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rule, if they live long enough. The king is called the Most Ancient.” “Sounds fair,” Moash said, walking over to join Sigzil beneath the overhang. “Better than deciding who rules based on eye color.” “Ah yes,” Sigzil said. “The Babath are very fair. Currently, the Monavakah Dynasty reigns.” “How can you have a dynasty if you choose your leaders based on their age?” Kaladin asked. “It’s actually quite easy,” Sigzil said. “You just execute anyone who gets old enough to challenge you.” Kaladin felt a chill. “They do that?” “Yes, unfortunately,” Sigzil said. “There is a great deal of unrest in Babatharnam. It was dangerous to visit when we did. The Monavakahs make very certain that their family members live the longest; for fifty years, no one outside their family has become Most Ancient. All others have fallen through assassination, exile, or death on the battlefield.” “That’s horrible,” Kaladin said. “I doubt many would disagree. But I mention these horrors for a purpose. You see, it has been my experience that no matter where you go, you will find some who abuse their power.” He shrugged. “Eye color is not so odd a method, compared to many others I have seen. If you were to overthrow the lighteyes and place yourselves in power, Moash, I doubt that the world would be a very different place. The abuses would still happen. Simply to other people.” Kaladin nodded slowly, but Moash shook his head. “No. I’d change the world, Sigzil. And I mean to.” “And how are you going to do that?” Kaladin asked, amused. “I came to this war to get myself a Shardblade,” Moash said. “And I still mean to do it, somehow.” He blushed, then turned away. “You joined up assuming they’d make you a spearman, didn’t you?” Kaladin asked. Moash hesitated, then nodded. “Some of those who joined with me did become soldiers, but most of us got sent to the bridge crews.” He glanced at Kaladin, expression growing dark. “This plan of yours had better work, lordling. Last time I ran away, I got a beating. I was told if I tried again, I’d get a slave’s mark instead.” “I never promised it would work, Moash. If you’ve got a better idea, go ahead and share it.” Moash hesitated. “Well, if you really do teach us the spear like you promised, then I guess I don’t care.” Kaladin glanced about, warily checking to see if Gaz or any bridgemen from other crews were nearby. “Keep quiet,” Kaladin muttered to Moash. “Don’t speak of that outside of the chasms.” The rain had almost stopped; soon the clouds would break. Moash glared at him, but remained silent. “You don’t really think they’d let you have a Shardblade, do you?” Sigzil said. “Any man can win a Shardblade.” Moash said. “Slave or free. Lighteyes or dark. It’s the law.” “Assuming they follow the law,” Kaladin said with a sigh. “I’ll do it somehow,” Moash repeated. He glanced to the side, where Rock was closing up his razor and wiping the rainwater from
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his bald head. The Horneater approached them. “I have heard of this place you spoke of, Sigzil,” Rock said. “Babatharnam. My cousin cousin cousin visited there one time. They have very tasty snails.” “That is a long distance to travel for a Horneater,” Sigzil noted. “Nearly same distance as for an Azish,” Rock said. “Actually, much more, since you have such little legs!” Sigzil scowled. “I have seen your kind before,” Rock said, folding his arms. “What?” Sigzil asked. “Azish? We are not so rare.” “No, not your race,” Rock said. “Your type. What is it they are called? Visiting places around the land, telling others of what they have seen? A Worldsinger. Yes, is the right name. No?” Sigzil froze. Then he suddenly stood up straight and stalked away from the barrack without looking back. “Now why is he acting like this thing?” Rock asked. “I am not ashamed of being cook. Why is he ashamed of being Worldsinger?” “Worldsinger?” Kaladin asked. Rock shrugged. “I do not know much. Are strange people. Say they must travel to each kingdom and tell the people there of other kingdoms. Is a kind of storyteller, though they are thinking of themselves as much more.” “He’s probably some kind of brightlord in his country,” Moash said. “The way he talks. Wonder how he ended up with us cremlings.” “Hey,” Dunny said, joining them. “What’d you do to Sigzil? He promised to tell me about my homeland.” “Homeland?” Moash said to the younger man. “You’re from Alethkar.” “Sigzil said these violet eyes of mine aren’t native to Alethkar. He thinks I must have Veden blood in me.” “Your eyes aren’t violet,” Moash said. “Sure they are,” Dunny said. “You can see it in bright sunlight. They’re just really dark.” “Ha!” Rock said. “If you are from Vedenar, we are cousins! The Peaks are near Vedenar. Sometimes the people there have good red hair, like us!” “Be glad that someone didn’t mistake your eyes for red, Dunny,” Kaladin said. “Moash, Rock, go gather your subsquads and pass the word to Teft and Skar. I want the men oiling their vests and sandals against the humidity.” The men sighed, but did as ordered. The army provided the oil. While the bridgemen were expendable, good hogshide and metal for buckles were not cheap. As the men gathered to work, the sun broke through the clouds. The warmth of the light felt good on Kaladin’s rain-wet skin. There was something refreshing about the chill of a highstorm followed by the sun. Tiny rockbud polyps on the side of the building opened, drinking in the wet air. Those would have to be scraped free. Rockbuds would eat away the stone of the walls, creating pockmarks and cracks. The buds were a deep crimson. It was Chachel, third day of the week. The slave markets would show new wares. That would mean new bridgemen. Kaladin’s crew was in serious danger. Yake had caught an arrow in the arm during their last run, and Delp had caught one in the neck. There’d been
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nothing Kaladin could do for him, and with Yake wounded, Kaladin’s team was down to twenty-eight bridge-capable members. Sure enough, about an hour into their morning activities—caring for equipment, oiling the bridge, Lopen and Dabbid running to fetch their morning gruel pot and bring it back to the lumberyard—Kaladin caught sight of soldiers leading a line of dirty, shuffling men toward the lumberyard. Kaladin gestured to Teft, and the two of them marched up to meet Gaz. “Afore you yell at me,” Gaz said as Kaladin arrived, “understand that I can’t change anything here.” The slaves were bunched up, watched over by a pair of soldiers in wrinkled green coats. “You’re bridge sergeant,” Kaladin said. Teft stepped up beside him. He hadn’t gotten a shave, though he’d begun keeping his short, grey beard neatly trimmed. “Yeah,” Gaz said, “but I don’t make assignments any more. Brightness Hashal wants to do it herself. In the name of her husband, of course.” Kaladin gritted his teeth. She’d starve Bridge Four of members. “So we get nothing.” “I didn’t say that,” Gaz said, then spat black spittle to the side. “She gave you one.” That’s something, at least, Kaladin thought. There were a good hundred men in the new group. “Which one? He’d better be tall enough to carry a bridge.” “Oh, he’s tall enough,” Gaz said, gesturing a few slaves out of the way. “Good worker too.” The men shuffled aside, revealing one man standing at the back. He was a little shorter than average, but he was still tall enough to carry a bridge. But he had black and red marbled skin. “A parshman?” Kaladin asked. To his side, Teft cursed under his breath. “Why not?” Gaz said. “They’re perfect slaves. Never talk back.” “But we’re at war with them!” Teft said. “We’re at war with a tribe of oddities,” Gaz said. “Those out on the Shattered Plains are right different from the fellows who work for us.” That much, at least, was true. There were a lot of parshmen in the warcamp, and—despite their skin markings—there was little similarity between them and the Parshendi warriors. None had the strange growths of armorlike carapace on their skin, for instance. Kaladin eyed the sturdy, bald man. The parshman stared at the ground; he wore only a loincloth, and he had a thickness about him. His fingers were thicker than those of human men, his arms stouter, his thighs wider. “He’s domesticated,” Gaz said. “You don’t need to worry.” “I thought parshmen were too valuable to use in bridge runs,” Kaladin said. “This is just an experiment,” Gaz said. “Brightness Hashal wants to know her options. Finding enough bridgemen has been difficult lately, and parshmen could help fill in holes.” “This is foolishness, Gaz,” Teft said. “I don’t care if he’s ‘domesticated’ or not. Asking him to carry a bridge against others of his kind is pure idiocy. What if he betrays us?” Gaz shrugged. “We’ll see if that happens.” “But—” “Leave it, Teft,” Kaladin said. “You, parshman, come with me.” He turned to walk
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back down the hill. The parshman dutifully followed. Teft cursed and did so as well. “What trick are they trying on us, do you think?” Teft asked. “I suspect it’s just what he said. A test to see if a parshman can be trusted to run bridges. Perhaps he’ll do as he’s told. Or perhaps he’ll refuse to run, or will try to kill us. She wins regardless.” “Kelek’s breath,” Teft cursed. “Darker than a Horneater’s stomach, our situation is. She’ll see us dead, Kaladin.” “I know.” He glanced over his shoulder at the parshman. He was a little taller than most, his face a little wider, but they all looked about the same to Kaladin. The other members of Bridge Four had lined up by the time Kaladin returned. They watched the approaching parshman with surprise and disbelief. Kaladin stopped before them, Teft at his side, the parshman behind. It made him itch, to have one of them behind him. He casually stepped to the side. The parshman just stood there, eyes downward, shoulders slumped. Kaladin glanced at the others. They had guessed, and they were growing hostile. Stormfather, Kaladin thought. There is something lower in this world than a bridgeman. A parshman bridgeman. Parshmen might cost more than most slaves, but so did a chull. In fact, the comparison was a good one, because parshmen were worked like animals. Seeing the reaction of the others made Kaladin pity the creature. And that made him mad at himself. Did he always have to react this way? This parshman was dangerous, a distraction for the other men, a factor they couldn’t depend on. A liability. Turn a liability into an advantage whenever you can.. Those words had been spoken by a man who cared only for his own skin. Storm it, Kaladin thought. I’m a fool. A downright, sodden idiot. This isn’t the same. Not at all. “Parshman,” he asked. “Do you have a name?” The man shook his head. Parshmen rarely spoke. They could, but you had to prod them into it. “Well, we’ll have to call you something,” Kaladin said. “How about Shen?” The man shrugged. “All right then,” Kaladin said to the others. “This is Shen. He’s one of us now.” “A parshman?” Lopen asked, lounging beside the barrack. “I don’t like him, gancho. Look how he stares at me.” “He’ll kill us while we sleep,” Moash added. “No, this is good,” Skar said. “We can just have him run at the front. He’ll take an arrow for one of us.” Syl alighted on Kaladin’s shoulder, looking down at the parshman. Her eyes were sorrowful. If you were to overthrow the lighteyes and place yourselves in power, abuses would still happen. They’d just happen to other people. But this was a parshman. Gotta do what you can to stay alive…. “No,” Kaladin said. “Shen is one of us now. I don’t care what he was before. I don’t care what any of you were. We’re Bridge Four. So is he.” “But—” Skar began. “No,” Kaladin said. “We not going
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to treat him like the lighteyes treat us, Skar. That’s all there is to it. Rock, find him a vest and sandals.” The bridgemen split up, all save Teft. “What about…our plans?” Teft asked quietly. “We proceed,” Kaladin said. Teft looked uncomfortable about that. “What’s he going to do, Teft?” Kaladin asked. “Tell on us? I’ve never heard a parshman say more than a single word at a time. I doubt he could act as a spy.” “I don’t know,” Teft grumbled. “But I’ve never liked them. They seem to be able to talk to each other, without making any sounds. I don’t like the way they look.” “Teft,” Kaladin said flatly, “if we rejected bridgemen based on their looks, we’d have kicked you out weeks ago for that face of yours.” Teft grunted. Then he smiled. “What?” Kaladin asked. “Nothing,” he said. “Just…for a moment, you reminded me of better days. Afore this storm came crashing down on me. You realize the odds, don’t you? Fighting our way free, escaping a man like Sadeas?” Kaladin nodded solemnly. “Good,” Teft said. “Well, since you aren’t inclined to do it, I’ll keep an eye on our friend ‘Shen’ over there. You can thank me after I stop him from sticking a knife in your back.” “I don’t think we have to worry.” “You’re young,” Teft said. “I’m old.” “That makes you wiser, presumably?” “Damnation no,” Teft said. “The only thing it proves is that I’ve more experience staying alive than you. I’ll watch him. You just train the rest of this sorry lot to…” He trailed off, looking around. “To keep from tripping over their own feet the moment someone threatens them. You understand?” Kaladin nodded. That sounded much like something one of Kaladin’s old sergeants would say. Teft was insistent on not talking about his past, but he never had seemed as beaten down as most of the others. “All right,” Kaladin said, “make sure the men take care of their equipment.” “What will you be doing?” “Walking,” Kaladin said. “And thinking.” An hour later, Kaladin still wandered Sadeas’s warcamp. He’d need to return to the lumberyard soon; his men were on chasm duty again, and had been given only a few free hours to care for equipment. As a youth, he hadn’t understood why his father had often gone walking to think. The older Kaladin grew, the more he found himself imitating his father’s habits. Walking, moving, it did something to his mind. The constant passing of tents, colors cycling, men bustling—it created a sense of change, and it made his thoughts want to move as well. Don’t hedge bets with your life, Kaladin, Durk had always said. Don’t put in a chip when you have a pocket full of marks. Bet them all or leave the table. Syl danced before him, jumping from shoulder to shoulder in the crowded street. Occasionally she’d land on the head of someone passing in the other direction and sit there, legs crossed, as she passed Kaladin. All his spheres were on the table. He
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was determined to help the bridgemen. But something itched at him, a worry that he couldn’t yet explain. “You seem troubled,” Syl said, landing on his shoulder. She wore a cap and jacket over her usual dress, as if imitating nearby shop keepers. They passed the apothecary’s shop. Kaladin barely bothered to glance at it. He had no knobweed sap to sell. He’d run out of supplies soon. He’d told his men that he’d train them to fight, but that would take time. And once they were trained, how would they get spears out of the chasms to use in the escape? Sneaking them out would be tough, considering how they were searched. They could just start fighting at the search itself, but that would only put the entire warcamp on alert. Problems, problems. The more he thought, the more impossible his task seemed. He made way for a couple of soldiers in forest-green coats. Their brown eyes marked them as common citizens, but the white knots on their shoulders meant they were citizen officers. Squadleaders and sergeants. “Kaladin?” Syl asked. “Getting the bridgemen out is as large a task as I’ve ever faced. Much more difficult than my other escape attempts as a slave, and I failed at each of those. I can’t help wondering if I’m setting myself up for another disaster.” “It will be different this time, Kaladin,” Syl said. “I can feel it.” “That sounds like something Tien would have said. His death proves that words don’t change anything, Syl. Before you ask, I’m not sinking into despair again. But I can’t ignore what has happened to me. It started with Tien. Since that moment, it seems that every time I’ve specifically picked people to protect, they’ve ended up dead. Every time. It’s enough to make me wonder if the Almighty himself hates me.” She frowned. “I think you’re being foolish. Besides, if anything, he’d hate the people who died, not you. You lived.” “I suppose it’s self-centered to make it all about me. But, Syl, I survive, every time, when almost nobody else does. Over and over again. My old spearman’s squad, the first bridge crew I ran with, numerous slaves I tried to help escape. There’s a pattern. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore.” “Maybe the Almighty is preserving you,” Syl said.” Kaladin hesitated on the street; a passing soldier cursed and shoved him aside. Something about this whole conversation was wrong. Kaladin moved over beside a rain barrel set between two sturdy stone-walled shops. “Syl,” he said. “You mentioned the Almighty.” “You did first.” “Ignore that for now. Do you believe in the Almighty? Do you know if he really exists?” Syl cocked her head. “I don’t know. Huh. Well, there are a lot of things I don’t know. But I should know this one. I think. Maybe?” She seemed very perplexed. “I’m not sure if I believe,” Kaladin said, looking out at the street. “My mother did, and my father always spoke of the Heralds with reverence. I think he believed too, but
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maybe just because of the traditions of healing that are said to have come from the Heralds. The ardents ignore us bridgemen. They used to visit the soldiers, when I was in Amaram’s army, but I haven’t seen a single one in the lumberyard. I haven’t given it much thought. Believing never seemed to help any of the soldiers.” “So if you don’t believe, then there’s no reason to think that the Almighty hates you.” “Except,” Kaladin said, “if there is no Almighty, there might be something else. I don’t know. A lot of the soldiers I knew were superstitious. They’d talk about things like the Old Magic and the Nightwatcher, things that could bring a man bad luck. I scoffed at them. But how long can I continue to ignore that possibility? What if all of these failures can be traced to something like that?” Syl looked disturbed. The cap and jacket she’d been wearing dissolved to mist, and she wrapped her arms around herself as if chilled by his comments. Odium reigns…. “Syl,” he said, frowning, thinking back to his strange dream. “Have you ever heard of something called Odium? I don’t mean the feeling, I mean…a person, or something called by that name.” Syl suddenly hissed. It was a feral, disturbing sound. She zipped off his shoulder, becoming a darting streak of light, and shot up underneath the eaves of the next building. He blinked. “Syl?” he called, drawing the attention of a couple of passing washwomen. The spren did not reappear. Kaladin folded his arms. That word had set her off. Why? A loud series of curses interrupted his thoughts. Kaladin spun as a man burst out of a handsome stone building across the street and shoved a half-naked woman out in front of him. The man had bright blue eyes, and his coat—carried over one arm—had red knots on the shoulder. A lighteyed officer, not very high-ranking. Perhaps seventh dahn. The half-dressed woman fell to the ground. She held the loose front of the dress to her chest, crying, her long black hair down and tied with two red ribbons. The dress was that of a lighteyed woman, except that both sleeves were short, safehand exposed. A courtesan. The officer continued to curse as he pulled on his coat. He didn’t do up the buttons. Instead, he stepped forward and kicked the whore in the belly. She gasped, painspren pulling from the ground and gathering around her. Nobody on the street paused, though most did hurry on their way, heads down. Kaladin growled, jumping into the roadway, pushing his way past a group of soldiers. Then he stopped. Three men in blue stepped out of the crowd, moving purposefully between the fallen woman and the officer in red. Only one was lighteyed, judging by the knots on his shoulders. Golden knots. A high-ranking man indeed, second or third dahn. These obviously weren’t from Sadeas’s army, not with those well-pressed blue coats. Sadeas’s officer hesitated. The officer in blue rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
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The other two were holding fine halberds with gleaming half-moon heads. A group of soldiers in red moved out of the crowd and began to surround those in blue. The air grew tense, and Kaladin realized that the street—bustling just moments ago—was quickly emptying. He stood practically alone, the only one watching the three men in blue, now surrounded by seven in red. The woman was still on the ground, sniffling. She huddled next to the blue garbed officer. The man who had kicked her—a thick-browed brute with a mop of uncombed black hair—began to button up the right side of his coat. “You don’t belong here, friends. It seems you wandered into the wrong warcamp.” “We have legitimate business,” said the officer in blue. He had light golden hair, speckled with Alethi black, and a handsome face. He held his hand before him as if wishing to shake hands with Sadeas’s officer. “Come now,” he said affably. “Whatever your problem with this woman, I’m sure it can be resolved without anger or violence.” Kaladin moved back under the overhang where Syl had hidden. “She’s a whore,” Sadeas’s man said. “I can see that,” replied the man in blue. He kept his hand out. The officer in red spat on it. “I see,” said the blond man. He pulled his hand back, and twisting lines of mist gathered in the air, coalescing in his hands as he raised them to an offensive posture. A massive sword appeared, as long as a man is tall. It dripped with water that condensed along its cold, glimmering length. It was beautiful, long and sinuous, its single edge rippled like an eel and curved up into a point. The back bore delicate ridges, like crystal formations. Sadeas’s officer stumbled away and fell, his face pale. The soldiers in red scattered. The officer cursed at them—as vile a curse as Kaladin had ever heard—but none returned to help him. With a final glare, he scrambled up the steps back into the building. The door slammed, leaving the roadway eerily silent. Kaladin was the only one on the street besides the soldiers in blue and the fallen courtesan. The Shardbearer gave Kaladin a glance, but obviously judged him no threat. He thrust his sword into the stones; the blade sank in easily and stood with its hilt toward the sky. The young Shardbearer then gave his hand to the fallen whore. “What did you do to him, out of curiosity?” Hesitantly, she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “He refused to pay, claiming his reputation made it a pleasure for me.” She grimaced. “He kicked me the first time after I made a comment about his ‘reputation.’ It apparently wasn’t what he thought he was known for.” The brightlord chuckled. “I suggest you insist on being paid first from now on. We’ll escort you to the border. I advise against returning to Sadeas’s warcamp anytime soon.” The woman nodded, holding the front of her dress to her chest. Her safehand was still exposed.
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Sleek, with tan skin, the fingers long and delicate. Kaladin found himself staring at it and blushing. She sidled up to the brightlord while his two comrades watched the sides of the streets, halberds ready. Even with her hair disheveled and her makeup smudged, she was quite pretty. “Thank you, Brightlord. Perhaps I could interest you? There would be no charge.” The young brightlord raised an eyebrow. “Tempting,” he said, “but my father would kill me. He has this thing about the old ways.” “A pity,” she said, pulling away from him, awkwardly covering her chest as she slipped her arm into its sleeve. She took out a glove for her safehand. “Your father is quite prudish, then?” “You might say that.” He turned toward Kaladin. “Ho, bridgeboy.” Bridgeboy? This lordling looked to be just a few years older than Kaladin himself. “Run and give word to Brightlord Reral Makoram,” the Shardbearer said, flipping something across the street toward Kaladin. A sphere. It sparkled in the sunlight before Kaladin caught it. “He’s in the Sixth Battalion. Tell him that Adolin Kholin won’t make today’s meeting. I’ll send word to reschedule another time.” Kaladin looked down at the sphere. An emerald chip. More than he normally earned in two weeks. He looked up; the young brightlord and his two men were already retreating, the whore following. “You rushed to help her,” a voice said. He looked up as Syl floated down to rest on his shoulder. “That was very noble of you.” “Those others got there first,” Kaladin said. And one of them a lighteyes, no less. What was in it for him? “You still tried to help.” “Foolishly,” Kaladin said. “What would I have done? Fought down a lighteyes? That would have drawn half the camp’s soldiers down on me, and the whore would just have been beaten more for causing such a fracas. She could have ended up dead for my efforts.” He fell silent. That sounded too much like what he’d been saying before. He couldn’t give in to assuming he was cursed, or had bad luck, or whatever it was. Superstition never got a man anywhere. But he had to admit, the pattern was disturbing. If he acted as he always had before, how could he expect different results? He had to try something new. Change, somehow. This was going to take more thought. Kaladin began walking back toward the lumberyard. “Aren’t you going to do what the brightlord asked?” Syl said. She didn’t show any lingering effects of her sudden fright; it was as if she wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. “After how he treated me?” Kaladin snapped. “It wasn’t that bad.” “I’m not going to bow to them,” Kaladin said. “I’m done running at their whims just because they expect me to do so. If he was so worried about this message, then he should have waited to make certain I was willing.” “You took his sphere.” “Earned by the sweat of the darkeyes he exploits.” Syl fell silent for a moment. “This darkness about you
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when you talk of them frightens me, Kaladin. You stop being yourself when you think about lighteyes.” He didn’t respond, just continuing on his way. He owed that brightlord nothing, and besides, he had orders to be back in the lumberyard. But the man had stepped up to protect the woman. No, Kaladin told himself forcefully. He was just looking for a way to embarrass one of Sadeas’s officers. Everyone knows there’s tension between the camps. And that was all he let himself think on the subject. ONE YEAR AGO Kaladin turned the rock over in his fingers, letting the facets of suspended quartz catch the light. He leaned against a large boulder, one foot pressed back against the stone, his spear next to him. The rock caught the light, spinning it in different colors, depending on the direction he turned it. Beautiful, miniature crystals shimmered, like the cities made of gemstones mentioned in lore. Around him, Highmarshal Amaram’s army prepared for battle. Six thousand men sharpened spears or strapped on leather armor. The battlefield was nearby, and, with no highstorms expected, the army had spent the night in tents. It had been nearly four years since he’d joined Amaram’s army on that rainy night. Four years. And an eternity. Soldiers hurried this way and that. Some raised hands and called greetings to Kaladin. He nodded to them, pocketing the stone, then folded his arms to wait. In the near distance, Amaram’s standard was already flying, a burgundy field blazoned with a dark green glyphpair shaped like a whitespine with tusks upraised. Merem and khakh, honor and determination. The banner fluttered before a rising sun, the morning’s chill starting to give way to the heat of the day. Kaladin turned, looking eastward. Toward a home to which he could never return. He’d decided months ago. His enlistment would be up in a few weeks, but he would sign on again. He couldn’t face his parents after having broken his promise to protect Tien. A heavyset darkeyed soldier trotted up to him, an axe strapped to his back, white knots on his shoulders. The nonstandard weapon was a privilege of being a squadleader. Gare had beefy forearms and a thick black beard, though he’d lost a large section of scalp on the right side of his head. He was followed by two of his sergeants—Nalem and Korabet. “Kaladin,” Gare said. “Stormfather, man! Why are you pestering me? On a battle day!” “I’m well aware of what’s ahead, Gare,” Kaladin said, arms still folded. Several companies were already gathering, forming ranks. Dallet would see Kaladin’s own squad into place. At the front, they’d decided. Their enemy—a lighteyes named Hallaw—was fond of long volleys. They’d fought his men several times before. One time in particular was burned into Kaladin’s memory and soul. He had joined Amaram’s army expecting to defend the Alethi borders—and defend them he did. Against other Alethi. Lesser landlords who sought to slice off bits of Highprince Sadeas’s lands. Occasionally, Amaram’s armies would try to seize territory from other highprinces—lands Amaram claimed
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really belonged to Sadeas and had been stolen years before. Kaladin didn’t know what to make of that. Of all lighteyes, Amaram was the only one he trusted. But it did seem like they were doing the same thing as the armies they fought. “Kaladin?” Gare asked impatiently. “You have something I want,” Kaladin said. “New recruit, just joined yesterday. Galan says his name is Cenn.” Gare scowled. “I’m supposed to play this game with you now? Talk to me after the battle. If the boy survives, maybe I’ll give him to you.” He turned to leave, cronies following. Kaladin stood up straight, picking up his spear. The motion stopped Gare in his tracks. “It’s not going to be a trouble to you,” Kaladin said quietly. “Just send the boy to my squad. Accept your payment. Stay quiet.” He pulled out a pouch of spheres. “Maybe I don’t want to sell him,” Gare said, turning back. “You’re not selling him. You’re transferring him to me.” Gare eyed the pouch. “Well then, maybe I don’t like how everyone does what you tell them. I don’t care how good you are with a spear. My squad is my own.” “I’m not going to give you any more, Gare,” Kaladin said, dropping the pouch to the ground. The spheres clinked. “We both know the boy is useless to you. Untrained, ill-equipped, too small to make a good line soldier. Send him to me.” Kaladin turned and began to walk away. Within seconds, he heard a clink as Gare recovered the pouch. “Can’t blame a man for trying.” Kaladin kept walking. “What do these recruits mean to you, anyway?” Gare called after Kaladin. “Your squad is half made up of men too small to fight properly! Almost makes a man think you want to get killed!” Kaladin ignored him. He passed through the camp, waving to those who waved at him. Most everyone kept out of his way, either because they knew and respected him or they’d heard of his reputation. Youngest squadleader in the army, only four years of experience and already in command. A darkeyed man had to travel to the Shattered Plains to go any higher in rank. The camp was a bedlam of soldiers hurrying about in last-minute preparations. More and more companies were gathering at the line, and Kaladin could see the enemy lining up on the shallow ridge across the field to the west. The enemy. That was what they were called. Yet whenever there was an actual border dispute with the Vedens or the Reshi, those men would line up beside Amaram’s troops and they would fight together. It was as if the Nightwatcher toyed with them, playing some forbidden game of chance, occasionally setting the men on his gameboard as allies, then setting them to kill one another the next day. That wasn’t for spearmen to think about. So he’d been told. Repeatedly. He supposed he should listen, as he figured that his duty was to keep his squad alive as best he could. Winning was secondary to
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that. You can’t kill to protect…. He found the surgeon’s station easily; he could smell the scents of antiseptics and of small fires burning. Those smells reminded him of his youth, which now seemed so far, far away. Had he ever really planned to go become a surgeon? What had happened to his parents? What of Roshone? Meaningless, now. He’d sent word to them via Amaram’s scribes, a terse note that had cost him a week’s wages. They knew he’d failed, and they knew he didn’t intend to return. There had been no reply. Ven was the chief of the surgeons, a tall man with a bulbous nose and a long face. He stood watching as his apprentices folded bandages. Kaladin had once idly considered getting wounded so he could join them; all of the apprentices had some incapacitation that prevented them from fighting. Kaladin hadn’t been able to do it. Wounding himself seemed cowardly. Besides, surgery was his old life. In a way, he didn’t deserve it anymore. Kaladin pulled a pouch of spheres from his belt, meaning to toss it to Ven. The pouch stuck, however, refusing to come free of the belt. Kaladin cursed, stumbling, tugging at the pouch. It came free suddenly, causing him to lose his balance again. A translucent white form zipped away, spinning with a carefree air. “Storming windspren,” he said. They were common out on these rocky plains. He continued past the surgery pavilion, tossing the pouch of spheres to Ven. The tall man caught it deftly, making it vanish into a pocket of his voluminous white robe. The bribe would ensure that Kaladin’s men were served first on the battlefield, assuming there were no lighteyes who needed the attention. It was time to join the line. He sped up, jogging along, spear in hand. Nobody gave him grief for wearing trousers under his leather spearman’s skirt—something he did so his men could recognize him from behind. In fact, nobody gave him grief about much of anything these days. That still felt odd, after so many struggles during his first years in the army. He still didn’t feel as if he belonged. His reputation set him apart, but what was he to do? It kept his men from being taunted, and after several years of dealing with disaster after disaster, he could finally pause and think. He wasn’t certain he liked that. Thinking had proven dangerous lately. It had been a long while since he’d taken out that rock and thought of Tien and home. He made his way to the front ranks, spotting his men right where he’d told them to go. “Dallet,” Kaladin called, as he trotted over to the mountainous spearman who was the squad’s sergeant. “We’re soon going to have a new recruit. I need you to…” He trailed off. A young man, maybe fourteen, stood beside Dallet, looking tiny in his spearman’s armor. Kaladin felt a flash of recall. Another lad, one with a familiar face, holding a spear he wasn’t supposed to need. Two promises broken at once.
