how those had eluded him all these years, despite his numerous incarcerations. He was beginning to consider them mythological. The guards towed him off toward the city dungeons, but he didn’t mind. Two new spren in as many days! At this rate, it might only take a few more centuries to complete his research. Grand indeed. He resumed whistling to himself. Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, crouched on a high stone ledge at the side of the gambling den. The ledge was meant for holding a lantern; both his legs and the shelf were hidden by his long, enveloping cloak, making him seem to be hanging from the wall. There were few lights nearby. Makkek liked Szeth to remain cloaked in shadow. He wore a formfitting black costume beneath the cloak, the lower part of his face covered by a cloth mask; both were of Makkek’s design. The cloak was too big and the clothing too tight. It was a terrible outfit for an assassin, but Makkek demanded drama, and Szeth did as his master commanded. Always. Perhaps there was something useful to the drama. With only his eyes and bald head showing, he unnerved the people who passed by. Shin eyes, too round, slightly too large. The people here thought them similar to the eyes of a child. Why did that disturb them so?
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Nearby, a group of men in brown cloaks sat chatting and rubbing their thumbs and forefingers together. Wisps of smoke rose between their fingers, accompanied by a faint crackling sound. Rubbing firemoss was said to make a man’s mind more receptive to thoughts and ideas. The one time Szeth had tried it, it had given him a headache and two blistered fingers. But once you grew the calluses, it could apparently be euphoric. The circular den had a bar at the center, serving a wide variety of drinks at a wider variety of prices. The barmaids were dressed in violet robes that had plunging necklines and were open at the sides. Their safehands were exposed, something that the Bavlanders—who were Vorin by descent—seemed to find extremely provocative. So odd. It was just a hand. Around the perimeter of the den, various games were in progress. None of them were overt games of chance—no dice throws, no bets on card flips. There were games of breakneck, shallowcrab fights, and—oddly—guessing games. That was another oddity about Vorin peoples; they avoided overtly guessing the future. A game like breakneck would have throws and tosses, but they wouldn’t bet on the outcome. Instead, they’d bet on the hand they held after the throws and the draws. It seemed a meaningless distinction to Szeth, but it was deeply steeped in the culture. Even here, in one of the vilest pits in the city—where women walked with their hands exposed and men spoke openly of crimes—nobody risked offending the Heralds by seeking to know the future. Even predicting the highstorms made many uncomfortable. And yet they thought nothing of walking on stone or using Stormlight for everyday illumination. They ignored the spirits of things that lived around them, and they ate whatever they wanted on any day they wanted. Strange. So strange. And yet this was his life. Recently, Szeth had begun to question some of the prohibitions he had once followed so strictly. How could these Easterners not walk on stone? There was no soil in their lands. How could they get about without treading on stone? Dangerous thoughts. His way of life was all that remained to him. If he questioned Stone Shamanism, would he then question his nature as Truthless? Dangerous, dangerous. Though his murders and sins would damn him, at least his soul would be given to the stones upon his death. He would continue to exist. Punished, in agony, but not exiled to nothingness. Better to exist in agony than to vanish entirely. Makkek himself strode the floor of the gambling den, a woman on each arm. His scrawny leanness was gone, his face having slowly gained a juicy plumpness, like a fruit ripening after the drowning’s waters. Also gone were his ragged footpad’s garments, replaced with luxurious silks. Makkek’s companions—the ones with him when they’d killed Took—were all dead, murdered by Szeth at Makkek’s orders. All to hide the secret of the Oathstone. Why were these Easterners always so ashamed of the way they controlled Szeth? Was it because they feared another
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would steal the Oathstone from them? Were they terrified that the weapon they employed so callously would be turned against them? Perhaps he feared that if it were known how easily Szeth was controlled, it would spoil their reputation. Szeth had overheard more than one conversation centered around the mystery of Makkek’s terribly effective bodyguard. If a creature like Szeth served Makkek, then the master himself must be even more dangerous. Makkek passed the place where Szeth lurked, one of the women on his arms laughing with tinkling sound. Makkek glanced at Szeth, then gestured curtly. Szeth bowed his masked head in acknowledgment. He slid from his place, dropping to the ground, oversized cloak fluttering. Games stilled. Men both drunken and sober turned to watch Szeth, and as he passed the three men with the firemoss, their fingers went limp. Most in the room knew what Szeth was about this night. A man had moved into Bornwater and opened his own gambling den to challenge Makkek. Likely this newcomer didn’t believe the reputation of Makkek’s phantom assassin. Well, he had reason to be skeptical. Szeth’s reputation was inaccurate. He was far, far more dangerous than it suggested. He ducked out of the gambling den, passing up the steps through the darkened storefront and then out into the yard. He tossed the cloak and face mask into a wagon as he passed. The cloak would only make noise, and why cover his face? He was the only Shin in town. If someone saw his eyes, they’d know who he was. He retained the tight black clothing; changing would take too much time. Bornwater was the largest town in the area; it hadn’t taken Makkek long to outgrow Staplind. Now he was talking of moving up to Kneespike, the city where the local landlord had his mansion. If that happened, Szeth would spend months wading in blood as he systematically tracked down and killed each and every thief, cutthroat, and gambling master who refused Makkek’s rule. That was months off. For now, there was Bornwater’s interloper, a man named Gavashaw. Szeth prowled through the streets, eschewing Stormlight or Shardblade, counting on his natural grace and care to keep him unseen. He enjoyed his brief freedom. These moments—when he wasn’t trapped in one of Makkek’s smoke-filled dens—were too few lately. Slipping between buildings—moving swiftly in the darkness, with the wet, cold air on his skin—he could almost think himself back in Shinovar. The buildings around him were not of blasphemous stone, but earthen ones, built with clay and soil. Those low sounds were not muffled cheers from within another of Makkek’s gambling dens, but the thunder and whinnies of wild horses on the plains. But no. In Shinovar he’d never smelled refuse like that—pungency compounded by weeks spent marinating. He was not home. There was no place for him in the Valley of Truth. Szeth entered one of the richer sections of town, where buildings had more space between homes. Bornwater was in a lait, protected by a towering cliffside to the east. Gavashaw had
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arrogantly made his home in a large mansion on the eastern side of town. It belonged to the provincial landlord; Gavashaw had his favor. The landlord had heard of Makkek and his quick rise to prominence in the underground, and supporting a rival was a good way to create an early check on Makkek’s power. The citylord’s local mansion was three stories tall, with a stone wall surrounding the compact, neatly gardened grounds. Szeth approached in a low crouch. Here on the outskirts of town, the ground was spotted with bulbous rockbuds. As he passed, the plants rustled, pulling back their vines and lethargically closing their shells. He reached the wall and pressed himself against it. It was the time between the first two moons, the darkest period of night. The hateful hour, his people called it, for it was one of the only times when the gods did not watch men. Soldiers walked the wall above, feet scraping the stones. Gavashaw probably thought himself safe in this building, which was secure enough for a powerful lighteyes. Szeth breathed in, infusing himself with Stormlight from the spheres in his pouch. He began to glow, luminescent vapors rising from his skin. In the darkness, it was quite noticeable. These powers had never been intended for assassination; Surgebinders had fought during the light of day, battling the night but not embracing it. That was not Szeth’s place. He would simply have to take extra care not to be seen. Ten heartbeats after the passing of the guards, Szeth Lashed himself to the wall. That direction became down for him, and he was able to run up the side of the stone fortification. As he reached the top, he leaped forward, then briefly Lashed himself backward. He spun over the top of the wall in a tucked flip, then Lashed himself back to the wall again. He came down with feet planted on the stones, facing the ground. He ran and Lashed himself downward again, dropping the last few feet. The grounds were laced with shalebark mounds, cultivated to form small terraces. Szeth ducked low, picking his way through the mazelike garden. There were guards at the building’s doorways, watching by the light of spheres. How easy it would be to dash up, consume the Stormlight, and plunge the men into darkness before cutting them down. But Makkek had not expressly commanded him to be so destructive. Gavashaw was to be assassinated, but the method was up to Szeth. He picked one that would not require killing the guards. That was what he always did, when given the chance. It was the only way to preserve what little humanity he had left. He reached the western wall of the mansion and Lashed himself to it, then ran up it onto the roof. It was long and flat, sloped gently eastward—an unnecessary feature in a lait, but Easterners saw the world by the light of the highstorms. Szeth quickly crossed to the rear of the building, to where a small rock dome covered a lower portion
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of the mansion. He dropped down onto the dome, Stormlight streaming from his body. Translucent, luminescent, pristine. Like the ghost of a fire burning from him, consuming his soul. He summoned his Shardblade in the stillness and dark, then used it to slice a hole in the dome, angling his Blade so that the chunk of rock did not fall down inside. He reached down with his free hand and infused the stone circle with Light, Lashing it toward the northwest section of the sky. Lashing something to a distant point like that was possible, but imprecise. It was like trying to shoot an arrow a great distance. He stepped back as the stone circle lurched free and fell up into the air, streaming Stormlight as it soared toward the splattered paint drops of stars above. Szeth leapt into the hole, then immediately Lashed himself to the ceiling. He twisted in the air, landing with his feet planted on the underside of the dome beside the lip of the hole he’d cut. From his perspective, he was now standing at the bottom of a gigantic stone bowl, the hole cut in the very bottom, looking out on the stars beneath. He walked up the side of the bowl, Lashing himself to the right. In seconds he was on the floor, reoriented so that the dome rose above him. Distantly, he heard a faint crashing: The chunk of stone, Stormlight exhausted, had fallen back to the ground. He had aimed it out of the town. Hopefully, it had not caused any accidental deaths. The guards would now be distracted, searching for the source of the distant crash. Szeth breathed in deeply, draining his second pouch of gemstones. The light streaming from him became brighter, letting him see the room around him. As he’d suspected, it was empty. This was a rarely used feasting hall, with cold firepits, tables, and benches. The air was still, silent, and musty. Like that of a tomb. Szeth hurried to the door, slid his Shardblade between it and the frame, and sliced through the deadbolt. He eased the door open. The Stormlight rising from his body illuminated the dark hallway outside. Early during his time with Makkek, Szeth had been careful not to use the Shardblade. As his tasks had grown more difficult, however, he’d been forced to resort to it to avoid unnecessary killing. Now the rumors about him were populated with tales of holes cut through stone and dead men with burned eyes. Makkek had begun to believe those rumors. He hadn’t yet demanded that Szeth relinquish the Blade—if he did so, he would discover the second of Szeth’s two forbidden actions. He was required to carry the Blade until his death, after which Shin Stone Shamans would recover it from whomever had killed him. He moved through the hallways. He wasn’t worried about Makkek taking the Blade, but he was worried about how bold the thief lord was growing. The more successful Szeth was, the more audacious Makkek became. How long before he stopped using
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Szeth to kill minor rivals, instead sending him to kill Shardbearers or powerful lighteyes? How long before someone made the connection? A Shin assassin with a Shardblade, capable of mysterious feats and extreme stealth? Could this be the now-infamous Assassin in White? Makkek could draw the Alethi king and highprinces away from their war on the Shattered Plains and bring them crashing down upon Jah Keved. Thousands would die. Blood would fall like the rain of a highstorm—thick, pervasive, destructive. He continued down the hallway in a swift low run, Shardblade carried in a reverse grip, extending out behind him. Tonight, at least, he assassinated a man who deserved his fate. Were the hallways too quiet? Szeth hadn’t seen a soul since leaving the rooftop. Could Gavashaw have been foolish enough to place all of his guards outside, leaving his bedchamber undefended? Ahead, the doors into the master’s rooms lay unwatched and dark at the end of a short hallway. Suspicious. Szeth crept up to the doors, listening. Nothing. He hesitated, glancing to the side. A grand stairway led up to the second floor. He hustled over and used his Blade to shear free a wooden knob from the newel post. It was about the size of a small melon. A few hacks with the Blade cut a cloak-sized section of drapery free from a window. Szeth hurried back to the doors and infused the wooden sphere with Stormlight, giving it a Basic Lashing that pointed it westward, directly ahead of him. He cut through the latch between the doors and eased one open. The room beyond was dark. Was Gavashaw gone for the evening? Where would he go? This city was not safe for him yet. Szeth placed the wooden ball in the middle of the drape, then held it up and dropped it. It fell forward, toward the far wall. Wrapped in the fabric, the ball looked vaguely like a person in a cloak running through the room in a crouch. No concealed guards struck at it. The decoy bounced off a latched window, then came to rest hanging against the wall. It continued to leak Stormlight. That light illuminated a small table with an object atop it. Szeth squinted, trying to make out what it was. He edged forward, slinking into the room, closer and closer to the table. Yes. The object on the table was a head. One with Gavashaw’s features. Shadows thrown by Stormlight gave the grisly face an even more haunted cast. Someone had beaten Szeth to the assassination. “Szeth-son-Neturo,” a voice said. Szeth turned, spinning his Shardblade around and falling into a defensive stance. A figure stood on the far side of the room, shrouded in the darkness. “Who are you?” Szeth demanded, his Stormlight aura growing brighter once he stopped holding his breath. “Are you satisfied with this, Szeth-son-Neturo?” the voice asked. It was male and deep. What was that accent? The man wasn’t Veden. Alethi, perhaps? “Are you satisfied with trivial crimes? Killing over meaningless turf in backwater mining villages?” Szeth didn’t reply.