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“He found his way here just a few minutes ago, sir,” Dallet said. “I’ve been gettin’ him ready.” Kaladin shook himself out of the moment. Tien was dead. But Stormfather, this new lad looked a lot like him. “Well done,” Kaladin said to Dallet, forcing himself to look away from Cenn. “I paid good money to get that boy away from Gare. That man’s so incompetent he might as well be fighting for the other side.” Dallet grunted in agreement. The men would know what to do with Cenn. All right, Kaladin thought, scanning the battlefield for a good place for his men to stand their ground, let’s get to it. He’d heard stories about the soldiers who fought on the Shattered Plains. The real soldiers. If you showed enough promise fighting in these border disputes, you were sent there. It was supposed to be safer there—far more soldiers, but fewer battles. So Kaladin wanted to get his squad there as soon as possible. He conferred with Dallet, picking a place to hold. Eventually, the horns blew. Kaladin’s squad charged. “Where’s the boy?” Kaladin said, yanking his spear out of the chest of a man in brown. The enemy soldier fell to the ground, groaning. “Dallet!” The burly sergeant was fighting. He couldn’t turn to acknowledge the yell. Kaladin cursed, scanning the chaotic battlefield. Spears hit shields, flesh, leather; men yelled and screamed. Painspren swarmed the ground, like small orange hands or bits of sinew, reaching up from the ground amid the blood of the fallen. Kaladin’s squad was all accounted for, their wounded protected at the center. All except the new boy. Tien. Cenn, Kaladin thought. His name is Cenn. Kaladin caught sight of a flash of green in the middle of the enemy brown. A terrified voice somehow cut through the commotion. It was him. Kaladin threw himself out of formation, prompting a call of surprise from Larn, who had been fighting at his side. Kaladin ducked past a spear thrust by an enemy, dashing over the stony ground, hopping corpses. Cenn had been knocked to the ground, spear raised. An enemy soldier slammed his weapon down. No. Kaladin blocked the blow, deflecting the enemy spear and skidding to a stop in front of Cenn. There were six spearmen here, all wearing brown. Kaladin spun among them in a wild offensive rush. His spear seemed to flow of its own accord. He swept the feet out from under one man, took down another with a thrown knife. He was like water running down a hill, flowing, always moving. Spearheads flashed in the air around him, hafts hissing with speed. Not one hit him. He could not be stopped, not when he felt like this. When he had the energy of defending the fallen, the power of standing to protect one of his men. Kaladin snapped his spear into a resting position, crouching with one foot forward, one behind, spear held under his arm. Sweat trickled from his brow, cooled by the breeze. Odd. There hadn’t been a breeze before. Now
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it seemed to envelop him. All six enemy spearmen were dead or incapacitated. Kaladin breathed in and out once, then turned to see to Cenn’s wound. He dropped his spear beside him, kneeling. The cut wasn’t that bad, though it probably pained the lad terribly. Getting out a bandage, Kaladin gave the battlefield one quick glance. Nearby, an enemy soldier stirred, but he was wounded badly enough that he wouldn’t be trouble. Dallet and the rest of Kaladin’s team were clearing the area of enemy stragglers. In the near distance, an enemy lighteyes of high rank was rallying a small group of soldiers for a counterattack. He wore full plate. Not Shardplate, of course, but silvery steel. A rich man, judging from his horse. In a heartbeat, Kaladin was back to binding Cenn’s leg—though he kept watch on the wounded enemy soldier from the corner of his eye. “Kaladin, sir!” Cenn exclaimed, pointing at the soldier who had stirred. Stormfather! Had the boy only just noticed the man? Had Kaladin’s battle senses ever been as dull as this boy’s? Dallet pushed the wounded enemy away. The rest of the squad made a ring formation around Kaladin, Dallet, and Cenn. Kaladin finished his binding, then stood, picking up his spear. Dallet handed him back his knives. “Had me worried there, sir. Running off like that.” “I knew you’d follow,” Kaladin said. “Raise the red banner. Cyn, Korater, you’re going back with the boy. Dallet, hold here. Amaram’s line is bulging this direction. We should be safe soon.” “And you, sir?” Dallet asked. In the near distance, the lighteyes had failed to rally enough troops. He was exposed, like a stone left behind by a stream running dry. “A Shardbearer,” Cenn said. Dallet snorted. “No, thank the Stormfather. Just a lighteyed officer. Shardbearers are far too valuable to waste on a minor border dispute.” Kaladin clenched his jaw, watching that lighteyed warrior. How mighty the man thought himself, sitting on his expensive horse, kept safe from the spearmen by his majestic armor and tall mount. He swung his mace, killing those around him. These skirmishes were caused by ones like him, greedy minor lighteyes who tried to steal land while the better men were away, fighting the Parshendi. His type had far, far fewer casualties than the spearmen, and so the lives under his command became cheap things. More and more over the last few years, each and every one of these petty lighteyes had come to represent Roshone in Kaladin’s eyes. Only Amaram himself stood apart. Amaram, who had treated Kaladin’s father so well, promising to keep Tien safe. Amaram, who always spoke with respect, even to lowly spearmen. He was like Dalinar and Sadeas. Not this riffraff. Of course, Amaram had failed to protect Tien. But so had Kaladin. “Sir?” Dallet said hesitantly. “Subsquads Two and Three, pincer pattern,” Kaladin said coldly, pointing at the enemy lighteyes. “We’re taking a brightlord off his throne.” “You sure that’s wise, sir?” Dallet said. “We’ve got wounded.” Kaladin turned toward Dallet. “That’s one of Hallaw’s
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officers. He might be the one.” “You don’t know that, sir.” “Regardless, he’s a battalionlord. If we kill an officer that high, we’re all but guaranteed to be in the next group sent to the Shattered Plains. We’re taking him. Imagine it, Dallet. Real soldiers. A warcamp with discipline and lighteyes with integrity. A place where our fighting will mean something.” Dallet sighed, but nodded. At Kaladin’s wave, two subsquads joined him, as eager as he. Did they hate these squabbling lighteyes of their own accord, or had they picked up Kaladin’s loathing? The brightlord was surprisingly easy to take down. The problem with them—almost to a man—was that they underestimated darkeyes. Perhaps this one had a right. How many had he killed, in his years? Subsquad three drew off the honor guard. Subsquad two distracted the lighteyes. He didn’t see Kaladin approaching from a third direction. The man dropped with a knife to the eye; his face was unprotected. He screamed as he clattered to the ground, still alive. Kaladin rammed his spear down into the fallen man’s face, striking three times as the horse galloped off. The man’s honor guard panicked and fled to rejoin their army. Kaladin signaled to the two subsquads by banging his spear against his shield, giving the “hold position” sign. They fanned out, and short Toorim—a man Kaladin had rescued from another squad—made as if to confirm the light-eyes was dead. He was really covertly looking for spheres. Stealing from the dead was strictly prohibited, but Kaladin figured that if Amaram wanted the spoils, he could storming well kill the enemy himself. Kaladin respected Amaram more than most—well, more than any—lighteyes. But bribes weren’t cheap. Toorim walked up to him. “Nothing sir. Either he didn’t bring any spheres into battle, or he has them hidden somewhere under that breastplate.” Kaladin nodded curtly, surveying the battlefield. Amaram’s forces were recovering; they’d win the day before long. In fact, Amaram would probably be leading a direct surge against the enemy by now. He generally entered the battle at the end. Kaladin wiped his brow. He’d have to send for Norby, their captainlord, to prove their kill. First he needed those healers to— “Sir!” Toorim said suddenly. Kaladin glanced back at the enemy lines. “Stormfather!” Toorim exclaimed. “Sir!” Toorim wasn’t looking at the enemy lines. Kaladin spun, looking back at friendly ranks. There—bearing down through the soldiers on a horse the color of death itself—was an impossibility. The man wore shining golden armor. Perfect golden armor, as if this were what every other suit of armor had been designed to imitate. Each piece fit perfectly; there were no holes showing straps or leather. It made the rider look enormous, powerful. Like a god carrying a majestic blade that should have been too big to use. It was engraved and stylized, shaped like flames in motion. “Stormfather…” Kaladin breathed. The Shardbearer broke out of Amaram’s lines. He’d been riding through them, cutting down men as he passed. For a brief moment, Kaladin’s mind refused to acknowledge that this creature—this
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beautiful divinity—could be an enemy. The fact that the Shardbearer had come through their side reinforced that illusion. Kaladin’s confusion lasted right up until the moment the Shardbearer trampled Cenn, Shardblade dropping and cutting through Dallet’s head in a single, easy stroke. “No!” Kaladin bellowed. “No!” Dallet’s body fell back to the ground, eyes seeming to catch alight, smoke rising from them. The Shardbearer cut down Cyn and trampled Lyndel before moving on. It was all done with nonchalance, like a woman pausing to wipe a spot on the counter. “NO!” Kaladin screamed, charging toward the fallen men of his squad. He hadn’t lost anyone this battle! He was going to protect them all! He fell to his knees beside Dallet, dropping his spear. But there was no heartbeat, and those burned-out eyes…He was dead. Grief threatened to overwhelm Kaladin. No! said the part of his mind trained by his father. Save the ones you can! He turned to Cenn. The boy had taken a hoof to the chest, cracking his sternum and shattering ribs. The boy gasped, eyes upward, struggling for breath. Kaladin pulled out a bandage. Then he paused, looking at it. A bandage? To mend a smashed chest? Cenn stopped wheezing. He convulsed once, eyes still open. “He watches!” the boy hissed. “The black piper in the night. He holds us in his palm…playing a tune that no man can hear!” Cenn’s eyes glazed over. He stopped breathing. Lyndel’s face had been smashed in. Cyn’s eyes smoldered, and he wasn’t breathing either. Kaladin knelt in Cenn’s blood, horrified, as Toorim and the two subsquads formed around him, looking as stunned as Kaladin felt. This isn’t possible. I…I… Screaming. Kaladin looked up. Amaram’s banner of green and burgundy flew just to the south. The Shardbearer had cut through Kaladin’s squad heading straight for that banner. Spearmen fled in disarray, screaming, scattering before the Shardbearer. Anger boiled inside of Kaladin. “Sir?” Toorim asked. Kaladin picked up his spear and stood. His knees were covered with Cenn’s blood. His men regarded him, confused, worried. They stood firm in the midst of the chaos; as far as Kaladin could tell, they were the only men who weren’t fleeing. The Shardbearer had turned the ranks to mush. Kaladin thrust his spear into the air, then began to run. His men bellowed a war cry, falling into formation behind him, charging across the flat rocky ground. Spearmen in uniforms of both colors scrambled out of the way, dropping spears and shields. Kaladin picked up speed, legs pumping, his squad barely keeping pace. Just ahead—right before the Shardbearer—a pocket of green broke and ran. Amaram’s honor guard. Faced by a Shardbearer, they abandoned their charge. Amaram himself was a solitary man on a rearing horse. He wore silvery plate armor that looked so commonplace when compared with the Shardplate. Kaladin’s squad charged against the flow of the army, a wedge of soldiers going the wrong way. The only ones going the wrong way. Some of the fleeing men paused as he charged past, but none joined.
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Ahead, the Shardbearer rode past Amaram. With a sweep of the Blade, the Shardbearer slashed through the neck of Amaram’s mount. Its eyes burned into two great pits, and it toppled, jerking fitfully, Amaram still in its saddle. The Shardbearer wheeled his destrier in a tight circle, then threw himself from horseback at full speed. He hit the ground with a grinding sound, somehow remaining upright and skidding to a halt. Kaladin redoubled his speed. Was he running to get vengeance, or was he trying to protect his highmarshal? The only lighteyes who had ever shown a modicum of humanity? Did it matter? Amaram struggled in his bulky plate, the carcass of the horse on his leg. The Shardbearer raised his Blade in two hands to finish him off. Coming at the Shardbearer from behind, Kaladin screamed and swung low with the butt of his spear, putting momentum and muscle behind the blow. The spear haft shattered against the Shardbearer’s back leg in a spray of wooden slivers. The jolt of it knocked Kaladin to the ground, his arms shaking, the broken spear clutched in his hands. The Shardbearer stumbled, lowering his Blade. He turned a helmed face toward Kaladin, posture indicating utter surprise. The twenty remaining men of Kaladin’s squad arrived a heartbeat later, attacking vigorously. Kaladin scrambled to his feet and ran for the spear from a fallen soldier. He tossed his broken one away after snatching one of his knives from its sheath, snatched the new one off the ground, then turned back to see his men attacking as he had taught. They came at the foe from three directions, ramming spears between joints in the Plate. The Shardbearer glanced around, as a bemused man might regard a pack of puppies yapping around him. Not a single one of the spear thrusts appeared to pierce his armor. He shook a helmed head. Then he struck. The Shardblade swept out in a broad sweeping series of deadly strokes, cutting through ten of the spearmen. Kaladin was paralyzed in horror as Toorim, Acis, Hamel, and seven others fell to the ground, eyes burning, their armor and weapons sheared completely through. The remaining spearmen stumbled back, aghast. The Shardbearer attacked again, killing Raksha, Navar, and four others. Kaladin gaped. His men—his friends—dead, just like that. The last four scrambled away, Hab stumbling over Toorim’s corpse and falling to the ground, dropping his spear. The Shardbearer ignored them, stepping up to the pinned Amaram again. No, Kaladin thought. No, no, NO! Something drove him forward, against all logic, against all sense. Sickened, agonized, enraged. The hollow where they fought was empty save for them. Sensible spearmen had fled. His four remaining men achieved the ridge a short distance away, but didn’t run. They called for him. “Kaladin!” Reesh yelled. “Kaladin, no!” Kaladin screamed instead. The Shardbearer saw him, and spun—impossibly quick—swinging. Kaladin ducked under the blow and rammed the butt of his spear against the Shardbearer’s knee. It bounced off. Kaladin cursed, throwing himself backward just as the Blade sliced the air in
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front of him. Kaladin rebounded and lunged forward. He made an expert thrust at his enemy’s neck. The neck brace rebuffed the attack. Kaladin’s spear barely scratched the Plate’s paint. The Shardbearer turned on him, holding his Blade in a two-handed grip. Kaladin dashed past, just out of range of that incredible sword. Amaram had finally pulled himself free, and he was crawling away, one leg dragging behind him—multiple fractures, from the twist of it. Kaladin skidded to a stop, spinning, regarding the Shardbearer. This creature wasn’t a god. It was everything the most petty of lighteyes represented. The ability to kill people like Kaladin with impunity. Every suit of armor had a chink. Every man had a flaw. Kaladin thought he saw the man’s eyes through the helm’s slit. That slit was just big enough for a dagger, but the throw would have to be perfect. He’d have to be close. Deadly close. Kaladin charged forward again. The Shardbearer swung his Blade out in the same wide sweep he’d used to kill so many of Kaladin’s men. Kaladin threw himself downward, skidding on his knees and bending backward. The Shardblade flashed above him, shearing the top of his spear free. The tip flipped up into the air, tumbling end over end. Kaladin strained, hurling himself back onto his feet. He whipped his hand up, flinging his knife at the eyes watching from behind impervious armor. The dagger hit the faceplate just slightly off from the right angle, bouncing against the sides of the slit and ricocheting out. The Shardbearer cursed, swinging his huge Blade back at Kaladin. Kaladin landed on his feet, momentum still propelling him forward. Something flashed in the air beside him, falling toward the ground. The spearhead. Kaladin bellowed in defiance, spinning, snatching the spearhead from the air. It had been falling tip-down, and he caught it by the four inches of haft that remained, gripping it with his thumb on the stump, the sharp point extending down beneath his hand. The Shardbearer brought his weapon around as Kaladin skidded to a stop and flung his arm to the side, slamming the spearhead right in the Shardbearer’s visor slit. All fell still. Kaladin stood with his arm extended, the Shardbearer standing just to his right. Amaram had pulled himself halfway up the side of the shallow hollow. Kaladin’s spearmates stood on the edge of the scene, gawking. Kaladin stood there, gasping, still gripping the haft of the spear, hand before the Shardbearer’s face. The Shardbearer creaked, then fell backward, crashing to the ground. His Blade dropped from his fingers, hitting the ground at an angle and digging into the stone. Kaladin stumbled away, feeling drained. Stunned. Numbed. His men rushed up, halting in a group, staring at the fallen man. They were amazed, even a little reverent. “Is he dead?” Alabet asked softly. “He is,” a voice said from the side. Kaladin turned. Amaram still lay on the ground, but he had pulled off his helm, dark hair and beard slicked with sweat. “If he were still alive,
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his Blade would have vanished. His armor is falling off of him. He is dead. Blood of my ancestors…you killed a Shardbearer!” Oddly, Kaladin wasn’t surprised. Just exhausted. He looked around at the bodies of men who had been his dearest friends. “Take it, Kaladin,” Coreb said. Kaladin turned, looking at the Shardblade, which sprouted at an angle into the stone, hilt toward the sky. “Take it,” Coreb said again. “It’s yours. Stormfather, Kaladin. You’re a Shardbearer!” Kaladin stepped forward, dazed, raising his hand toward the hilt of the Blade. He hesitated just an inch away from it. Everything felt wrong. If he took that Blade, he’d become one of them. His eyes would even change, if the stories were right. Though the Blade glistened in the light, clean of the murders it had performed, for a moment it seemed red to him. Stained with Dallet’s blood. Toorim’s blood. The blood of the men who had been alive just moments before. It was a treasure. Men traded kingdoms for Shardblades. The handful of darkeyed men who had won them lived forever in song and story. But the thought of touching that Blade sickened him. It represented everything he’d come to hate about the lighteyes, and it had just slaughtered men he loved dearly. He could not become a legend because of something like that. He looked at his reflection in the Blade’s pitiless metal, then lowered his hand and turned away. “It’s yours, Coreb,” Kaladin said. “I give it to you.” “What?” Coreb said from behind. Ahead, Amaram’s honor guard had finally returned, apprehensively appearing at the top of the small hollow, looking ashamed. “What are you doing?” Amaram demanded as Kaladin passed him. “What—Aren’t you going to take the Blade?” “I don’t want it,” Kaladin said softly. “I’m giving it to my men.” Kaladin walked away, emotionally exhausted, tears on his cheeks as he climbed out of the hollow and shoved his way through the honor guard. He walked back to the warcamp alone. Shallan sat quietly, propped up in a sterile, white-sheeted bed in one of Kharbranth’s many hospitals. Her arm was wrapped in a neat, crisp bandage, and she held her drawing board in front of her. The nurses had reluctantly allowed her to sketch, so long as she did not “stress herself.” Her arm ached; she’d sliced herself more deeply than she’d intended. She’d hoped to simulate a wound from breaking the pitcher; she hadn’t thought far enough ahead to realize how much like a suicide attempt it might seem. Though she’d protested that she’d simply fallen from bed, she could see that the nurses and ardents didn’t accept it. She couldn’t blame them. The results were embarrassing, but at least nobody thought she might have Soulcast to make that blood. Embarrassment was worth escaping suspicion. She continued her sketch. She was in a large, hallwaylike room in a Kharbranthian hospital, the walls lined with many beds. Other than obvious aggravations, her two days in the hospital had gone fairly well. She’d had a lot of time to
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think about that strangest of afternoons, when she’d seen ghosts, transformed glass to blood, and had an ardent offer to resign the ardentia to be with her. She’d done several drawings of this hospital room. The creatures lurked in her sketches, staying at the distant edges of the room. Their presence made it difficult for her to sleep, but she was slowly growing accustomed to them. The air smelled of soap and lister’s oil; she was bathed regularly and her arm washed with antiseptic to frighten away rotspren. About half of the beds held sick women, and there were wheeled fabric dividers with wooden frames that could be rolled around a bed for privacy. Shallan wore a plain white robe that untied at the front and had a long left sleeve that tied shut to protect her safehand. She’d transferred her safepouch to the robe, buttoning it inside the left sleeve. Nobody had looked in the pouch. When she’d been washed, they’d unbuttoned it and given it to her without a word, despite its unusual weight. One did not look in a woman’s safepouch. Still, she kept hold of it whenever she could. In the hospital, her every need was seen to, but she could not leave. It reminded her of being at home on her father’s estates. More and more, that frightened her as much as the symbolheads did. She’d tasted independence, and she didn’t want to go back to what she had been. Coddled, pampered, displayed. Unfortunately, it was unlikely she’d be able to return to studying with Jasnah. Her supposed suicide attempt gave her an excellent reason to return home. She had to go. To remain, sending the Soulcaster away on its own, would be selfish considering this opportunity to leave without arousing suspicion. Besides, she’d used the Soulcaster. She could use the long trip home to figure out how she’d done it, then be ready to help her family when she arrived. She sighed, and then with a few shadings, she finished her sketch. It was a picture of that strange place she had gone. That distant horizon with its powerful yet cold sun. Clouds running toward it above, endless ocean below, making the sun look as if it were at the end of a long tunnel. Above the ocean hovered hundreds of flames, a sea of lights above the sea of glass beads. She lifted the picture up, looking at the sketch underneath. It depicted her, huddled on her bed, surrounded by the strange creatures. She didn’t dare tell Jasnah what she had seen, lest it reveal that she had Soulcast, and therefore committed the theft. The next picture was one of her, lying on the ground amid the blood. She looked up from the sketchpad. A white-clothed female ardent sat against the wall nearby, pretending to sew but really keeping watch in case Shallan decided to harm herself again. Shallan made a thin line of her lips. It’s a good cover, she told herself. It works perfectly. Stop being so embarrassed. She turned to the last
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of her day’s sketches. It depicted one of the symbolheads. No eyes, no face, just that jagged alien symbol with points like cut crystal. They had to have something to do with the Soulcasting. Didn’t they? I visited another place, she thought. I think…I think I spoke with the spirit of the goblet. Did a goblet, of all things, have a soul? Upon opening her pouch to check on the Soulcaster, she’d found that the sphere Kabsal had given her had stopped glowing. She could remember a vague feeling of light and beauty, a raging storm inside of her. She’d taken the light from the sphere and given it to the goblet—the spren of the goblet—as a bribe to transform. Was that how Soulcasting worked? Or was she just struggling to make connections? Shallan lowered the sketchpad as visitors entered the room and began moving among the patients. Most of the women sat up excitedly as they saw King Taravangian, with his orange robes and kindly, aged air. He paused at each bed to chat. She’d heard that he visited frequently, at least once a week. Eventually he reached Shallan’s bedside. He smiled at her, sitting as one of his many attendants placed a padded stool for him. “And young Shallan Davar. I was so terribly saddened to hear of your accident. I apologize for not coming earlier. Duties of state kept me.” “It is quite all right, Your Majesty.” “No, no, it is not,” he said. “But it is what must be. There are many who complain that I spend too much of my time here.” Shallan smiled. Those complaints were never vociferous. The landlords and house lords who played politics in court were quite content with a king who spent so much of his time outside the palace, ignoring their schemes. “This hospital is amazing, Your Majesty,” she said. “I can’t believe how well everyone is cared for.” He smiled widely. “My great triumph. Lighteyes and darkeyes alike, nobody turned away—not beggar, not whore, not sailor from afar. It’s all paid for by the Palanaeum, you know. In a way, even the most obscure and useless record is helping heal the sick.” “I’m glad to be here.” “I doubt that, child. A hospital such as this one is, perhaps, the only thing a man could pour so much money into and be delighted if it were never used. It is a tragedy that you must become my guest.” “What I meant was that I’d rather be sick here than somewhere else. Though I suppose that’s a little like saying it’s better to choke on wine than on dishwater.” He laughed. “What a sweet thing you are,” he said, rising. “Is there anything I can do to improve your stay?” “End it?” “I’m afraid that I can’t allow that,” he said, eyes softening. “I must defer to the wisdom of my surgeons and nurses. They say that you are still at risk. We must think of your health.” “Keeping me here gives me health at the expense of my wellness, Your
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Majesty.” He shook his head. “You mustn’t be allowed to have another accident.” “I…I understand. But I promise that I’m feeling much better. The episode that struck me was caused by overwork. Now that I’m relaxed, I’m not in any further danger.” “That is good,” he said. “But we still need to keep you for a few more days.” “Yes, Your Majesty. But could I at least have visitors?” So far, the hospital staff had insisted that she was not to be bothered. “Yes…I can see how that might help you. I’ll speak to the ardents and suggest that you be allowed a few visitors.” He hesitated. “Once you are well again, it might be best for you to suspend your training.” She pasted a grimace on her face, trying not to feel sick at the charade. “I hate to do that, Your Majesty. But I have been missing my family greatly. Perhaps I should return to them.” “An excellent idea. I’m certain the ardents will be more likely to release you if they know you’ll be going home.” He smiled in a kindly way, resting a hand on her shoulder. “This world, it is a tempest sometimes. But remember, the sun always rises again.” “Thank you, Your Majesty.” The king moved away, visiting other patients, then speaking quietly with the ardents. Not five minutes passed before Jasnah walked through the doorway with her characteristic straight-backed stride. She wore a beautiful dress, deep blue with golden embroidery. Her sleek black hair was done in braids and pierced by six thin golden spikes; her cheeks glowed with blush, her lips bloodred with lip paint. She stood out in the white room like a flower upon a field of barren stone. She glided toward Shallan on feet hidden beneath the loose folds of her silk skirt, carrying a thick book under her arm. An ardent brought her a stool, and she sat down where the king had just stood. Jasnah regarded Shallan, face stiff, impassive. “I have been told that my tutelage is demanding, perhaps harsh. This is one reason why I often refuse to take wards.” “I apologize for my weakness, Brightness,” Shallan said, looking down. Jasnah seemed displeased. “I did not mean to suggest fault in you, child. I was attempting the opposite. Unfortunately I’m…unaccustomed to such behavior.” “Apologizing?” “Yes.” “Well, you see,” Shallan said, “in order to grow proficient at apologizing, you must first make mistakes. That’s your problem, Jasnah. You’re absolutely terrible at making them.” The woman’s expression softened. “The king mentioned to me that you would be returning to your family.” “What? When?” “When he met me in the hallway outside,” she said, “and finally gave me permission to visit you.” “You make it sound as if you were waiting out there.” Jasnah didn’t reply. “But your research!” “Can be done in the hospital waiting chamber.” She hesitated. “It has been somewhat difficult for me to focus these last few days.” “Jasnah! That’s quite nearly human of you!” Jasnah regarded her reprovingly, and Shallan winced, immediately regretting the words.