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He scanned the room, looking for motion in the other shadows. None seemed to be hiding anyone. “I’ve watched you,” the voice said. “You’ve been sent to intimidate shopkeepers. You’ve killed footpads so unimportant even the authorities ignore them. You’ve been shown off to impress whores, as if they were high lighteyed ladies. What a waste.” “I do as my master demands.” “You are squandered,” the voice said. “You are not meant for petty extortions and murders. Using you like this, it’s like hitching a Ryshadium stallion to a run-down market wagon. It’s like using a Shardblade to slice vegetables, or like using the finest parchment as kindling for a washwater fire. It is a crime. You are a work of art, Szeth-son-Neturo, a god. And each day Makkek throws dung at you.” “Who are you?” Szeth repeated. “An admirer of the arts.” “Do not call me by my father’s name,” Szeth said. “He should not be sullied by association with me.” The sphere on the wall finally ran out of Stormlight, dropping to the floor, the drapery muffling its fall. “Very well,” the figure said. “But do you not rebel against this frivolous use of your skills? Were you not meant for greatness?” “There is no greatness in killing,” Szeth said. “You speak like a kukori. Great men create food and clothing. He who adds is to be revered. I am he who takes away. At least in the killing of men such as these I can pretend to be doing a service.” “This from the man who nearly toppled one of the greatest kingdoms in Roshar?” “This from the man who committed one of the most heinous slaughters in Roshar,” Szeth corrected. The figure snorted. “What you did was a mere breeze compared to the storm of slaughter Shardbearers wreak on a battlefield each day. And those are breezes compared to the tempests you are capable of.” Szeth began to walk away. “Where are you going?” the figure asked. “Gavashaw is dead. I must return to my master.” Something hit the floor. Szeth spun, Shardblade down. The figure had dropped something round and heavy. It rolled across the floor toward Szeth. Another head. It came to rest on its side. Szeth froze as he made out the features. The pudgy cheeks were stained with blood, the dead eyes wide with shock: Makkek. “How?” Szeth demanded. “We took him seconds after you left the gambling den.” “We?” “Servants of your new master.” “My Oathstone?” The figure opened his hand, revealing a gemstone suspended in his palm by a chain wrapped around his fingers. Sitting beside it, now illuminated, was Szeth’s Oathstone. The figure’s face was dark; he wore a mask. Szeth dismissed his Shardblade and went down on one knee. “What are your orders?” “There is a list on the table,” the figure said, closing his hand and hiding the Oathstone. “It details our master’s wishes.” Szeth rose and walked over. Beside the head, which rested on a plate to contain the blood, was a sheet of paper. He took it,
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and his Stormlight illuminated some two dozen names written in the warrior’s script of his homeland. Some had a note beside them with instructions on how they were to be killed. Glories within, Szeth thought. “These are some of the most powerful people in the world! Six highprinces? A Selay gerontarch? The king of Jah Keved?” “It is time you stopped wasting your talent,” the figure said, walking to the far wall, resting his hand upon it. “This will cause chaos,” Szeth whispered. “Infighting. War. Confusion and pain such as the world has rarely known.” The chained gemstone on the man’s palm flashed. The wall vanished, turned to smoke. A Soulcaster. The dark figure glanced at Szeth. “Indeed. Our master directs that you are to use tactics similar to those you employed so well in Alethkar years ago. When you are done, you will receive further instructions.” He then exited through the opening, leaving Szeth horrified. This was his nightmare. To be in the hands of those who understood his capabilities and who had the ambition to use them properly. He stood for a time, silent, long past when his Stormlight ran out. Then, reverently, he folded the list. He was surprised that his hands were so steady. He should be trembling. For soon the world itself would shake. It sounds like you’re getting into Jasnah’s good graces quickly, the spanreed wrote out. How long before you can make the switch? Shallan grimaced, turning the gemstone on the reed. I don’t know, she wrote back. Jasnah keeps a close watch on the Soulcaster, as you’d expect. She wears it all day. At night, she locks it away in her safe and wears the key around her neck. She turned the gemstone, then waited for a reply. She was in her chamber, a small, stone-carved room inside Jasnah’s quarters. Her accommodations were austere: A small bed, a nightstand, and the writing table were her only furniture. Her clothing remained in the trunk she had brought. No rug adorned the floor, and there were no windows, as the rooms were in the Kharbranthian Conclave, which was underground. That does make it troubling, the reed wrote. Eylita—Nan Balat’s betrothed—was the one doing the writing, but all three of Shallan’s surviving brothers would be in the room back in Jah Keved, contributing to the conversation. I’m guessing she takes it off while bathing, Shallan wrote. Once she trusts me more, she may begin using me as a bathing attendant. That may present an opportunity. That is a good plan, the spanreed wrote. Nan Balat wants me to point out that we are very sorry to make you do this. It must be difficult for you to be away so long. Difficult? Shallan picked up the spanreed and hesitated. Yes, it was difficult. Difficult not to fall in love with the freedom, difficult not to get too absorbed in her studies. It had been only two months since she’d convinced Jasnah to take her as a ward, but already she felt half as timid and twice as
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confident. The most difficult thing of all was knowing that it would soon end. Coming to study in Kharbranth was, without doubt, the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her. I will manage, she wrote. You are the ones living the difficult life, maintaining our family’s interests at home. How are you doing? It took time for them to reply. Poorly, Eylita finally sent. Your father’s debts are coming due, and Wikim can barely keep the creditors distracted. The highprince ails, and everyone wants to know where our house stands on the question of succession. The last of the quarries is running out. If it becomes known that we no longer have resources, it will go badly for us. Shallan grimaced. How long do I have? A few more months, at best, Nan Balat sent back via his betrothed. It depends on how long the highprince lasts and whether or not anyone realizes why Asha Jushu is selling our possessions. Jushu was the youngest of the brothers, just older than Shallan. His old gambling habit was actually coming in handy. For years, he’d been stealing things from their father and selling them to cover his losses. He pretended he was still doing that, but he brought the money back to help. He was a good man, despite his habit. And, all things considered, he really couldn’t be blamed for much of what he’d done. None of them could. Wikim thinks that he can keep everyone at bay for a while longer. But we are getting desperate. The sooner you return with the Soulcaster, the better. Shallan hesitated, then wrote, Are we certain this is the best way? Perhaps we should simply ask Jasnah for help. You think she would respond to that? they wrote back. She would help an unknown and disliked Veden house? She would keep our secrets? Probably not. Though Shallan was increasingly certain that Jasnah’s reputation was exaggerated, the woman did have a ruthless side to her. She would not leave her important studies to go help Shallan’s family. She reached for the reed to reply, but it started scribbling again. Shallan, it said. This is Nan Balat; I have sent the others away. It is only Eylita and me writing you now. There is something you need to know. Luesh is dead. Shallan blinked in surprise. Luesh, her father’s steward, had been the one who had known how to use the Soulcaster. He was one of the few people she and her brothers had determined they could trust. What happened? she wrote after switching to a new sheet of paper. He died in his sleep, and there’s no reason to suspect he was killed. But Shallan, a few weeks after his passing, some men visited here claiming to be friends of our father. In private with me, they implied they knew of Father’s Soulcaster and suggested strongly that I was to return it to them. Shallan frowned. She still carried her father’s broken Soulcaster in the safepouch of her sleeve. Return it? she wrote. We never
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did figure out where Father got it, Nan Balat sent. Shallan, he was involved in something. Those maps, the things Luesh said, and now this. We continue to pretend that Father is alive, and occasionally he gets letters from other lighteyes that speak of vague “plans.” I think he was going to make a play to become highprince. And he was supported by some very powerful forces. These men who came, they were dangerous, Shallan. The type of men you do not cross. And they want their Soulcaster back. Whoever they are, I suspect they gave it to Father so he could create wealth and make a bid for the succession. They know he’s dead. I believe that if we don’t return a working Soulcaster to them, we could all be in serious danger. You need to bring Jasnah’s fabrial to us. We’ll quickly use it to create new quarries of valuable stone, and then we can give it up to these men. Shallan, you must succeed. I was hesitant about this plan when you suggested it, but other avenues are quickly vanishing. Shallan felt a chill. She read over the paragraphs a few times, then wrote, If Luesh is dead, then we don’t know how to use the Soulcaster. That is problematic. I know, Nan Balat sent. See if you can figure that out. This is dangerous, Shallan. I know it is. I’m sorry. She took a deep breath. It must be done, she wrote. Here, Nan Balat sent. I wanted to show you something. Have you ever seen this symbol? The sketch that followed was crude. Eylita wasn’t much of an artist. Fortunately, it was a simple picture—three diamond shapes in a curious pattern. I’ve never seen it, Shallan wrote. Why? Luesh wore a pendant with this symbol on it, Nan Balat sent. We found it on his body. And one of the men who came searching for the Soulcaster had the same pattern tattooed on his hand, just below his thumb. Curious, Shallan wrote. So Luesh… Yes, Nan Balat sent. Despite what he said, I think he must have been the one who brought the Soulcaster to Father. Luesh was involved in this, perhaps as liaison between Father and the people backing him. I tried to suggest that they could back me instead, but the men just laughed. They did not stay long or give a specific time by which the Soulcaster must be returned. I doubt they’d be satisfied to receive a broken one. Shallan pursed her lips. Balat, have you thought that we might be risking a war? If it becomes known that we’ve stolen an Alethi Soulcaster… No, there wouldn’t be a war, Nan Balat wrote back. King Hanavanar would just turn us over to the Alethi. They’d execute us for the theft. Wonderfully comforting, Balat, she wrote. Thank you so much. You’re welcome. We’re going to have to hope that Jasnah doesn’t realize that you took the Soulcaster. It seems likely she’ll assume that hers broke for some reason. Shallan sighed. Perhaps, she wrote. Take
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care, Nan Balat sent her. You too. And that was it. She set the spanreed aside, then read over the entire conversation, memorizing it. Then she crumpled up the sheets and walked into the sitting room of Jasnah’s quarters. She wasn’t there—Jasnah rarely broke from her studies—so Shallan burned the conversation in the hearth. She stood for a long moment, watching the fire. She was worried. Nan Balat was capable, but they all bore scars from the lives they’d led. Eylita was the only scribe they could trust, and she…well, she was incredibly nice but not very clever. With a sigh, Shallan left the room to return to her studies. Not only would they help get her mind off her troubles, but Jasnah would grow testy if she dallied too long. Five hours later, Shallan wondered why it was she’d been so eager. She did enjoy her chances at scholarship. But recently, Jasnah had set her to study the history of the Alethi monarchy. It wasn’t the most interesting subject around. Her boredom was compounded by her being forced to read a number of books that expressed opinions she found ridiculous. She sat in Jasnah’s alcove at the Veil. The enormous wall of lights, alcoves, and mysterious researchers no longer awed her. The place was becoming comfortable and familiar. She was alone at the moment. Shallan rubbed her eyes with her freehand, then slid her book closed. “I,” she muttered, “am really coming to hate the Alethi monarchy.” “Is that so?” a calm voice said from behind. Jasnah walked past, wearing a sleek violet dress, followed by a parshman porter with a stack of books. “I’ll try not to take it personally.” Shallan winced, then blushed furiously. “I didn’t mean individually, Brightness Jasnah. I meant categorically.” Jasnah lithely took her seat in the alcove. She raised an eyebrow at Shallan, then gestured for the parshman to set down his burden. Shallan still found Jasnah an enigma. At times, she seemed a stern scholar annoyed by Shallan’s interruptions. At other times, there seemed to be a hint of wry humor hiding behind the stern facade. Either way, Shallan was finding that she felt remarkably comfortable around the woman. Jasnah encouraged her to speak her mind, something Shallan had taken to gladly. “I assume from your outburst that this topic is wearing on you,” Jasnah said, sorting through her volumes as the parshman withdrew. “You expressed interest in being a scholar. Well, you must learn that this is scholarship.” “Reading argument after argument from people who refuse to see any other point of view?” “They’re confident.” “I’m not an expert on confidence, Brightness,” Shallan said, holding up a book and inspecting it critically. “But I’d like to think that I could recognize it if it were before me. I don’t think that’s the right word for books like this one from Mederia. They feel more arrogant than confident to me.” She sighed, setting the book aside. “To be honest, ‘arrogant’ doesn’t feel like quite the right word. It’s not specific enough.” “And what would
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be the right word, then?” “I don’t know. ‘Errorgant,’ perhaps.” Jasnah raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It means to be twice as certain as someone who is merely arrogant,” Shallan said, “while possessing only one-tenth the requisite facts.” Her words drew a hint of a smile from Jasnah. “What you are reacting against is known as the Assuredness Movement, Shallan. This errorgance is a literary device. The scholars are intentionally overstating their case.” “The Assuredness Movement?” Shallan asked, holding up one of her books. “I guess I could get behind that.” “Oh?” “Yes. Much easier to stab it in the back from that position.” That got only an eyebrow raise. So, more seriously, Shallan continued. “I suppose I can understand the device, Brightness, but these books you’ve given me on King Gavilar’s death are more and more irrational in defending their points. What began as a rhetorical conceit seems to have descended into name-calling and squabbling.” “They are trying to provoke discussion. Would you rather that the scholars hide from the truth, like so many? You would have men prefer ignorance?” “When reading these books, scholarship and ignorance feel much alike to me,” Shallan said. “Ignorance may reside in a man hiding from intelligence, but scholarship can seem ignorance hidden behind intelligence.” “And what of intelligence without ignorance? Finding truth while not dismissing the possibility of being wrong?” “A mythological treasure, Brightness, much like the Dawnshards or the Honorblades. Certainly worth seeking, but only with great caution.” “Caution?” Jasnah said, frowning. “It would make you famous, but actually finding it would destroy us all. Proof that one can be both intelligent and accept the intelligence of those who disagree with you? Why, I should think it would undermine the scholarly world in its entirety.” Jasnah sniffed. “You go too far, child. If you took half the energy you devote to being witty and channeled it into your work, I daresay you could be one of the greatest scholars of our age.” “I’m sorry, Brightness,” Shallan said. “I…well, I’m confused. Considering the gaps in my education, I assumed you would have me studying things deeper in the past than a few years ago.” Jasnah opened one of her books. “I have found that youths like you have a relative lack of appreciation for the distant past. Therefore, I selected an area of study that is both more recent and sensational, to ease you into true scholarship. Is the murder of a king not of interest to you?” “Yes, Brightness,” Shallan said. “We children love things that are shiny and loud.” “You have quite the mouth on you at times.” “At times? You mean it’s not there at others? I’ll have to…” Shallan trailed off, then bit her lip, realizing she’d gone too far. “Sorry.” “Never apologize for being clever, Shallan. It sets a bad precedent. However, one must apply one’s wit with care. You often seem to say the first passably clever thing that enters your mind.” “I know,” Shallan said. “It’s long been a foible of mine, Brightness. One my nurses and tutors
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tried very hard to discourage.” “Likely through strict punishments.” “Yes. Making me sit in the corner holding books over my head was the preferred method.” “Which, in turn,” Jasnah said with a sigh, “only trained you to make your quips more quickly, for you knew you had to get them out before you could reconsider and suppress them.” Shallan cocked her head. “The punishments were incompetent,” Jasnah said. “Used upon one such as yourself, they were actually encouragement. A game. How much would you have to say to earn a punishment? Could you say something so clever that your tutors missed the joke? Sitting in the corner just gave you more time to compose retorts.” “But it’s unseemly for a young woman to speak as I so often do.” “The only ‘unseemly’ thing is to not channel your intelligence usefully. Consider. You have trained yourself to do something very similar to what annoys you in the scholars: cleverness without thought behind it—intelligence, one might say, without a foundation of proper consideration.” Jasnah turned a page. “Errorgant, wouldn’t you say?” Shallan blushed. “I prefer my wards to be clever,” Jasnah said. “It gives me more to work with. I should bring you to court with me. I suspect that Wit, at least, would find you amusing—if only because your apparent natural timidity and your clever tongue make such an intriguing combination.” “Yes, Brightness.” “Please, just remember that a woman’s mind is her most precious weapon. It must not be employed clumsily or prematurely. Much like the aforementioned knife to the back, a clever gibe is most effective when it is unanticipated.” “I’m sorry, Brightness.” “It wasn’t an admonition,” Jasnah said, turning a page. “Simply an observation. I make them on occasion: Those books are musty. The sky is blue today. My ward is a smart-lipped reprobate.” Shallan smiled. “Now, tell me what you’ve discovered.” Shallan grimaced. “Not much, Brightness. Or should I say too much? Each writer has her own theories on why the Parshendi killed your father. Some claim he must have insulted them at the feast that night. Others say that the entire treaty was a ruse, intended to get the Parshendi close to him. But that makes little sense, as they had much better opportunities earlier.” “And the Assassin in White?” Jasnah asked. “A true anomaly,” Shallan said. “The undertexts are filled with commentary about him. Why would the Parshendi hire an outside assassin? Did they fear they could not accomplish the job themselves? Or perhaps they didn’t hire him, and were framed. Many think that is unlikely, considering that the Parshendi took credit for the murder.” “And your thoughts?” “I feel inadequate to draw conclusions, Brightness.” “What is the point of research if not to draw conclusions?” “My tutors told me that supposition was only for the very experienced,” Shallan explained. Jasnah sniffed. “Your tutors were idiots. Youthful immaturity is one of the cosmere’s great catalysts for change, Shallan. Do you realize that the Sunmaker was only seventeen when he began his conquest? Gavarah hadn’t reached her twentieth Weeping
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when she proposed the theory of the three realms.” “But for every Sunmaker or Gavarah, are there not a hundred Gregorhs?” He had been a youthful king notorious for beginning a pointless war with kingdoms that had been his father’s allies. “There was only one Gregorh,” Jasnah said with a grimace, “thankfully. Your point is a valid one. Hence the purpose of education. To be young is about action. To be a scholar is about informed action.” “Or about sitting in an alcove reading about a five-year-old murder.” “I would not have you studying this if there were no point to it,” Jasnah said, opening up another of her own books. “Too many scholars think of research as purely a cerebral pursuit. If we do nothing with the knowledge we gain, then we have wasted our study. Books can store information better than we can—what we do that books cannot is interpret. So if one is not going to draw conclusions, then one might as well just leave the information in the texts.” Shallan sat back, thoughtful. Presented that way, it somehow made her want to dig back into the studies. What was it that Jasnah wanted her to do with the information? Once again, she felt a stab of guilt. Jasnah was taking great pains to instruct her in scholarship, and she was going to reward the woman by stealing her most valuable possession and leaving a broken replacement. It made Shallan feel sick. She had expected study beneath Jasnah to involve meaningless memorization and busywork, accompanied by chastisement for not being smart enough. That was how her tutors had approached her instruction. Jasnah was different. She gave Shallan a topic and the freedom to pursue it as she wished. Jasnah offered encouragement and speculation, but nearly all of their conversations turned to topics like the true nature of scholarship, the purpose of studying, the beauty of knowledge and its application. Jasnah Kholin truly loved learning, and she wanted others to as well. Behind the stern gaze, intense eyes, and rarely smiling lips, Jasnah Kholin truly believed in what she was doing. Whatever that was. Shallan raised one of her books, but covertly eyed the spines of Jasnah’s latest stack of tomes. More histories about the Heraldic Epochs. Mythologies, commentaries, books by scholars known to be wild speculators. Jasnah’s current volume was called Shadows Remembered. Shallan memorized the title. She would try to find a copy and look through it. What was Jasnah pursuing? What secrets was she hoping to pry from these volumes, most of them centuries-old copies of copies? Though Shallan had discovered some secrets regarding the Soulcaster, the nature of Jasnah’s quest—the reason the princess had come to Kharbranth—remained elusive. Maddeningly, yet tantalizingly, so. Jasnah liked to speak of the great women of the past, ones who had not just recorded history, but shaped it. Whatever it was she studied, she felt that it was important. World-changing. You mustn’t be drawn in, Shallan told herself, settling back with book and notes. Your goal is not to change the
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world. Your goal is to protect your brothers and your house. Still, she needed to make a good show of her wardship. And that gave her a reason to immerse herself for two hours until footsteps in the hallway interrupted. Likely the servants bringing the midday meal. Jasnah and Shallan often ate on their balcony. Shallan’s stomach grumbled as she smelled the food, and she gleefully set aside her book. She usually sketched at lunch, an activity that Jasnah—despite her dislike of the visual arts—encouraged. She said that highborn men often thought drawing and painting to be “enticing” in a woman, and so Shallan should maintain her skills, if only for the purpose of attracting suitors. Shallan didn’t know whether to find that insulting or not. And what did it say about Jasnah’s own intentions for marriage that she herself never bothered with the more becoming feminine arts like music or drawing? “Your Majesty,” Jasnah said, rising smoothly. Shallan started and looked hastily over her shoulder. The elderly king of Kharbranth was standing in the doorway, wearing magnificent orange and white robes with detailed embroidery. Shallan scrambled to her feet. “Brightness Jasnah,” the king said. “Am I interrupting?” “Your company is never an interruption, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said. She had to be as surprised as Shallan was, yet didn’t display a moment of discomfort or anxiety. “We were soon to take lunch, anyway.” “I know, Brightness,” Taravangian said. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you.” A group of servants began bringing in food and a table. “Not at all,” Jasnah said. The servants hurried to set things up, putting two different tablecloths on the round table to separate the genders during dining. They secured the half-moons of cloth—red for the king, blue for the women—with weights at the center. Covered plates filled with food followed: a clear, cold stew with sweet vegetables for the women, a spicy-smelling broth for the king. Kharbranthians preferred soups for their lunches. Shallan was surprised to see them set a place for her. Her father had never eaten at the same table as his children—even she, his favorite, had been relegated to her own table. Once Jasnah sat, Shallan did likewise. Her stomach growled again, and the king waved for them to begin. His motions seemed ungainly compared with Jasnah’s elegance. Shallan was soon eating contentedly—with grace, as a woman should, safehand in her lap, using her freehand and a skewer to spear chunks of vegetable or fruit. The king slurped, but he wasn’t as noisy as many men. Why had he deigned to visit? Wouldn’t a formal dinner invitation have been more proper? Of course, she’d learned that Taravangian wasn’t known for his mastery of protocol. He was a popular king, beloved by the darkeyes as a builder of hospitals. However, the lighteyes considered him less than bright. He was not an idiot. In lighteyed politics, unfortunately, being only average was a disadvantage. As they ate, the silence drew out, becoming awkward. Several times, the king looked as if he wanted to say something,
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but then turned back to his soup. He seemed intimidated by Jasnah. “And how is your granddaughter, Your Majesty?” Jasnah eventually asked. “She is recovering well?” “Quite well, thank you,” Taravangian said, as if relieved to begin conversing. “Though she now avoids the narrower corridors of the Conclave. I do want to thank you for your aid.” “It is always fulfilling to be of service, Your Majesty.” “If you will forgive my saying so, the ardents do not think much of your service,” Taravangian said. “I realize it is likely a sensitive topic. Perhaps I shouldn’t mention it, but—” “No, feel free,” Jasnah said, eating a small green lurnip from the end of her skewer. “I am not ashamed of my choices.” “Then you’ll forgive an old man’s curiosity?” “I always forgive curiosity, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said. “It strikes me as one of the most genuine of emotions.” “Then where did you find it?” Taravangian asked, nodding toward the Soulcaster, which Jasnah wore covered by a black glove. “How did you keep it from the devotaries?” “One might find those questions dangerous, Your Majesty.” “I’ve already acquired some new enemies by welcoming you.” “You will be forgiven,” Jasnah said. “Depending on the devotary you have chosen.” “Forgiven? Me?” The elderly man seemed to find that amusing, and for a moment, Shallan thought she saw deep regret in his expression. “Unlikely. But that is something else entirely. Please. I stand by my questions.” “And I stand by my evasiveness, Your Majesty. I’m sorry. I do forgive your curiosity, but I cannot reward it. These secrets are mine.” “Of course, of course.” The king sat back, looking embarrassed. “Now you probably assume I brought this meal simply to ambush you about the fabrial.” “You had another purpose, then?” “Well, you see, I’ve heard the most wonderful things about your ward’s artistic skill. I thought that maybe…” He smiled at Shallan. “Of course, Your Majesty,” Shallan said. “I’d be happy to draw your likeness.” He beamed as she stood, leaving her meal half eaten and gathering her things. She glanced at Jasnah, but the older woman’s face was unreadable. “Would you prefer a simple portrait against a white background?” Shallan asked. “Or would you prefer a broader perspective, including surroundings?” “Perhaps,” Jasnah said pointedly, “you should wait until the meal is finished, Shallan?” Shallan blushed, feeling a fool for her enthusiasm. “Of course.” “No, no,” the king said. “I’m quite finished. A wider sketch would be perfect, child. How would you like me to sit?” He slid his chair back, posing and smiling in a grandfatherly way. She blinked, fixing the image in her mind. “That is perfect, Your Majesty. You can return to your meal.” “Don’t you need me to sit still? I’ve posed for portraits before.” “It’s all right,” Shallan assured him, sitting down. “Very well,” he said, pulling back to the table. “I do apologize for making you use me, of all people, as a subject for your art. This face of mine isn’t the most impressive one you’ve depicted, I’m sure.”