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“I’m sorry. I’ve learned poorly, haven’t I?” “Or perhaps you are just practicing the art of the apology. So that you will not be unsettled when the need arises, as I am.” “How very clever of me.” “Indeed.” “Can I stop now, then?” Shallan asked. “I think I’ve had quite enough practice.” “I should think,” Jasnah said, “that apology is an art of which we could use a few more masters. Do not use me as a model in this. Pride is often mistaken for faultlessness.” She leaned forward. “I am sorry, Shallan Davar. In overworking you, I may have done the world a disservice and stolen from it one of the great scholars of the rising generation.” Shallan blushed, feeling more foolish and guilty. Shallan’s eyes flickered to her mistress’s hand. Jasnah wore the black glove that hid the fake. In the fingers of her safehand, Shallan grasped the pouch holding the Soulcaster. If Jasnah only knew. Jasnah took the book from beneath her arm and set it on the bed beside Shallan. “This is for you.” Shallan picked it up. She opened to the front page, but it was blank. The next one was as well, as were all inside of it. Her frown deepened, and she looked up at Jasnah. “It’s called the Book of Endless Pages,” Jasnah said. “Er, I’m pretty sure it’s not endless, Brightness.” She flipped to the last page and held it up. Jasnah smiled. “It’s a metaphor, Shallan. Many years ago, someone dear to me made a very good attempt at converting me to Vorinism. This was the method he used.” Shallan cocked her head. “You search for truth,” Jasnah said, “but you also hold to your faith. There is much to admire in that. Seek out the Devotary of Sincerity. They are one of the very smallest of the devotaries, but this book is their guide.” “One with blank pages?” “Indeed. They worship the Almighty, but are guided by the belief that there are always more answers to be found. The book cannot be filled, as there is always something to learn. This devotary is a place where one is never penalized for questions, even those challenging Vorinism’s own tenets.” She shook her head. “I cannot explain their ways. You should be able to find them in Vedenar, though there are none in Kharbranth.” “I…” Shallan trailed off, noticing how Jasnah’s hand rested fondly on the book. It was precious to her. “I hadn’t thought to find ardents who were willing to question their own beliefs.” Jasnah raised an eyebrow. “You will find wise men in any religion, Shallan, and good men in every nation. Those who truly seek wisdom are those who will acknowledge the virtue in their adversaries and who will learn from those who disabuse them of error. All others—heretic, Vorin, Ysperist, or Maakian—are equally closed-minded.” She took her hand from the book, moving as if to stand up. “He’s wrong,” Shallan said suddenly, realizing something. Jasnah turned to her. “Kabsal,” Shallan said, blushing. “He says you’re researching the Voidbringers
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because you want to prove that Vorinism is false.” Jasnah sniffed in derision. “I would not dedicate four years of my life to such an empty pursuit. It’s idiocy to try to prove a negative. Let the Vorin believe as they wish—the wise among them will find goodness and solace in their faith; the fools would be fools no matter what they believed.” Shallan frowned. So why was Jasnah studying the Voidbringers? “Ah. Speak of the storm and it begins to bluster,” Jasnah said, turning toward the room’s entrance. With a start, Shallan realized that Kabsal had just arrived, wearing his usual grey robes. He was arguing softly with a nurse, who pointed at the basket he carried. Finally, the nurse threw up her hands and walked away, leaving Kabsal to approach, triumphant. “Finally!” he said to Shallan. “Old Mungam can be a real tyrant.” “Mungam?” Shallan asked. “The ardent who runs this place,” Kabsal said. “I should have been allowed in immediately. After all, I know what you need to make you better!” He pulled out a jar of jam, smiling broadly. Jasnah remained on her stool, regarding Kabsal across the bed. “I would have thought,” she said dryly, “that you would allow Shallan a respite, considering how your attentions drove her to despair.” Kabsal flushed. He looked at Shallan, and she could see the pleading in his eyes. “It wasn’t you, Kabsal,” Shallan said. “I just…I wasn’t ready for life away from my family estate. I still don’t know what came over me. I’ve never done anything like that before.” He smiled, pulling a stool over for himself. “I think,” he said, “that the lack of color in these places is what keeps people sick so long. That and the lack of proper food.” He winked, turning the jar toward Shallan. It was deep, dark red. “Strawberry.” “Never heard of it,” Shallan said. “It’s exceedingly rare,” Jasnah said, reaching for the jar. “Like most plants from Shinovar, it can’t grow other places.” Kabsal looked surprised as Jasnah removed the lid and dipped a finger into the jar. She hesitated, then raised a bit of the jam to her nose to sniff at it. “I was under the impression that you disliked jam, Brightness Jasnah,” Kabsal said. “I do,” she said. “I was simply curious about the scent. I’ve heard that strawberries are very distinctive.” She screwed the lid back on, then wiped her finger on her cloth handkerchief. “I brought bread as well,” Kabsal said. He pulled out a small loaf of the fluffy bread. “It’s nice of you not to blame me, Shallan, but I can see that my attentions were too forward. I thought, maybe, I could bring this and…” “And what?” Jasnah asked. “Absolve yourself? ‘I’m sorry I drove you to suicide. Here’s some bread.’” He blushed, looking down. “Of course I’ll have some,” Shallan said, glaring at Jasnah. “And she will too. It was very kind of you, Kabsal.” She took the bread, breaking off a chunk for Kabsal, one for herself, then one for Jasnah.
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“No,” Jasnah said. “Thank you.” “Jasnah,” Shallan said. “Would you please at least try some?” It bothered her that the two of them got on so poorly. The older woman sighed. “Oh, very well.” She took the bread, holding it as Shallan and Kabsal ate. The bread was moist and delicious, though Jasnah grimaced as she put hers in her mouth and chewed it. “You should really try the jam,” Kabsal said to Shallan. “Strawberry is hard to find. I had to make quite a number of inquiries.” “No doubt bribing merchants with the king’s money,” Jasnah noted. Kabsal sighed. “Brightness Jasnah, I realize that you are not fond of me. But I’m working very hard to be pleasant. Could you at least pretend to do likewise?” Jasnah eyed Shallan, probably recalling Kabsal’s guess that undermining Vorinism was the goal of her research. She didn’t apologize, but also made no retort. Good enough, Shallan thought. “The jam, Shallan,” Kabsal said, handing her a slice of bread for it. “Oh, right.” She removed the lid of the jar, holding it between her knees and using her freehand. “You missed your ship out, I assume,” Kabsal said. “Yes.” “What’s this?” Jasnah asked. Shallan cringed. “I was planning to leave, Brightness. I’m sorry. I should have told you.” Jasnah settled back. “I suppose it was to be expected, all things considered.” “The jam?” Kabsal prodded again. Shallan frowned. He was particularly insistent about that jam. She raised the jar and sniffed at it, then pulled back. “It smells terrible! This is jam?” It smelled like vinegar and slime. “What?” Kabsal said, alarmed. He took the jar, sniffing at it, then pulled away, looking nauseated. “It appears you got a bad jar,” Jasnah said. “That’s not how it’s supposed to smell?” “Not at all,” Kabsal said. He hesitated, then stuck his finger into the jam anyway, shoving a large glob into his mouth. “Kabsal!” Shallan said. “That’s revolting!” He coughed, but forced it down. “Not so bad, really. You should try it.” “What?” “Really,” he said, forcing it toward her. “I mean, I wanted this to be special, for you. And it turned out so horribly.” “I’m not tasting that, Kabsal.” He hesitated, as if considering forcing it upon her. Why was he acting so strangely? He raised a hand to his head, stood up, and stumbled away from the bed. Then he began to rush from the room. He made it only halfway before crashing to the floor, his body sliding a little way across the spotless stone. “Kabsal!” Shallan said, leaping out of the bed, hurrying to his side, wearing only the white robe. He was shaking. And…and… And so was she. The room was spinning. Suddenly she felt very, very tired. She tried to stand, but slipped, dizzy. She barely felt herself hit the floor. Someone was kneeling above her, cursing. Jasnah. Her voice was distant. “She’s been poisoned. I need a garnet. Bring me a garnet!” There’s one in my pouch, Shallan thought. She fumbled with it, managing to undo the tie
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of her safehand’s sleeve. Why…why does she want… But no, I can’t show her that. The Soulcaster! Her mind was so fuzzy. “Shallan,” Jasnah’s voice said, anxious, very soft. “I’m going to have to Soulcast your blood to purify it. It will be dangerous. Extremely dangerous. I’m not good with flesh or blood. It’s not where my talent lies.” She needs it. To save me. Weakly, she reached in and pulled out her safepouch with her right hand. “You…can’t…” “Hush, child. Where is that garnet!” “You can’t Soulcast,” Shallan said weakly, pulling the ties of her pouch open. She upended it, vaguely seeing a fuzzy golden object slip out onto the floor, alongside the garnet that Kabsal had given her. Stormfather! Why was the room spinning so much? Jasnah gasped. Distantly. Fading… Something happened. A flash of warmth burned through Shallan, something inside her skin, as if she had been dumped into a steaming hot cauldron. She screamed, arching her back, her muscles spasming. All went black. The towering walls of the chasm rising on either side of Kaladin dripped with greenish grey moss. His torch’s flames danced, light reflecting on slick, rain-wetted sections of stone. The humid air was chilly, and the highstorm had left puddles and ponds. Spindly bones—an ulna and a radius—poked from a deep puddle Kaladin passed. He didn’t look to see if the rest of the skeleton was there. Flash floods, Kaladin thought, listening to the scraping steps of the bridgemen behind him. That water has to go somewhere, otherwise we’d have canals to cross instead of chasms. Kaladin didn’t know if he could trust his dream or not, but he’d asked around, and it was true that the eastern edge of the Shattered Plains was more open than the western side. The plateaus had been worn away. If the bridgemen could get there, they might be able to flee to the east. Might. Many chasmfiends lived in that area, and Alethi scouts patrolled the perimeter beyond. If Kaladin’s team met them, they would have trouble explaining what a group of armed men—many with slave brands—was doing there. Syl walked along the wall of the chasm, about level with Kaladin’s head. Groundspren didn’t pull her downward as they did everything else. She walked with her hands clasped behind her back, her tiny, knee-length skirt fluttering in an intangible wind. Escape to the east. It seemed unlikely. The highprinces had tried very hard to explore that way, looking for a route to the center of the Plains. They’d failed. Chasmfiends had killed some groups. Others had been caught in the chasms during highstorms, despite precautions. It was impossible to predict the storms perfectly. Other scouting parties had avoided those two fates. They’d used enormous extensible ladders to climb atop plateaus during highstorms. They’d lost many men, though, as the plateau tops provided poor cover during storms, and you couldn’t bring wagons or other shelter with you into the chasms. The bigger problem, he’d heard, had been the Parshendi patrols. They’d found and killed dozens of scouting parties. “Kaladin?”
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Teft asked, hustling up, splashing through a puddle where bits of empty cremling carapace floated. “You all right?” “Fine.” “You look thoughtful.” “More breakfast-full,” Kaladin said. “That gruel was particularly dense this morning.” Teft smiled. “I never took you for the glib type.” “I used to be more so. I get it from my mother. You could rarely say anything to her without getting it twisted about and tossed back to you.” Teft nodded. They walked in silence for a time, the bridgemen behind laughing as Dunny told a story about the first girl he’d ever kissed. “Son,” Teft said, “have you felt anything strange lately?” “Strange? What kind of strange?” “I don’t know. Just…anything odd?” He coughed. “You know, like odd surges of strength? The…er, feeling that you’re light?” “The feeling that I’m what?” “Light. Er, maybe, like your head is light. Light-headed. That sort of thing. Storm it, boy, I’m just checking to see if you’re still sick. You were beat up pretty badly by that highstorm.” “I’m fine,” Kaladin said. “Remarkably so, actually.” “Odd, eh?” It was odd. It fed his nagging worry that he was subject to some kind of supernatural curse of the type that were supposed to happen to people who sought the Old Magic. There were stories of evil men made immortal, then tortured over and over again—like Extes, who had his arms torn off each day for sacrificing his son to the Voidbringers in exchange for knowledge of the day of his death. It was just a tale, but tales came from somewhere. Kaladin lived when everyone else died. Was that the work of some spren from Damnation, toying with him like a windspren, but infinitely more nefarious? Letting him think that he might be able to do some good, then killing everyone he tried to help? There were supposed to be thousands of kinds of spren, many that people never saw or didn’t know about. Syl followed him. Could some kind of evil spren be doing the same? A very disturbing thought. Superstition is useless, he told himself forcefully. Think on it too much, and you’ll end up like Durk, insisting that you need to wear your lucky boots into every battle. They reached a section where the chasm forked, splitting around a plateau high above. Kaladin turned to face the bridgemen. “This is as good a place as any.” The bridgemen stopped, bunching up. He could see the anticipation in their eyes, the excitement. He’d felt that once, back before he’d known the soreness and the pain of practice. Oddly, Kaladin felt he was now both more in awe of and more disappointed in the spear than he’d been as a youth. He loved the focus, the feeling of certainty that he felt when he fought. But that hadn’t saved those who followed him. “This is where I’m supposed to tell you what a sorry group you are,” Kaladin said to the men. “It’s the way I’ve always seen it done. The training sergeant tells the recruits that they are pathetic. He
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points out their weakness, perhaps spars with a few of them, tossing them on their backsides to teach them humility. I did that a few times myself when training new spearmen.” Kaladin shook his head. “Today, that’s not how we’ll begin. You men don’t need humbling. You don’t dream of glory. You dream of survival. Most of all, you aren’t the sad, unprepared group of recruits most sergeants have to deal with. You’re tough. I’ve seen you run for miles carrying a bridge. You’re brave. I’ve seen you charge straight at a line of archers. You’re determined. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, right now, with me.” Kaladin walked to the side of the chasm and extracted a discarded spear from some flood-strewn rubble. Once he had it, however, he realized that the spearhead had been knocked off. He almost tossed it aside, then reconsidered. Spears were dangerous for him to hold. They made him want to fight, and might lead him to think he was who he’d once been: Kaladin Stormblessed, confident squadleader. He wasn’t that man any longer. It seemed that whenever he picked up weapons, the people around him died—friends as well as foes. So, for now, it seemed good to hold this length of wood; it was just a staff. Nothing more. A stick he could use for training. He could face returning to the spear another time. “It’s good that you’re already prepared,” Kaladin said to the men. “Because we don’t have the six weeks I was given to train a new batch of recruits. In six weeks, Sadeas will have half of us dead. I intend to see you all drinking mudbeer in a tavern somewhere safe by the time six weeks have passed.” Several of them gave a kind of half-cheer at that. “We’ll have to be fast,” Kaladin said. “I’ll have to push you hard. That’s our only option.” He glanced at the spear haft. “The first thing you need to learn is that it’s all right to care.” The twenty-three bridgemen stood in a double row. All had wanted to come. Even Leyten, who had been hurt so badly. They didn’t have any who were wounded so badly they couldn’t walk, although Dabbid continued to stare off at nothing. Rock stood with his arms folded, apparently with no intention of learning to fight. Shen, the parshman, stood at the very back. He looked at the ground. Kaladin didn’t intend to put a spear in his hands. Several of the bridgemen seemed confused by what Kaladin had said about emotions, though Teft just raised an eyebrow and Moash yawned. “What do you mean?” Drehy asked. He was a lanky blond man, long-limbed and muscled. He spoke with a faint accent; he was from somewhere far to the west, called Rianal. “A lot of soldiers,” Kaladin said, running his thumb across the pole, feeling the grain of the wood, “they think that you fight the best if you’re passionless and cold. I think that’s stormleavings. Yes, you need to be focused. Yes, emotions are dangerous. But
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if you don’t care about anything, what are you? An animal, driven only to kill. Our passion is what makes us human. We have to fight for a reason. So I say that it’s all right to care. We’ll talk about controlling your fear and anger, but remember this as the first lesson I taught you.” Several of the bridgemen nodded. Most seemed confused still. Kaladin remembered being there, wondering why Tukks wasted time talking about emotions. He’d thought he understood emotion—his drive to learn the spear had come because of his emotions. Vengeance. Hatred. A lust for the power to exact retribution on Varth and the soldiers of his squad. He looked up, trying to banish those memories. No, the bridgemen didn’t understand his words about caring, but perhaps they would remember later, as Kaladin had. “The second lesson,” Kaladin said, slapping the decapitated spear to the rock beside him with a crack that echoed down the chasm, “is more utilitarian. Before you can learn to fight, you’re going to have to learn how to stand.” He dropped the spear. The bridgemen watched him with frowns of disappointment. Kaladin fell into a basic spearman’s stance, feet wide apart—but not too wide—turned sideways, knees bent in a loose crouch. “Skar, I want you to come try to push me backward.” “What?” “Try and throw me off balance,” Kaladin said. “Force me to stumble.” Skar shrugged and walked forward. He tried to shove Kaladin back, but Kaladin easily knocked his hands aside with a quick snap of the wrist. Skar cursed and came at him again, but Kaladin caught his arm and shoved him backward, causing Skar to stumble. “Drehy, come help him,” Kaladin said. “Moash, you too. Try to force me off balance.” The other two joined Skar. Kaladin stepped around the attacks, staying squarely in the middle of them, adjusting his stance to rebuff each attempt. He grabbed Drehy’s arm and yanked him forward, nearly causing him to fall. He stepped into Skar’s shoulder-rush, deflecting the weight of the man’s body and throwing him backward. He pulled back as Moash got his arms on him, causing Moash to overbalance himself. Kaladin remained completely unfazed, weaving between them and adjusting his center of balance by bending his knees and positioning his feet. “Combat begins with the legs,” Kaladin said as he evaded the attacks. “I don’t care how fast you are with a jab, how accurate you are with a thrust. If your opponent can trip you, or make you stumble, you’ll lose. Losing means dying.” Several of the watching bridgemen tried to imitate Kaladin, crouching down. Skar, Drehy, and Moash had finally decided to try a coordinated rush, planning to all tackle Kaladin at once. Kaladin held up his hand. “Well done, you three.” He motioned them back to stand with the others. They reluctantly broke off their attacks. “I’m going to split you into pairs,” Kaladin said. “We’re going to spend all day today—and probably each day this week—working on stances. Learning to maintain one, learning to not lock your
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knees the moment you’re threatened, learning to hold your center of balance. It will take time, but I promise you if we start here, you’ll learn to be deadly far more quickly. Even if it seems that all you’re doing at first is standing around.” The men nodded. “Teft,” Kaladin ordered. “Split them into pairs by size and weight, then run them through an elementary forward spear stance.” “Aye, sir!” Teft barked. Then he froze, realizing what he’d given away. The speed at which he’d responded made it obvious that Teft had been a soldier. Teft met Kaladin’s eyes and saw that Kaladin knew. The older man scowled, but Kaladin returned a grin. He had a veteran under his command; that was going to make this all a lot easier. Teft didn’t feign ignorance, and easily fell into the role of the training sergeant, splitting the men into pairs, correcting their stances. No wonder he never takes off that shirt, Kaladin thought. It probably hides a mess of scars. As Teft instructed the men, Kaladin pointed to Rock, gesturing him over. “Yes?” Rock asked. The man was so broad of chest that his bridgeman’s vest could barely fasten. “You said something before,” Kaladin said. “About fighting being beneath you?” “Is true. I am not a fourth son.” “What does that have to do with it?” “First son and second son are needed for making food,” Rock said, raising a finger. “Is most important. Without food, nobody lives, yes? Third son is craftsman. This is me. I serve proudly. Only fourth son can be warrior. Warriors, they are not needed as much as food or crafts. You see?” “Your profession is determined by your birth order?” “Yes,” Rock said proudly. “Is best way. On the Peaks, there is always food. Not every family has four sons. So not always is a soldier needed. I cannot fight. What man could do this thing before the Uli’tekanaki?” Kaladin shot a glance at Syl. She shrugged, not seeming to care what Rock did. “All right,” he said. “I’ve got something else I want you to do, then. Go grab Lopen, Dabbid…” Kaladin hesitated. “And Shen. Get him too.” Rock did so. Lopen was in the line, learning the stances, though Dabbid—as usual—stood off to the side, staring at nothing in particular. Whatever had taken him, it was far worse than regular battle shock. Shen stood beside him, hesitant, as if not certain of his place. Rock pulled Lopen out of the line, then grabbed Dabbid and Shen and walked back to Kaladin. “Gancho,” Lopen said, with a lazy salute. “Guess I’ll make a poor spearman, with one hand.” “That’s all right,” Kaladin said. “I have something else I need you to do. We’ll see trouble from Gaz and our new captain—or at least his wife—if we don’t bring back salvage.” “We three cannot do the work of thirty, Kaladin,” Rock said, scratching at his beard. “Is not possible.” “Maybe not,” Kaladin said. “But most of our time down in these chasms is spent looking for corpses
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that haven’t been picked clean. I think we can work a lot faster. We need to work a lot faster, if we’re going to train with the spear. Fortunately, we have an advantage.” He held out his hand, and Syl alighted on it. He’d spoken to her earlier, and she’d agreed to his plan. He didn’t notice her doing anything special, but Lopen suddenly gasped. Syl had made herself visible to him. “Ah…” Rock said, bowing in respect to Syl. “Like gathering reeds.” “Well flick my sparks,” Lopen said. “Rock, you never said it was so pretty!” Syl smiled broadly. “Be respectful,” Rock said. “Is not for you to speak of her in that way, little person.” The men knew about Syl, of course. Kaladin didn’t speak of her, but they saw him talking to the air, and Rock had explained. “Lopen,” Kaladin said. “Syl can move far more quickly than a bridgeman. She will search out places for you to gather, and you four can pick through things quickly.” “Dangerous,” Rock said. “What if we meet chasmfiend while alone?” “Unfortunately, we can’t come back empty-handed. The last thing we want is Hashal deciding to send Gaz down to supervise.” Lopen snorted. “He’d never do that, gancho. Too much work down here.” “Too dangerous too,” Rock added. “Everyone says that,” Kaladin said. “But I’ve never seen more than these scrapes on the walls.” “They’re down here,” Rock said. “Is not just legend. Just before you came, half a bridge crew was killed. Eaten. Most beasts come to the middle plateaus, but there are some who come this far.” “Well, I hate to put you in danger, but unless we try this, we’ll have chasm duty taken from us and we’ll end up cleaning latrines instead.” “All right, gancho,” Lopen said. “I’ll go.” “As will I,” Rock said. “With ali’i’kamura to protect, perhaps it will be safe.” “I intend to teach you to fight eventually,” Kaladin said. Then as Rock frowned, Kaladin hastily added, “You, Lopen, I mean. One arm doesn’t mean you’re useless. You’ll be at a disadvantage, but there are things I can teach you to deal with that. Right now a scavenger is more important to us than another spear.” “Sounds swift to me.” Lopen gestured to Dabbid, and the two walked over to gather sacks for the collecting. Rock moved to join them, but Kaladin took his arm. “I haven’t given up on finding an easier way out of here than fighting,” Kaladin said to him. “If we never returned, Gaz and the others would probably just assume that a chasmfiend got us. If there’s some way to reach the other side…” Rock looked skeptical. “Many have searched for this thing.” “The eastern edge is open.” “Yes,” Rock said, laughing, “and when you are able to travel that far without being eaten by chasmfiend or killed in floods, I shall name you my kaluk’i’iki.” Kaladin raised an eyebrow. “Only a woman can be kaluk’i’iki,” Rock said, as if that explained the joke. “Wife?” Rock laughed even louder. “No, no.
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Airsick lowlanders. Ha!” “Great. Look, see if you can memorize the chasms, perhaps make a map of some kind. I suspect that most who come down here stick to the established routes. That means we’re much more likely to find salvage down side passages; that’s where I’ll be sending Syl.” “Side passages?” Rock said, still amused. “One might begin to think you want me to be eaten. Ha, and by a greatshell. They are supposed to be tasted, not tasting.” “I—” “No, no,” Rock said. “Is a good plan. I only jest. I can be careful, and this will be good for me to do, since I do not wish to fight.” “Thank you. Maybe you’ll happen upon a place we could climb out.” “I will do this thing,” Rock said, nodding. “But we cannot simply climb out. The army has many scouts on the Plains. Is how they know when chasmfiends come to pupate, eh? They will see us, and we will not be able to cross chasms without bridge.” It was a good argument, unfortunately. Climb up here, and they’d be seen. Climb out in the middle, and they’d be stuck on plateaus without anywhere to go. Climb out closer to the Parshendi areas, and they’d be found by their scouts. That was assuming they could get out of the chasms. Though some were as shallow as forty or fifty feet, many were well over a hundred feet deep. Syl zipped away to lead Rock and his crew, and Kaladin moved back to the main body of bridgemen to help Teft correct stances. It was difficult work; the first day always was. The bridgemen were sloppy and uncertain. But they also showed remarkable resolve. Kaladin had never worked with a group who made fewer complaints. The bridgemen didn’t ask for a break. They didn’t shoot him resentful glances when he pushed them harder. The scowls they bore were at their own foibles, angry at themselves for not learning faster. And they got it. After just a few hours, the more talented of them—Moash at the forefront—started to change into fighting men. Their stances grew firmer, more confident. When they should have been feeling exhausted and frustrated, they were more determined. Kaladin stepped back, watching Moash fall into his stance after Teft shoved him. It was a resetting exercise—Moash would let Teft knock him backward, then would scramble back and set his feet. Time and time again. The purpose was to train oneself to revert to the stance without thinking. Kaladin normally wouldn’t have started resetting exercises until the second or third day. Yet here, Moash was drinking it in after only two hours. There were two others—Drehy and Skar—who were nearly as quick to learn. Kaladin leaned back against the stone wall. Cold water leaked down the rock beside him, and a frillbloom plant hesitantly opened its fanlike fronds beside his head: two wide, orange leaves, with spines on the tips, unfolding like opening fists. Is it their bridgeman training? Kaladin wondered. Or is it their passion? He had given
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them a chance to fight back. That kind of opportunity changed a man. Watching them stand resolute and capable in stances they had only been just been taught, Kaladin realized something. These men—cast off by the army, forced to work themselves near to death, then fed extra food by Kaladin’s careful planning—were the most fit, training-ready recruits he’d ever been given. By seeking to beat them down, Sadeas had prepared them to excel. Shallan awoke in a small white room. She sat up, feeling oddly healthy. Bright sunlight illuminated the window’s gossamer white shades, bursting through the cloth and into the room. Shallan frowned, shaking her muddled head. She felt as if she should be burned toes to ears, her skin flaking off. But that was just a memory. She had the cut on her arm, but otherwise she felt perfectly well. A rustling sound. She turned to see a nurse hurrying away down a white hallway outside; the woman had apparently seen Shallan sit up, and was now taking the news to someone. I’m in the hospital, Shallan thought. Moved to a private room. A soldier peeked in, inspecting Shallan. It was apparently a guarded room. “What happened?” she called to him. “I was poisoned, wasn’t I?” She felt a sudden shock of alarm. “Kabsal! Is he all right?” The guard just turned back to his post. Shallan began to crawl out of bed, but he looked in again, glaring at her. She yelped despite herself, pulling up the sheet and settling back. She still wore one of the hospital robes, much like a soft bathing robe. How long had she been unconscious? Why was she— The Soulcaster! she realized. I gave it back to Jasnah. The next half hour was one of the most miserable in Shallan’s life. She spent it suffering the periodic glares of the guard and feeling nauseated. What had happened? Finally, Jasnah appeared at the other end of the hallway. She was wearing a different dress, black with light grey piping. She strode toward the room like an arrow and dismissed the guard with a single word as she passed. The man hurried away, his boots louder on the stone floor than Jasnah’s slippers. Jasnah came in, and though she made no accusations, her glare was so hostile that Shallan wanted to crawl under her covers and hide. No. She wanted to crawl under the bed, dig down into the floor itself, and put stone between herself and those eyes. She settled for looking downward in shame. “You were wise to return the Soulcaster,” Jasnah said, voice like ice. “It saved your life. I saved your life.” “Thank you,” Shallan whispered. “Who are you working with? Which devotary bribed you to steal the fabrial?” “None of them, Brightness. I stole it of my own volition.” “Protecting them does you no good. Eventually you will tell me the truth.” “It is the truth,” Shallan said, looking up, feeling a hint of defiance. “It’s why I became your ward in the first place. To steal that Soulcaster.” “Yes,
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but for whom?” “For me,” Shallan said. “Is it so hard to believe that I could act for myself? Am I such a miserable failure that the only rational answer is to assume I was duped or manipulated?” “You have no grounds to raise your voice to me, child,” Jasnah said evenly. “And you have every reason to remember your place.” Shallan looked down again. Jasnah was silent for a time. Finally, she sighed. “What were you thinking, child?” “My father is dead.” “So?” “He was not well liked, Brightness. Actually, he was hated, and our family is bankrupt. My brothers are trying to put up a strong front by pretending he still lives. But…” Dared she tell Jasnah that her father had possessed a Soulcaster? Doing so wouldn’t help excuse what Shallan had done, and might get her family more deeply into trouble. “We needed something. An edge. A way to earn money quickly, or create money.” Jasnah was silent again. When she finally spoke, she sounded faintly amused. “You thought your salvation lay in enraging not only all the entire ardentia, but Alethkar? Do you realize what my brother would have done if he’d learned of this?” Shallan looked away, feeling both foolish and ashamed. Jasnah sighed. “Sometimes I forget how young you are. I can see how the theft might have looked tempting to you. It was stupid nonetheless. I’ve arranged passage back to Jah Keved. You will leave in the morning.” “I—” It was more than she deserved. “Thank you.” “Your friend, the ardent, is dead.” Shallan looked up, dismayed. “What happened?” “The bread was poisoned. Backbreaker powder. Very lethal, dusted over the bread to look like flour. I suspect the bread was similarly treated every time he visited. His goal was to get me to eat a piece.” “But I ate a lot of that bread!” “The jam had the antidote,” Jasnah said. “We found it in several empty jars he’d used.” “It can’t be!” “I’ve begun investigating,” Jasnah said. “I should have done so immediately. Nobody quite remembers where this ‘Kabsal’ came from. Though he spoke familiarly of the other ardents to you and me, they knew him only vaguely.” “Then he…” “He was playing you, child. The whole time, he was using you to get to me. To spy on what I was doing, to kill me if he could.” She spoke of it so evenly, so emotionlessly. “I believe he used much more of the powder during this last attempt, more than he’d ever used before, perhaps hoping to get me to breathe it in. He realized this would be his last opportunity. It turned against him, however, working more quickly than he’d anticipated.” Someone had almost killed her. Not someone, Kabsal. No wonder he’d been so eager to get her to taste the jam! “I’m very disappointed in you, Shallan,” Jasnah said. “I can see now why you tried to end your own life. It was the guilt.” She hadn’t tried to kill herself. But what good would it do to admit that?
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Jasnah was taking pity on her; best not to give her reason not to. But what of the strange things Shallan had seen and experienced? Might Jasnah have an explanation for them? Looking at Jasnah, seeing the cold rage hidden behind her calm exterior, frightened Shallan enough that her questions about the symbolheads and the strange place she’d visited died on her lips. How had Shallan ever thought of herself as brave? She wasn’t brave. She was a fool. She remembered the times her father’s rage had echoed through the house. Jasnah’s quieter, move justified anger was no less daunting. “Well, you will need to learn to live with your guilt,” Jasnah said. “You might not have escaped with my fabrial, but you have thrown away a very promising career. This foolish scheme will stain your life for decades. No woman will take you as a ward now. You threw it away.” She shook her head in distaste. “I hate being wrong.” With that, she turned to leave. Shallan raised a hand. I have to apologize. I have to say something. “Jasnah?” The woman did not look back, and the guard did not return. Shallan curled up under the sheet, stomach in knots, feeling so sick that—for a moment—she wished that she’d actually dug that shard of glass in a little deeper. Or maybe that Jasnah hadn’t been quick enough with the Soulcaster to save her. She’d lost it all. No fabrial to protect her family, no wardship to continue her studies. No Kabsal. She’d never actually had him in the first place. Her tears dampened the sheets as the sunlight outside faded, then vanished. Nobody came to check on her. Nobody cared. ONE YEAR AGO Kaladin sat quietly in the waiting room of Amaram’s wooden warcenter. It was constructed of a dozen study sections that could be disconnected and pulled by chulls. Kaladin sat beside a window, looking out at the camp. There was a hole where Kaladin’s squad had been housed. He could make it out from where he sat. Their tents had been broken down and given to other squads. Four of his men remained. Four, out of twenty-six. And men called him lucky. Men called him Stormblessed. He’d begun to believe that. I killed a Shardbearer today, he thought, mind numb. Like Lanacin the Surefooted, or Evod Markmaker. Me. I killed one. And he didn’t care. He crossed his arms on the wooden windowsill. There was no glass in the window and he could feel the breeze. A windspren flitted from one tent to another. Behind Kaladin, the room had a thick red rug and shields on the walls. There were a number of padded wooden chairs, like the one Kaladin sat in. This was the “small” waiting chamber of the warcenter—small, yet larger than his entire house back in Hearthstone, the surgery included. I killed a Shardbearer, he thought again. And then I gave away the Blade and Plate. That single event had to be the most monumentally stupid thing anyone, in any kingdom, in any era,
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had ever done. As a Shardbearer, Kaladin would have been more important than Roshone—more important than Amaram. He’d have been able to go to the Shattered Plains and fight in a real war. No more squabbling over borders. No more petty lighteyed captains belonging to unimportant families, bitter because they’d been left behind. He would never again have had to worry about blisters from boots that didn’t fit, dinner slop that tasted of crem, or other soldiers who wanted to pick a fight. He could have been rich. He’d given it all away, just like that. And still, the mere thought of touching that Blade turned his stomach. He didn’t want wealth, titles, armies, or even a good meal. He wanted to be able to go back and protect the men who had trusted him. Why had he chased after the Shardbearer? He should have run. But no, he’d insisted on charging at a storming Shardbearer. You protected your highmarshal, he told himself. You’re a hero. But why was Amaram’s life worth more than those of his men? Kaladin served Amaram because of the honor he had shown. He let spearmen share his comfort in the warcenter during highstorms, a different squad each storm. He insisted that his men be well fed and well paid. He didn’t treat them like slime. He did let his subordinates do so, though. And he’d broken his promise to shelter Tien. So did I. So did I…. Kaladin’s insides were a twisted mess of guilt and sorrow. One thing remained clear, like a bright spot of light on the wall of a dark room. He wanted nothing to do with those Shards. He didn’t even want to touch them. The door thumped open, and Kaladin turned in his chair. Amaram entered. Tall, lean, with a square face and long martial coat of deep green. He walked on a crutch. Kaladin eyed the wrappings and splint with a critical eye. I could have done better. He’d also have insisted that the patient remain in bed. Amaram was talking to one of his stormwardens, a middle-aged man with a square beard and robes of deep black. “…why Thaidakar would risk this?” Amaram was saying, speaking in a soft voice. “But who else would it be? The Ghostbloods grow more bold. We’ll need to find out who he was. Do we know anything about him?” “He was Veden, Brightlord,” the stormwarden said. “Nobody I recognize. But I will investigate.” Amaram nodded, falling silent. Behind the two, a group of lighteyed officers entered, one of them carrying the Shardblade, holding it on a pure white cloth. Behind this group came the four surviving members of Kaladin’s squad: Hab, Reesh, Alabet, and Coreb. Kaladin stood up, feeling exhausted. Amaram remained by the door, arms folded, as two final men entered and closed the door. These last two were also lighteyes, but lesser ones—officers in Amaram’s personal guard. Had these been among those who had fled? It was the smart thing to do, Kaladin thought. Smarter than what I did. Amaram leaned
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on his walking staff, inspecting Kaladin with bright tan eyes. He’d been in conference with his counselors for several hours now, trying to discover who the Shardbearer had been. “You did a brave thing today, soldier,” Amaram said to Kaladin. “I…” What did you say to that? I wish I’d left you to die, sir. “Thank you.” “Everyone else fled, including my honor guard.” The two men closest to the door looked down, ashamed. “But you charged in for the attack. Why?” “I didn’t really think about it, sir.” Amaram seemed displeased by the answer. “Your name is Kaladin, is it?” “Yes, Brightlord. From Hearthstone? Remember?” Amaram frowned, looking confused. “Your cousin, Roshone, is citylord there. He sent my brother into the army when you came recruiting. I…I joined with my brother.” “Ah yes,” Amaram said. “I believe I remember you.” He didn’t ask after Tien. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why attack? It wasn’t for the Shardblade. You rejected that.” “Yes, sir.” To the side, the stormwarden raised his eyebrows, as if he hadn’t believed that Kaladin had turned down the Shards. The soldier holding the Shardblade kept glancing at it in awe. “Why?” Amaram said. “Why did you reject it? I have to know.” “I don’t want it, sir.” “Yes, but why?” Because it would make me one of you. Because I can’t look at that weapon and not see the faces of the men its wielder slaughtered so offhandedly. Because…because… “I can’t really answer that, sir,” Kaladin said, sighing. The stormwarden walked over to the room’s brazier, shaking his head. He began warming his hands. “Look,” Kaladin said. “Those Shards are mine. Well, I said to give them to Coreb. He’s the highest ranked of my soldiers, and the best fighter among them.” The other three would understand. Besides, Coreb would take care of them, once he was a lighteyes. Amaram looked at Coreb, then nodded to his attendants. One closed the window shutters. The others pulled out swords, then began moving toward the four remaining members of Kaladin’s squad. Kaladin yelled, leaping forward, but two of the officers had positioned themselves close to him. One slammed a punch into Kaladin’s gut as soon as he started moving. He was so surprised that it connected directly, and he gasped. No. He fought off the pain, turning to swing at the man. The man’s eyes opened wide as Kaladin’s fist connected, throwing him backward. Several other men piled on him. He had no weapons, and he was so tired from the battle that he could barely stay upright. They knocked him to the ground with punches to his side and back. He collapsed to the floor, pained, but still able to watch as the soldiers came at his men. Reesh was cut down first. Kaladin gasped, stretching out a hand, struggling to his knees. This can’t happen. Please, no! Hab and Alabet had their knives out, but fell quickly, one soldier gutting Hab as two others hacked down Alabet. Alabet’s knife thumped as it hit the ground, followed by
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his arm, then finally his corpse. Coreb lasted the longest, backing away, hands held forward. He didn’t scream. He seemed to understand. Kaladin’s eyes were watering, and soldiers grabbed him from behind, stopping him from helping. Coreb’s fell to his knees and began to beg. One of Amaram’s men took him at the neck, neatly severing his head. It was over in seconds. “You bastard!” Kaladin said, gasping against his pain. “You storming bastard!” Kaladin found himself weeping, struggling uselessly at the four men holding him. The blood of the fallen spearmen soaked the boards. They were dead. All of them were dead. Stormfather! All of them! Amaram stepped forward, expression grim. He went down on one knee before Kaladin. “I’m sorry.” “Bastard!” Kaladin screamed as loud as he could. “I couldn’t risk them telling what they saw. This is what must be, soldier. It’s for the good of the army. They’re going to be told that your squad helped the Shardbearer. You see, the men must believe that I killed him.” “You’re taking the Shards for yourself!” “I am trained in the sword,” Amaram said, “and am accustomed to plate. It will serve Alethkar best if I bear the Shards.” “You could have asked me for them! Storm you!” “And when news got around camp?” Amaram said grimly. “That you’d killed the Shardbearer but I had the Shards? Nobody would believe that you’d given them up of your own free choice. Besides, son. You wouldn’t have let me keep them.” Amaram shook his head. “You’d have changed your mind. In a day or two, you’d have wanted the wealth and prestige—others would convince you of it. You’d have demanded that I return them to you. It took hours to decide, but Restares is right—this is what must be done. For the good of Alethkar.” “It’s not about Alethkar! It’s about you! Storm it, you’re supposed to be better than the others!” Tears dripped from Kaladin’s chin. Amaram looked guilty suddenly, as if he knew what Kaladin had said was true. He turned away, waving to the stormwarden. The man turned from the brazier, holding something he’d been heating in the coals. A small branding iron. “It’s all an act?” Kaladin asked. “The honorable brightlord who cares about his men? Lies? All of it?” “This is for my men,” Amaram said. He took the Shardblade from the cloth, holding it in his hand. The gemstone at its pommel let out a flash of white light. “You can’t begin to understand the weights I carry, spearman.” Amaram’s voice lost some of its calm tone of reason. He sounded defensive. “I can’t worry about the lives of a few darkeyed spearmen when thousands of people may be saved by my decision.” The stormwarden stepped up to Kaladin, positioning the branding iron. The glyphs, reversed, read sas nahn. A slave’s brand. “You came for me,” Amaram said, limping to the door, stepping around Reesh’s body. “For saving my life, I spare yours. Five men telling the same story would have been believed, but a single
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slave will be ignored. The warcamp will be told that you didn’t try to help your fellows—but you didn’t try to stop them, either. You fled and were captured by my guard.” Amaram hesitated by the door, resting the blunt edge of the stolen Shardblade on his shoulder. The guilt was still there in his eyes, but he grew hard, covering it. “You are being discharged as a deserter and branded as a slave. But you are spared death by my mercy.” He opened the door and walked out. The branding iron fell, searing Kaladin’s fate into his skin. He let out a final, ragged scream. THE END OF Part Three Baxil hastened down the lavish palace corridor, clutching the bulky bag of tools. A sound like a footfall came from behind him and he jumped, spinning. He didn’t see anything. The corridor was empty, a golden carpet lining the floor, mirrors on the walls, arched ceiling inlaid with elaborate mosaics. “Would you stop that?” Av said, walking beside him. “Every time you jump I nearly cuff you one out of surprise.” “I can’t help it,” Baxil said. “Shouldn’t we be doing this at night?” “Mistress knows what she’s doing,” Av said. Like Baxil, Av was Emuli, with dark skin and hair. But the taller man was far more self-confident. He sauntered down the halls, acting as if they’d been invited, thick-bladed sword slung in a sheath over his shoulder. If the Prime Kadasix may provide, Baxil thought, I’d rather Av never have to draw that weapon. Thank you. Their mistress walked ahead of them, the only other person in the hallway. She wasn’t Emuli–she didn’t even seem Makabaki, though she had dark skin and long, beautiful black hair. She had eyes like a Shin, but she was tall and lean, like an Alethi. Av thought she was a mixed breed. Or so he said when they dared talk about such things. The mistress had good ears. Strangely good ears. She stopped at the next intersection. Baxil caught himself glancing over his shoulder again. Av elbowed him, but he couldn’t help looking. Yes, the mistress claimed that the palace servants would be busy getting the new guest wing ready, but this was the home of Ashno of Sages himself. One of the richest and holiest men in all of Emul. He had hundreds of servants. What if one of them walked down this hallway? The two men joined their mistress at the intersection. He forced his eyes forward so he wouldn’t keep looking over his shoulder, but then found himself staring at the mistress. It was dangerous, being employed by a woman as beautiful as she was, with that long black hair, worn free, hanging down to her waist. She never wore a proper woman’s robe, or even a dress or skirt. Always trousers, usually sleek and tight, a thin-bladed sword at her hip. Her eyes were so faintly violet they were almost white. She was amazing. Wonderful, intoxicating, overwhelming. Av elbowed him in the ribs again. Baxil jumped, then glared at
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his cousin, rubbing his belly. “Baxil,” the mistress said. “My tools.” He opened the bag, handing over a folded tool belt. It clinked as she took it, not looking at him, then she strode down the hallway to their left. Baxil watched, uncomfortable. This was the Hallowed Hall, the place where a wealthy man placed images of his Kadasix for reverence. The mistress walked up to the first piece of art. The painting depicted Epan, Lady of Dreams. It was beautiful, a masterpiece of gold leaf on black canvas. The mistress took a knife from her bundle and slashed the painting down the front. Baxil cringed, but said nothing. He’d almost gotten used to the casual way she destroyed art, though he was baffled by it. She did pay the two of them very well, however. Av leaned back against the wall, picking his teeth with a fingernail. Baxil tried to imitate his relaxed pose. The large hallway was lit with topaz chips set in beautiful chandeliers, but they made no move to take them. The mistress did not approve of stealing. “I’ve been thinking of seeking the Old Magic,” Baxil said, partially to keep himself from cringing as the mistress moved on to gouge out the eyes of a fine bust. Av snorted. “Why?” “I don’t know,” Baxil said. “Seems like something to do with myself. I’ve never sought it, you know, and they say every man gets one chance. Ask a boon of the Nightwatcher. Have you used yours?” “Nah,” Av said. “Don’t fancy making the trip all the way to the Valley. Besides, my brother went. Came back with two numb hands. Never could feel anything with them again.” “What was his boon?” Baxil asked as the mistress wrapped up a vase with a cloth, then quietly shattered it on the floor and crushed the pieces. “Don’t know,” Av said. “He never said. Seemed embarrassed. Probably asked for something silly, like a good haircut.” Av smirked. “I was thinking I’d make myself more useful,” Baxil said. “Ask for courage, you know?” “If you want,” Av replied. “I figure there are better ways than the Old Magic. You never know what kind of curse you’ll end up with.” “I could phrase my request perfectly,” Baxil said. “Doesn’t work that way,” Av said. “It’s not a game, no matter how the stories try to put it. The Nightwatcher doesn’t trick you or twist your words. You ask a boon. She gives what she feels you deserve, then gives you a curse to go along with it. Sometimes related, sometimes not.” “And you’re an expert?” Baxil asked. The mistress was slashing another painting. “I thought you said you never went.” “I didn’t,” Av said. “On account of my father going, my mother going, and each of my brothers going. A few got what they wanted. Most all of them regretted the curse, save my father. He got a heap of good cloth; sold to keep us from starving during the lurnip famine a few decades ago.” “What was his curse?” Baxil said.