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“Nonsense,” Shallan said. “A face like yours is just what an artist needs.” “It is?” “Yes, the—” She cut herself off. She’d been about to quip, Yes, the skin is enough like parchment to make an ideal canvas. “…that handsome nose of yours, and wise furrowed skin. It will be quite striking in the black charcoal.” “Oh, well then. Proceed. Though I still can’t see how you’ll work without me holding a pose.” “Brightness Shallan has some unique talents,” Jasnah said. Shallan began her sketch. “I suppose that she must!” the king said. “I’ve seen the drawing she did for Varas.” “Varas?” Jasnah asked. “The Palanaeum’s assistant chief of collections,” the king said. “A distant cousin of mine. He says the staff is quite taken with your young ward. How did you find her?” “Unexpectedly,” Jasnah said, “and in need of an education.” The king cocked his head. “The artistic skill, I cannot claim,” Jasnah said. “It was a preexisting condition.” “Ah, a blessing of the Almighty.” “You might say that.” “But you would not, I assume?” Taravangian chuckled awkwardly. Shallan drew quickly, establishing the shape of his head. He shuffled uncomfortably. “Is it hard for you, Jasnah? Painful, I mean?” “Atheism is not a disease, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said dryly. “It’s not as if I’ve caught a foot rash.” “Of course not, of course not. But…er, isn’t it difficult, having nothing in which to believe?” Shallan leaned forward, still sketching, but keeping her attention on the conversation. Shallan had assumed that training under a heretic would be a little more exciting. She and Kabsal—the witty ardent whom she’d met on her first day in Kharbranth—had chatted several times now about Jasnah’s faith. However, around Jasnah herself, the topic almost never came up. When it did, Jasnah usually changed it. Today, however, she did not. Perhaps she sensed the sincerity in the king’s question. “I wouldn’t say that I have nothing to believe in, Your Majesty. Actually, I have much to believe in. My brother and my uncle, my own abilities. The things I was taught by my parents.” “But, what is right and wrong, you’ve…Well, you’ve discarded that.” “Just because I do not accept the teachings of the devotaries does not mean I’ve discarded a belief in right and wrong.” “But the Almighty determines what is right!” “Must someone, some unseen thing, declare what is right for it to be right? I believe that my own morality—which answers only to my heart—is more sure and true than the morality of those who do right only because they fear retribution.” “But that is the soul of law,” the king said, sounding confused. “If there is no punishment, there can be only chaos.” “If there were no law, some men would do as they wish, yes,” Jasnah said. “But isn’t it remarkable that, given the chance for personal gain at the cost of others, so many people choose what is right?” “Because they fear the Almighty.” “No,” Jasnah said. “I think something innate in us understands that seeking the good of society is
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usually best for the individual as well. Humankind is noble, when we give it the chance to be. That nobility is something that exists independent of any god’s decree.” “I just don’t see how anything could be outside God’s decrees.” The king shook his head, bemused. “Brightness Jasnah, I don’t mean to argue, but isn’t the very definition of the Almighty that all things exist because of him?” “If you add one and one, that makes two, does it not?” “Well, yes.” “No god needs declare it so for it to be true,” Jasnah said. “So, could we not say that mathematics exists outside the Almighty, independent of him?” “Perhaps.” “Well,” Jasnah said, “I simply claim that morality and human will are independent of him too.” “If you say that,” the king said, chuckling, “then you’ve removed all purpose for the Almighty’s existence!” “Indeed.” The balcony fell silent. Jasnah’s sphere lamps cast a cool, even white light across them. For an uncomfortable moment, the only sound was the scratching of Shallan’s charcoal on her drawing pad. She worked with quick, scraping motions, disturbed by the things that Jasnah had said. They made her feel hollow inside. That was partly because the king, for all his affability, was not good at arguing. He was a dear man, but no match for Jasnah in a conversation. “Well,” Taravangian said, “I must say that you make your points quite effectively. I don’t accept them, though.” “My intention is not to convert, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said. “I am content keeping my beliefs to myself, something most of my colleagues in the devotaries have difficulty doing. Shallan, have you finished yet?” “Quite nearly, Brightness.” “But it’s been barely a few minutes!” the king said. “She has remarkable skill, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said. “As I believe I mentioned.” Shallan sat back, inspecting her piece. She’d been so focused on the conversation, she’d just let her hands do the drawing, trusting in her instincts. The sketch depicted the king, sitting in his chair with a wise expression, the turretlike balcony walls behind him. The doorway into the balcony was to his right. Yes, it was a good likeness. Not her best work, but— Shallan froze, her breath catching, her heart lurching in her chest. She had drawn something standing in the doorway behind the king. Two tall and willowy creatures with cloaks that split down the front and hung at the sides too stiffly, as if they were made of glass. Above the stiff, high collars, where the creatures’ heads should be, each had a large, floating symbol of twisted design full of impossible angles and geometries. Shallan sat, stunned. Why had she drawn those things? What had driven her to— She snapped her head up. The hallway was empty. The creatures hadn’t been part of the Memory she’d taken. Her hands had simply drawn them of their accord. “Shallan?” Jasnah said. By reflex, Shallan dropped her charcoal and grabbed the sheet in her freehand, crumpling it. “I’m sorry, Brightness. I paid too much attention to the conversation. I
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let myself grow sloppy.” “Well, certainly we can at least see it, child,” the king said, standing. Shallan tightened her grip. “Please, no!” “She has an artist’s temperament at times, Your Majesty.” Jasnah sighed. “There will be no getting it out of her.” “I’ll do you another, Your Majesty,” Shallan said. “I’m so sorry.” He rubbed his wispy beard. “Yes, well, it was going to be a gift for my granddaughter….” “By the end of the day,” Shallan promised. “That would be wonderful. You’re certain you don’t need me to pose?” “No, no, that won’t be necessary, Your Majesty,” Shallan said. Her pulse was still racing and she couldn’t shake the image of those two distorted figures from her mind, so she took another Memory of the king. She could use that to create a more suitable picture. “Well then,” the king said. “I suppose I should be going. I wish to visit one of the hospitals and the sick. You can send the drawing to my rooms, but take your time. Really, it is quite all right.” Shallan curtsied, crushed paper still held to her breast. The king withdrew with his attendants, several parshmen entering to remove the table. “I’ve never known you to make a mistake in drawing,” Jasnah said, sitting back down at the desk. “At least not one so horrible that you destroyed the paper.” Shallan blushed. “Even the master of an art may err, I suppose. Go ahead and take the next hour to do His Majesty a proper portrait.” Shallan looked down at the ruined sketch. The creatures were simply her fancy, the product of letting her mind wander. That was all. Just imagination. Perhaps there was something in her subconscious that she’d needed to express. But what could the figures mean, then? “I noticed that at one point when you were speaking to the king, you hesitated,” Jasnah said. “What didn’t you say?” “Something inappropriate.” “But clever?” “Cleverness never seems quite so impressive when regarded outside the moment, Brightness. It was just a silly thought.” “And you replaced it with an empty compliment. I think you misunderstood what I was trying to explain, child. I do not wish for you to remain silent. It is good to be clever.” “But if I’d spoken,” Shallan said, “I’d have insulted the king, perhaps confused him as well, which would have caused him embarrassment. I am certain he knows what people say about his slowness of thought.” Jasnah sniffed. “Idle words. From foolish people. But perhaps it was wise not to speak, though keep in mind that channeling your capacities and stifling them are two separate things. I’d much prefer you to think of something both clever and appropriate.” “Yes, Brightness.” “Besides,” Jasnah said, “I believe you might have made Taravangian laugh. He seems haunted by something lately.” “You don’t find him dull, then?” Shallan asked, curious. She herself didn’t think the king dull or a fool, but she’d thought someone as intelligent and learned as Jasnah might not have patience for a man like him. “Taravangian is
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a wonderful man,” Jasnah said, “and worth a hundred self-proclaimed experts on courtly ways. He reminds me of my uncle Dalinar. Earnest, sincere, concerned.” “The lighteyes here say he’s weak,” Shallan said. “Because he panders to so many other monarchs, because he fears war, because he doesn’t have a Shardblade.” Jasnah didn’t reply, though she looked disturbed. “Brightness?” Shallan prodded, walking to her own seat and arranging her charcoals. “In ancient days,” Jasnah said, “a man who brought peace to his kingdom was considered to be of great worth. Now that same man would be derided as a coward.” She shook her head. “It has been centuries coming, this change. It should terrify us. We could do with more men like Taravangian, and I shall require you to never call him dull again, not even in passing.” “Yes, Brightness,” Shallan said, bowing her head. “Did you really believe the things you said? About the Almighty?” Jasnah was quiet for a moment. “I do. Though perhaps I overstated my conviction.” “The Assuredness Movement of rhetorical theory?” “Yes,” Jasnah said. “I suppose that it was. I must be careful not to put my back toward you as I read today.” Shallan smiled. “A true scholar must not close her mind close on any topic,” Jasnah said, “no matter how certain she may feel. Just because I have not yet found a convincing reason to join one of the devotaries does not mean I never will. Though each time I have a discussion like the one today, my convictions grow firmer.” Shallan bit her lip. Jasnah noticed the expression. “You will need to learn to control that, Shallan. It makes your feelings obvious.” “Yes, Brightness.” “Well, out with it.” “Just that your conversation with the king was not entirely fair.” “Oh?” “Because of his, well, you know. His limited capacity. He did quite remarkably, but didn’t make the arguments that someone more versed in Vorin theology might have.” “And what arguments might such a one have made?” “Well, I’m not very well trained in that area myself. But I do think that you ignored, or at least minimized, one vital part of the discussion.” “Which is?” Shallan tapped at her breast. “Our hearts, Brightness. I believe because I feel something, a closeness to the Almighty, a peace that comes when I live my faith.” “The mind is capable of projecting expected emotional responses.” “But didn’t you yourself argue that the way we act—the way we feel about right and wrong—was a defining attribute of our humanity? You used our innate morality to prove your point. So how can you discard my feelings?” “Discard them? No. Regard them with skepticism? Perhaps. Your feelings, Shallan—however powerful—are your own. Not mine. And what I feel is that spending my life trying to earn the favor of an unseen, unknown, and unknowable being who watches me from the sky is an exercise in sheer futility.” She pointed at Shallan with her pen. “But your rhetorical method is improving. We’ll make a scholar of you yet.” Shallan smiled, feeling a
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surge of pleasure. Praise from Jasnah was more precious than an emerald broam. But…I’m not going to be a scholar. I’m going to steal the Soulcaster and leave. She didn’t like to think about that. That was something else she’d have to get over; she tended to avoid thinking about things that made her uncomfortable. “Now hurry and be about the king’s sketch,” Jasnah said, lifting a book. “You still have a great deal of real work to do once you are done drawing.” “Yes, Brightness,” Shallan said. For once, however, she found sketching difficult, her mind too troubled to focus. Kaladin walked from the cavernous barrack into the pure light of first morning. Bits of quartz in the ground sparkled before him, catching the light, as if the ground were sparking and burning, ready to burst from within. A group of twenty-nine men followed him. Slaves. Thieves. Deserters. Foreigners. Even a few men whose only sin had been poverty. Those had joined the bridge crews out of desperation. The pay was good when compared with nothing, and they were promised that if they survived a hundred bridge runs, they would be promoted. Assignment to a watch post—which, in the mind of a poor man, sounded like a life of luxury. Being paid to stand and look at things all day? What kind of insanity was that? It was like being rich, almost. They didn’t understand. Nobody survived a hundred bridge runs. Kaladin had been on two dozen, and he was already one of the most experienced living bridgemen. Bridge Four followed him. The last of the holdouts—a thin man named Bisig—had given in yesterday. Kaladin preferred to think that the laughter, the food, and the humanity had finally gotten to him. But it had probably been a few glares or under-the-breath threats from Rock and Teft. Kaladin turned a blind eye to those. He’d eventually need the men’s loyalty, but for now, he’d settle for obedience. He guided them through the morning exercises he’d learned his very first day in the military. Stretches followed by jumping motions. Carpenters in brown work overalls and tan or green caps passed on their way to the lumberyard, shaking their heads in amusement. Soldiers on the short ridge above, where the camp proper began, looked down and laughed. Gaz watched from beside a nearby barrack, arms folded, single eye dissatisfied. Kaladin wiped his brow. He met Gaz’s eye for a long moment, then turned back to the men. There was still time to practice hauling the bridge before breakfast. Gaz had never gotten used to having just one eye. Could a man get used to that? He’d rather have lost a hand or a leg than that eye. He couldn’t stop feeling that something hid in that darkness he couldn’t see, but others could. What lurked there? Spren that would drain his soul from his body? The way a rat could empty an entire wineskin by chewing the corner? His companions called him lucky. “That blow could have taken your life.” Well, at least then
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he wouldn’t have had to live with that darkness. One of his eyes was always closed. Close the other, and the darkness swallowed him. Gaz glanced left, and the darkness scuttled to the side. Lamaril stood leaning against a post, tall and slim. He was not a massive man, but he was not weak. He was all lines. Rectangular beard. Rectangular body. Sharp. Like a knife. Lamaril waved Gaz over, so he reluctantly approached. Then he took a sphere out of his pouch and passed it over. A topaz mark. He hated losing it. He always hated losing money. “You owe me twice as much as this,” Lamaril noted, raising the sphere up to look through it as it sparkled in the sunlight. “Well, that’s all you’ll get for now. Be glad you get anything.” “Be glad I’ve kept my mouth shut,” Lamaril said lazily, leaning back against his post. It was one that marked the edge of the lumberyard. Gaz gritted his teeth. He hated to pay, but what else could he do? Storms take him. Raging storms take him! “You have a problem, it seems,” Lamaril said. At first, Gaz thought he meant the half payment. The lighteyed man nodded toward Bridge Four’s barracks. Gaz eyed the bridgemen, unsettled. The youthful bridgeleader barked an order, and the bridgemen raced the span of the lumberyard in a jog. He already had them running in time with one another. That one change meant so much. It sped them up, helped them think like a team. Could this boy actually have military training, as he’d once claimed? Why would he be wasted as a bridgeman? Of course, there was that shash brand on his forehead…. “I don’t see a problem,” Gaz said with a grunt. “They’re fast. That’s good.” “They’re insubordinate.” “They follow orders.” “His orders, perhaps.” Lamaril shook his head. “Bridgemen exist for one purpose, Gaz. To protect the lives of more valuable men.” “Really? And here I thought their purpose was to carry bridges.” Lamaril gave him a sharp look. He leaned forward. “Don’t try me, Gaz. And don’t forget your place. Would you like to join them?” Gaz felt a spike of fear. Lamaril was a very lowly lighteyes, one of the landless. But he was Gaz’s immediate superior, a liaison between bridge crews and the higher-ranked lighteyes who oversaw the lumberyard. Gaz looked down at the ground. “I’m sorry, Brightlord.” “Highprince Sadeas holds an edge,” Lamaril said, leaning back against his post. “He maintains it by pushing us all. Hard. Each man in his place.” He nodded toward the members of Bridge Four. “Speed is not a bad thing. Initiative is not a bad thing. But men with initiative like that boy’s are not often happy in their position. The bridge crews function as they are, without need for modification. Change can be unsettling.” Gaz doubted that any of the bridgemen really understood their place in Sadeas’s plans. If they knew why they were worked as pitilessly as they were—and why they were forbidden shields or armor—they likely would