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“Saw the world upside down from then on.” “Really?” “Yeah,” Av said. “Twisted all about. Like people walk on the ceilings and the sky was underneath him. Said he got used to it pretty quickly, though, and didn’t really think it a curse by the time he died.” Even thinking about that curse made Baxil feel sick. He looked down at his sack of tools. If he weren’t such a coward, would he–maybe–be able to convince the mistress to see him as something more than just hired muscle? If the Prime Kadasix could provide, he thought, it would be very nice if I could know the right thing to do. Thank you. The mistress returned, hair somewhat disheveled. She held out a hand. “Padded mallet, Baxil. There’s a full statue back there.” He responded, pulling the mallet out of the sack and handing it to her. “Perhaps I should get myself a Shardblade,” she said absently, putting the tool up on her shoulder. “But that might make this too easy.” “I wouldn’t mind if it were too easy, mistress,” Baxil noted. She sniffed, walking back down the hallway. Soon she began to pound on a statue at the far end, breaking off its arms. Baxil winced. “Someone’s going to hear that.” “Yeah,” Av said. “Probably why she waited to do it last.” At least the pounding was muffled by the padding. They had to be the only thieves who sneaked into the homes of rich men without taking anything. “Why does she do this, Av?” Baxil found himself asking. “Don’t know. Maybe you should ask her.” “I thought you said I should never do that!” “Depends,” Av said. “How attached to your limbs are you?” “Rather attached.” “Well, if you ever want that changed, start asking the mistress prying questions. Until then, shut up.” Baxil said nothing further. The Old Magic, he thought. It could change me. I will go looking for it. Knowing his luck, though, he wouldn’t be able to find it. He sighed, resting back against the wall as muted thuds continued to come from the mistress’s direction. “I’m thinking of changing my Calling,” Ashir said from behind. Geranid nodded absently as she worked on her equations. The small stone room smelled sharply of spices. Ashir was trying another new experiment. It involved some kind of curry powder and a rare Shin fruit that he’d caramelized. Something like that. She could hear it sizzling on his new fabrial hotplate. “I’m tired of cooking,” Ashir continued. He had a soft, kindly voice. She loved him for that. Partially because he liked to talk–and if you were going to have someone talk while you were attempting to think, they might as well have a soft, kindly voice. “I don’t have passion for it as I once did,” he continued. “Besides, what good will a cook be in the Spiritual Realm?” “Heralds need food,” she said absently, scratching out a line on her writing board, then scribbling another line of numbers beneath it. “Do they?” Ashir asked. “I’ve never been convinced. Oh,
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I’ve read the speculations, but it just doesn’t seem rational to me. The body must be fed in the Physical Realm, but the spirit exists in a completely different state.” “A state of ideals,” she replied. “So, you could create ideal foods, perhaps.” “Hmm…What would be the fun in that? No experimentation.” “I could do without,” she said, leaning forward to inspect the room’s hearth, where two flamespren danced on the logs’ fire. “If it meant never again having to eat something like that green soup you made last month.” “Ah,” he said, sounding wistful. “That was something, wasn’t it? Completely revolting, yet made entirely from appetizing ingredients.” He seemed to consider it a personal triumph. “I wonder if they eat in the Cognitive Realm. Is a food there what it sees itself as being? I’ll have to read and see if anyone has ever eaten while visiting Shadesmar.” Geranid responded with a noncommittal grunt, getting out her calipers and leaning closer to the heat to measure the flamespren. She frowned, then made another notation. “Here, love,” Ashir said, walking over, then knelt beside her and offered a small bowl. “Give this a try. I think you’ll like it.” She eyed the contents. Bits of bread covered with a red sauce. It was men’s food, but they were both ardents, so that didn’t matter. From outside came the sounds of waves gently lapping against the rocks. They were on a tiny Reshi island, technically sent to provide for the religious needs of any Vorin visitors. Some travelers did come to them for that, occasionally even some of the Reshi. But really, this was a way of getting away and focusing on their experiments. Geranid with her spren studies. Ashir with his chemistry–through cooking, of course, as it allowed him to eat the results. The portly man smiled affably, head shaven, grey beard neatly squared off. They both kept to the rules of their stations, despite their seclusion. One did not write the ending of a lifetime of faith with a sloppy last chapter. “No green,” she noted, taking the bowl. “That’s a good sign.” “Hmmm,” he said, leaning down and adjusting his spectacles to inspect her notations. “Yes. It really was fascinating the way that Shin vegetable caramelized. I’m so pleased that Gom brought it to me. You’ll have to go over my notes. I think I got the figures right, but I could be wrong.” He wasn’t as strong at mathematics as he was at theory. Conveniently, Geranid was just the opposite. She took a spoon and tried the food. She didn’t wear a sleeve on her safehand–another one of the advantages of being an ardent. The food was actually quite good. “Did you try this, Ashir?” “Nope,” he said, still looking over her figures. “You’re the brave one, my dear.” She sniffed. “It’s terrible.” “I can see that from how you’re taking another large bite at this moment.” “Yes, but you’d hate it. No fruit. Is this fish you added?” “A dried handful of the little minnows I caught outside
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this morning. Still don’t know what species they are. Tasty, though.” He hesitated, then looked up at the hearth and its spren. “Geranid, what is this?” “I think I’ve had a breakthrough,” she said softly. “But the figures,” he said, tapping the writing board. “You said they were erratic, and they still are.” “Yes,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the flamespren. “But I can predict when they will be erratic and when they won’t be.” He looked at her, frowning. “The spren change when I measure them, Ashir,” she said. “Before I measure, they dance and vary in size, luminosity, and shape. But when I make a notation, they immediately freeze in their current state. Then they remain that way permanently, so far as I can tell.” “What does it mean?” he asked. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me. I have the figures. You’ve got the imagination, dear one.” He scratched at his beard, sitting back, and produced a bowl and spoon for himself. He’d sprinkled dried fruit over his portion; Geranid was half convinced he’d joined the ardentia because of his sweet tooth. “What happens if you erase the figures?” he asked. “The spren go back to being variable,” she said. “Length, shape, luminosity.” He took a bite of his mush. “Go into the other room.” “What?” “Just do it. Take your writing board.” She sighed, standing up, joints popping. Was she getting that old? Starlight, but they’d spent a long time out on this island. She walked to the other room, where their cot was. “What now?” she called. “I’m going to measure the spren with your calipers,” he called back. “I’ll take three measurements in a row. Only write down one of the figures I give you. Don’t tell me which one you’re writing down.” “All right,” she called back. The window was open, and she looked out over a darkening, glassy expanse of water. The Reshi Sea wasn’t as shallow as the Purelake, but it was quite warm most of the time, dotted with tropical islands and the occasional monster of a greatshell. “Three inches, seven tenths,” Ashir called. She didn’t write down the figure. “Two inches, eight tenths.” She ignored the number this time too, but got her chalk ready to write—as quietly as possible—the next numbers he called out. “Two inches, three ten—Wow.” “What?” she called. “It stopped changing sizes. I assume you wrote down that third number?” She frowned, walking back into their small living chamber. Ashir’s hotplate sat on a low table to her right. After the Reshi style, there were no chairs, just cushions, and all the furniture was flat and long, rather than tall. She approached the hearth. One of the two flamespren danced about atop a log, shape changing and length flickering like the flames themselves. The other had taken on a far more stable shape. Its length no longer changed, though its form did slightly. It seemed locked somehow. It almost looked like a little person as it danced over the fire. She reached up and erased
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her notation. It immediately began pulsing and changing erratically like the other one. “Wow,” Ashir repeated. “It’s as if it knows, somehow, that it has been measured. As if merely defining its form traps it somehow. Write down a number.” “What number?” “Any number,” he said. “But one that might be the size of a flamespren.” She did so. Nothing happened. “You have to actually measure it,” he said, tapping his spoon softly against the side of his bowl. “No pretending.” “I wonder at the precision of the instrument,” she said. “If I use one that is less precise, will that give the spren more flexibility? Or is there a threshold, an accuracy beyond which it finds itself bound?” She sat down, feeling daunted. “I need to research this more. Try it for luminosity, then compare that to my general equation of flamespren luminosity as compared to the fire they’re drawn to dance around.” Ashir grimaced. “That, my dear, sounds a lot like math.” “Indeed.” “Then I shall make you a snack to occupy you while you create new marvels of calculation and genius.” He smiled, kissing her forehead. “You just found something wonderful,” he said more softly. “I don’t know what it means yet, but it might very well change everything we understand about spren. And maybe even about fabrials.” She smiled, turning back to her equations. And for once, she didn’t mind at all as he began chatting about his ingredients, working out a new formula for some sugary confection he was sure she’d love. Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, spun between the two guards as their eyes burned out. They slumped quietly to the floor. With three quick strokes, he slashed his Shardblade through the hinges and latch of the grand door. Then he took a deep breath, absorbing the Stormlight from a pouch of gemstones at his waist. He burst alight with renewed power and kicked the door with the force of a Light-enhanced foot. It flew backward into the room, hinges no longer holding it in place, then crashed to the floor, skidding on the stone. The large feast hall inside was filled with people, crackling hearths, and clattering plates. The heavy door slid to a halt, and the room grew quiet. I am sorry, he thought. Then he dashed in to start the slaughter. Chaos ensued. Screams, yells, panic. Szeth leaped atop the nearest dining table and started spinning, cutting down everyone nearby. As he did so, he made certain to listen to the sounds of the dying. He did not shut his ears to the screams. He did not ignore the wails of pain. He paid attention to each and every one. And hated himself. He moved forward, leaping from table to table, wielding his Shardblade, a god of burning Stormlight and death. “Armsmen!” yelled the lighteyed man at the edge of the room. “Where are my armsmen!” Thick of waist and shoulder, the man had a square brown beard and a prominent nose. King Hanavanar of Jah Keved. Not a Shardbearer, though some rumors said
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that he secretly kept a Shardblade. Near Szeth, men and women scrambled away, stumbling over one another. He dropped among them, his white clothing rippling. He cut through a man who was drawing his sword–but also sliced through three women who wanted only to escape. Eyes burned and bodies collapsed. Szeth reached behind himself, infusing the table he’d leaped from, then Lashing it to the far wall with a Basic Lashing, the type that changed which direction was down. The large wooden table fell to the side, tumbling into people, causing more screams and more pain. Szeth found himself crying. His orders were simple. Kill. Kill as you have never killed before. Lay the innocent screaming at your feet and make the lighteyes weep. Do so wearing white, so all know who you are. Szeth did not object. It was not his place. He was Truthless. And he did as his masters demanded. Three lighteyed men got up the nerve to attack him, and Szeth raised his Shardblade in salute. They screamed battle cries as they charged. He was silent. A flick of his wrist cut the blade from the first one’s sword. The length of metal spun in the air as Szeth stepped between the other two, his Blade swishing through their necks. They dropped in tandem, eyes shriveling. Szeth struck the first man from behind, ramming the Blade through his back and out his chest. The man dropped forward–a hole in his shirt, but his skin unmarred. As he hit the floor, his severed sword blade clanged to the stones beside him. Another group came at Szeth from the side, and he drew Stormlight into his hand and flung it in a Full Lashing across the floor at their feet. This was the Lashing that bonded objects; when the men crossed it, their shoes stuck to the floor. They tripped, and found their hands and bodies Lashed to the floor as well. Szeth stepped through them mournfully, striking. The king edged away, as if to round the chamber and escape. Szeth sprayed a table’s top with a Full Lashing, then infused the entire thing with a Basic Lashing as well, pointed at the doorway. The table flipped into the air and crashed against the exit–the side bearing the Full Lashing sticking it to the wall. People tried to pry it out of the way, but that only made them bunch up as Szeth waded into them, Shardblade sweeping. So many deaths. Why? What purpose did it fulfill? When he’d assaulted Alethkar six years before, he’d thought that had been a massacre. He hadn’t known what a true massacre was. He reached the door and found himself standing over the bodies of some thirty people, his emotions caught up in the tempest of Stormlight within him. He hated that Stormlight, suddenly, as much as he hated himself. As much as the cursed Blade he held. And…and the king. Szeth spun on the man. Irrationally, his confused, broken mind blamed this man. Why had he called a feast on this night? Why
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couldn’t he have retired early? Why had he invited so many people? Szeth charged at the king. He passed the dead, who lay twisted on the floor, burned-out eyes staring in lifeless accusation. The king cowered behind his high table. That high table shuddered, quivering oddly. Something was wrong. Instinctively, Szeth Lashed himself to the ceiling. From his viewpoint, the room flipped, and the floor was now the ceiling. Two figures burst out from beneath the king’s table. Two men in Plate, carrying Shardblades, swinging. Twisting in the air, Szeth evaded their swings, then Lashed himself back to the floor, landing on the king’s table just as the king summoned a Shardblade. So the rumors were true. The king struck, but Szeth jumped backward, landing beyond the Shardbearers. Outside, he could hear footfalls. Szeth glanced to see men pouring into the room. The newcomers carried distinctive, diamond-shaped shields. Half-shards. Szeth had heard of the new fabrials, capable of stopping a Shardblade. “You think I didn’t know you were coming?” the king yelled at him. “After you killed three of my highprinces? We’re ready for you, assassin.” He lifted something from beneath the table. Another of those half-shard shields. They were made of metal imbedded with a gemstone hidden at the back. “You are a fool,” Szeth said, Stormlight leaking from his mouth. “Why?” the king called. “You think I should have run?” “No,” Szeth replied, meeting his eyes. “Because you set a trap for me during a feast. And now I can blame you for their deaths.” The soldiers fanned out through the room while the two fully armored Shardbearers stepped toward him, Blades out. The king smiled. “So let it be,” Szeth said, breathing deeply, sucking in the Stormlight of the many gemstones tied in the pouches at his waist. The Light began to rage within him, like a highstorm in his chest, burning and screaming. He breathed in more than he’d ever held before, holding it until he was barely able to keep the Stormlight from ripping him apart. Were those still tears in his eyes? Would that they could hide his crimes. He yanked the strap free at his waist, releasing his belt and the heavy spheres. Then he dropped his Shardblade. His opponents froze in shock as his Blade vanished to mist. Who would drop a Shardblade in the middle of a battle? It defied reason. And so did Szeth. You are a work of art, Szeth-son-Neturo. A god. It was time to see. The soldiers and Shardbearers charged. Mere heartbeats before they reached him, Szeth spun into motion, liquid tempest in his veins. He dodged between the initial sword strikes, spinning into the midst of the soldiers. Holding this much Stormlight made it easier to infuse things; the light wanted out, and it pushed against his skin. In this state, the Shardblade would only be a distraction. Szeth himself was the real weapon. He grabbed the arm of an attacking soldier. It took only an instant to infuse and Lash him upward. The man cried out, falling
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into the air as Szeth ducked another sword thrust. He touched the attacker’s leg, inhumanly lithe. With a look and a blink, he Lashed that man to the ceiling as well. Soldiers cursed, slashing at him, their bulky half-shards suddenly becoming hindrances as Szeth moved among them, graceful as a skyeel, touching arms, legs, shoulders, sending a dozen, then two dozen, men flying in all directions. Most went up, but he sent a barrage of them toward the approaching Shardbearers, who cried out as squirming bodies smashed into them. He jumped backward as a squad of soldiers came at him, Lashing himself to the far wall and spinning into the air. The room changed orientations, and he landed on the wall–which was now down for him. He ran along it toward the king, who waited behind his Shardbearers. “Kill him!” the king said. “Storm you all! What are you doing? Kill him!” Szeth leaped off the wall, Lashing himself downward as he flipped, landing with one knee on the dining table. Silverware and plates clinked as he grabbed a dining knife and infused once, twice, three times. He used a triple Basic Lashing, pointing it in the direction of the king, then dropped it and Lashed himself backward. He lurched away as one of the Shardbearers struck, cutting the table in half. Szeth’s released knife fell far more quickly than it should have, flashing toward the king. He barely got his shield up in time, eyes wide as the knife clanged against the metal. Damnation, Szeth thought, Lashing himself upward with a quarter of a Basic Lashing. That didn’t pull him upward, it just made him much lighter. A quarter of his weight was now pulled upward instead of downward. In essence, he became half as heavy as he had been. He twisted, white clothing flapping gracefully as he dropped amid the common soldiers. Soldiers he’d Lashed earlier began to fall from the high ceiling, their Stormlight running out. A rain of broken bodies, crashing one by one to the floor. Szeth came at the soldiers again. Some men fell as he sent others flying. Their expensive shields clanged to the stones, falling from dead or stunned fingers. Soldiers tried to reach him, but Szeth danced between them, using the ancient martial art of kammar, which used only the hands. It was meant as a less deadly form of fighting, focused on grabbing enemies and using their weight against them, immobilizing them. It was also ideal when one wanted to touch and infuse someone. He was the storm. He was destruction. At his will, men flipped into the air, fell, and died. He swept outward, touching a table and Lashing it upward with half a Basic Lashing. With half its mass pulled upward, half downward, it became weightless. Szeth sprayed it with a Full Lashing, then kicked it toward the soldiers; they stuck to it, their clothing and skin bonding to the wood. A Shardblade hissed through the air beside him, and Szeth exhaled lightly, Stormlight rising from his lips as he
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ducked out of the way. The two Shardbearers attacked as bodies fell from above, but Szeth was too quick, too limber. The Shardbearers didn’t work together. They were accustomed to dominating a battlefield or dueling with a single enemy. Their powerful weapons made them sloppy. Szeth ran on light feet, held to the ground only half as much as other men. He easily leaped another swipe, Lashing himself to the ceiling to give himself just a little more lift before quarter-Lashing to make himself weighted down again. The result was an effortless leap of ten feet into the air. The missed swing hit the ground and cut through the belt he’d dropped earlier, opening one of his large pouches. Spheres and bare gemstones sprayed across the floor. Some infused. Some dun. Szeth pulled Stormlight from those that rolled close. Behind the Shardbearers, the king himself approached, weapon ready. He should have tried to run. The two Shardbearers swung their oversized Blades at Szeth. He spun away from the attacks, reaching out and snatching a shield from the air as it tumbled toward the ground. The man who had been holding it crashed to the floor a second later. Szeth leaped at one of the Shardbearers–a man in gold armor–deflecting his weapon with the shield and pushing past him. The other man, whose Plate was red, swung too. Szeth caught the Blade on his shield, which cracked, barely holding. Still pushing it against the Blade, Szeth Lashed himself behind the Shardbearer while jumping forward. The move flipped Szeth up and over the man. Szeth went on, falling toward the far wall as the second wave of soldiers began to drop to the floor. One crashed into the Shardbearer in red, making him stumble. Szeth hit the wall, landing against the stones. He was so full of Stormlight. So much power, so much life, so much terrible, terrible destruction. Stone. It was sacred. He never thought about that anymore. How could anything be sacred to him, now? As bodies crashed into the Shardbearers, he knelt and placed his hand on a large stone in the wall before him, infusing it. He Lashed it time and time again in the direction of the Shardbearers. Once, twice, ten times, fifteen times. He kept pouring Stormlight into it. It glowed brightly. Mortar cracked. Stone ground against stone. The red Shardbearer turned just as the massive, infused rock fell toward him, moving with twenty times the normal acceleration of a falling stone. It crashed into him, shattering his breastplate, spraying molten bits in all directions. The block hurled him across the room, crushing him against the far wall. He did not move. Szeth was nearly out of Stormlight now. He quarter-Lashed himself to reduce his weight, then loped across the ground. Men were crushed, broken, dead around him. Spheres rolled on the floor, and he drew in their Stormlight. The Light streamed up, like the souls of those he had killed, infusing him. He began to run. The other Shardbearer stumbled backward, holding up his Blade, stepping onto
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the wood of a shattered tabletop, the legs of which had broken free. The king finally realized his trap was failing. He started to flee. Ten heartbeats, Szeth thought. Return to me, you creation of Damnation. Szeth’s heartbeats began to thump in his ears. He screamed–Light bursting from his mouth like radiant smoke–and threw himself to the ground as the Shardbearer swung. Szeth Lashed himself toward the far wall, skidding through the Shardbearer’s legs. He immediately Lashed himself upward. He soared into the air as the Shardbearer rounded on him again. But Szeth wasn’t there. He Lashed himself back downward, dropping behind the Shardbearer to land on the broken tabletop. He stooped and infused it. A man in Shardplate might be protected from Lashings, but the things he stood upon were not. Szeth Lashed the plank upward with a multiple Lashing. It lurched into the air, tossing aside the Shardbearer like a toy soldier. Szeth himself stayed atop the board, riding it upward in a rush of air. As it reached the lofty ceiling he threw himself off, Lashing himself downward once, twice, three times. The tabletop crashed to the ceiling. Szeth fell with incredible speed toward the Shardbearer, who lay dazed on his back. Szeth’s Blade formed in his fingers just as he hit, driving the weapon down through Shardplate. The breastplate exploded and the Blade sank deeply through the man’s chest and into the floor underneath. Szeth stood, pulling his Shardblade free. The fleeing king looked over his shoulder with a cry of disbelieving horror. Both of his Shardbearers had fallen in a matter of seconds. The last of the soldiers nervously moved in to protect his retreat. Szeth had stopped crying. It seemed like he couldn’t cry any longer. He felt numb. His mind…it just couldn’t think. He hated the king. Hated him so badly. And it hurt, physically hurt him, how strong that irrational hatred was. Stormlight rising from him, he Lashed himself toward the king. He fell, feet just above the ground, as if he were floating. His clothing rippled. To those guards still alive, he would seem to be gliding across the ground. He Lashed himself downward at a slight angle and began to swing his Blade as he reached the ranks of the soldiers. He ran through them as if he were moving down a steep slope. Swirling and spinning, he dropped a dozen men, graceful and terrible, drawing in more Stormlight from spheres that had been scattered on the floor. Szeth reached the doorway, men with burning eyes falling to the ground behind him. Just outside, the king ran amid a final small group of guards. He turned and cried out as he saw Szeth, then threw up his half-shard shield. Szeth wove through the guards, then hit the shield twice, shattering it and forcing the king backward. The man tripped, dropping his Blade. It puffed away to mist. Szeth leaped up and Lashed himself downward with a double Basic Lashing. He hit atop the king, his increased weight breaking an arm and pinning
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the man to the ground. Szeth swept his blade through the surprised soldiers, who fell as their legs died beneath them. Finally, Szeth raised his Blade over his head, looking down at the king. “What are you?” the man whispered, eyes watering with pain. “Death,” Szeth said, then drove his Blade point-first through the man’s face and into the rock below. “Father,” Adolin said, pacing in Dalinar’s sitting room. “This is insane.” “That is appropriate,” Dalinar replied dryly. “As—it appears—I am as well.” “I never claimed you were insane.” “Actually,” Renarin noted, “I believe that you did.” Adolin glanced at his brother. Renarin stood beside the hearth, inspecting the new fabrial that had been installed there just a few days ago. The infused ruby, encased in a metal enclosure, glowed softly and gave off a comfortable heat. It was convenient, though it felt wrong to Adolin that no fire lay crackling there. The three were alone in Dalinar’s sitting room, awaiting the advent of the day’s highstorm. It had been one week since Dalinar had informed his sons of his intention to step down as highprince. Adolin’s father sat in one of his large, high-backed chairs, hands laced before him, stoic. The warcamps didn’t know of his decision yet—bless the Heralds—but he intended to make the announcement soon. Perhaps at tonight’s feast. “All right, fine,” Adolin said. “Perhaps I said it. But I didn’t mean it. Or at least I didn’t mean for it to have this effect on you.” “We had this discussion a week ago, Adolin,” Dalinar said softly. “Yes, and you promised to think over your decision!” “I have. My resolve has not wavered.” Adolin continued to pace; Renarin stood up straight, watching him as he stalked past. I’m a fool, Adolin thought. Of course this is what Father would do. I should have seen it. “Look,” Adolin said, “just because you might have some problems doesn’t mean you have to abdicate.” “Adolin, our enemies will use my weakness against us. In fact, you believe that they are already doing so. If I don’t give up the princedom now, matters could grow much worse than they are now.” “But I don’t want to be highprince,” Adolin complained. “Not yet, at least.” “Leadership is rarely about what we want, son. I think too few among the Alethi elite realize that fact.” “And what will happen to you?” Adolin asked, pained. He stopped and looked toward his father. Dalinar was so firm, even sitting there, contemplating his own madness. Hands clasped before him, wearing a stiff blue uniform with a coat of Kholin blue, silver hair dusting his temples. Those hands of his were thick and callused, his expression determined. Dalinar made a decision and stuck to it, not wavering or debating. Mad or not, he was what Alethkar needed. And Adolin had—in his haste—done what no warrior on the battlefield had ever been able to do: chop Dalinar Kholin’s legs out from under him and send him away in defeat. Oh, Stormfather, Adolin thought, stomach twisting in pain. Jezerezeh, Kelek,
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and Ishi, Heralds above. Let me find a way to right this. Please. “I will return to Alethkar,” Dalinar said. “Though I hate to leave our army here down a Shardbearer. Could I…but no, I could not give them up.” “Of course not!” Adolin said, aghast. A Shardbearer, giving up his Shards? It almost never happened unless the Bearer was too weak and sickly to use them. Dalinar nodded. “I have long worried that our homeland is in danger, now that every single Shardbearer fights out here on the Plains. Well, perhaps this change of winds is a blessing. I will return to Kholinar and aid the queen, make myself useful fighting against border incursions. Perhaps the Reshi and the Vedens will be less likely to strike against us if they know that they’d be facing a full Shardbearer.” “That’s possible,” Adolin said. “But they could also escalate and start sending a Shardbearer of their own on raids.” That seemed to worry his father. Jah Keved was the only other kingdom in Roshar that owned a substantial number of Shards, nearly as many as Alethkar. There hadn’t been a direct war between them in centuries. Alethkar had been too divided, and Jah Keved was little better. But if the two kingdoms clashed in force, it would be a war the like of which hadn’t been seen since the days of the Hierocracy. Distant thunder rumbled outside, and Adolin turned sharply toward Dalinar. His father remained in his chair, staring westward, away from the storm. “We will continue this discussion afterward,” Dalinar said. “For now, you two should tie my arms to the chair.” Adolin grimaced, but did as he was told without complaint. Dalinar blinked, looking around. He was on the battlement of a single-walled fortress. Crafted from large blocks of deep red stone, the wall was sheer and straight. It was built across a rift in the leeward side of a tall rock formation overlooking an open plain of stone, like a wet leaf stuck across a crack in a boulder. These visions feel so real, Dalinar thought, glancing at the spear he held in his hand and then down at his antiquated uniform: a cloth skirt and leather jerkin. It was hard to remember that he was really sitting in his chair, arms tied down. He couldn’t feel the ropes or hear the highstorm. He considered waiting out the vision, doing nothing. If this wasn’t real, why should he participate? Yet he didn’t completely believe—couldn’t completely believe—that he was coming up with these delusions on his own. His decision to abdicate to Adolin was motivated by his doubts. Was he mad? Was he misinterpreting? At the very least, he could no longer trust himself. He didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. In such a situation a man should step down from his authority and sort things through. Either way, he felt he needed to live these visions, not ignore them. A desperate piece of him still hoped to come to a solution before he had to abdicate formally.