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just cast themselves into the chasm. Bait. They were bait. Draw the Parshendi attention, let the savages think they were doing some good by felling a few bridges’ worth of bridgemen every assault. So long as you took plenty of men, that didn’t matter. Except to those who were slaughtered. Stormfather, Gaz thought, I hate myself for being a part of this. But he’d hated himself for a long time now. It wasn’t anything new to him. “I’ll do something,” he promised Lamaril. “A knife in the night. Poison in the food.” That twisted his insides. The boy’s bribes were small, but they were all that let him keep ahead of his payments to Lamaril. “No!” Lamaril hissed. “You want it seen that he was really a threat? The real soldiers are already talking about him.” Lamaril grimaced. “The last thing we need is a martyr inspiring rebellion among the bridgemen. I don’t want any hint of it; nothing our highprince’s enemies could take advantage of.” Lamaril glanced at Kaladin, jogging past again with his men. “That one has to fall on the field, as he deserves. Make certain it happens. And get me the rest of the money you owe, or you’ll soon find yourself carrying one of those bridges yourself.” He swept away, forest-green cloak fluttering. In his time as a soldier, Gaz had learned to fear the minor lighteyes the most. They were galled by their closeness in rank to the darkeyes, yet those darkeyes were the only ones they had any authority over. That made them dangerous. Being around a man like Lamaril was like handling a hot coal with bare fingers. There was no way to avoid burning yourself. You just hoped to be quick enough to keep the burns to a minimum. Bridge Four ran by. A month ago, Gaz wouldn’t have believed this possible. A group of bridgemen, practicing? And all it seemed to have cost Kaladin was a few bribes of food and some empty promises that he would protect them. That shouldn’t have been enough. Life as a bridgeman was hopeless. Gaz couldn’t join them. He just couldn’t. Kaladin the lordling had to fall. But if Kaladin’s spheres vanished, Gaz could just as easily end up as a bridgeman for failing to pay Lamaril. Storming Damnation! he thought. It was like trying to choose which claw of the chasmfiend would crush you. Gaz continued to watch Kaladin’s crew. And still that darkness waited for him. Like an itch that couldn’t be scratched. Like a scream that couldn’t be silenced. A tingling numbness that he could never be rid of. It would probably follow him even into death. “Bridge up!” Kaladin bellowed, running with Bridge Four. They raised the bridge over their heads while still moving. It was harder to run this way, holding the bridge up, rather than resting it on the shoulders. He felt its enormous weight on his arms. “Down!” he ordered. Those at the front let go of the bridge and ran out to the sides. The others lowered the
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bridge in a quick motion. It hit the ground awkwardly, scraping the stone. They got into position, pretending to move it across a chasm. Kaladin helped at the side. We’ll need to practice on a real chasm, he thought as the men finished. I wonder what kind of bribe it would take for Gaz to let me do that. The bridgemen, finished with their mock bridge run, looked toward Kaladin, exhausted but excited. He smiled at them. As a squadleader those months in Amaram’s army, he’d learned that praise should be honest, but it should never be withheld. “We need to work on that set-down,” Kaladin said. “But overall, I’m impressed. Two weeks and you’re already working together as well as some teams I trained for months. I’m pleased. And proud. Go get something to drink and take a break. We’ll do one or two more runs before work detail.” It was stone-gathering duty again, but that was nothing to complain about. He’d convinced the men that lifting the stones would improve their strength, and had enlisted the few he trusted the most to help gather the knobweed, the means by which he continued to—just barely—keep the men supplied with extra food and build his stock of medical supplies. Two weeks. An easy two weeks, as the lives of bridgemen went. Only two bridge runs, and on one they’d gotten to the plateau too late. The Parshendi had escaped with the gemheart before they’d even arrived. That was good for bridgemen. The other assault hadn’t been too bad, by bridgeman numbers. Two more dead: Amark and Koolf. Two more wounded: Narm and Peet. A fraction of what the other crews had lost, but still too many. Kaladin tried to keep his expression optimistic as he walked to the water barrel and took a ladle from one of the men, drinking it down. Bridge Four would drown in its own wounded. They were only thirty strong, with five wounded who drew no pay and had to be fed out of the knobweed income. Counting those who’d died, they’d taken nearly thirty percent casualties in the weeks he’d begun trying to protect them. In Amaram’s army, that rate of casualties would have been catastrophic. Back then, Kaladin’s life had been one of training and marching, punctuated by occasional frenzied bursts of battle. Here, the fighting was relentless. Every few days. That kind of thing could—would—wear an army down. There has to be a better way, Kaladin thought, swishing the lukewarm water in his mouth, then pouring another ladle on his head. He couldn’t continue to lose two men a week to death and wounds. But how could they survive when their own officers didn’t care if they lived or died? He barely kept himself from throwing the ladle into the barrel in frustration. Instead, he handed it to Skar and gave him an encouraging smile. A lie. But an important one. Gaz watched from the shadow of one of the other bridgeman barracks. Syl’s translucent figure—shaped now like floating knobweed fluff—flitted around the bridge
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sergeant. Eventually, she made her way over to Kaladin, landing on his shoulder, taking her female form. “He’s planning something,” she said. “He hasn’t interfered,” Kaladin said. “He hasn’t even tried to stop us from having the nightly stew.” “He was talking to that lighteyes.” “Lamaril?” She nodded. “Lamaril’s his superior,” Kaladin said as he walked into the shade of Bridge Four’s barrack. He leaned against the wall, looking over at his men by the water barrel. They talked to one another now. Joked. Laughed. They went out drinking together in the evenings. Stormfather, but he never thought he’d be glad that the men under his command went drinking. “I didn’t like their expressions,” Syl said, sitting down on Kaladin’s shoulder. “Dark. Like thunderclouds. I didn’t hear what they were saying. I noticed them too late. But I don’t like it, particularly that Lamaril.” Kaladin nodded slowly. “You don’t trust him either?” Syl asked. “He’s a lighteyes.” That was enough. “So we—” “So we do nothing,” Kaladin said. “I can’t respond unless they try something. And if I spend all of my energy worrying about what they might do, I won’t be able to solve the problems we’re facing right now.” What he didn’t add was his real worry. If Gaz or Lamaril decided to have Kaladin killed, there was little he could to do to stop them. True, bridgemen were rarely executed for anything other than failing to run their bridge. But even in an “honest” force like Amaram’s, there had been rumors of trumped-up charges and fake evidence. In Sadeas’s undisciplined, barely regulated camp, nobody would blink if Kaladin—a shash-branded slave—were strung up on some nebulous charge. They could leave him for the highstorm, washing their hands of his death, claiming that the Stormfather had chosen his fate. Kaladin stood up straight and walked toward the carpentry section of the lumberyard. The craftsmen and their apprentices were hard at work cutting lengths of wood for spear hafts, bridges, posts, or furniture. The craftsmen nodded to Kaladin as he passed. They were familiar with him now, used to his odd requests, like pieces of lumber long enough for four men to hold and run with to practice keeping cadence with one another. He found a half-finished bridge. It had eventually grown out of that one plank that Kaladin had used. Kaladin knelt down, inspecting the wood. A group of men worked with a large saw just to his right, slicing thin rounds off a log. Those would probably become chair seats. He ran his fingers along the smooth hardwood. All mobile bridges were made of a kind of wood called makam. It had a deep brown color, the grain almost hidden, and was both strong and light. The craftsmen had sanded this length smooth, and it smelled of sawdust and musky sap. “Kaladin?” Syl asked, walking through the air then stepping onto the wood. “You look distant.” “It’s ironic how well they craft these bridges,” he said. “This army’s carpenters are far more professional than its soldiers.” “That makes sense,” she
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said. “The craftsmen want to make bridges that last. The soldiers I listen to, they just want to get to the plateau, grab the gemheart, and get away. It’s like a game to them.” “That’s astute. You’re getting better and better at observing us.” She grimaced. “I feel more like I’m remembering things I once knew.” “Soon you’ll hardly be a spren at all. You’ll be a little translucent philosopher. We’ll have to send you off to a monastery to spend your time in deep, important thoughts.” “Yes,” she said, “like how to best get the ardents there to accidentally drink a mixture that will turn his mouth blue.” She smiled mischievously. Kaladin smiled back, but kept running his finger across the wood. He still didn’t understand why they wouldn’t let bridgemen carry shields. Nobody would give him a straight answer on the question. “They use makam because it’s strong enough for its weight to support a heavy cavalry charge,” he said. “We should be able to use this. They deny us shields, but we already carry one on our shoulders.” “But how would they react if you try that?” Kaladin stood. “I don’t know, but I also don’t have any other choice.” Trying this would be a risk. A huge risk. But he’d run out of nonrisky ideas days ago. “We can hold it here,” Kaladin said, pointing for Rock, Teft, Skar, and Moash. They stood beside a bridge turned up on its side, its underbelly exposed. The bottom was a complicated construction, with eight rows of three positions accommodating up to twenty-four men directly underneath, then sixteen sets of handles—eight on each side—for sixteen more men on the outside. Forty men, running shoulder to shoulder, if they had a full complement. Each position underneath the bridge had an indentation for the bridgeman’s head, two curved blocks of wood to rest on his shoulders, and two rods for handholds. The bridgemen wore shoulder pads, and those who were shorter wore extras to compensate. Gaz generally tried to assign new bridgemen to crews based on their height. That didn’t hold for Bridge Four, of course. Bridge Four just got the leftovers. Kaladin pointed to several rods and struts. “We could grab here, then run straight forward, carrying the bridge on its side to our right at a slant. We put our taller men on the outside and our shorter men on the inside.” “What good would that do?” Rock asked, frowning. Kaladin glanced at Gaz, who was watching from nearby. Uncomfortably close. Best not to speak of why he really wanted to carry the bridge on its side. Besides, he didn’t want to get the men’s hopes up until he knew if it would work. “I just want to experiment,” he said. “If we can shift positions occasionally, it might be easier. Work different muscles.” Syl frowned as she stood on the top of the bridge. She always frowned when Kaladin obscured the truth. “Gather the men,” Kaladin said, waving to Rock, Teft, Skar, and Moash. He’d named the four as his
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subsquad commanders, something that bridgemen didn’t normally have. But soldiers worked best in smaller groups of six or eight. Soldiers, Kaladin thought. Is that how I think of them? They didn’t fight. But yes, they were soldiers. It was too easy to underestimate men when you considered them to be “just” bridgemen. Charging straight at enemy archers without shields took courage. Even when you were compelled to do it. He glanced to the side, noticing that Moash hadn’t left with the other three. The narrow-faced man had dark green eyes and brown hair flecked with black. “Something wrong, soldier?” Kaladin asked. Moash blinked in surprise at the use of the word, but he and the others had grown to expect all kinds of unorthodoxy from Kaladin. “Why did you make me leader of a subsquad?” “Because you resisted my leadership longer than almost any of the others. And you were flat-out more vocal about it than any of them.” “You made me a squad leader because I refused to obey you?” “I made you squad leader because you struck me as capable and intelligent. But beyond that, you weren’t swayed too easily. You’re strong-willed. I can use that.” Moash scratched his chin, with its short beard. “All right then. But unlike Teft and that Horneater, I don’t think you’re a gift straight from the Almighty. I don’t trust you.” “Then why obey me?” Moash met his eyes, then shrugged. “Guess I’m curious.” He moved off to gather his squad. What in the raging winds… Gaz thought, dumbfounded as he watched Bridge Four charge past. What had possessed them to try carrying the bridge to the side? It required them to clump up in an odd way, forming three rows instead of five, awkwardly clutching the underside of the bridge and holding it off to their right. It was one of the strangest things he’d ever seen. They could barely all fit, and the handholds weren’t made for carrying the bridge that way. Gaz scratched his head as he watched them pass, then held out a hand, stopping Kaladin as he jogged by. The lordling let go of the bridge and hurried up to Gaz, wiping his brow as the others continued running. “Yes?” “What is that?” Gaz said, pointing. “Bridge crew. Carrying what I believe is…yes, it’s a bridge.” “I didn’t ask for lip,” Gaz snarled. “I want an explanation.” “Carrying the bridge over our heads gets tiring,” Kaladin said. He was a tall man, tall enough to tower over Gaz. Storm it, I will not be intimidated! “This is a way to use different muscles. Like shifting a pack from one shoulder to the other.” Gaz glanced to the side. Had something moved in the darkness? “Gaz?” Kaladin asked. “Look, lordling,” Gaz said, looking back to him. “Carrying it overhead may be tiring, but carrying it like that is just plain stupid. You look like you’re about to stumble over one another, and the handholds are terrible. You can barely fit the men.” “Yes,” Kaladin said more softly. “But a lot
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of the time, only half of a bridge crew will survive a bridge run. We can carry it back this way when there are fewer of us. It will let us shift positions, at least.” Gaz hesitated. Only half a bridge crew… If they carried the bridge like that on an actual assault, they’d go slowly, expose themselves. It could be a disaster, for Bridge Four at least. Gaz smiled. “I like it.” Kaladin looked shocked. “What?” “Initiative. Creativity. Yes, keep practicing. I’d very much like to see you make a plateau approach carrying the bridge that way.” Kaladin narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?” “Yes,” Gaz said. “Well then. Perhaps we will.” Gaz smiled, watching Kaladin retreat. A disaster was exactly what he needed. Now he just had to find some other way to pay Lamaril’s blackmail. SIX YEARS AGO “Don’t make the same mistake I did, son.” Kal looked up from his folio. His father sat on the other side of the operating room, one hand to his head, half-empty cup of wine in his other. Violet wine, among the strongest of liquors. Lirin set the cup down, and the deep purple liquid—the color of cremling blood—shivered and trembled. It refracted Stormlight from a couple of spheres sitting on the counter. “Father?” “When you get to Kharbranth, stay there.” His voice was slurred. “Don’t get sucked back to this tiny, backward, foolish town. Don’t force your beautiful wife to live away from everyone else she’s ever known or loved.” Kal’s father didn’t often get drunk; this was a rare night of indulgence. Perhaps because Mother had gone to sleep early, exhausted from her work. “You’ve always said I should come back,” Kal said softly. “I’m an idiot.” His back to Kal, he stared at the wall splashed with white light from the spheres. “They don’t want me here. They never wanted me here.” Kal looked down at his folio. It contained drawings of dissected bodies, the muscles splayed and pulled out. The drawings were so detailed. Each had glyphpairs to designate every part, and he’d committed those to memory. Now he studied the procedures, delving into the bodies of men long dead. Once, Laral had told him that men weren’t supposed to see beneath the skin. These folios, with their pictures, were part of what made everyone so mistrustful of Lirin. Seeing beneath was like seeing beneath the clothing, only worse. Lirin poured himself more wine. How much the world could change in a short time. Kal pulled his coat close against the chill. A season of winter had come, but they couldn’t afford charcoal for the brazier, for patients no longer gave offerings. Lirin hadn’t stopped healing or surgery. The townspeople had simply stopped their donations, all at a word from Roshone. “He shouldn’t be able to do this,” Kal whispered. “But he can,” Lirin said. He wore a white shirt and black vest atop tan trousers. The vest was unbuttoned, the front flaps hanging down by his sides, like the skin pulled back from the torsos of the
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men in Kal’s drawings. “We could spend the spheres,” Kal said hesitantly. “Those are for your education,” Lirin snapped. “If I could send you now, I would.” Kal’s father and mother had sent a letter to the surgeons in Kharbranth, asking them to let Kal take the entry tests early. They’d responded in the negative. “He wants us to spend them,” Lirin said, words slurred. “That’s why he said what he did. He’s trying to bully us into needing those spheres.” Roshone’s words to the townspeople hadn’t exactly been a command. He’d just implied that if Kal’s father was too foolish to charge, then he shouldn’t be paid. The next day, people had stopped donating. The townsfolk regarded Roshone with a confusing mixture of adoration and fear. In Kal’s opinion, he didn’t deserve either. Obviously, the man had been banished to Hearthstone because he was so bitter and flawed. He clearly didn’t deserve to be among the real lighteyes, who fought for vengeance on the Shattered Plains. “Why do the people try so hard to please him?” Kal asked of his father’s back. “They never reacted this way around Brightlord Wistiow.” “They do it because Roshone is unappeasable.” Kal frowned. Was that the wine talking? Kal’s father turned, his eyes reflecting pure Stormlight. In those eyes, Kal saw a surprising lucidity. He wasn’t so drunk after all. “Brightlord Wistiow let men do as they wished. And so they ignored him. Roshone lets them know he finds them contemptible. And so they scramble to please him.” “That makes no sense,” Kal said. “It is the way of things,” Lirin said, playing with one of the spheres on the table, rolling it beneath his finger. “You’ll have to learn this, Kal. When men perceive the world as being right, we are content. But if we see a hole—a deficiency—we scramble to fill it.” “You make it sound noble, what they do.” “It is in a way,” Lirin said. He sighed. “I shouldn’t be so hard on our neighbors. They’re petty, yes, but it’s the pettiness of the ignorant. I’m not disgusted by them. I’m disgusted by the one who manipulates them. A man like Roshone can take what is honest and true in men and twist it into a mess of sludge to walk on.” He took a sip, finishing the wine. “We should just spend the spheres,” Kal said. “Or send them somewhere, to a moneylender or something. If they were gone, he’d leave us alone.” “No,” Lirin said softly. “Roshone is not the kind to spare a man once he is beaten. He’s the type who keeps kicking. I don’t know what political mistake landed him in this place, but he obviously can’t get revenge on his rivals. So we’re all he has.” Lirin paused. “Poor fool.” Poor fool? Kal thought. He’s trying to destroy our lives, and that’s all Father can say? What of the stories men sang at the hearths? Tales of clever herdsmen outwitting and overthrowing a foolish lighteyed man. There were dozens of variations, and Kal had heard
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them all. Shouldn’t Lirin fight back somehow? Do something other than sit and wait? But he didn’t say anything; he knew exactly what Lirin would say. Let me worry about it. Get back to your studies. Sighing, Kal settled back in his chair, opening his folio again. The surgery room was dim, lit by the four spheres on the table and a single one Kal used for reading. Lirin kept most of the spheres closed up in their cupboard, hidden away. Kal held up his own sphere, lighting the page. There were longer explanations of procedures in the back that his mother could read to him. She was the only woman in the town who could read, though Lirin said it wasn’t uncommon among wellborn darkeyed women in the cities. As he studied, Kal idly pulled something from his pocket. A rock that had been sitting on his chair for him when he’d come in to study. He recognized it as a favorite one that Tien had been carrying around recently. Now he’d left it for Kaladin; he often did that, hoping that his older brother would be able to see the beauty in it too, though they all just looked like ordinary rocks. He’d have to ask Tien what he found so special about this particular one. There was always something. Tien spent his days now learning carpentry from Ral, one of the men in the town. Lirin had set him to it reluctantly; he’d been hoping for another surgery assistant, but Tien couldn’t stand the sight of blood. He froze every time, and hadn’t gotten used to it. That was troubling. Kal had hoped that his father would have Tien as an assistant when he left. And Kal was leaving, one way or another. He hadn’t decided between the army or Kharbranth, though in recent months, he’d begun leaning toward becoming a spearman. If he took that route, he’d have to do it stealthily, once he was old enough that the recruiters would take him over his parents’ objections. Fifteen would probably be old enough. Five more months. For now, he figured that knowing the muscles—and vital parts of a body—would be pretty useful for either a surgeon or a spearman. A thump came at the door. Kal jumped. It hadn’t been a knock, but a thump. It came again. It sounded like something heavy pushing or slamming against the wood. “What in the stormwinds?” Lirin said, rising from his stool. He crossed the small room; his undone vest brushed the operating table, button scraping the wood. Another thump. Kal scrambled out of his chair, closing the folio. At fourteen and a half, he was nearly as tall as his father now. A scraping came at the door, like nails or claws. Kal raised a hand toward his father, suddenly terrified. It was late at night, dark in the room, and the town was silent. There was something outside. It sounded like a beast. Inhuman. A den of whitespines were said to be making trouble nearby, striking at travelers on
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the roadway. Kal had an image in his head of the reptilian creatures, as big as horses but with carapace across their backs. Was one of them sniffing at the door? Brushing it, trying to force its way in? “Father!” Kal yelped. Lirin pulled open the door. The dim light of the spheres revealed not a monster, but a man wearing black clothing. He had a long metal bar in his hands, and he wore a black wool mask with holes cut for the eyes. Kal felt his heart race in panic as the would-be intruder leapt backward. “Didn’t expect to find anyone inside, did you?” Kal’s father said. “It’s been years since there was a theft in the town. I’m ashamed of you.” “Give us the spheres!” a voice called out of the darkness. Another figure moved in the shadows, and then another. Stormfather! Kal clutched the folio to his chest with trembling hands. How many are there? Highwaymen, come to rob the town! Such things happened. More and more frequently these days, Kal’s father said. How could Lirin be so calm? “Those spheres ain’t yours,” another voice called. “Is that so?” Kal’s father said. “Does that make them yours? You think he’d let you keep them?” Kal’s father spoke as if they weren’t bandits from outside the town. Kal crept forward to stand just behind his father, frightened—but at the same time ashamed of that fear. The men in the darkness were shadowy, nightmarish things, moving back and forth, faces of black. “We’ll give them to him,” one voice said. “No need for this to get violent, Lirin,” another added. “You ain’t going to spend them anyway.” Kal’s father snorted. He ducked into the room. Kal cried out, moving back as Lirin threw open the cabinet where he kept the spheres. He grabbed the large glass goblet that he stored them in; it was covered with a black cloth. “You want them?” Lirin called, walking to the doorway, passing Kal. “Father?” Kal said, panicked. “You want the light for yourself?” Lirin’s voice grew louder. “Here!” He pulled the cloth free. The goblet exploded with fiery radiance, the brightness nearly blinding. Kal raised his arm. His father was a shadowed silhouette that seemed to hold the sun itself in its fingers. The large goblet shone with a calm light. Almost a cold light. Kal blinked away tears, his eyes adjusting. He could see the men outside clearly now. Where dangerous shadows had once loomed, cringing men now raised hands. They didn’t seem so intimidating; in fact, the cloths over their faces looked ridiculous. Where Kal had been afraid, he now felt strangely confident. For a moment, it wasn’t light his father held, but understanding itself. That’s Luten, Kal thought, noticing a man who limped. It was easy to distinguish him, despite the mask. Kal’s father had operated on that leg; it was because of him that Luten could still walk. He recognized others too. Horl was the one with the wide shoulders, Balsas the man wearing the nice new coat. Lirin
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didn’t say anything to them at first. He stood with that light blazing, illuminating the entire stone square outside. The men seemed to shrink down, as if they knew he recognized them. “Well?” Lirin said. “You’ve threatened violence against me. Come. Hit me. Rob me. Do it knowing I’ve lived among you almost my entire life. Do it knowing that I’ve healed your children. Come in. Bleed one of your own!” The men faded into the night without a word. They got better at carrying the bridge on its side. But not much better. Kaladin watched Bridge Four pass, moving awkwardly, maneuvering the bridge at their sides. Fortunately, there were plenty of handles on the bridge’s underside, and they’d found how to grip them in the right way. They had to carry it at less steep an angle than he’d wanted. That would expose their legs, but may be he could train them to adjust to it as the arrows flew. As it was, their carry was slow, and the bridgemen were so bunched up that if the Parshendi managed to drop a man, the others would stumble over him. Lose just a few men, and the balance would be upset so they’d drop it for certain. This will have to be handled very carefully, Kaladin thought. Syl fluttered along behind the bridge crew as a flurry of nearly translucent leaves. Beyond her, something caught Kaladin’s eye: a uniformed soldier leading a ragged group of men in a despondent clump. Finally, Kaladin thought. He’d been waiting for another group of recruits. He waved curtly to Rock. The Horneater nodded; he’d take over training. It was time for a break anyway. Kaladin jogged up the short incline at the rim of the lumberyard, arriving just as Gaz intercepted the newcomers. “What a sorry batch,” Gaz said. “I thought we’d been sent the dregs last time, but this lot…” Lamaril shrugged. “They’re yours now, Gaz. Split them up how you like.” He and his soldiers departed, leaving the unfortunate conscripts. Some wore decent clothing; they’d be recently caught criminals. The rest had slave brands on their foreheads. Seeing them brought back feelings that Kaladin had to force down. He still stood on the very top of a steep slope; one wrong step could send him tumbling back down into that despair. “In a line, you cremlings,” Gaz snapped at the new recruits, pulling free his cudgel and waving it. He eyed Kaladin, but said nothing. The group of men hastily lined up. Gaz counted down the line, picking out the taller members. “You five men, you’re in Bridge Six. Remember that. Forget it, and I’ll see you get a whipping.” He counted off another group. “You six men, you’re in Bridge Fourteen. You four at the end, Bridge Three. You, you, and you, Bridge One. Bridge Two doesn’t need any…You four, Bridge Seven.” That was all of them. “Gaz,” Kaladin said, folding his arms. Syl landed on his shoulder, her small tempest of leaves forming into a young woman. Gaz turned to him. “Bridge
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Four is down to thirty fighting members.” “Bridge Six and Bridge Fourteen have fewer than that.” “They each had twenty-nine and you just gave them both a big helping of new members. And Bridge One is at thirty-seven, and you sent them three new men.” “You barely lost anyone on the last run, and—” Kaladin caught Gaz’s arm as the sergeant tried to walk away. Gaz flinched, lifting his cudgel. Try it, Kaladin thought, meeting Gaz’s eyes. He almost wished that the sergeant would. Gaz gritted his teeth. “Fine. One man.” “I pick him,” Kaladin said. “Whatever. They’re all worthless anyway.” Kaladin turned to the group of new bridgemen. They’d gathered into clusters by which bridge crew Gaz had put them in. Kaladin immediately turned his attention to the taller men. By slave standards, they appeared well fed. Two of them looked like they’d— “Hey, gancho!” a voice said from another group. “Hey! You want me, I think.” Kaladin turned. A short, spindly man was waving to him. The man had only one arm. Who would assign him to be a bridgeman? He’d stop an arrow, Kaladin thought. That’s all some bridgemen are good for, in the eyes of the uppers. The man had brown hair and deep tan skin just a shade too dark to be Alethi. The fingernails on his hand were slate-colored and crystalline—he was a Herdazian, then. Most of the newcomers shared the same defeated look of apathy but this man was smiling, though he wore a slave’s mark on his head. That mark is old, Kaladin thought. Either he had a kind master before this, or he has somehow resisted being beaten down. The man obviously didn’t understand what awaited him as a bridgeman. No person would smile if they understood that. “You can use me,” the man said. “We Herdazians are great fighters, gon.” He pronounced that last word like “gone” and it appeared to refer to Kaladin. “You see, this one time, I was with, sure, three men and they were drunk and all but I still beat them.” He spoke at a very quick pace, his thick accent slurring the words together. He’d make a terrible bridgeman. He might be able to run with the bridge on his shoulders, but not maneuver it. He even looked a little flabby around the waist. Whatever bridge crew got him would put him right in the front and let him take an arrow, then be rid of him. Gotta do what you can to stay alive, a voice from his past seemed to whisper. Turn a liability into an advantage…. Tien. “Very well,” Kaladin said, pointing. “I’ll take the Herdazian at the back.” “What?” Gaz said. The short man sauntered up to Kaladin. “Thanks, gancho! You’ll be glad you picked me.” Kaladin turned to walk back, passing Gaz. The bridge sergeant scratched his head. “You pushed me that hard so you could pick the one-armed runt?” Kaladin walked on without a word for Gaz. Instead, he turned to the one-armed Herdazian. “Why did you want to come
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with me? You don’t know anything about the different bridge crews.” “You were only picking one,” the man said. “That means one man gets to be special, the others don’t. I’ve got a good feeling about you. It’s in your eyes, gancho.” He paused. “What’s a bridge crew?” Kaladin found himself smiling at the man’s nonchalant attitude. “You’ll see. What’s your name?” “Lopen,” the man said. “Some of my cousins, they call me the Lopen because they haven’t ever heard anyone else named that. I’ve asked around a lot, maybe one hundred…or two hundred…lots of people, sure. And nobody has heard of that name.” Kaladin blinked at the torrent of words. Did the man ever stop to breathe? Bridge Four was taking their break, their massive bridge resting on one side and giving shade. The five wounded had joined them and were chatting; even Leyten was up, which was encouraging. He’d been having a lot of trouble walking, what with that crushed leg. Kaladin had done what he could, but the man would always have a limp. The only one who didn’t talk to the others was Dabbid, the man who had been so profoundly shocked by battle. He followed the others, but he didn’t talk. Kaladin was starting to fear that the man would never recover from his mind fatigue. Hobber—the round-faced, gap-toothed man who had taken an arrow to the leg—was walking without a crutch. It wouldn’t be long before he could start running bridges again, and a good thing, too. They needed every pair of hands they could get. “Head to the barrack there,” Kaladin said to Lopen. “There’s a blanket, sandals, and vest for you in the pile at the very back.” “Sure,” Lopen said, sauntering off. He waved at a few of the men as he passed. Rock walked up to Kaladin, folding his arms. “Is new member?” “Yes,” Kaladin said. “The only kind Gaz would give us, I assume.” Rock sighed. “This thing, we should have expected it. He will give us only the very most useless of bridgemen from now on.” Kaladin was tempted to say something in the way of agreement, but hesitated. Syl would probably see it as a lie, and that would annoy her. “This new way of carrying the bridge,” Rock said. “Is not very useful, I think. Is—” He cut off as a horn call blared over the camp, echoing against stone buildings like the bleat of a distant greatshell. Kaladin grew tense. His men were on duty. He waited, tense, until the third set of horns blew. “Line up!” Kaladin yelled. “Let’s move!” Unlike the other nineteen crews on duty, Kaladin’s men didn’t scramble about in confusion, but assembled in an orderly fashion. Lopen dashed out, wearing a vest, then hesitated, looking at the four squads, not knowing where to go. He’d be cut to ribbons if Kaladin put him in front, but he’d probably just slow them down anywhere else. “Lopen!” Kaladin shouted. The one-armed man saluted. Does he think he’s actually in the military? “You see that
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rain barrel? Go get some waterskins from the carpenter’s assistants. They told me we could borrow some. Fill as many as you can, then catch up down below.” “Sure, gancho,” Lopen said. “Bridge up!” Kaladin shouted, moving into position at the front. “Shoulder carry!” Bridge Four moved. While some of the other bridge crews were crowded around their barracks, Kaladin’s team charged across the lumberyard. They were first down the incline, and reached the first permanent bridge before the army even formed up. There, Kaladin ordered them to put their bridge down and wait. Shortly thereafter, Lopen trotted down the hillside—and, surprisingly, Dabbid and Hobber were with him. They couldn’t move fast, not with Hobber’s limp, but they had constructed a sort of litter with a tarp and two lengths of wood. Piled into the middle of it were a good twenty waterskins. They trotted up to the bridge team. “What’s this?” Kaladin said. “You told me to bring whatever I could carry, gon,” Lopen said. “Well, we got this thing from the carpenters. They use it to carry pieces of wood, they said, and they weren’t using it so we took it and now we’re here. Ain’t that right, moolie?” He said that last to Dabbid, who just nodded. “Moolie?” Kaladin asked. “Means mute,” Lopen said, shrugging. “’Cuz he doesn’t seem to talk much, you see.” “I see. Well, good job. Bridge Four, back in position. Here comes the rest of the army.” The next few hours were what they had grown to expect from bridge runs. Grueling conditions, carrying the heavy bridge across plateaus. The water proved a huge help. The army occasionally watered the bridgemen during runs, but never as often as the men needed it. Being able to take a drink after crossing each plateau was as good as having a half-dozen more men. But the real difference came from the practice. Bridge Four’s men no longer fell exhausted each time they set a bridge down. The work was still difficult, but their bodies were ready for it. Kaladin caught more than a few glances of surprise or envy from the other bridge crews as his men laughed and joked instead of collapsing. Running a bridge once a week or so—as the other men did—just wasn’t enough. An extra meal each night combined with training had built up his men’s muscles and prepared them to work. The march was a long one, as long as Kaladin had ever made. They traveled eastward for hours. That was a bad sign. When they aimed for closer plateaus, they often got there before the Parshendi. But this far out they were racing just to prevent the Parshendi from escaping with the gemheart; there was no chance they’d arrive before the enemy. That meant it would probably be a difficult approach. We’re not ready for the side carry, Kaladin thought nervously, as they finally drew close to an enormous plateau rising in an unusual shape. He’d heard of it—the Tower, it was called. No Alethi force had ever won a gemheart here.