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He didn’t let that piece gain too much control—a man had to do what was right. But Dalinar would give it this much: He would treat the vision as real while he was part of it. If there were secrets to be found here, only by playing along would he find them. He looked about him. What was he being shown this time, and why? The spearhead on his weapon was of good steel, though his cap appeared to be bronze. One of the six men with him on the wall wore a breastplate of bronze; two others had poorly patched leather uniforms, sliced and resewn with wide stitches. The other men lounged about, idly looking out over the wall. Guard duty, Dalinar thought, stepping up and scanning the landscape outside. This rock formation was at the end of an enormous plain—the perfect situation for a fortress. No army could approach without being seen long before its arrival. The air was cold enough that clumps of ice clung to the stone in shadowed corners. The sunlight did little to dispel the cold, and the weather explained the lack of grass; the blades would be retracted into their holes, awaiting the relief of spring weather. Dalinar pulled his cloak closer, prompting one of his companions to do the same. “Storming weather,” the man muttered. “How long’s it going to last? Been eight weeks already.” Eight weeks? Forty days of winter at once? That was rare. Despite the cold, the other three soldiers looked anything but engaged by their guard duties. One was even dozing. “Stay alert,” Dalinar chided them. They glanced at him, the one who had been dozing blinking awake. All three seemed incredulous. One—a tall, red-haired man—scowled. “This from you, Leef?” Dalinar bit back a retort. Who did they see him as? The chill air made his breath steam, and from behind him he could hear metal clanging as men worked at forges and anvils below. The gates to the fortress were closed, and the archer towers were manned to the left and right. They were at war, but guard duty was always boring work. It took well trained soldiers to remain alert for hours on end. Perhaps that was why there were so many soldiers here; if the quality of eyes watching could not be assured, then quantity would serve. However, Dalinar had an advantage. The visions never showed him episodes of idle peace; they threw him into times of conflict and change. Turning points. So it was that, despite dozens of other eyes watching, he was the first to spot it. “There!” he said, leaning out over the side of the roughstone crenellation. “What is that?” The redheaded man raised a hand, shading his eyes. “Nothing. A shadow.” “No, it’s moving,” said one of the others. “Looks like people. Marching.” Dalinar’s heart began to thump in anticipation as the red-haired man called the alert. More archers rushed onto the battlement, stringing bows. Soldiers gathered in the ruddy courtyard below. Everything was made of that same red rock, and Dalinar
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caught one of the men referring to this place as “Feverstone Keep.” He’d never heard of it. Scouts galloped from the keep on horses. Why didn’t they have outriders already? “It has to be the rear defense force,” one soldier muttered. “They can’t have gotten through our lines. Not with the Radiants fighting….” Radiants? Dalinar stepped closer to listen, but the man gave him a scowl and turned away. Whoever Dalinar was, the others didn’t much care for him. Apparently, this keep was a fallback position behind the front lines of a war. So either that approaching force was friendly, or the enemy had punched through and sent an advance element to besiege the keep. These were reserves, then, which was probably why they had been left with a few horses. They still should have had outriders. When the scouts finally did gallop back to the keep, they bore white flags. Dalinar glanced at his companions, confirming his suspicions as they relaxed. White meant friends. Yet would he have been sent here if it were that simple? If it was just in his mind, would it fabricate a simple, boring vision when it never had before? “We need to be alert for a trap,” Dalinar said. “Someone find out what those scouts saw. Did they identify banners only, or did they get a close look?” The other soldiers—including some of the archers who now filled the wall top—gave him strange looks. Dalinar cursed softly, glancing back out at the shadowy oncoming force. He had a foreboding itch in the back of his skull. Ignoring the odd looks, he hefted his spear and ran down the walkway of the wall top, reaching a set of stairs. They were built in switchbacks, running in zigzags straight down the tall wall, with no railing. He’d been on such fortifications before, and knew how to keep his eyes focused on the steps to avoid vertigo. He reached the bottom and—spear resting on his shoulder—struck out to find someone in charge. The buildings of Feverstone Keep were blocky and utilitarian, built up against one another along the rock walls of the natural rift. Most had square raincatchers on top. With good food stores—or, if lucky, a Soulcaster—such a fortification could withstand a siege for years. He couldn’t read the rank insignias, but he could recognize an officer when he saw one standing in a blood-red cloak with a group of honor guards. He had no mail, just a shiny bronze breastplate over leather, and was conferring with one of the scouts. Dalinar hurried up. Only then did he see that the man’s eyes were dark brown. That gave Dalinar a shock of incredulity. Those around him treated the man like a brightlord. “…the Order of the Stonewards, my lord,” the still-mounted scout was saying. “And a large number of Windrunners. All on foot.” “But why?” the darkeyed officer demanded. “Why are Radiants coming here? They should be fighting the devils on the front lines!” “My lord,” the scout said, “our orders were to return as soon as
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we identified them.” “Well, go back and find out why they’re here!” the officer bellowed, causing the scout to flinch, then turn to ride away. The Radiants. They were usually connected to Dalinar’s visions in one way or another. As the officer began to call commands to his attendants, telling them to prep empty bunkers for the knights, Dalinar followed the scout toward the wall. Men crowded near the kill slits there, peering out at the plain. Like those above, these wore motley uniforms that looked pieced together. They weren’t a ragged bunch, but were obviously wearing secondhand leavings. The scout rode through a sally port as Dalinar entered the shadow of the enormous wall, walking up to the back of a crowd of soldiers. “What is it?” he asked. “The Radiants,” one of the men said. “They’ve broken into a run.” “It’s almost like they’re going to attack,” said another. He chuckled at how ridiculous that sounded, though there was an edge of uncertainty to his voice. What? Dalinar thought, anxious. “Let me through.” Surprisingly, the men parted. As Dalinar pushed by, he could sense their confusion. He’d given the command with the authority of a highprince and a lighteyes, and they’d obeyed instinctively. Now that they saw him, they were uncertain. What was this simple guardsman doing ordering them about? He didn’t give them a chance to question him. He climbed onto the platform against the wall, where a rectangular kill slit looked through the wall and onto the plain. It was too small for a man to get through, but wide enough for archers to fire out. Through it, Dalinar saw that the approaching soldiers had formed a distinct line. Men and women in gleaming Shardplate charged forward. The scout pulled to a halt, looking at the charging Shardbearers. They ran shoulder to shoulder, not a single one of place. Like a crystalline wave. As they drew closer, Dalinar could see that their Plate was unpainted, but it glowed either blue or amber at the joints and across glyphs at the front, as with other Radiants he’d seen in his visions. “They don’t have their Shardblades out,” Dalinar said. “That’s a good sign.” The scout outside backed his horse up. There looked to be a good two hundred Shardbearers out there. Alethkar owned some twenty Blades, Jah Keved a similar number. If one added up all the rest in the world, there might be enough total to equal the two powerful Vorin kingdoms. That meant, so far as he knew, there were less than hundred Blades in all of the world. And here he saw two hundred Shardbearers gathered in one army. It was mind-numbing. The Radiants slowed, falling into a trot, then a walk. The soldiers around Dalinar grew still. The leading Radiants stopped in a line, immobile. Suddenly, others began to fall from the sky. They hit with the sound of rock cracking, puffs of Stormlight blossoming from their figures. These all glowed blue. Soon, there were some three hundred Radiants out on the field. They began
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summoning their Blades. The weapons appeared in their hands, like fog forming and condensing. It was done in silence. Their visors were down. “If them charging without swords was a good sign,” whispered one of the men beside Dalinar, “then what does this mean?” A suspicion began to rise within Dalinar, the horror that he might know what this vision was about to show him. The scout, at last unnerved, turned his horse and galloped back to the keep, screaming for the door to be opened to him. As if a little wood and stone would be a protection against hundreds of Shardbearers. A single man with Plate and Blade was almost an army unto himself, and that wasn’t accounting for the strange powers these people had. The soldiers pulled the sally port open for the scout. Making a snap decision, Dalinar leaped down and charged to the opening. Behind, the officer Dalinar had seen earlier was clearing a path for himself to walk up to the kill slit. Dalinar reached the open door, darting through it just after the scout charged back into the courtyard. Men called after Dalinar, terrified. He ignored them, running out onto the open plain. The expansive, straight wall stretched above him, like a highway up to the sun itself. The Radiants were still distant, though they’d stopped within bowshot. Transfixed by the beautiful figures, Dalinar slowed, then stopped about a hundred feet away. One knight stepped ahead of his companions, his brilliant cape a rich blue. His Shardblade of rippling steel had intricate carvings along the center. He held it toward the keep for a moment. Then he drove it point-first into the stone plain. Dalinar blinked. The Shardbearer removed his helm, exposing a handsome head with blond hair and pale skin, light as that of a man from Shinovar. He tossed the helm to the ground beside his blade. It rolled slightly as the Shardbearer made fists in his gauntlets, arms at his sides. He opened his palms wide, and the gauntlets fell free to the rocky ground. He turned, his Shardplate falling off his body—breastplate dropping free, greaves slipping off. Underneath, he wore a rumpled blue uniform. He stepped free of his bootlike sabatons and continued to walk away, Shardplate and Shardblade—the most precious treasures any man could own—tossed to the ground and abandoned like refuse. The others began to follow suit. Hundreds of men and women, driving Shardblades into the stone and then removing their Plate. The sound of metal hitting stone came like rain. Then like thunder. Dalinar found himself running forward. The door behind him opened and some curious soldiers left the keep. Dalinar reached the Shardblades. They sprouted from the rock like glittering silver trees, a forest of weapons. They glowed softly in a way his own Shardblade never had, but as he dashed among them, their light started to fade. A terrible feeling struck him. A sense of immense tragedy, of pain and betrayal. Stopping where he stood, he gasped, hand to his chest. What was happening? What was
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that dreadful feeling, that screaming he swore he could almost hear? The Radiants. They walked away from their discarded weapons. They all seemed individuals now, each walking alone despite the crowd. Dalinar charged after them, tripping over discarded breastplates and chunks of armor. He finally stumbled free of it all. “Wait!” he called. None of them turned. He could now see others in the distance, far off. A crowd of soldiers, not wearing Shardplate, waiting for the Radiants to return. Who were they, and why hadn’t they come forward? Dalinar He caught up to the Radiants—they weren’t walking very quickly—and grabbed one by the arm. The man turned; his skin was tan and his hair dark, like an Alethi. His eyes were of the palest blue. Unnaturally so, in fact—the irises were nearly white. “Please,” Dalinar said. “Tell me why you are doing this.” The former Shardbearer pulled his arm free and continued to walk away. Dalinar cursed, then ran into the midst of the Shardbearers. They were of all races and nationalities, dark skin and light, some with white Thaylen eyebrows, others with the skin ripples of the Selay. They walked with eyes forward, not speaking to one another, steps slow but resolute. “Will someone tell me why?” Dalinar bellowed. “This is it, isn’t it? The Day of Recreance, the day you betrayed mankind. But why?” None of them spoke. It was as if he didn’t exist. People spoke of betrayal, of the day the Knights Radiant turned their backs on their fellow men. What were they fighting, and why had they stopped? Two orders of knights were mentioned, Dalinar thought. But there were ten orders. What of the other eight? Dalinar fell to his knees in the sea of solemn individuals. “Please. I must know.” Nearby, some of the keep’s soldiers had reached the Shardblades—but rather than chasing after the Radiants, these men were cautiously pulling the Blades free. A few officers scrambled out of the keep, calling for the Blades to be put down. They were soon outnumbered by men who began boiling out of side gates and rushing toward the weapons. “They are the first,” a voice said. Dalinar looked up to see that one of the knights had stopped beside him. It was the man who looked Alethi. He looked over his shoulder at the crowd gathering around the blades. Men had begun to scream at one another, everyone scrambling to get a Blade before they were all claimed. “They are the first,” the Radiant said, turning to Dalinar. Dalinar recognized the depth of that voice. It was the voice that always spoke to him in these visions. “They were the first, and they were also the last.” “Is this the Day of Recreance?” Dalinar asked. “These events will go down in history,” the Radiant said. “They will be infamous. You will have many names for what happened here.” “But why?” Dalinar asked. “Please. Why did they abandon their duty?” The figure seemed to study him. “I have said I that cannot be of much help to
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you. The Night of Sorrows will come, and the True Desolation. The Everstorm.” “Then answer my questions!” Dalinar said. “Read the book. Unite them.” “The book? The Way of Kings?” The figure turned and walked from him, joining the other Radiants as they crossed the stone plain, walking toward places unknown. Dalinar looked back at the melee of soldiers rushing for Blades. Many had already been claimed. There weren’t enough Blades for everyone, and some had begun raising theirs up, using them to fend off those who got too close. As he watched, a bellowing officer with a Blade was attacked by two men behind him. The glow from within the weapons had completely vanished. The killing of that officer made others bold. Other skirmishes started, men scrambling to attack those who had Blades, hoping to get one. Eyes began to burn. Screams, shouts, death. Dalinar watched until he found himself in his quarters, tied to his chair. Renarin and Adolin watched nearby, looking tense. Dalinar blinked, listening to the rain of the passing highstorm on the roof. “I’ve returned,” he said to his sons. “You may calm yourselves.” Adolin helped untie the ropes while Renarin stood up and fetched Dalinar a cup of orange wine. Once Dalinar was free, Adolin stood back. The youth folded his arms. Renarin came back, his face pale. He looked to be having one of his episodes of weakness; indeed, his legs were trembling. As soon as Dalinar took the cup, the youth sat down in a chair and rested his head in his hands. Dalinar sipped the sweet wine. He had seen wars in his visions before. He had seen deaths and monsters, greatshells and nightmares. And yet, for some reason, this one disturbed him more than any. He found his own hand shaking as he raised the cup for a second sip. Adolin was still looking at him. “Am I that bad to watch?” Dalinar asked. “The gibberish you speak is unnerving, Father,” Renarin said. “Unearthly, strange. Skewed, like a wooden building pushed to a slant by the wind.” “You thrash about,” Adolin said. “You nearly tipped over the chair. I had to hold it steady until you stilled.” Dalinar stood up, sighing as he walked over to refill his cup. “And you still think I don’t need to abdicate?” “The episodes are containable,” Adolin said, though he sounded disturbed. “My point was never to get you to abdicate. I just didn’t want you relying upon the delusions to make decisions about our house’s future. So long as you accept that what you see isn’t real, we can move on. No reason for you to give up your seat.” Dalinar poured the wine. He looked eastward, toward the wall, away from Adolin and Renarin. “I don’t accept that what I see isn’t real.” “What?” Adolin said. “But I thought I convinced—” “I accept that I’m no longer reliable,” Dalinar said. “And that there’s a chance I might be going mad. I accept that something is happening to me.” He turned around. “When I first
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began seeing these visions, I believed them to be from the Almighty. You have convinced me that I may have been too hasty in my judgment. I don’t know enough to trust them. I could be mad. Or they could be supernatural without being of the Almighty.” “How could that happen?” Adolin said, frowning. “The Old Magic,” Renarin said softly, still sitting. Dalinar nodded. “What?” Adolin said pointedly. “The Old Magic is a myth.” “Unfortunately, it is not,” Dalinar said, then took another drink of the cool wine. “I know this for a fact.” “Father,” Renarin said. “For the Old Magic to have affected you, you’d have had to travel to the West and seek it. Wouldn’t you?” “Yes,” he said, ashamed. The empty place in his memories where his wife had once existed had never seemed as obvious to him as it did at that moment. He tended to ignore it, with good reason. She’d vanished completely, and it was sometimes difficult for him to remember that he had been married. “These visions are not in line with what I’ve understood about the Nightwatcher,” Renarin said. “Most consider her to be just some kind of powerful spren. Once you’ve sought her out and been given your reward and your curse, she’s supposed to leave you alone. When did you seek her?” “It’s been many years now,” Dalinar said. “Then this probably isn’t due to her influence,” Renarin said. “I agree,” Dalinar said. “But what did you ask for?” Adolin said, frowning. “My curse and boon are my own, son,” Dalinar said. “The specifics are not important.” “But—” “I agree with Renarin,” Dalinar said, interrupting. “This is probably not the Nightwatcher.” “All right, fine. But why bring it up?” “Because, Adolin,” Dalinar said, feeling exasperated. “I don’t know what is happening to me. These visions seem far too detailed to be products of my mind. But your arguments made me think. I could be wrong. Or you could be wrong, and it could be the Almighty. Or it could be something entirely different. We don’t know, and that is why it is dangerous for me to be left in command.” “Well, what I said still holds,” Adolin said stubbornly. “We can contain it.” “No, we can’t,” Dalinar said. “Just because it has come only during highstorms in the past doesn’t mean it couldn’t expand to other times of stress. What if I were struck with an episode on the battlefield?” That was the very same reason they didn’t let Renarin ride into battle. “If that happens,” Adolin said, “we’ll deal with it. For now, we could just ignore—” Dalinar threw a hand up into the air. “Ignore? I cannot ignore something like this. The visions, the book, the things I feel—they’re changing every aspect of me. How can I rule if I do not follow my conscience? If I continue as highprince, I second-guess my every decision. Either I decide to trust myself, or I step down. I cannot stomach the thought of something in-between.” The room fell silent. “So what do
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we do?” Adolin said. “We make the choice,” Dalinar said. “I make the choice.” “Step down or keep heeding the delusions,” Adolin spat. “Either way we’re letting them rule us.” “And you have a better option?” Dalinar demanded. “You’ve been quick to complain, Adolin, which seems a habit of yours. But I don’t see you offering a legitimate alternative.” “I gave you one,” Adolin said. “Ignore the visions and move on!” “I said a legitimate option!” The two stared at one another. Dalinar fought to keep his anger contained. In many ways, he and Adolin were too similar. They understood one another, and that enabled them to push in places that hurt. “Well,” Renarin said, “what if we proved whether or not the visions were true?” Dalinar glanced at him. “What?” “You say these dreams are detailed,” Renarin said, leaning forward with hands clasped in front of him. “What, exactly, do you see?” Dalinar hesitated, then gulped down the rest of his wine. For once he wished he had intoxicating violet instead of orange. “The visions are often of the Knights Radiant. At the end of each episode, someone—I think one of the Heralds—comes to me and commands me to unite the highprinces of Alethkar.” The room fell silent, Adolin looking disturbed, Renarin just sitting quietly. “Today, I saw the Day of Recreance,” Dalinar continued. “The Radiants abandoned their Shards and walked away. The Plate and Blades…faded somehow when they were abandoned. It seems such an odd detail to have seen.” He looked at Adolin. “If these visions are fantasies, then I am a great deal more clever than I once thought myself.” “Do you remember any specifics we could check on?” Renarin asked. “Names? Locations? Events that might be traced in history?” “This last one was of a place called Feverstone Keep,” Dalinar said. “I’ve never heard of it,” Adolin said. “Feverstone Keep,” Dalinar repeated. “In my vision, there was some kind of war going on near there. The Radiants had been fighting on the front lines. They withdrew to this fortress, then abandoned their Shards there.” “Perhaps we could find something in history,” Renarin said. “Proof that either this keep existed or that the Radiants didn’t do what you saw there. Then we’d know, wouldn’t we? If the dreams are delusions or truth?” Dalinar found himself nodding. Proving them had never occurred to him, in part because he had assumed they were real at the start. Once he’d started questioning, he’d been more inclined to keep the nature of the visions hidden and silent. But if he knew that he was seeing real events…well, that would at least rule out the possibility of madness. It wouldn’t solve everything, but it would help a great deal. “I don’t know,” Adolin said, more skeptical. “Father, you’re talking about times before the Hierocracy. Will we be able to find anything in the histories?” “There are histories from the time when the Radiants lived,” Renarin said. “That’s not as far back as the shadowdays or the Heraldic Epochs. We could ask Jasnah. Isn’t this
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what she does? As a Veristitalian?” Dalinar looked at Adolin. “It sounds like it’s worth a try, son.” “Maybe,” Adolin said. “But we can’t take the existence of a single place as proof. You could have heard of this Feverstone Keep, and therefore included it.” “Well,” Renarin said, “that may be true. But if what Father sees are just delusions, then certainly we’ll be able to prove some parts of them untrue. It seems impossible that every detail he imagines is one that he got from a story or history. Some aspects of the delusions would have to be pure fancy.” Adolin nodded slowly. “I…You’re right, Renarin. Yes, it’s a good plan.” “We need to get one of my scribes,” Dalinar said. “So I can dictate the vision I just had while it is fresh.” “Yes,” Renarin said. “The more details we have, the easier it will be to prove—or disprove—the visions.” Dalinar grimaced, setting aside his cup and walking over to the others. He sat down. “All right, but who would we use to record the dictation?” “You have a great number of clerks, Father,” Renarin said. “And they’re all either wife or daughter to one of my officers,” Dalinar said. How could he explain? It was painful enough for him to expose weakness to his sons. If news of what he saw got around to his officers, it could weaken morale. There might come a time to reveal these things to his men, but he would need to do so carefully. And he’d much rather know for himself whether or not he was mad before he approached others. “Yes,” Adolin said, nodding—though Renarin still looked perplexed. “I understand. But, Father, we can’t afford to wait for Jasnah to return. It could be months yet.” “Agreed.” Dalinar said. He sighed. There was another option. “Renarin, send a runner for your aunt Navani.” Adolin glanced at Dalinar, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a good idea. But I thought you didn’t trust her.” “I trust her to keep her word,” Dalinar said, resigned. “And to keep confidence. I told her of my plans to abdicate, and she didn’t tell a soul.” Navani was excellent at keeping secrets. Far better than the women of his court. He trusted them to an extent, but keeping a secret like this would require someone supremely exacting in their words and thoughts. That meant Navani. She would probably find a way to manipulate him using the knowledge, but at least the secret would be safe from his men. “Go, Renarin,” Dalinar said. Renarin nodded and stood. He had apparently recovered from his fit, and walked surefooted to the door. As he left, Adolin approached Dalinar. “Father, what will you do if we prove that I’m right, and it’s just your own mind?” “A part of me wishes for that to happen,” Dalinar said, watching the door swing closed after Renarin. “I fear madness, but at least it is something familiar, something that can be dealt with. I will give you the princedom, then seek help in Kharbranth. But if
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these things are not delusions, I face another decision. Do I accept what they tell me or not? It may very well be better for Alethkar if I prove to be mad. It will be easier, at the least.” Adolin considered that, his brow furrowed, his jaw tense. “And Sadeas? He seems to be nearing the completion of his investigation. What do we do?” It was a legitimate question. Troubles over Dalinar trusting the visions in relation to Sadeas had been what had drawn Dalinar and Adolin to argument in the first place. Unite them. That wasn’t just a command from the visions. It had been Gavilar’s dream. A unified Alethkar. Had Dalinar let that dream—combined with guilt over failing his brother—drive him to construct supernatural rationalizations for seeking his brother’s will? He felt uncertain. He hated feeling uncertain. “Very well,” Dalinar said. “I give you leave to prepare for the worst, just in case Sadeas moves against us. Prepare our officers and call back the companies sent to patrol for bandits. If Sadeas denounces me as having tried to kill Elhokar, we will lock down our warcamp and go on alert. I don’t intend to let him bring me in for execution.” Adolin looked relieved. “Thank you, Father.” “Hope it doesn’t come to that, son,” Dalinar said. “The moment Sadeas and I go to war in earnest, Alethkar as a nation will shatter. Ours are the two princedoms that uphold the king, and if we turn to strife, the others will either pick sides or turn to wars of their own.” Adolin nodded, but Dalinar sat back, disturbed. I’m sorry, he thought to whatever force was sending the visions. But I have to be wise. In a way, this seemed like a second test to him. The visions had told him to trust Sadeas. Well, he would see what happened. “…and then it faded,” Dalinar said. “After that, I found myself back here.” Navani raised her pen, looking thoughtful. It hadn’t taken him long to talk through the vision. She’d scribed expertly, picking out details from him, knowing when to prod for more. She hadn’t said a thing about the irregularity of the request, nor had she seemed amused by his desire to write down one of his delusions. She’d been businesslike and careful. She sat at his writing desk now, hair bound up in curls and crossed with four hair-spikes. Her dress was red, matched by her lip paint, and her beautiful violet eyes were curious. Stormfather, Dalinar thought, but she’s beautiful. “Well?” Adolin asked. He stood leaning against the door out of the chamber. Renarin had gone off to collect a highstorm damage report. The lad needed practice at that sort of activity. Navani raised an eyebrow. “What was that, Adolin?” “What do you think, Aunt?” Adolin asked. “I have never heard of any of these places or events,” Navani said. “But I believe you weren’t expecting to me to know of them. Didn’t you say you wished me to contact Jasnah?” “Yes,” Adolin said. “But surely you have
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analysis.” “I reserve judgment, dear,” Navani said, standing up and folding the paper by pressing down with her safehand, holding it in place while she creased the fold tight. She smiled, walking by Adolin and patting him on the shoulder. “Let’s see what Jasnah says before we do any analyzing, shall we?” “I suppose,” Adolin said. He sounded dissatisfied. “I spent some time talking with that young lady of yours yesterday,” Navani noted to him. “Danlan? I think you’ve made a wise choice. She’s got a mind in that head of hers.” Adolin perked up. “You like her?” “Quite a bit,” Navani said. “I also discovered that she is very fond of avramelons. Did you know that?” “I didn’t, actually.” “Good. I would have hated to do all that work to find you a means of pleasing her, only to discover that you already knew it. I took the liberty of purchasing a basket of the melons on my way here. You’ll find them in the antechamber, watched over by a bored soldier who didn’t look like he was doing anything important. If you were to visit her with them this afternoon, I think you’d find yourself very well received.” Adolin hesitated. He probably knew that Navani was deflecting him from worrying over Dalinar. However, he relaxed, then started smiling. “Well, that might make for a pleasant change, considering events lately.” “I thought it might,” Navani said. “I’d suggest going soon; those melons are perfectly ripe. Besides, I wish to speak with your father.” Adolin kissed Navani fondly on the cheek. “Thank you, Mashala.” He allowed her to get away with some things that others could not; around his favored aunt, he was much like a child again. Adolin’s smile widened as he made his way out the door. Dalinar found himself smiling as well. Navani knew his son well. His smile didn’t last long, however, as he realized that Adolin’s departure left him alone with Navani. He stood up. “What is it you wished to ask of me?” he asked. “I didn’t say I wanted to ask anything of you, Dalinar,” she said. “I just wanted to talk. We are family, after all. We don’t spend enough time together.” “If you wish to speak, I shall fetch some soldiers to accompany us.” He glanced at the antechamber outside. Adolin had shut the second door at the end, closing off his view of his guards—and their view of him. “Dalinar,” she said, walking up to him. “That would kind of defeat the point of sending Adolin away. I was after some privacy.” He felt himself growing stiff. “You should go now.” “Must I?” “Yes. People will think this is inappropriate. They will talk.” “You imply that something inappropriate could happen, then?” Navani said, sounding almost girlishly eager. “Navani, you are my sister.” “We aren’t related by blood,” she replied. “In some kingdoms, a union between us would be mandated by tradition, once your brother died.” “We aren’t in other countries. This is Alethkar. There are rules.” “I see,” she said, strolling closer
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to him. “And what will you do if I don’t go? Will you call for help? Have me hauled away?” “Navani,” he said sufferingly. “Please. Don’t do this again. I’m tired.” “Excellent. That might make it easier to get what I want.” He closed his eyes. I can’t take this right now. The vision, the confrontation with Adolin, his own uncertain emotions…He didn’t know what to make of things any longer. Testing the visions was a good decision, but he couldn’t shake the disorientation he felt from being unable to decide what to do next. He liked to make decisions and stick to them. He couldn’t do that. It grated on him. “I thank you for your scribing and for your willingness to keep this quiet,” he said, opening his eyes. “But I really must ask you to leave now, Navani.” “Oh, Dalinar,” she said softly. She was close enough that he could smell her perfume. Stormfather, but she was beautiful. Seeing her brought to his mind thoughts of days long past, when he’d desired her so strongly that he’d nearly grown to hate Gavilar for winning her affection. “Can’t you just relax,” she asked him, “just for a little while?” “The rules—” “Everyone else—” “I cannot be everyone else!” Dalinar said, more sharply than he intended. “If I ignore our code and ethics, what am I, Navani? The other highprinces and lighteyes deserve recrimination for what they do, and I have let them know it. If I abandon my principles, then I become something far worse than they. A hypocrite!” She froze. “Please,” he said, tense with emotion. “Just go. Do not taunt me today.” She hesitated, then walked away without a word. She would never know how much he wished her to have made one more objection. In his state, he likely would have been unable to argue further. Once the door shut, he let himself sit down in his chair, exhaling. He closed his eyes. Almighty above, he thought. Please. Just let me know what I am to do. A razor-edged arrow snapped into the wood next to Kaladin’s face. He could feel warm blood seep from a gash on his cheek, creeping down his face, mixing with the sweat dripping from his chin. “Stay firm!” he bellowed, charging over the uneven ground, the bridge’s familiar weight on his shoulders. Nearby—just ahead and to the left—Bridge Twenty floundered, four men at the front falling to arrows, their corpses tripping up those behind. The Parshendi archers knelt on the other side of the chasm, singing calmly despite the hail of arrows from Sadeas’s side. Their black eyes were like shards of obsidian. No whites. Just that emotionless black. In those moments—listening to men scream, cry, yell, howl—Kaladin hated the Parshendi as much as he hated Sadeas and Amaram. How could they sing while they killed? The Parshendi in front of Kaladin’s crew pulled and aimed. Kaladin screamed at them, feeling a strange surge of strength as the arrows were loosed. The shafts zipped through the air in a focused wave.