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They set their bridge down before the penultimate chasm, positioning it, and Kaladin felt a foreboding as the scouts crossed. The Tower was wedge-shaped, uneven, with the southeastern point rising far into the air, creating a steep hillside. Sadeas had brought a large number of soldiers; this plateau was enormous, allowing the deployment of a larger force. Kaladin waited, anxious. Maybe they’d be lucky, and the Parshendi would already be gone with the gemheart. It was possible, this far out. The scouts came charging back. “Enemy lines on the opposing rim! They haven’t gotten the chrysalis open yet!” Kaladin groaned softly. The army began to cross on his bridge, and Bridge Four regarded him, solemn, expressions grim. They knew what would come next. Some of them, perhaps many of them, would not survive. It was going to be very bad this time. On previous runs, they’d had a buff er. When they’d lost four or five men, they’d still been able to keep going. Now they were running with just thirty members. Every man they lost would slow them measurably, and the loss of just four or five more would cause them to wobble, or even topple. When that happened, the Parshendi would focus everything on them. He’d seen it happen before. If a bridge crew started to teeter, the Parshendi pounced. Besides, when a bridge crew was visibly low on numbers, it always got targeted by the Parshendi to be taken down. Bridge Four was in trouble. This run could easily end with fifteen or twenty deaths. Something had to be done. This was it. “Gather close,” Kaladin said. The men frowned, stepping up to him. “We’re going to carry the bridge in side position,” Kaladin said softly. “I’ll go first. I’m going to steer; be ready to go in the direction I do.” “Kaladin,” Teft said, “side position is slow. It was an interesting idea, but—” “Do you trust me, Teft?” Kaladin asked. “Well, I guess.” The grizzled man glanced at the others. Kaladin could see that many of them did not, at least not fully. “This will work,” Kaladin said intently. “We’re going to use the bridge as a shield to block arrows. We need to hurry out in front, faster than the other bridges. It’ll be hard to outrun them with the side carry, but it’s the only thing I can think of. If it doesn’t work, I’ll be in front, so I’ll be the first to drop. If I die, move the bridge to shoulder-carry. We’ve practiced doing that. Then you’ll be rid of me.” The bridgemen were silent. “What if we don’t want to be rid of you?” long-faced Natam asked. Kaladin smiled. “Then run swiftly and follow my lead. I’m going to turn us unexpectedly during the run; be ready to change directions.” He went back to the bridge. The common soldiers were across, and the lighteyes—including Sadeas in his ornate Shardplate—were riding over the span. Kaladin and Bridge Four followed, then pulled the bridge behind them. They shoulder-carried it to the front of the
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army and put it down, waiting for the other bridges to get in place. Lopen and the other two water-carriers hung back with Gaz; it looked like they wouldn’t get into trouble for not running. That was a small blessing. Kaladin felt sweat bead on his forehead. He could just barely make out the Parshendi ranks ahead, on the other side of the chasm. Men of black and crimson, shortbows held at the ready, arrows nocked. The enormous slope of the Tower rose behind them. Kaladin’s heart beat faster. Anticipationspren sprung up around members of the army, but not his team. To their credit, there weren’t any fearspren either—not that they didn’t feel fear, they just weren’t as panicked as the other bridge crews, so the fearspren went there instead. Care, Tukks seemed to whisper at him from the past. The key to fighting isn’t lack of passion, it’s controlled passion. Care about winning. Care about those you defend. You have to care about something. I care, Kaladin thought. Storm me as a fool, but I do. “Bridges up!” Gaz’s voice echoed across the front lines, repeating the order given him by Lamaril. Bridge Four moved, quickly turning the bridge on its side and hoisting it up. The shorter men made a line, holding the bridge up to their right, with the taller men forming a bunched-up line behind them, reaching through and lifting or reaching high and steadying the bridge. Lamaril gave them a harsh look, and Kaladin’s breath caught in his throat. Gaz stepped up and whispered something to Lamaril. The nobleman nodded slowly, and said nothing. The assault call sounded. Bridge Four charged. From behind them, arrows flew in a wave over the bridge crews’ heads, arcing down toward the Parshendi. Kaladin ran, jaw clenched. He had trouble keeping himself from stumbling over the rockbuds and shalebark growths. Fortunately, though his team was slower than normal, their practice and endurance meant they were still faster than the other crews. With Kaladin at their lead, Bridge Four managed to get out ahead of the others. That was important, because Kaladin angled his team slightly to the right, as if his crew were just a tad off-course with the heavy bridge at the side. The Parshendi knelt down and began to chant together. Alethi arrows fell among them, distracting some, but the others raised bows. Get ready… Kaladin thought. He pushed harder, and felt a sudden surge of strength. His legs stopped straining, his breath stopped wheezing. Perhaps it was the anxiety of battle, perhaps it was numbness setting in, but the unexpected strength gave him a slight sense of euphoria. He felt as if something were buzzing within him, mixing with his blood. In that moment it felt like he was pulling the bridge behind him all alone, like a sail towing the ship beneath it. He turned farther to the right, running at a deeper angle, putting himself and his men in full sight of the Parshendi archers. The Parshendi continued to chant, somehow knowing—without orders—when to draw their
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bows. They pulled arrows to marbled cheeks, sighting on the bridgemen. As expected, many aimed at his men. Almost close enough! Just a few heartbeats more… Now! Kaladin turned sharply to the left just as the Parshendi loosed. The bridge moved with him, now charging with the face of the bridge pointed toward the archers. Arrows flew, snapping against the wood, digging into it. Some arrows rattled against the stone beneath their feet. The bridge resounded with the impacts. Kaladin heard desperate screams of pain from the other bridge crews. Men fell, some of them probably on their first run. In Bridge Four, nobody cried out. Nobody fell. Kaladin turned the bridge again, running angled in the other direction, the bridgemen exposed again. The surprised Parshendi nocked arrows. Normally, they fired in waves. That gave Kaladin an opportunity, for as soon as the Parshendi got the arrows drawn, he turned, using the bulky bridge as a shield. Again, arrows snapped into the wood. Again, other bridge crews screamed. Again, Kaladin’s zigzagging run protected his men. One more, Kaladin thought. This would be the tough one. The Parshendi would know what he was doing. They’d be ready to fire once he turned back. He turned. Nobody fired. Amazed, he realized that the Parshendi archers had turned all of their attention to the other bridge crews, seeking easier targets. The space in front of Bridge Four was virtually empty. The chasm was near, and—despite his angling—Kaladin brought his team in on-mark to place their bridge in the right spot. They all had to be aligned close together for cavalry charge to work. Kaladin quickly gave the order to drop. Some of the Parshendi archers turned their attention back, but most ignored them, firing their arrows at the other crews. A crash from behind announced a bridge falling. Kaladin and his men pushed, the Alethi archers behind pelting the Parshendi to distract them and keep them from shoving the bridge back. Still pushing, Kaladin risked a glance over his shoulder. The next bridge in line was close. It was Bridge Seven, but they were floundering, arrow after arrow striking them, cutting them down in rows. They fell as he watched, bridge crashing to the stones. Now Bridge Twenty-seven was wavering. Two other bridges were already down. Bridge Six had reached the chasm, but just barely, over half its members down. Where were the other bridge crews? He couldn’t tell from his quick glance, and had to turn back to his work. Kaladin’s men placed their bridge with a thump, and Kaladin gave the call to pull back. He and his men dashed away to let the cavalry charge across. But no cavalry came. Sweat dripping from his brow, Kaladin spun. Five other bridge crews had set their bridges, but others were still struggling to reach the chasm. Unexpectedly, they’d tried tilting their bridges to block the arrows, emulating Kaladin and his team. Many stumbled, some men attempting to lower the bridge for protection while others still ran forward. It was chaos. These men hadn’t practiced
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the side carry. As one straggling crew tried to hold their bridge up in the new position, they dropped it. Two more bridge crews were cut down completely by the Parshendi, who continued to fire. Heavy cavalry charged, crossing the six bridges that had been set. Normally, two riders abreast on each bridge added up to a mass of a hundred horsemen, thirty to forty across and three ranks deep. That depended on many bridges aligned in a row, allowing an effective charge against the hundreds of Parshendi archers. But the bridges had been set too erratically. Some cavalry got across, but they were scattered, and couldn’t ride down the Parshendi without fear of being surrounded. Foot soldiers had started to help push Bridge Six into place. We should go help, Kaladin realized. Get those other bridges across. But it was too late. Though Kaladin stood near the battlefield, his men—as was their practice—had fallen back to the nearest rock outcropping for shelter. The one they’d chosen was close enough to see the battle, but was well protected from arrows. The Parshendi always ignored bridgemen after the initial assault, though the Alethi were careful to leave rear guards to protect the landing point and watch for Parshendi trying to cut off their retreat. The soldiers finally maneuvered Bridge Six into place, and two more bridge crews got theirs down, but half of the bridges hadn’t made it. The army had to reorganize on the run, dashing forward to support the cavalry, splitting to cross where the bridges had been set. Teft left the outcropping and grabbed Kaladin by the arm, tugging him back to relative safety. Kaladin allowed himself to be pulled along, but he still looked at the battlefield, a horrible realization coming to him. Rock stepped up beside Kaladin, clapping him on the shoulder. The large Horneater’s hair was plastered to his head with sweat, but he was smiling broadly. “Is miracle! Not a single man wounded!” Moash stepped up beside them. “Stormfather! I can’t believe what we just did. Kaladin, you’ve changed bridge runs forever!” “No,” Kaladin said softly. “I’ve completely undermined our assault.” “I—What?” Stormfather! Kaladin thought. The heavy cavalry had been cut off. A cavalry charge needed an unbroken line; it was the intimidation as much as anything that made it work. But here, the Parshendi could dodge out of the way, then come at the horsemen from the flanks. And the foot soldiers hadn’t gotten in quickly enough to help. Several groups of horsemen fought completely surrounded. Soldiers bunched up around the bridges that had been set, trying to get across, but the Parshendi had a solid foothold and were repelling them. Spearmen fell from the bridges, and the Parshendi then managed to topple one entire bridge into the chasm. The Alethi forces were soon on the defensive, the soldiers focused on holding the bridgeheads to secure an avenue of retreat for the cavalry. Kaladin watched, really watched. He’d never studied the tactics and needs of the entire army in these assaults. He’d considered only the
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needs of his own crew. It was a foolish mistake, and he should have known better. He would have known better, if he’d still thought of himself as a real soldier. He hated Sadeas; he hated the way the man used bridge crews. But he shouldn’t have changed Bridge Four’s basic tactics without considering the larger scheme of the battle. I deflected attention to the other bridge crews, Kaladin thought. That got us to the chasm too soon, and slowed some of the others. And, since he’d run out in front, many other bridgemen had gotten a good view of how he’d used the bridge as a shield. That had led them to emulate Bridge Four. Each of the crews had ended up running at a different speed, and the Alethi archers hadn’t known where to focus their volleys to soften the Parshendi for the bridge landings. Stormfather! I’ve just cost Sadeas this battle. There would be repercussions. The bridgemen had been forgotten while the generals and captains scrambled to revise their battle plans. But once this was over, they would come for him. Or maybe it would happen sooner. Gaz and Lamaril, with a group of reserve spearmen, were marching toward Bridge Four. Rock stepped up beside Kaladin on one side, a nervous Teft on the other, holding a stone in his hands. The bridgemen behind Kaladin began to mutter. “Stand down,” Kaladin said softly to Rock and Teft. “But, Kaladin!” Teft said. “They—” “Stand down. Gather the bridgemen. Get them back to the lumberyard safely, if you can.” If any of us escape this disaster. When Rock and Teft didn’t back away, Kaladin stepped forward. The battle still raged on the Tower; Sadeas’s group—led by the Shardbearer himself—had managed to claim a small section of ground and were holding it doggedly. Corpses piled up on both sides. It wouldn’t be enough. Rock and Teft moved up beside Kaladin again, but he stared them down, forcing them back. Then he turned to Gaz and Lamaril. I’ll point out that Gaz told me to do this, he thought. He suggested I use a side carry on a bridge assault. But no. There were no witnesses. It would be his word against Gaz’s. That wouldn’t work—plus, that argument would leave Gaz and Lamaril with good reason to see Kaladin dead immediately, before he could speak to their superiors. Kaladin needed to do something else. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Gaz sputtered as he grew near. “I’ve upended the army’s strategy,” Kaladin said, “throwing the entire assault force into chaos. You’ve come to punish me so that when your superiors come screaming to you for what happened, you can at least show that you acted quickly to deal with the one responsible.” Gaz paused, Lamaril and the spearmen stopping around him. The bridge sergeant looked surprised. “If it’s worth anything,” Kaladin said grimly, “I didn’t know this would happen. I was just trying to survive.” “Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive,” Lamaril said curtly. He waved to a pair of his soldiers,
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then pointed at Kaladin. “If you leave me alive,” Kaladin said, “I promise I will tell your superiors that you had nothing to do with this. If you kill me, it will look like you were trying to hide something.” “Hide something?” Gaz said, glancing at the battle on the Tower. A stray arrow clattered across the rocks a short distance from him, shaft breaking. “What would we have to hide?” “Depends. This very well could look like it was your idea from the start. Brightlord Lamaril, you didn’t stop me. You could have, but you didn’t, and soldiers saw Gaz and you speaking when you saw what I did. If I can’t vouch for your ignorance of what I was going to do, then you’ll look very, very bad.” Lamaril’s soldiers looked to their leader. The lighteyed man scowled. “Beat him,” he said, “but don’t kill him.” He turned and marched back toward the Alethi reserve lines. The beefy spearmen walked up to Kaladin. They were darkeyed, but they might as well have been Parshendi for all the sympathy they would show him. Kaladin closed his eyes and steeled himself. He couldn’t fight them all off. Not and remain with Bridge Four. A spear butt to the gut knocked him to the ground, and he gasped as the soldiers began to kick. One booted foot tore open his belt pouch. His spheres—too precious to leave in the barrack—scattered across the stones. They had somehow lost their Stormlight, and were now dun, their life run out. The soldiers kept kicking. Sometimes, when Shallan walked into the Palanaeum proper—the grand storehouse of books, manuscripts, and scrolls beyond the study areas of the Veil—she grew so distracted by the beauty and scope of it that she forgot everything else. The Palanaeum was shaped like an inverted pyramid carved down into the rock. It had balcony walkways suspended around its perimeter. Slanted gently downward, they ran around all four walls to form a majestic square spiral, a giant staircase pointing toward the center of Roshar. A series of lifts provided a quicker method of descending. Standing at the top level’s railing, Shallan could see only halfway to the bottom. This place seemed too large, too grand, to have been shaped by the hands of men. How had the terraced levels been aligned so perfectly? Had Soulcasters been used to create the open spaces? How many gemstones would that have taken? The lighting was dim; there was no general illumination, only small emerald lamps focused to illuminate the walkway floors. Ardents from the Devotary of Insight periodically moved through the levels, changing the spheres. There had to be hundreds upon hundreds of the emeralds here; apparently, they made up the Kharbranthian royal treasury. What better place for them than the extremely secure Palanaeum? Here they could both be protected and serve to illuminate the enormous library. Shallan continued on her way. Her parshman servant carried a sphere lantern containing a trio of sapphire marks. The soft blue light reflected against the stone walls, portions of which
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had been Soulcast into quartz purely for ornamentation. The railings had been carved from wood, then transformed to marble. When she ran her fingers across one, she could feel the original wood’s grain. At the same time, it had the cold smoothness of stone. An oddity that seemed designed to confuse the senses. Her parshman carried a small basket of books full of drawings by famous natural scientists. Jasnah had begun allowing Shallan to spend some of her study time on topics of her own choosing. Just a single hour a day, but it was remarkable how precious that hour had become. Recently, she’d been digging through Myalmr’s Western Voyages. The world was a wondrous place. She hungered to learn more, wished to observe each and every one of its creatures, to have sketches of them in her books. To organize Roshar by capturing it in images. The books she read, though wonderful, all felt incomplete. Each author would be good with words or with drawings, but rarely both. And if the author was good with both, then her grasp of science would be poor. There were so many holes in their understanding. Holes that Shallan could fill. No, she told herself firmly as she walked. That’s not what I’m here to do. It was getting harder and harder to stay focused on the theft, though Jasnah—as Shallan had hoped—had begun using her as a bathing attendant. That might soon present the opportunity she needed. And yet, the more she studied, the more she hungered for knowledge. She led her parshman to one of the lifts. There, two other parshmen began lowering her. Shallan eyed the basket of books. She could spend her time on the lift reading, maybe finish that section of Western Voyages… She turned away from the basket. Stay focused. On the fifth level down, she stepped out into the smaller walkway that connected the lift to the sloping ramps set into the walls. Upon reaching the wall, she turned right and continued down a little farther. The wall was lined with doorways and, finding the one she wanted, she entered a large stone chamber filled with tall bookshelves. “Wait here,” she said to her parshman as she dug her drawing folio out of the basket. She tucked it under her arm, took the lantern, and hurried into the stacks. One could disappear for hours in the Palanaeum and never see another soul. Shallan rarely saw anyone while searching out an obscure book for Jasnah. There were ardents and servants to fetch volumes, of course, but Jasnah thought it important for Shallan to practice doing it herself. Apparently the Kharbranthian filing system was now standard for many of Roshar’s libraries and archives. At the back of the room, she found a small desk of cobwood. She set her lantern on one side and sat on the stool, getting out her portfolio. The room was silent and dark, her lantern light revealing the ends of bookshelves to her right and a smooth stone wall to her left. The air smelled
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of old paper and dust. Not wet. It was never damp in the Palanaeum. Perhaps the dryness had something to do with the long troughs of white powder at the ends of each room. She undid her portfolio’s leather ties. Inside, the top sheets were blank, and the next few contained drawings she’d done of people in the Palanaeum. More faces for her collection. Hidden in the middle was a far more important set of drawings: sketches of Jasnah performing Soulcastings. The princess used her Soulcaster infrequently; perhaps she hesitated to use it when Shallan was around. But Shallan had caught a handful of occasions, mostly when Jasnah had been distracted, and had apparently forgotten she wasn’t alone. Shallan held up one picture. Jasnah, sitting in the alcove, hand to the side and touching a crumpled piece of notepaper, a gem on her Soulcaster glowing. Shallan held up the next picture. It depicted the same scene just seconds later. The paper had become a ball of flames. It hadn’t burned. No, it had become fire. Tongues of flame coiling, a flash of heat in the air. What had been on it that Jasnah wished to hide? Another picture showed Jasnah Soulcasting the wine in her cup into a chunk of crystal to use as a paperweight, the goblet itself holding down another stack, on one of the rare occasions when they’d dined—and studied—on a patio outside the Conclave. There was also the one of Jasnah burning words after running out of ink. When Shallan had seen her burning letters into a page, she’d been amazed at the Soulcaster’s precision. It seemed that this Soulcaster was attuned to three Essences in particular: Vapor, Spark, and Lucentia. But it should be able to create any of the Ten Essences, from Zephyr to Talus. That last one was the most important to Shallan, as Talus included stone and earth. She could create new mineral deposits for her family to exploit. It would work; Soulcasters were very rare in Jah Keved, and her family’s marble, jade, and opal would sell at a premium. They couldn’t create actual gemstones with a Soulcaster—that was said to be impossible—but they could create other deposits of near equal value. Once those new deposits ran out, they’d have to move to less lucrative trades. That would be all right, though. By then, they’d have paid off their debts and compensated those to whom promises had been broken. House Davar would become unimportant again, but would not collapse. Shallan studied the pictures again. The Alethi princess seemed remarkably casual about Soulcasting. She held one of the most powerful artifacts in all of Roshar, and she used it to create paperweights? What else did she use the Soulcaster for, when Shallan wasn’t watching? Jasnah seemed to use it less frequently in her presence now than she had at first. Shallan fished in the safepouch inside her sleeve, bringing out her father’s broken Soulcaster. It had been sheared in two places: across one of the chains and through the setting that held one of
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the stones. She inspected it in the light, looking—not for the first time—for signs of that damage. The link in the chain had been replaced perfectly and the setting reforged equally well. Even knowing exactly where the cuts had been, she couldn’t find any flaw. Unfortunately, repairing only the outward defects hadn’t made it functional. She hefted the heavy construction of metal and chains. Then she put it on, looping chains around her thumb, small finger, and middle finger. There were no gemstones in the device at present. She compared the broken Soulcaster to the drawings, inspecting it from all sides. Yes, it looked identical. She’d worried about that. Shallan felt her heart flutter as she regarded the broken Soulcaster. Stealing from Jasnah had seemed acceptable when the princess had been a distant, unknown figure. A heretic, presumably ill-tempered and demanding. But what of the real Jasnah? A careful scholar, stern but fair, with a surprising level of wisdom and insight? Could Shallan really steal from her? She tried to still her heart. Even as a little child, she’d been this way. She could remember her tears at fights between her parents. She was not good with confrontation. But she’d do it. For Nan Balat, Tet Wikim, and Asha Jushu. Her brothers depended on her. She pressed her hands against her thighs to keep them from shaking, breathing in and out. After a few minutes, nerves under control, she took off the damaged Soulcaster and returned it to her safepouch. She gathered up her papers. They might be important in discovering how to use the Soulcaster. What was she going to do about that? Was there a way to ask Jasnah about using a Soulcaster without arousing suspicion? A light flickering through nearby bookcases startled her, and she tucked away her folio. It turned out to be just an old, berobed female ardent, shuffling with a lantern and followed by a parshman servant. She didn’t look in Shallan’s direction as she turned between two rows of shelves, her lantern’s light shining out through the spaces between the books. Lit that way—with her figure hidden but the light streaming between the shelves—it looked as if one of the Heralds themselves were walking through the stacks. Her heart racing again, Shallan raised her safehand to her breast. I make a terrible thief, she thought with a grimace. She finished gathering her things and moved through the stacks, lantern held before her. The head of each row was carved with symbols, indicating the date the books had entered the Palanaeum. That was how they were organized. There were enormous cabinets filled with indexes on the top level. Jasnah had sent Shallan to fetch—and then read—a copy of Dialogues, a famous historical work on political theory. However, this was also the room that contained Shadows Remembered—the book Jasnah was reading when the king had visited. Shallan had later looked it up in the index. It might have been reshelved by now. Suddenly curious, Shallan counted off the rows. She stepped in and counted shelves inward. Near
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the middle and at the bottom, she found a thin red volume with a red hogshide cover. Shadows Remembered. Shallan set her lantern on the ground and slipped the book free, feeling furtive as she flipped through the pages. She was confused by what she discovered. She hadn’t realized this was a book of children’s stories. There was no undertext commentary, just a collection of tales. Shallan sat down on the floor, reading through the first one. It was the story of a child who wandered away from his home at night and was chased by Voidbringers until he hid in a cavern beside a lake. He whittled a piece of wood into a roughly human shape and sent it floating across the lake, fooling the creatures into attacking and eating it instead. Shallan didn’t have much time—Jasnah would grow suspicious if she remained down here too long—but she skimmed the rest of the stories. They were all of a similar style, ghost stories about spirits or Voidbringers. The only commentary was at the back, explaining that the author had been curious about the folktales told by common darkeyes. She had spent years collecting and recording them. Shadows Remembered, Shallan thought, would have been better off forgotten. This was what Jasnah had been reading? Shallan had expected Shadows Remembered to be some kind of deep philosophical discussion of a hidden historical murder. Jasnah was a Veristitalian. She constructed the truth of what happened in the past. What kind of truth could she find in stories told to frighten disobedient darkeyed children? Shallan slid the volume back in place and hurried on her way. A short time later, Shallan returned to the alcove to discover that her haste had been unnecessary. Jasnah wasn’t there. Kabsal, however, was. The youthful ardent sat at the long desk, flipping through one of Shallan’s books on art. Shallan noticed him before he saw her, and she found herself smiling despite her troubles. She folded her arms and adopted a dubious expression. “Again?” she asked. Kabsal leaped up, slapping the book closed. “Shallan,” he said, his bald head reflecting the blue light of her parshman’s lantern. “I came looking for—” “For Jasnah,” Shallan said. “As always. And yet, she’s never here when you come.” “An unfortunate coincidence,” he said, raising a hand to his forehead. “I am a poor judge of timing, am I not?” “And is that a basket of bread at your feet?” “A gift for Brightness Jasnah,” he said. “From the Devotary of Insight.” “I doubt a bread basket is going to persuade her to renounce her heresy,” Shallan said. “Perhaps if you’d included jam.” The ardent smiled, picking up the basket and pulling out a small jar of red simberry jam. “Of course, I’ve told you that Jasnah doesn’t like jam,” Shallan said “And yet you bring it anyway, knowing jam to be among my favorite foods. And you’ve done this oh…a dozen times in the last few months?” “I’m growing a bit transparent, aren’t I?” “Just a tad,” she said, smiling. “It’s about
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my soul, isn’t it? You’re worried about me because I’m apprenticed to a heretic.” “Er…well, yes, I’m afraid.” “I’d be insulted,” Shallan said. “But you did bring jam.” She smiled, waving for her parshman to deposit her books and then wait beside the doorway. Was it true that there were parshmen on the Shattered Plains who were fighting? That seemed hard to credit. She’d never known any parshman to as much as raise their voice. They didn’t seem bright enough for disobedience. Of course, some reports she’d heard—including those Jasnah had made her read when studying King Gavilar’s murder—indicated that the Parshendi weren’t like other parshmen. They were bigger, had odd armor that grew from their skin itself, and spoke far more frequently. Perhaps they weren’t parshmen at all, but some kind of distant cousin, a different race entirely. She sat down at the desk as Kabsal got out the bread, her parshman waiting at the doorway. A parshman wasn’t much of a chaperone, but Kabsal was an ardent, which meant technically she didn’t need one. The bread had been purchased from a Thaylen bakery, which meant it was fluffy and brown. And, since he was an ardent, it didn’t matter that jam was a feminine food—they could enjoy it together. She eyed him as he cut the bread. The ardents in her father’s employ had all been crusty men or women in their later years, stern-eyed and impatient with children. She’d never even considered that the devotaries would attract young men like Kabsal. During these last few weeks, she’d found herself thinking of him in ways that would better have been avoided. “Have you considered,” he noted, “what kind of person you declare yourself to be by preferring simberry jam?” “I wasn’t aware that my taste in jams could be that significant.” “There are those who have studied it,” Kabsal said, slathering on the thick red jam and handing her the slice. “You run across some very odd books, working in the Palanaeum. It’s not hard to conclude that perhaps everything has been studied at one time or another.” “Hum,” Shallan said. “And simberry jam?” “According to Palates of Personality—and before you object, yes it is a real book, and that is its title—a fondness for simberries indicates a spontaneous, impulsive personality. And also a preference for—” He cut off as a wadded-up piece of paper bounced off his forehead. He blinked. “Sorry,” Shallan said. “It just kind of happened. Must be all that impulsiveness and spontaneity I have.” He smiled. “You disagree with the conclusions?” “I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “I’ve had people tell me they could determine my personality based on the day I was born, or the position of Taln’s Scar on my seventh birthday, or by numerological extrapolations of the tenth glyphic paradigm. But I think we’re more complicated than that.” “People are more complicated than the numerological extrapolations of the tenth glyphic paradigm?” Kabsal said, spreading jam on a piece of bread for himself. “No wonder I have such difficulty understanding women.” “Very
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funny. I mean that we’re more complex than mere bundles of personality traits. Am I spontaneous? Sometimes. You might describe my chasing Jasnah here to become her ward that way. But before that, I spent seventeen years being about as unspontaneous as someone could be. In many situations—if I’m encouraged—my tongue can be quite spontaneous, but my actions rarely are. We’re all spontaneous sometimes, and we’re all conservative sometimes.” “So you’re saying that the book is right then. It says you’re spontaneous; you’re spontaneous sometimes. Ergo, it’s correct.” “By that argument, it’s right about everybody.” “One hundred percent accurate!” “Well, not one hundred percent,” Shallan said, swallowing another bite of the sweet, fluffy bread. “As has been noted, Jasnah hates jam of all kinds.” “Ah yes,” Kabsal said. “She’s a jam heretic too. Her soul is in more danger than I had realized.” He grinned and took a bite of his bread. “Indeed,” Shallan said. “So what else does that book of yours say about me—and half the world’s population—because of our enjoyment of foods with far too much sugar in them?” “Well, a fondness for simberry is also supposed to indicate a love of the outdoors.” “Ah, the outdoors,” Shallan said. “I visited that mythical place once. It was so very long ago, I’ve nearly forgotten it. Tell me, does the sun still shine, or is that just my dreamy recollection?” “Surely your studies aren’t that bad.” “Jasnah is inordinately fond of dust,” Shallan said. “I believe she thrives on it, feeding off the particles like a chull crunching rockbuds.” “And you, Shallan? On what do you thrive?” “Charcoal.” He looked confused at first, then glanced at her folio. “Ah yes. I was surprised at how quickly your name, and pictures, spread through the Conclave.” Shallan ate the last of her bread, then wiped her hands on a damp rag Kabsal had brought. “You make me sound like a disease.” She ran a finger through her red hair, grimacing. “I guess I do have the coloring of a rash, don’t I?” “Nonsense,” he said sternly. “You shouldn’t say such things, Brightness. It’s disrespectful.” “Of myself?” “No. Of the Almighty, who made you.” “He made cremlings too. Not to mentions rashes and diseases. So being compared to one is actually an honor.” “I fail to follow that logic, Brightness. As he created all things, comparisons are meaningless.” “Like the claims of your Palates book, eh?” “A point.” “There are worse things to be than a disease,” she said, idly thoughtful. “When you have one, it reminds you that you’re alive. Makes you fight for what you have. When the disease has run its course, normal healthy life seems wonderful by comparison.” “And would you not rather be a sense of euphoria? Bringing pleasant feelings and joy to those you infect?” “Euphoria passes. It is usually brief, so we spend more time longing for it than enjoying it.” She sighed. “Look what we’ve done. Now I’m depressed. At least turning back to my studies will seem exciting by comparison.” He frowned at the
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books. “I was under the impression that you enjoyed your studies.” “As was I. Then Jasnah Kholin stomped into my life and proved that even something pleasant could become boring.” “I see. So she’s a harsh mistress?” “Actually, no,” Shallan said. “I’m just fond of hyperbole.” “I’m not,” he said. “It’s a real bastard to spell.” “Kabsal!” “Sorry,” he said. Then he glanced upward. “Sorry.” “I’m sure the ceiling forgives you. To get the Almighty’s attention, you might want to burn a prayer instead.” “I owe him a few anyway,” Kabsal said. “You were saying?” “Well, Brightness Jasnah isn’t a harsh mistress. She’s actually everything she’s said to be. Brilliant, beautiful, mysterious. I’m fortunate to be her ward.” Kabsal nodded. “She is said to be a sterling woman, save for one thing.” “You mean the heresy?” He nodded. “It’s not as bad for me as you think,” she said. “She’s rarely vocal about her beliefs unless provoked.” “She’s ashamed, then.” “I doubt that. Merely considerate.” He eyed her. “You needn’t worry about me,” Shallan said. “Jasnah doesn’t try to persuade me to abandon the devotaries.” Kabsal leaned forward, growing more somber. He was older than she—a man in his mid-twenties, confident, self-assured, and earnest. He was practically the only man near her age that she’d ever talked to outside of her father’s careful supervision. But he was also an ardent. So, of course, nothing could come of it. Could it? “Shallan,” Kabsal said gently, “can you not see how we—how I—would be concerned? Brightness Jasnah is a very powerful and intriguing woman. We would expect her ideas to be infectious.” “Infectious? I thought you said I was the disease.” “I never said that!” “Yes, but I pretended you did. Which is virtually the same thing.” He frowned. “Brightness Shallan, the ardents are worried about you. The souls of the Almighty’s children are our responsibility. Jasnah has a history of corrupting those with whom she comes in contact.” “Really?” Shallan asked, genuinely interested. “Other wards?” “It is not my place to say.” “We can move to another place.” “I’m firm on this point, Brightness. I will not speak of it.” “Write it, then.” “Brightness…” he said, voice taking on a suffering tone. “Oh, all right,” she said, sighing. “Well, I can assure you, my soul is quite well and thoroughly uninfected.” He sat back, then cut another piece of bread. She found herself studying him again, but grew annoyed at her own girlish foolishness. She would soon be returning to her family, and he was only visiting her for reasons relating to his Calling. But she truly was fond of his company. He was the only one here in Kharbranth that she felt she could really talk to. And he was handsome; the simple clothing and shaved head only highlighted his strong features. Like many young ardents, he kept his beard short and neatly trimmed. He spoke with a refined voice, and he was so well-read. “Well, if you’re certain about your soul,” he said, turning back to her. “Then perhaps I could