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Ten shafts struck the wood near Kaladin’s head, their force throwing a shudder through it, chips of wood splintering free. But not a one struck flesh. Across the chasm, several of the Parshendi lowered their bows, breaking off their chanting. Their demonic faces bore looks of stupefaction. “Down!” Kaladin yelled as the bridge crew reached the chasm. The ground was rough here, covered in bulbous rockbuds. Kaladin stepped on the vine from one of them, causing the plant to retract. The bridgemen heaved the bridge up and off their shoulders, then expertly stepped aside, lowering it to the ground. Sixteen other bridge crews lined up with them, setting their bridges down. Behind, Sadeas’s heavy cavalry thundered across the plateau toward them. The Parshendi drew again. Kaladin gritted his teeth, throwing his weight against one of the wooden bars on the side, helping shove the massive construction across the chasm. He hated this part; the bridgemen were so exposed. Sadeas’s archers kept firing, moving to a focused, disruptive attack intended to force back the Parshendi. As always, the archers didn’t seem to mind if they hit bridgemen, and several of those shafts flew dangerously close to Kaladin. He continued to push—sweating, bleeding—and felt a stab of pride for Bridge Four. They were already beginning to move like warriors, light on their feet, moving erratically, making it more difficult for the archers to draw a bead on them. Would Gaz or Sadeas’s men notice? The bridge thumped into place, and Kaladin bellowed the retreat. Bridgemen ducked out of the way, dodging between thick-shafted black Parshendi arrows and lighter green-fletched ones from Sadeas’s archers. Moash and Rock hoisted themselves up onto the bridge and ran across it, leaping down beside Kaladin. Others scattered around the back of the bridge, ducking in front of the oncoming cavalry charge. Kaladin lingered, waving for his men to get out of the way. Once they were all free, he glanced back at the bridge, which bristled with arrows. Not a single man down. A miracle. He turned to run— Someone stumbled to his feet on the other side of the bridge. Dunny. The youthful bridgeman had a white and green fletched arrow sprouting from his shoulder. His eyes were wide, dazed. Kaladin cursed, running back. Before he’d taken two steps, a black-hafted arrow took the youth in the other side. He fell to the deck of the bridge, blood spraying the dark wood. The charging horses did not slow. Frantic, Kaladin reached the side of the bridge, but something pulled him back. Hands on his shoulder. He stumbled, spinning to find Moash there. Kaladin snarled at him, trying to shove the man aside, but Moash—using a move Kaladin himself had taught him—yanked Kaladin sideways, tripping him. Moash threw himself down, holding Kaladin to the ground as heavy cavalry thundered across the bridge, arrows cracking against their silvery armor. Broken bits of arrow sprinkled to the ground. Kaladin struggled for a moment, but then let himself fall still. “He’s dead,” Moash said, harshly. “There’s nothing you could have done. I’m
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sorry.” There’s nothing you could have done…. There isn’t ever anything I can do. Stormfather, why can’t I save them? The bridge stopped shaking, the cavalry smashing into the Parshendi and making space for the foot soldiers, who clanked across next. The cavalry would retreat after the foot soldiers gained purchase, the horses too valuable to risk in extended fighting. Yes, Kaladin thought. Think about the tactics. Think about the battle. Don’t think about Dunny. He pushed Moash off him, rising. Dunny’s corpse was mangled beyond recognition. Kaladin set his jaw and turned, striding away without looking back. He brushed past the watching bridgemen and stepped up to the lip of the chasm, clasping his hands to his forearms behind his back, feet spread. It wasn’t dangerous, so long as he stood far down from the bridge. The Parshendi had put away bows and were falling back. The chrysalis was a towering, oval stone mound on the far left side of the plateau. Kaladin wanted to watch. It helped him think like a soldier, and thinking like a soldier helped him get over the deaths of those near him. The other bridgemen tentatively approached and filled in around him, standing at parade rest. Even Shen the parshman joined them, silently imitating the others. He’d joined every bridge run so far without complaint. He didn’t refuse to march against his cousins; he didn’t try to sabotage the assault. Gaz was disappointed, but Kaladin wasn’t surprised. That was how parshmen were. Except the ones on the other side of the chasm. Kaladin stared at the fighting, but had difficulty focusing on the tactics. Dunny’s death tore at him too much. The lad had been a friend, one of the first to support him, one of the best of the bridgemen. Each bridgeman dead edged them closer to disaster. It would take weeks to train the men properly. They’d lose half of their number—perhaps even more—before they were anywhere near ready to fight. That wasn’t good enough. Well, you’ll have to find a way to fix it, Kaladin thought. He’d made his decision, and had no room for despair. Despair was a luxury. He broke parade rest and stalked away from the chasm. The other bridgemen turned to look after him, surprised. Kaladin had recently taken to watching entire battles standing like that. Sadeas’s soldiers had noticed. Many saw it as bridgemen behaving above their station. A few, however, seemed to respect Bridge Four for the display. He knew there were rumors about him because of the storm; these were adding to those. Bridge Four followed, and Kaladin led them across the rocky plateau. He pointedly did not look again at the broken, mangled body on the bridge. Dunny had been one of the only bridgemen to retain any hint of innocence. And now he was dead, trampled by Sadeas, struck by arrows from both sides. Ignored, forgotten, abandoned. There was nothing Kaladin could do for him. So instead, Kaladin made his way to where the members of Bridge Eight lay, exhausted, on a patch
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of open stone. Kaladin remembered lying like that after his first bridge runs. Now he barely felt winded. As usual, the other bridge crews had left their wounded behind as they retreated. One poor man from Eight was crawling toward the others, an arrow through his thigh. Kaladin walked up to him. He had dark brown skin and brown eyes, his thick black hair pulled back into a long, braided tail. Painspren crawled around him. He looked up with as Kaladin and the members of Bridge Four loomed over him. “Hold still,” Kaladin said softly, kneeling and gently turning the man to get a good look at the wounded thigh. Kaladin prodded at it, thoughtful. “Teft, we’ll need a fire. Get out your tinder. Rock, you still have my needle and thread? I’ll need that. Where’s Lopen with the water?” The members of Bridge Four were silent. Kaladin looked up from the confused, wounded man. “Kaladin,” Rock said. “You know how the other bridge crews have treated us.” “I don’t care,” Kaladin said. “We don’t have any money left,” Drehy said. “Even pooling our income, we barely have enough for bandages for our own men.” “I don’t care.” “If we care for the wounded of other bridge crews,” Drehy said, shaking a blond head, “we’ll have to feed them, tend them….” “I will find a way,” Kaladin said. “I—” Rock began. “Storm you!” Kaladin said, standing and sweeping his hand over the plateau. The bodies of bridgemen lay scattered, ignored. “Look at that! Who cares for them? Not Sadeas. Not their fellow bridgemen. I doubt even the Heralds themselves spare a thought for these. “I won’t stand there and watch while men die behind me. We have to be better than that! We can’t look away like the lighteyes, pretending we don’t see. This man is one of us. Just like Dunny was. “The lighteyes talk about honor. They spout empty claims about their nobility. Well, I’ve only known one man in my life who was a true man of honor. He was a surgeon who would help anyone, even those who hated him. Especially those who hated him. Well, we’re going to show Gaz, and Sadeas, Hashal, and any other sodden fool who cares to watch, what he taught me. Now go to work and stop complaining!” Bridge Four stared at him with wide, ashamed eyes, then burst into motion. Teft organized a triage unit, sending some men to search for other wounded bridgemen and others to gather rockbud bark for a fire. Lopen and Dabbid rushed off to fetch their litter. Kaladin knelt down and felt at the wounded man’s leg, checking to see how quickly the blood leaked, and determined that he wouldn’t need to cauterize. He broke the shaft and wiped the wound with some conicshell mucus for numbing. Then he pulled the wood free, eliciting a grunt, and used his personal set of bandages to wrap the wound. “Hold this with your hands,” Kaladin instructed. “And don’t walk on it. I’ll check on you before we march
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back to camp.” “How…” the man said. He didn’t have even a hint of an accent. Kaladin had expected him to be Azish because of the dark skin. “How will I get back if I can’t walk on the leg?” “We will carry you,” Kaladin said. The man looked up, obviously shocked. “I…” Tears formed in his eyes. “Thank you.” Kaladin nodded curtly, turning as Rock and Moash brought over another wounded man. Teft had a fire growing; it smelled of pungent wet rockbud. The new man had hit his head and had a long gash in his arm. Kaladin held out a hand for his thread. “Kaladin, lad,” Teft said with a soft voice, handing him the thread and kneeling. “Now, don’t mark this as complaining, because it ain’t. But how many men can we really carry back with us?” “We’ve done three before,” Kaladin said. “Lashed to the top of the bridge. I’ll bet we could fit three more and carry another in the water litter.” “And if we have more than seven?” “If we bandage them right, some might be able to walk.” “And if there are still more?” “Storm it, Teft,” Kaladin said, beginning to sew. “Then we bring the ones we can and haul the bridge back out again to fetch those we left behind. We’ll bring Gaz with us if the soldiers worry that we’ll run away.” Teft was silent, and Kaladin steeled himself for incredulity. Instead, however, the grizzled soldier smiled. He actually seemed a little watery-eyed. “Kelek’s breath. It’s true. I never thought…” Kaladin frowned, looking up at Teft and holding a hand to the wound to stanch the bleeding. “What was that?” “Oh, nothing.” He scowled. “Get back to work! That lad needs you.” Kaladin turned back to his sewing. “You still carrying a full pouch of spheres with you, like I told you?” Teft asked. “I can’t very well leave them behind in the barracks. But we’ll need to spend them soon.” “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Teft said. “Those spheres are luck, you hear me? Keep them with you and always keep them infused.” Kaladin sighed. “I think there’s something wrong with this batch. They won’t hold their Stormlight. They fall dun after just a few days, every time. Perhaps it’s something to do with the Shattered Plains. It has happened to the other bridgemen too.” “Odd, that,” Teft said, rubbing his chin. “This was a bad approach. Three bridges down. Lots of bridgemen dead. Interesting how we didn’t lose anyone.” “We lost Dunny.” “But not on the approach. You always run point, and the arrows always seem to miss us. Odd, eh?” Kaladin looked up again, frowning. “What are you saying, Teft?” “Nothing. Get back to that sewing! How many times do I have to tell you?” Kaladin raised an eyebrow, but turned back to his work. Teft had been acting very strange lately. Was it the stress? A lot of people were superstitious about spheres and Stormlight. Rock and his team brought three more wounded, then said that
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was all they’d found. Bridgemen who fell often ended up like Dunny, getting trampled. Well, at least Bridge Four wouldn’t have to make a return trip to the plateau. The three had bad arrow wounds, and so Kaladin left the man with the gash on his arm to them, instructing Skar to keep pressure on the unfinished sewing job. Teft heated a dagger for cauterization; these newcomers had obviously lost a lot of blood. One probably wouldn’t make it. So much of the world is at war, he thought as he worked. The dream had highlighted what others already spoke of. Kaladin hadn’t known, growing up in remote Hearthstone, how fortunate his town had been to avoid battle. The entire world warred, and he struggled to save a few impoverished bridgemen. What good did it do? And yet he continued searing flesh, sewing, saving lives as his father had taught him. He began to understand the sense of futility he’d seen in his father’s eyes on those occasional darkened nights when Lirin had turned to his wine in solitude. You’re trying to make up for failing Dunny, Kaladin thought. Helping these others won’t bring him back. He lost the one he’d suspected would die, but saved the other four, and the one who’d taken a knock to the head was beginning to wake up. Kaladin sat back on his knees, weary, hands covered in blood. He washed them off with a stream of water from Lopen’s waterskins, then reached up, finally remembering his own wound, where the arrow had sliced his cheek. He froze. He prodded at his skin, but couldn’t find the wound. He had felt blood on his cheek and chin. He’d felt the arrow slice him, hadn’t he? He stood up, feeling a chill, and raised his hand to his forehead. What was happening? Someone stepped up beside him. Moash’s now-clean-shaven face exposed a faded scar along his chin. He studied Kaladin. “About Dunny…” “You were right to do what you did,” Kaladin said. “You probably saved my life. Thank you.” Moash nodded slowly. He turned to look at the four wounded men; Lopen and Dabbid were giving them drinks of water, asking their names “I was wrong about you,” Moash said suddenly, holding out a hand to Kaladin. Kaladin took the hand, hesitant. “Thank you.” “You’re a fool and an instigator. But you’re an honest one.” Moash chuckled to himself. “If you get us killed, it won’t be on purpose. Can’t say that for some I’ve served under. Anyway, let’s get these men ready for moving.” The cold night air threatened that a stretch of winter might soon be coming. Dalinar wore a long, thick uniform coat over trousers and shirt. It buttoned stiffly up the chest and to the collar, and was long in the back and on the sides, coming down to his ankles, flowing at the waist like a cloak. In earlier years, it might have been worn with a takama, though Dalinar had never liked the skirtlike garments. The purpose of the uniform was
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not fashion or tradition, but to distinguish him easily for those who followed him. He wouldn’t have nearly the problem with the other lighteyes if they would at least wear their colors. He stepped onto the king’s feasting island. Stands had been set up at the sides where the braziers normally stood, each one bearing one of those new fabrials that gave off heat. The stream between the islands had slowed to a trickle; ice had stopped melting in the highlands. Attendance at the feast tonight was small, though that was mostly manifest on the four islands that were not the king’s. Where there was access to Elhokar and the highprinces, people would attend even if the feast were held in the middle of a highstorm. Dalinar walked down the central pathway, and Navani—sitting at a women’s dining table—caught his eyes. She turned away, perhaps still remembering his abrupt words to her at their last meeting. Wit wasn’t at his customary place insulting those who walked onto the king’s island; in fact, he wasn’t to be seen at all. Not surprising, Dalinar thought. Wit didn’t like to grow predictable; he’d spent several recent feasts on his pedestal doling out insults. Likely he felt he’d played out that tactic. All nine other highprinces were in attendance. Their treatment of Dalinar had grown stiff and cold since refusing his requests to fight together. As if they were offended by the mere offer. Lesser lighteyes made alliances, but the highprinces were like kings themselves. Other highprinces were rivals, to be kept at arm’s length. Dalinar sent a servant to fetch him food and sat down at the table. His arrival had been delayed while he took reports from the companies he’d called back, so he was one of the last to eat. Most of the others had turned to mingling. To the right, an officer’s daughter was playing a serene flute melody to a group of onlookers. To the left, three women had set up sketchpads and were each drawing the same man. Women were known to challenge each other to duels in the way of men with Shardblades, though they rarely used the word. These were always “friendly competitions” or “games of talent.” His food arrived, steamed stagm—a brownish tuber that grew in deep puddles—atop a bed of boiled tallew. The grain was puffed with water, and the entire meal was drenched in a thick, peppery, brown gravy. He slid out his knife and sliced a disk off the end of the stagm. Using his knife to spread tallew over the top, he grasped the vegetable disk between two fingers and began eat. It had been prepared both spicy and hot this night, probably because of the chill, and tasted good as he chewed, the steam from his plate fogging the air in front of him. So far, Jasnah had not replied regarding his vision, though Navani claimed she might be able to find something on her own. She was a renowned scholar herself, though her interests had always been more in fabrials. He
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glanced at her. Was he a fool to off end her as he had? Would it make her use the knowledge of his visions against him? No, he thought. She wouldn’t be that petty. Navani did seem to care for him, though her affection was inappropriate. The chairs around him were left empty. He was becoming a pariah, first because of his talk of the Codes, then because of his attempts to get the highprinces to work with him, and finally because of Sadeas’s investigation. No wonder Adolin was worried. Suddenly, someone slid right into the seat beside Dalinar, wearing a black cloak against the chill. It wasn’t one of the highprinces. Who would dare— The figure lowered his hood, revealing Wit’s hawklike face. All lines and peaks, with a sharp nose and jaw, delicate eyebrows, and keen eyes. Dalinar sighed, waiting for the inevitable stream of too-clever quips. Wit, however, didn’t speak. He inspected the crowd, his expression intense. Yes, Dalinar thought. Adolin is right about this one too. Dalinar himself had judged the man too harshly in the past. He was not the fool some of his predecessors had been. Wit continued in silence, and Dalinar decided that—perhaps—the man’s prank this night was to sit down beside people and unnerve them. It wasn’t much of a prank, but Dalinar often missed the point of what Wit did. Perhaps it was terribly clever if one had the mind for it. Dalinar returned to his meal. “Winds are changing,” Wit whispered. Dalinar glanced at him. Wit’s eyes narrowed, and he scanned the night sky. “It’s been happening for months now. A whirlwind. Shifting and churning, blowing us round and around. Like a world spinning, but we can’t see it because we’re too much a part of it.” “World spinning. What foolishness is this?” “The foolishness of men who care, Dalinar,” Wit said. “And the brilliance of those who do not. The second depend on the first—but also exploit the first—while the first misunderstand the second, hoping that the second are more like the first. And all of their games steal our time. Second by second.” “Wit,” Dalinar said with a sigh. “I haven’t the mind for this tonight. I’m sorry if I’m missing your intent, but I have no idea what you mean.” “I know,” Wit said, then looked directly at him. “Adonalsium.” Dalinar frowned more deeply. “What?” Wit searched his face. “Have you ever heard the term, Dalinar?” “Ado…what?” “Nothing,” Wit said. He seemed preoccupied, unlike his usual self. “Nonsense. Balderdash. Figgldygrak. Isn’t it odd that gibberish words are often the sounds of other words, cut up and dismembered, then stitched into something like them—yet wholly unlike them at the same time?” Dalinar frowned. “I wonder if you could do that to a man. Pull him apart, emotion by emotion, bit by bit, bloody chunk by bloody chunk. Then combine them back together into something else, like a Dysian Aimian. If you do put a man together like that, Dalinar, be sure to name him Gibberish, after me. Or perhaps Gibletish.”
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“Is that your name, then? Your real name?” “No, my friend,” Wit said, standing up. “I’ve abandoned my real name. But when next we meet, I’ll think of a clever one for you to call me. Until then, Wit will suffice—or if you must, you may call me Hoid. Watch yourself; Sadeas is planning a revelation at the feast tonight, though I know not what it is. Farewell. I’m sorry I didn’t insult you more.” “Wait, you’re leaving?” “I must. I hope to return. I’ll do so if I’m not killed. Probably will anyway. Apologize to your nephew for me.” “He won’t be happy,” Dalinar said. “He’s fond of you.” “Yes, it’s one of his more admirable traits,” Wit said. “Alongside that of paying me, letting me eat his expensive food, and giving me opportunity to make sport of his friends. The cosmere, unfortunately, takes precedence over free food. Watch yourself, Dalinar. Life becomes dangerous, and you’re at the center of it.” Wit nodded once, then ducked into the night. He put his hood up, and soon Dalinar couldn’t separate him from the darkness. Dalinar turned back to his meal. Sadeas is planning a revelation at the feast tonight, though I know not what it is. Wit was rarely wrong—though he was almost always odd. Was he really leaving, or would he still be in camp the next morning, laughing at the prank he had played on Dalinar? No, Dalinar thought. That wasn’t a prank. He waved over a master-servant in black and white. “Fetch my elder son for me.” The servant bowed and withdrew. Dalinar ate the rest of his food in silence, glancing occasionally at Sadeas and Elhokar. They weren’t at the dining table any longer, and so Sadeas’s wife had joined them. Ialai was a curvaceous woman who reportedly dyed her hair. That indicated foreign blood in her family’s past—Alethi hair always bred true, proportionate to how much Alethi blood you had. Foreign blood would mean stray hairs of another color. Ironically, mixed blood was far more common in lighteyes than darkeyes. Darkeyes rarely married foreigners, but the Alethi houses often needed alliances or money from outside. Food finished, Dalinar stepped down from the king’s table onto the island proper. The woman was still playing her melancholy song. She was quite good. A few moments later, Adolin strode onto the king’s island. He hurried over to Dalinar. “Father? You sent for me?” “Stay close. Wit told me that Sadeas plans to make a storm of something tonight.” Adolin’s expression darkened. “Time to go, then.” “No. We need to let this play out.” “Father—” “But you may prepare,” Dalinar said softly. “Just in case. You invited officers of our guard to the feast tonight?” “Yes,” Adolin said. “Six of them.” “They have my further invitation to the king’s island. Pass the word. What of the King’s Guard?” “I’ve made sure that some of the ones guarding the island tonight are among those most loyal to you.” Adolin nodded toward a space in the darkness to the side of the feasting
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basin. “I think we should position them over there. It’ll make a good line of retreat in case the king tries to have you arrested.” “I still don’t think it will come to that.” “You can’t be sure. Elhokar allowed this investigation in the first place, after all. He’s growing more and more paranoid.” Dalinar glanced over at the king. The younger man almost always wore his Shardplate these days, though he didn’t have it on now. He seemed continually on edge, glancing over his shoulder, eyes darting from side to side. “Let me know when the men are in position,” Dalinar said. Adolin nodded, walking away quickly. The situation gave Dalinar little stomach for mingling. Still, standing alone and looking awkward was no better, so he made his way to where Highprince Hatham was speaking with a small group of lighteyes beside the main firepit. They nodded to Dalinar as he joined them; regardless of the way they were treating him in general, they would never turn him away at a feast like this. That simply wasn’t done to one of his rank. “Ah, Brightlord Dalinar,” Hatham said in his smooth, overly polite way. The long-necked, slender man wore a ruffled green shirt underneath a robelike coat, with a darker green silk scarf around the neck. A faintly glowing ruby sat on each of his fingers; they’d each had some of their Stormlight drained away by a fabrial made for the purpose. Of Hatham’s four companions, two were lesser lighteyes and one was a short white-robed ardent Dalinar didn’t know. The last was a red-gloved Natan man with bluish skin and stark white hair, two locks dyed a deep red and braided down to hang alongside his cheeks. He was a visiting dignitary; Dalinar had seen him at the feasts. What was his name again? “Tell me, Brightlord Dalinar,” Hatham said. “Have you been paying much attention to the conflict between the Tukari and the Emuli?” “It’s a religious conflict, isn’t it?” Dalinar asked. Both were Makabaki kingdoms, on the southern coast where trade was plentiful and profitable. “Religious?” the Natan man said. “No, I wouldn’t say that. All conflicts are essentially economic in nature.” Au-nak, Dalinar recalled. That’s his name. He spoke with an airy accent, overextending all of his “ah” and “oh” sounds. “Money is behind every war,” Au-nak continued. “Religion is but an excuse. Or perhaps a justification.” “There’s a difference?” the ardent said, obviously taking offense at Au-nak’s tone. “Of course,” Au-nak said. “An excuse is what you make after the deed is done, while a justification is what you offer before.” “I would say an excuse is something you claim, but do not believe, Nak-ali.” Hatham was using the high form of Au-nak’s name. “While a justification is something you actually believe.” Why such respect? The Natan must have something that Hatham wanted. “Regardless,” Au-nak said. “This particular war is over the city of Sesemalex Dar, which the Emuli have made their capital. It’s an excellent trade city, and the Tukari want it.” “I’ve heard of
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Sesemalex Dar,” Dalinar said, rubbing his chin. “The city is quite spectacular, filling rifts cut into the stone.” “Indeed,” Au-nak said. “There’s a particular composition of the stone there that lets water drain. The design is amazing. It’s obviously one of the Dawncities.” “My wife would have something to say on that,” Hatham said. “She makes the Dawncities her study.” “The city’s pattern is central to the Emuli religion,” the ardent said. “They claim it is their ancestral homeland, a gift to them from the Heralds. And the Tukari are led by that god-priest of theirs, Tezim. So the conflict is religious in nature.” “And if the city weren’t such a fantastic port,” Au-nak said, “would they be as persistent about proclaiming the city’s religious significance? I think not. They’re pagans, after all, so we can’t presume their religion has any real importance.” Talk of the Dawncities had been popular lately among the lighteyes—the idea that certain cities could trace their origins back to the Dawnsingers. Perhaps… “Have any of you heard of a place known as Feverstone Keep?” Dalinar asked. The others shook their heads; even Au-nak had nothing to say. “Why?” Hatham asked. “Just curious.” The conversation continued, though Dalinar let his attention wander back toward Elhokar and his circle of attendants. When would Sadeas make his announcement? If he intended to suggest that Dalinar be arrested, he wouldn’t do it at a feast, would he? Dalinar forced his attention back to the conversation. He really should pay more heed to what was happening in the world. Once, news of which kingdoms were in conflict had fascinated him. So much had changed since the visions began. “Perhaps it’s not economic or religious in nature,” Hatham said, trying to bring an end to the argument. “Everyone knows that the Makabaki tribes have odd hatreds of one another.” “Perhaps,” Au-nak said. “Does it matter?” Dalinar asked. The others turned to him. “It’s just another war. If they weren’t fighting one another, they’d find others to attack. It’s what we do. Vengeance, honor, riches, religion—the reasons all just produce the same result.” The others fell still, the silence quickly growing awkward. “Which devotary do you credit, Brightlord Dalinar?” Hatham asked, thoughtful, as if trying to remember something he’d forgotten. “The Order of Talenelat.” “Ah,” Hatham said. “Yes, it makes sense. They do hate arguing over religion. You must find this discussion terribly boring.” A safe out from the conversation. Dalinar smiled, nodding in thanks to Hatham’s politeness. “The Order of Talenelat?” Au-nak said. “I always considered that a devotary for the lesser people.” “This from a Natan,” the Ardent said, stuffily. “My family has always been devoutly Vorin.” “Yes,” the ardent replied, “conveniently so, since your family has used its Vorin ties to trade favorably in Alethkar. One wonders if you are equally devout when not standing on our soil.” “I don’t have to be insulted like this,” Au-nak snapped. He turned and strode way, causing Hatham to raise a hand. “Nak-ali!” Hatham called, rushing after him anxiously. “Please, ignore him!” “Insufferable bore,”
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the ardent said softly, taking a sip of his wine—orange, of course, as he was a man of the clergy. Dalinar frowned at him. “You are bold, ardent,” he said sternly. “Perhaps foolishly so. You insult a man Hatham wants to do business with.” “Actually, I belong to Brightlord Hatham,” the ardent said. “He asked me to insult his guest—Brightlord Hatham wants Au-nak to think that he is shamed. Now, when Hatham agrees quickly to Au-nak’s demands, the foreigner will assume it was because of this—and won’t delay the contract signing out of suspicion that it is proceeding too easily.” Ah, of course. Dalinar looked after the fleeing pair. They go to such lengths. Considering that, what was Dalinar to think of Hatham’s politeness earlier, when he had given Dalinar a reason to explain his apparent distaste for conflict? Was Hatham preparing Dalinar for some covert manipulation? The ardent cleared his throat. “I would appreciate it if you did not repeat to anyone what I just told you, Brightlord.” Dalinar noticed Adolin returning to the king’s island, accompanied by six of Dalinar’s officers, in uniform and wearing their swords. “Why did you tell me in the first place, then?” Dalinar asked, turning his attention back to the white-robed man. “Just as Hatham wishes his partner in negotiations to know of his goodwill, I wish you to know of our goodwill toward you, Brightlord.” Dalinar frowned. He’d never had much to do with the ardents—his devotary was simple and straightforward. Dalinar got his fill of politics with the court; he had little desire to find more in religion. “Why? What should it matter if I have goodwill toward you?” The ardent smiled. “We will speak with you again.” He bowed low and withdrew. Dalinar was about to demand more, but Adolin arrived, looking after Highprince Hatham. “What was that all about?” Dalinar just shook his head. Ardents weren’t supposed to engage in politics, whatever their devotary. They’d been officially forbidden to do so since the Hierocracy. But, as with most things in life, the ideal and the reality were two separate things. The lighteyes couldn’t help but use the ardents in their schemes, and so—more and more—the devotaries found themselves a part of the court. “Father?” Adolin asked. “The men are in place.” “Good,” Dalinar said. He set his jaw and then crossed the small island. He would see this fiasco finished with, once and for all. He passed the firepit, a wave of dense heat making the left side of his face prickle with sweat while the right side was still chilled by the autumn cold. Adolin hurried up to walk by him, hand on his side sword. “Father? What are we doing?” “Being provocative,” Dalinar said, striding right up to where Elhokar and Sadeas were chatting. Their crowd of sycophants reluctantly parted for Dalinar. “…and I think that—” The king cut off, glancing at Dalinar. “Yes, Uncle?” “Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “What is the status of your investigation of the cut girth strap?” Sadeas blinked. He held a cup of violet wine
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in his right hand, his long, red velvet robe open at the front to expose a ruffled white shirt. “Dalinar, are you—” “Your investigation, Sadeas,” Dalinar said firmly. Sadeas sighed, looking at Elhokar. “Your Majesty. I was actually planning to make an announcement regarding this very subject tonight. I was going to wait until later, but if Dalinar is going to be so insistent…” “I am,” Dalinar said. “Oh, go ahead, Sadeas,” the king said. “You have me curious now.” The king waved to a servant, who rushed to quiet the flutist while another servant tapped the chimes to call for silence. In moments, the people on the island stilled. Sadeas gave Dalinar a grimace that somehow conveyed the message, “You demanded this, old friend.” Dalinar folded his arms, keeping his gaze fixed on Sadeas. His six Cobalt Guardsmen stepped up behind him, and Dalinar noticed that a group of similar lighteyed officers from Sadeas’s warcamp were listening nearby. “Well, I wasn’t planning to have such an audience,” Sadeas said. “Mostly, this was planned for Your Majesty only.” Unlikely, Dalinar thought, trying to suppress his anxiety. What would he do if Adolin was right and Sadeas charged him with trying to assassinate Elhokar? It would, indeed, be the end of Alethkar. Dalinar would not go quietly, and the warcamps would turn against one another. The nervous peace that had held them together for the last decade would come to an end. Elhokar would never be able to hold them together. Also, if it turned to battle, Dalinar would not fare well. The others were alienated from him; he’d have enough trouble facing Sadeas—if several of the others joined against him, he would fall, horribly outnumbered. He could see now Adolin thought it an incredible act of foolishness to have listened to the visions. And yet, in a powerfully surreal moment, Dalinar felt that he’d done the correct thing. He’d never felt it as strongly as at that moment, preparing to be condemned. “Sadeas, don’t weary me with your sense of drama,” Elhokar said. “They’re listening. I’m listening. Dalinar looks like he’s ready to burst a vein in his forehead. Speak.” “Very well,” Sadeas said, giving his wine to a servant. “My very first task as Highprince of Information was to discover the true nature of the attempt on His Majesty’s life during the greatshell hunt.” He waved a hand, motioning to one of his men, who hurried away. Another stepped forward, handing Sadeas the broken leather strap. “I took this strap to three separate leatherworkers in three different warcamps. Each came to the same conclusion. It was cut. The leather is relatively new, and has been well cared for, as proven by the lack of cracking and flaking in other areas. The tear is too even. Someone slit it.” Dalinar felt a sense of dread. That was near what he had discovered, but it was presented in the worst possible light. “For what purpose—” Dalinar began. Sadeas held up a hand. “Please, Highprince. First you demand I report, then you interrupt me?”