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interest you in our devotary.” “I have a devotary. The Devotary of Purity.” “But the Devotary of Purity isn’t the place for a scholar. The Glory it advocates has nothing to do with your studies or your art.” “A person doesn’t need a devotary that focuses directly on their Calling.” “It is nice when the two coincide, though.” Shallan stifled a grimace. The Devotary of Purity focused on—as one might imagine—teaching one to emulate the Almighty’s honesty and wholesomeness. The ardents at the devotary hall hadn’t known what to make of her fascination with art. They’d always wanted her to do sketches of things they found “pure.” Statues of the Heralds, depictions of the Double Eye. Her father had chosen the devotary for her, of course. “I just wonder if you made an informed choice,” Kabsal said. “Switching devotaries is allowed, after all.” “Yes, but isn’t recruitment frowned upon? Ardents competing for members?” “It is indeed frowned upon. A deplorable habit.” “But you do it anyway?” “I curse occasionally too.” “I hadn’t noticed. You’re a very curious ardent, Kabsal.” “You’d be surprised. We’re not nearly as stuffy a bunch as we seem. Well, except Brother Habsant; he spends so much time staring at the rest of us.” He hesitated. “Actually, now I think about it, he might actually be stuffed. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him move….” “We’re getting distracted. Weren’t you trying to recruit me to your devotary?” “Yes. And it’s not so uncommon as you think. All of the devotaries engage in it. We do a lot of frowning at one another for our profound lack of ethics.” He leaned forward again, growing more serious. “My devotary has relatively few members, as we don’t have as much exposure as others. So whenever someone seeking knowledge comes to the Palanaeum, we take it upon ourselves to inform them.” “Recruit them.” “Let them see what it is they are missing.” He took a bite of his bread and jam. “In the Devotary of Purity, did they teach you about the nature of the Almighty? The divine prism, with the ten facets representing the Heralds?” “They touched on it,” she said. “Mostly we talked about achieving my goals of…well, purity. Somewhat boring, I’ll admit, since there wasn’t much chance for impurity on my part.” Kabsal shook his head. “The Almighty gives everyone talents—and when we pick a Calling that capitalizes on them, we are worshipping him in the most fundamental way. A devotary—and its ardents—should help nurture that, encouraging you to set and achieve goals of excellence.” He waved to the books stacked on the desk. “This is what your devotary should be helping you with, Shallan. History, logic, science, art. Being honest and good is important, but we should be working harder to encourage the natural talents of people, rather than forcing them to adapt to the Glories and Callings we feel are most important.” “That is a reasonable argument, I guess.” Kabsal nodded, looking thoughtful “Is it any wonder a woman like Jasnah Kholin turned away from that? Many
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devotaries encourage women to leave difficult studies of theology to the ardents. If only Jasnah had been able to see the true beauty of our doctrine.” He smiled, digging a thick book out of his bread basket. “I really had hoped, originally, to be able to show her what I mean.” “I doubt she’d react well to that.” “Perhaps,” he said idly, hefting the tome. “But to be the one who finally convinced her!” “Brother Kabsal, that sounds almost like you’re seeking distinction.” He blushed, and she realized she’d said something that genuinely embarrassed him. She winced, cursing her tongue. “Yes,” he said. “I do seek distinction. I shouldn’t wish so badly to be the one who converts her. But I do. If she would just listen to my proof.” “Proof?” “I have real evidence that the Almighty exists.” “I’d like to see it.” Then she raised a finger, cutting him off. “Not because I doubt his existence, Kabsal. I’m just curious.” He smiled. “It will be my pleasure to explain. But first, would you like another slice of bread?” “I should say no,” she said, “and avoid excess, as my tutors trained me. But instead I’ll say yes.” “Because of the jam?” “Of course,” she said, taking the bread. “How did your book of oracular preserves describe me? Impulsive and spontaneous? I can do that. If it means jam.” He slathered a piece for her, then wiped his fingers on his cloth and opened his book, flipping through the pages until he reached one that had a drawing on it. Shallan slid closer for a better look. The picture wasn’t of a person; it depicted a pattern of some kind. A triangular shape, with three outlying wings and a peaked center. “Do you recognize this?” Kabsal asked. It seemed familiar. “I feel that I should.” “It’s Kholinar,” he said. “The Alethi capital, drawn as it would appear from above. See the peaks here, the ridges there? It was built around the rock formation that was already there.” He flipped the page. “Here’s Vedenar, capital of Jah Keved.” This one was a hexagonal pattern. “Akinah.” A circular pattern. “Thaylen City.” A four-pointed star pattern. “What does it mean?” “It is proof that the Almighty is in all things. You can see him here, in these cities. Do you see how symmetrical they are?” “The cities were built by men, Kabsal. They wanted symmetry because it is holy.” “Yes, but in each case they built around existing rock formations.” “That doesn’t mean anything,” Shallan said. “I do believe, but I don’t know if this is proof. Wind and water can create symmetry; you see it in nature all the time. The men picked areas that were roughly symmetrical, then designed their cities to make up for any flaws.” He turned to his basket again, rummaging. He came out with—of all things—a metal plate. As she opened her mouth to ask a question, he held up his finger again and set the plate down on a small wooden stand that raised it a few
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inches above the tabletop. Kabsal sprinkled white, powdery sand on the sheet of metal, coating it. Then he got out a bow, the kind drawn across strings to make music. “You came prepared for this demonstration, I see,” Shallan noted. “You really did want to make your case to Jasnah.” He smiled, then drew the bow across the edge of the metal plate, making it vibrate. The sand hopped and bounced, like tiny insects dropped onto something hot. “This,” he said, “is called cymatics. The study of the patterns that sounds make when interacting with a physical medium.” As he drew the bow again, the plate made a sound, almost a pure note. It was actually enough to draw a single musicspren, which spun for a moment in the air above him, then vanished. Kabsal finished, then gestured to the plate with a flourish. “So…?” Shallan asked. “Kholinar,” he said, holding up his book for comparison. Shallan cocked her head. The pattern in the sand looked exactly like Kholinar. He dropped more sand on the plate and then drew the bow across it at another point and the sand rearranged itself. “Vedenar,” he said. She compared again. It was an exact match. “Thaylen City,” he said, repeating the process at another spot. He carefully chose another point on the plate’s edge and bowed it one final time. “Akinah. Shallan, proof of the Almighty’s existence is in the very cities we live in. Look at the perfect symmetry!” She had to admit, there was something compelling about the patterns. “It could be a false correlation. Both caused by the same thing.” “Yes. The Almighty,” he said, sitting. “Our very language is symmetrical. Look at the glyphs—each one can be folded in half perfectly. And the alphabet too. Fold any line of text down across itself, and you’ll find symmetry. Surely you know the story, that both glyphs and letters came from the Dawnsingers?” “Yes.” “Even our names. Yours is nearly perfect. Shallan. One letter off, an ideal name for a lighteyed woman. Not too holy, but ever so close. The original names for the ten Silver Kingdoms. Alethela, Valhav, Shin Kak Nish. Perfect, symmetrical.” He reached forward, taking her hand. “It’s here, around us. Don’t forget that, Shallan, no matter what she says.” “I won’t,” she said, realizing how he’d guided the conversation. He’d said he believed her, but still he’d gone through his proofs. It was touching and annoying at the same time. She did not like condescension. But, then, could one really blame an ardent for preaching? Kabsal looked up suddenly, releasing her hand. “I hear footsteps.” He stood, and Shallan turned as Jasnah walked into the alcove, followed by a parshman carrying a basket of books. Jasnah showed no surprise at the presence of the ardent. “I’m sorry, Brightness Jasnah,” Shallan said, standing. “He—” “You are not a captive, child,” Jasnah interrupted brusquely. “You are allowed visitors. Just be careful to check your skin for tooth marks. These types have a habit of dragging their prey out to sea with
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them.” Kabsal flushed. He moved to gather up his things. Jasnah waved for the parshman to place her books on the table. “Can that plate reproduce a cymatic pattern corresponding to Urithiru, priest? Or do you only have patterns for the standard four cities?” Kabsal looked at her, obviously shocked to realize that she knew exactly what the plate was for. He picked up his book. “Urithiru is just a fable.” “Odd. One would think that your type would be used to believing in fables.” His face grew redder. He finished packing his things, then nodded curtly to Shallan and walked hastily from the room. “If I may say so, Brightness,” Shallan said, “that was exceptionally rude of you.” “I’m prone to such bouts of incivility,” Jasnah said. “I’m certain he has heard what I’m like. I simply wanted to make sure he got what he expected.” “You haven’t acted that way toward other ardents in the Palanaeum.” “The other ardents in the Palanaeum haven’t been working to turn my ward against me.” “He wasn’t…” Shallan trailed off. “He was simply worried about my soul.” “Has he asked you to try to steal my Soulcaster yet?” Shallan felt a sudden spike of shock. Her hand went to the pouch at her waist. Did Jasnah know? No, Shallan told herself. No, listen to the question. “He didn’t.” “Watch,” Jasnah said, opening a book. “He will eventually. I’ve experience with his type.” She looked at Shallan, and her expression softened. “He’s not interested in you. Not in any of the ways you think. In particular, this isn’t about your soul. It’s about me.” “That is somewhat arrogant of you,” Shallan said, “don’t you think?” “Only if I’m wrong, child,” Jasnah said, turning back to her book. “And I rarely am.” Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive…. Kaladin’s mind felt fuzzy. He knew that he hurt, but other than that, he floated. As if his head were detached from his body and bouncing off the walls and ceilings. “Kaladin!” a concerned voice whispered. “Kaladin, please. Please don’t be hurt anymore.” Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive. Why did those words bother him so much? He remembered what had happened, using the bridge as a shield, throwing the army off, dooming the assault. Stormfather, he thought, I’m an idiot! “Kaladin?” It was Syl’s voice. He risked opening his eyes and looked out on an upside-down world, sky extending below him, familiar lumberyard in the air above him. No. He was upside down. Hanging against the side of Bridge Four’s barrack. The Soulcast building was fifteen feet tall at its peak, with a shallowly slanted roof. Kaladin was tied by his ankles to a rope, which would—in turn—be affixed to a ring set into the slanted roof. He’d seen it happen to other bridgemen. One who had committed a murder in camp, another who had been caught stealing for the fifth time. His back was to the wall so that he faced eastward. His arms were free, hanging down at his sides, and they almost touched the ground. He
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groaned again, hurting everywhere. As his father had trained him, he began to prod his side to check for broken ribs. He winced as he found several that were tender, at least cracked. Probably broken. He felt at his shoulder too, where he feared that his collarbone was broken. One of his eyes was swollen. Time would show if he’d sustained any serious internal damage. He rubbed his face, and flakes of dried blood cracked free and fluttered toward the ground. Gash on his head, bloodied nose, split lip. Syl landed on his chest, feet planted on his sternum, hands clasped before her. “Kaladin?” “I’m alive,” he mumbled, words slurred by his swollen lip. “What happened?” “You were beaten by those soldiers,” she said, seeming to grow smaller. “I’ve gotten back at them. I made one of them trip three times today.” She looked concerned. He found himself smiling. How long could a man hang like this, blood going to his head? “There was a lot of yelling,” Syl said softly. “I think several men were demoted. The soldier, Lamaril, he…” “What?” “He was executed,” Syl said, even more quietly. “Highprince Sadeas did it himself, the hour the army got back from the plateau. He said something about the ultimate responsibility falling on the lighteyes. Lamaril kept screaming that you had promised to absolve him, and that Gaz should be punished instead.” Kaladin smirked ruefully. “He shouldn’t have had me beaten senseless. Gaz?” “They left him in his position. I don’t know why.” “Right of responsibility. In a disaster like this, the lighteyes are supposed to take most of the blame. They like to make a show of obeying old precepts like that, when it suits them. Why am I still alive?” “Something about an example,” Syl said, wrapping her translucent arms around herself. “Kaladin, I feel cold.” “You can feel temperature?” Kaladin said, coughing. “Not usually. I can now. I don’t understand it. I…I don’t like it.” “It’ll be all right.” “You shouldn’t lie.” “Sometimes it’s all right to lie, Syl.” “And this is one of those times?” He blinked, trying to ignore his wounds, the pressure in his head, trying to clear his mind. He failed on all counts. “Yes,” he whispered. “I think I understand.” “So,” Kaladin said, resting his head back, the parietal knob of his skull resting against the wall, “I’m to be judged by the highstorm. They’ll let the storm kill me.” Hanging here, Kaladin would be exposed directly to the winds and everything they would throw at him. If you were prudent and took appropriate action, it was possible to survive outside in a highstorm, though it was a miserable experience. Kaladin had done it on several occasions, hunkered down, taking shelter in the lee of a rock formation. But hanging on a wall facing directly stormward? He’d be cut to ribbons and crushed by stones. “I’ll be right back,” Syl said, dropping off his chest, taking the form of a falling stone, then changing into windblown leaves near the ground and fluttering away, curving
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to the right. The lumberyard was empty. Kaladin could smell the crisp, chill air, the land bracing for a highstorm. The lull, it was called, when the wind fell still, the air cold, the pressure dropping, the humidity rising right before a storm. A few seconds later, Rock poked his head around the wall, Syl on his shoulder. He crept up to Kaladin, a nervous Teft following. They were joined by Moash; despite the latter’s protests that he didn’t trust Kaladin, he looked almost as concerned as the other two. “Lordling?” Moash said. “You awake?” “I’m conscious,” Kaladin croaked. “Everyone get back from the battle all right?” “All of our men, sure enough,” Teft said, scratching at his beard. “But we lost the battle. It was a disaster. Over two hundred bridgemen dead. Those who survived were only enough to carry eleven bridges.” Two hundred men, Kaladin thought. That’s my fault. I protected my own at the cost of others. I was too hasty. Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive. There’s something about that. He wouldn’t be able to ask Lamaril. That man had gotten what he deserved, though. If Kaladin had the ability to choose, such would be the end of all lighteyes, the king included. “We wanted to say something,” Rock said. “Is from all of the men. Most wouldn’t come out. Highstorm coming, and—” “It’s all right,” Kaladin whispered. Teft nudged Rock to continue. “Well, is this. We will remember you. Bridge Four, we won’t go back to how we were. Maybe all of us will die, but we’ll show the new ones. Fires at night. Laughter. Living. We’ll make a tradition out of it. For you.” Rock and Teft knew about the knobweed. They could keep earning extra money to pay for things. “You did this for us,” Moash put in. “We’d have died on that field. Perhaps as many as died in the other bridge crews. This way, we’re only going to lose one.” “I say it isn’t right, what they’re doing,” Teft said with a scowl. “We talked about cutting you down….” “No,” Kaladin said. “That would only earn you a similar punishment.” The three men shared glances. It seemed they’d come to the same conclusion. “What did Sadeas say?” Kaladin asked. “About me.” “That he understood how a bridgeman would want to save his life,” Teft said, “even at others’ expense. He called you a selfish coward, but acted like that was all that could be expected.” “He says he’s letting the Stormfather judge you,” Moash added. “Jezerezeh, king of Heralds. He says that if you deserve to live, you will….” He trailed off. He knew as well as the others that unprotected men didn’t survive highstorms, not like this. “I want you three to do something for me,” Kaladin said, closing his eyes against the blood trickling down his face from his lip, which he’d cracked open by speaking. “Anything, Kaladin,” Rock said. “I want you to go back into the barrack and tell the men to come out after the storm. Tell them to
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