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Dalinar fell still. Around them, more and more of the important light-eyes were gathering. He could sense their tension. “But when was it cut?” Sadeas said, turning to address the crowd. He did have a flair for the dramatic. “That was pivotal, you see. I took leave to interview numerous men who were on that hunt. None reported seeing anything specific, though all remembered that there was one odd event. The time when Brightlord Dalinar and His Majesty raced to a rock formation. A time when Dalinar and the king were alone.” There were whispers from behind. “There was a problem, however,” Sadeas said. “One Dalinar himself raised. Why cut the strap on a Shardbearer’s saddle? A foolish move. A horseback fall wouldn’t be of much danger to a man wearing Shardplate.” To the side, the servant Sadeas had sent away returned, leading a youth with sandy hair bearing only a few hints of black. Sadeas fished something out of a pouch at his waist, holding it up. A large sapphire. It wasn’t infused. In fact, looking closely, Dalinar could see that it was cracked—it wouldn’t hold Stormlight now. “The question drove me to investigate the king’s Shardplate,” Sadeas said. “Eight of the ten sapphires used to infuse his Plate were cracked following the battle.” “It happens,” Adolin said, stepping up beside Dalinar, hand on his side sword. “You lose a few in every battle.” “But eight?” Sadeas asked. “One or two is normal. But have you ever lost eight in one battle before, young Kholin?” Adolin’s only reply was a glare. Sadeas tucked away the gemstone, nodding to the youth his men had brought. “This is one of the grooms in the king’s employ. Fin, isn’t it?” “Y…Yes, brightlord,” the boy stammered. He couldn’t be older than twelve. “What is it you told me earlier, Fin? Please, say it again so that all may hear.” The darkeyed youth cringed, looking sick. “Well, Brightlord sir, it was just this: Everyone spoke of the saddle being checked over in Brightlord Dalinar’s camp. And I suppose it was, right as that. But I’m the one who prepared His Majesty’s horse afore it was turned over to Brightlord Dalinar’s men. And I did it, I promise I did. Put on his favorite saddle and everything. But…” Dalinar’s heart raced. He had to hold himself back from summoning his Blade. “But what?” Sadeas said to Fin. “But when the king’s head grooms took the horse past on its way to the Highprince Dalinar’s camp, it was wearing a different saddle. I swear it.” Several of those standing around them seemed confused by this admission. “Aha!” Adolin said, pointing. “But that happened in the king’s palace complex!” “Indeed,” Sadeas said, raising an eyebrow at Adolin. “How keen-minded of you, young Kholin. This discovery—mixed with the cracked gemstones—means something. I suspect that whoever attempted to kill His Majesty planted in his Shardplate flawed gemstones that would crack when strained, losing their Stormlight. Then they weakened the saddle girth with a careful slit. The hope would be that His
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Majesty would fall while fighting a great-shell, allowing it to attack him. The gemstones would fail, the Plate would break, and His Majesty would fall to an ‘accident’ while hunting.” Sadeas raised a finger as the crowd began to whisper again. “However, it is important to realize that these events—the switching of the saddle or the planting of the gemstones—must have happened before His Majesty met up with Dalinar. I feel that Dalinar is a very unlikely suspect. In fact, my present guess is that the culprit is someone that Brightlord Dalinar has offended; that someone wanted us all to think he might be involved. It may not have actually been intended to kill His Majesty, just to cast suspicion upon Dalinar.” The island fell silent, even the whispers dying. Dalinar stood, stunned. I…I was right! Adolin finally broke the quiet. “What?” “All evidence points to your father being innocent, Adolin,” Sadeas said sufferingly. “You find this surprising?” “No, but…” Adolin’s brow furrowed. Around them, the lighteyes began talking, sounding disappointed. They began to disperse. Dalinar’s officers remained standing behind him, as if expecting a surprise strike. Blood of my fathers… Dalinar thought. What does it mean? Sadeas waved for his men to take the groom away, then nodded to Elhokar and withdrew in the direction of the evening trays, where warmed wine sat in pitchers next to toasted breads. Dalinar caught up to Sadeas as the shorter man was filling a small plate. Dalinar took him by the arm, the fabric of Sadeas’s robe soft beneath his fingers. Sadeas looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Thank you,” Dalinar said quietly. “For not going through with it.” Behind them, the flutist resumed her playing. “For not going through with what?” Sadeas said, setting down his small plate, then prying Dalinar’s fingers free. “I had hoped to make this presentation after I’d discovered more concrete proof that you weren’t involved. Unfortunately, pressed as I was, the best I could do was to indicate that it was unlikely you were involved. There will still be rumors, I’m afraid.” “Wait. You wanted to prove me innocent?” Sadeas scowled, picking up his plate again. “Do you know what your problem is, Dalinar? Why everyone has begun finding you so tiresome?” Dalinar didn’t reply. “The presumption. You’ve grown despicably self-righteous. Yes, I asked Elhokar for this position so I could prove you innocent. Is it so storming difficult for you to believe someone else in this army might do something honest?” “I…” Dalinar said. “Of course it is,” Sadeas said. “You’ve been looking down on us like a man standing atop a single sheet of paper, who therefore thinks himself so high as to see for miles. Well, I think that book of Gavilar’s is crem, and the Codes are lies people pretended to follow so that they could justify their shriveled consciences. Damnation, I’ve got one of those shriveled consciences myself. But I didn’t want to see you maligned for this bungled attempt to kill the king. If you’d wanted him dead, you’d have just burned
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out his eyes and been done with it!” Sadeas took a drink of his steaming violet wine. “The problem is, Elhokar kept on and on about that blasted strap. And people started talking, since he was under your protection and you two rode off together like that. Stormfather only knows how they could think you would try to have Elhokar assassinated. You can barely bring yourself to kill Parshendi these days.” Sadeas stuffed a small piece of toasted bread in his mouth, then moved to walk away. Dalinar caught him by the arm again. “I…I owe you a debt. I shouldn’t have treated you as I have these six years.” Sadeas rolled his eyes, chewing his bread. “This wasn’t for you alone. So long as everyone thought you were behind the attempt, nobody would figure out who really tried to have Elhokar killed. And someone did, Dalinar. I don’t accept eight gemstones cracking in one fight. The strap alone would have been a ridiculous way to attempt an assassination, but with weakened Shardplate…I’m half tempted to believe that the surprise arrival of the chasmfiend was orchestrated too. How someone would manage that though, I have no idea.” “And the talk of me being framed?” Dalinar asked. “Mostly to give the others something to gossip about while I sort through what’s really happening.” Sadeas looked down at Dalinar’s hand on his arm. “Would you let go?” Dalinar released his grip. Sadeas set down his plate, straightening his robe and dusting off the shoulder. “I haven’t give up on you yet, Dalinar. I’m probably going to need you before this is all through. I do have to say, though, I don’t know what to make of you lately. That talk of you wanting to abandon the Vengeance Pact. Is there any truth to that?” “I mentioned it, in confidence, to Elhokar as a means of exploring options. So yes, there’s truth to it, if you must know. I’m tired of this fighting. I’m tired of these Plains, of being away from civilization, of killing Parshendi a handful at a time. However, I’ve given up on getting us to retreat. Instead, I want to win. But the highprinces won’t listen! They all assume that I’m trying to dominate them with some crafty trick.” Sadeas snorted. “You’d sooner punch a man in the face than stab him in the back. Blessedly straightforward.” “Ally with me,” Dalinar said after him. Sadeas froze. “You know I’m not going to betray you, Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “You trust me as the others never can. Try what I’ve been trying to get the other highprinces to agree to. Jointly assault plateaus with me.” “Won’t work,” Sadeas said. “There’s no reason to bring more than one army on an assault. I leave half my troops behind each time as it is. There isn’t room for more to maneuver.” “Yes, but think,” Dalinar said. “What if we tried new tactics? Your quick bridge crews are fast, but my troops are stronger. What if you pushed quickly to a plateau with an advance force
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to hold off the Parshendi? You could hold until my stronger, but slower, forces arrive.” That gave Sadeas pause. “It could mean a Shardblade, Sadeas.” Sadeas’s eyes grew hungry. “I know you’ve fought Parshendi Shardbearers,” Dalinar said, seizing on that thread, “But you’ve lost. Without a Blade, you’re at a disadvantage.” Parshendi Shardbearers had a habit of escaping after entering battles. Regular spearmen couldn’t kill one, of course. It took a Shardbearer to kill a Shardbearer. “I’ve slain two in the past. I don’t often have the opportunity, however, because I can’t get to the plateaus quickly enough. You can. Together, we can win more often, and I can get you a Blade. We can do this, Sadeas. Together. Like the old days.” “The old days,” he said idly. “I’d like to see the Blackthorn in battle again. How would we split the gemhearts?” “Two-thirds to you,” Dalinar said. “As you’ve got twice as good a record at winning assaults as I have.” Sadeas looked thoughtful. “And the Shardblades?” “If we find a Shardbearer, Adolin and I will take him. You win the Blade.” He raised a finger. “But I win the Plate. To give to my son, Renarin.” “The invalid?” “What would you care?” Dalinar said. “You already have Plate. Sadeas, this could mean winning the war. If we start to work together, we could bring the others in, prepare for a large-scale assault. Storms! We might not even need that. We two have the largest armies; if we could find a way to catch the Parshendi on a large enough plateau with the bulk of our troops—surrounding them so they couldn’t escape—we might be able to damage their forces enough to bring an end to this all.” Sadeas mulled it over. Then he shrugged. “Very well. Send me details via messenger. But do it later. I’ve already missed too much of tonight’s feast.” One week after losing Dunny, Kaladin stood on another plateau, watching a battle proceed. This time, however, he didn’t have to save the dying. They’d actually arrived before the Parshendi. A rare but welcome event. Sadeas’s army was now holding out at the center of the plateau, protecting the chrysalis while some of his soldiers cut into it. The Parshendi kept leaping over the line and attacking the men working on the chrysalis. He’s getting surrounded, Kaladin thought. It didn’t look good, which would mean a miserable return trip. Sadeas’s men were bad enough when, arriving second, they were rebuffed. Losing the gemheart after arriving first…would leave them even more frustrated. “Kaladin!” a voice said. Kaladin spun to see Rock trotting up. Was someone wounded? “Have you seen this thing?” The Horneater pointed. Kaladin turned, following his gesture. Another army was approaching on an adjacent plateau. Kaladin raised eyebrows; the banners flapped blue, and the soldiers were obviously Alethi. “A little late, aren’t they?” Moash asked, standing beside Kaladin. “It happens,” Kaladin said. Occasionally another highprince would arrive after Sadeas got to the plateau. More often, Sadeas arrived first, and the other Alethi army had to turn
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around. Usually they didn’t get this close before doing so. “That’s the standard of Dalinar Kholin,” Skar said, joining them. “Dalinar,” Moash said appreciatively. “They say he doesn’t use bridgemen.” “How does he cross the chasms, then?” Kaladin asked. The answer soon became obvious. This new army had enormous, siege-tower-like bridges pulled by chulls. They rumbled across the uneven plateaus, often having to pick their way around rifts in the stone. They must be terribly slow, Kaladin thought. But, in trade, the army wouldn’t have to approach the chasm while being fired on. They could hide behind those bridges. “Dalinar Kholin,” Moash said. “They say he’s a true lighteyes, like the men from the old days. A man of honor and of oaths.” Kaladin snorted. “I’ve seen plenty of lighteyes with that same reputation, and I’ve been disappointed by them every time. I’ll tell you about Brightlord Amaram sometime.” “Amaram?” Skar asked. “The Shardbearer?” “You’ve heard of that?” Kaladin asked. “Sure,” Skar said. “He’s supposed to be on his way here. Everyone’s talking about it in the taverns. Were you with him when he won his Shards?” “No,” Kaladin said softly. “Nobody was.” Dalinar Kholin’s army approached across the plateau to the south. Amazingly, Dalinar’s army came right up to the battlefield plateau. “He’s attacking?” Moash said, scratching his head. “Maybe he figures that Sadeas will lose, and wants to take a stab at it after he retreats.” “No,” Kaladin said, frowning. “He’s joining the battle.” The Parshendi army sent over some archers to fire on Dalinar’s army, but their arrows bounced off the chulls without causing any harm. A group of soldiers unhooked the bridges and pushed them into place while Dalinar’s archers set up and exchanged fire with the Parshendi. “Does it seem Sadeas took fewer soldiers with him this run?” Sigzil asked, joining the group watching Dalinar’s army. “Perhaps he planned for this. Could be why he was willing to commit like he did, letting himself get surrounded.” The bridges could be cranked to lower and extend; there was some marvelous engineering at work. As they began to work, something decidedly strange happened: Two Shardbearers, likely Dalinar and his son, leaped across the chasm and began attacking the Parshendi. The distraction let the soldiers get the large bridges into place, and some heavy cavalry charged across to help. It was a completely different method of doing a bridge assault, and Kaladin found himself considering the implications. “He really is joining the battle,” Moash said. “I think they’re going to work together.” “It’s bound to be more effective,” Kaladin said. “I’m surprised they haven’t tried it before.” Teft snorted. “That’s because you don’t understand how lighteyes think. Highprinces don’t just want to win the battle, they want to win it by themselves.” “I wish I’d been recruited in his army instead,” Moash said, almost reverent. The soldiers’ armor gleamed, their ranks obviously well-practiced. Dalinar—the Blackthorn—had done an even better job than Amaram at cultivating a reputation for honesty. People knew of him all the way back in Hearthstone, but Kaladin
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understood the kinds of corruption a well-polished breastplate could hide. Though, he thought, that man who protected the whore on the street, he wore blue. Adolin, Dalinar’s son. He seemed genuinely selfless in his defense of the woman. Kaladin set his jaw, casting aside those thoughts. He would not be taken in again. He would not. The fighting grew brutal for a short time, but the Parshendi were overwhelmed—smashed between two opposing forces. Soon, Kaladin’s team led a victorious group of soldiers back to the camps for celebration. Kaladin rolled the sphere between his fingers. The otherwise pure glass had cooled with a thin line of bubbles permanently frozen along one side. The bubbles were tiny spheres of their own, catching light. He was on chasm scavenging duty. They’d gotten back from the plateau assault so quickly that Hashal, in defiance of logic or mercy, had sent them down into the chasm that very day. Kaladin continued to turn the sphere in his fingers. Hanging in the very center of it was a large emerald cut in a round shape, with dozens of tiny facets along the sides. A small rim of suspended bubbles clung to the side of gemstone, as if longing to be near its brilliance. Bright, crystalline green Stormlight shone from inside the glass, lighting Kaladin’s fingers. An emerald broam, the highest denomination of sphere. Worth hundreds of lesser spheres. To bridgemen, this was a fortune. A strangely distant one, for spending it was impossible. Kaladin thought he could see some of the storm’s tempest inside that rock. The light was like…it was like part of the storm, captured by the emerald. The light wasn’t perfectly steady; it just seemed that way compared with the flickering of candles, torches, or lamps. Holding it close, Kaladin could see the light swirling, raging. “What do we do with it?” Moash asked from Kaladin’s side. Rock stood at Kaladin’s other side. The sky was overcast, making it darker than usual here at the bottom. The cold weather of late had drawn back to spring, though it was uncomfortably chilly. The men worked efficiently, quickly gathering spears, armor, boots, and spheres from the dead. Because of the short time given them—and because of the exhausting bridge run earlier—Kaladin had decided to forgo spear practice for the day. They’d load up on salvage instead and stow some of it down beneath, to be used for avoiding punishment next time. As they’d worked, they’d found a lighteyed officer. He had been quite wealthy. This single emerald broam was worth what a bridgeman slave would make in two hundred days. In the same pouch with it, they’d found a collection of chips and marks that totaled slightly more than another emerald broam. Wealth. A fortune. Simply pocket change to a lighteyes. “With this we could feed those wounded bridgemen for months,” Moash said. “We could buy all the medical supplies we could want. Stormfather! We could probably bribe the camp’s perimeter guards to let us sneak away.’ “This thing will not happen,” Rock said. “Is impossible
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to get spheres out of the chasms.” “We could swallow them,” Moash said. “You would choke. Spheres are too big, eh?” “I’ll bet I could do it,” Moash said. His eyes glittered, reflecting the verdant Stormlight. “That’s more money than I’ve ever seen. It’s worth the risk.” “Swallowing won’t work,” Kaladin said. “You think those guards who watch us in the latrines are there to keep us from fleeing? I’ll bet some sodden parshman has to go through our droppings, and I’ve seen them keep record of who visits and how often. We aren’t the first to think of swallowing spheres.” Moash hesitated, then sighed, crestfallen. “You’re probably right. Storm you, but you are. But we can’t just give it to them, can we?” “Yes, we can,” Kaladin said, closing his fist around the sphere. The glow was bright enough to make his hand shine. “We’d never be able to spend it. A bridgeman with a full broam? It would give us away.” “But—” Moash began. “We give it to them, Moash.” Then he held up the pouch containing the other spheres. “But we find a way to keep these.” Rock nodded. “Yes. If we give up this expensive sphere, they will think us honest, eh? It will disguise the theft, and they will even give us small reward. But how can we do this thing, keeping the pouch?” “I’m working on that,” Kaladin said. “Work fast, then,” Moash said, glancing at Kaladin’s torch, rammed between two rocks at the side of the chasm. “We’ll need to head back up soon.” Kaladin opened his hand and rolled the emerald sphere between his fingers. How? “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” Moash asked, staring at the emerald. “It’s just a sphere,” Kaladin said absently. “A tool. I once held a goblet full of a hundred diamond broams and was told they were mine. Since I never got to spend them, they were as good as worthless.” “A hundred diamonds?” Moash asked. “Where…how?” Kaladin closed his mouth, cursing himself. I shouldn’t keep mentioning things like that. “Go on,” he said, tucking the emerald broam back into the black pouch. “We need to be quick.” Moash sighed, but Rock thumped him on the back good-naturedly and they joined the rest of the bridgemen. Rock and Lopen—using Syl’s directions—had led them to a large mass of corpses in red-and-brown uniforms. He didn’t know which highprince’s men they were, but the bodies were pretty fresh. There were no Parshendi among them. Kaladin glanced to the side, where Shen—the parshman bridgeman—worked. Quiet, obedient, stalwart. Teft still didn’t trust him. A part of Kaladin was glad for that. Syl landed on the wall beside him, standing with her feet planted against the surface and looking up at the sky. Think, Kaladin told himself. How do we keep these spheres? There has to be a way. But each possibility seemed too much of a risk. If they were caught stealing, they’d probably be given a different work detail. Kaladin wasn’t willing to risk that. Silent green lifespren began to
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fade into existence around him, bobbing around the moss and haspers. A few frillblooms opened up fronds of red and yellow beside his head. Kaladin had thought again and again about Dunny’s death. Bridge Four was not safe. True, they’d lost a remarkably small number of men lately, but they were still dwindling. And each bridge run was a chance for total disaster. All it took was one time, with the Parshendi focusing on them. Lose three or four men, and they’d topple. The waves of arrows would redouble, cutting every one of them down. It was the same old problem, the one Kaladin had beaten his head against day after day. How did you protect bridgemen when everyone wanted them exposed and endangered? “Hey Sig,” Maps said, walking by carrying an armload of spears. “You’re a Worldsinger, right?” Maps had grown increasingly friendly in the last few weeks, and had proven good at getting the others talking. The balding man reminded Kaladin of an innkeeper, always quick to make his patrons feel at ease. Sigzil—who was pulling the boots off a line of corpses—gave Kaladin a straight-lipped glance that seemed to say, “This is your fault.” He didn’t like that others had discovered he was a Worldsinger. “Why don’t you give us a tale?” Maps said, setting down his armload. “Help us pass the time.” “I am not a foolish jester or storyteller,” Sigzil said, yanking off a boot. “I do not ‘give tales.’ I spread knowledge of cultures, peoples, thoughts, and dreams. I bring peace through understanding. It is the holy charge my order received from the Heralds themselves.” “Well why not start spreading then?” Maps said, standing and wiping his hands on his trousers. Sigzil signed audibly. “Very well. What is it you wish to hear about?” “I don’t know. Something interesting.” “Tell us about Brightking Alazansi and the hundred-ship fleet,” Leyten called. “I am not a storyteller!” Sigzil repeated. “I speak of nations and peoples, not tavern stories. I—” “Is there a place where people live in gouges in the ground?” Kaladin said. “A city built in an enormous complex of lines, all set into the rock as if carved there?” “Sesemalex Dar,” Sigzil said, nodding, pulling off another boot. “Yes, it is the capital of the kingdom of Emul, and is one of the most ancient cities in the world. It is said that the city—and, indeed, the kingdom—were named by Jezrien himself.” “Jezrien?” Malop said, standing and scratching his head. “Who’s that?” Malop was a thick-haired fellow with a bushy black beard and a glyphward tattoo on each hand. He also wasn’t the brightest sphere in the goblet, so to speak. “You call him the Stormfather, here in Alethkar,” Sigzil said. “Or Jezerezeh’Elin. He was king of the Heralds. Master of the storms, bringer of water and life, known for his fury and his temper, but also for his mercy.” “Oh,” Malop said. “Tell me more of the city,” Kaladin said. “Sesemalex Dar. It is, indeed, built in giant troughs. The pattern is quite amazing. It
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protects against highstorms, as each trough has a lip at the side, keeping water from streaming in off the stone plain around it. That, mixed with a drainage system of cracks, protects the city from flooding. “The people there are known for their expert crem pottery; the city is a major waypoint in the southwest. The Emuli are a certain tribe of the Askarki people, and they’re ethnically Makabaki—dark-skinned, like myself. Their kingdom borders my own, and I visited there many times in my youth. “It is a wondrous place, filled with exotic travelers.” Sigzil grew more relaxed as he continued to talk. “Their legal system is very lenient toward foreigners. A man who is not of their nationality cannot own a home or shop, but when you visit, you are treated as a ‘relative who has traveled from afar, to be shown all kindness and leniency.’ A foreigner can take dinner at any residence he calls upon, assuming he is respectful and offers a gift of fruit. The people are most interested in exotic fruits. They worship Jezrien, though they don’t accept him as a figure from the Vorin religion. They name him the only god.” “The Heralds aren’t gods,” Teft scoffed. “To you they aren’t,” Sigzil said. “Others regard them differently. The Emuli have what your scholars like to call a splinter religion—containing some Vorin ideas. But to the Emuli, you would be the splinter religion.” Sigzil seemed to find that amusing, though Teft just scowled. Sigzil continued in more and more detail, talking of the flowing gowns and head-wraps of the Emuli women, the robes favored by the men. The taste of the food—salty—and the way of greeting an old friend—by holding the left forefinger to the forehead and bowing in respect. Sigzil knew an impressive amount about them. Kaladin noticed him smiling wistfully at times, probably recalling his travels. The details were interesting, but Kaladin was more taken aback by the fact that this city—which he had flown over in his dream weeks ago—was actually real. And he could no longer ignore the strange speed at which he recovered from wounds. Something odd was happening to him. Something supernatural. What if it was related to the fact that everyone around him always seemed to die? He knelt down to begin rifling the pockets of the dead men, a duty the other bridgemen avoided. Spheres, knives, and other useful objects were kept. Personal mementoes like unburned prayers were left with the bodies. He found a few zircon chips, which he added to the pouch. Maybe Moash was right. If they could get this money out, could they bribe their way free of the camp? That would certainly be safer than fighting. So why was he so insistent on teaching the bridgemen to fight? Why hadn’t he given any thought to sneaking the bridgemen out? He had lost Dallet and the others of his original squad in Amaram’s army. Did he think to compensate for that by training a new group of spearmen? Was this about saving men he’d grown
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to love, or was it just about proving something to himself? His experience told him that men who could not fight were at a severe disadvantage in this world of war and storms. Perhaps sneaking out would have been the better option, but he knew little of stealth. Besides, if they sneaked away, Sadeas would send troops after them. Trouble would track them down. Whatever their path, the bridgemen would have to kill to remain free. He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering one of his escape attempts, when he’d kept his fellow slaves free for an entire week, hiding in the wilderness. They’d finally been caught by their master’s hunters. That was when he’d lost Nalma. None of that has to do with saving them here and now, Kaladin told himself. I need these spheres. Sigzil was still talking about the Emuli. “To them,” the Worldsinger said, “the need to strike a man personally is crass. They wage war in the opposite way from you Alethi. The sword is not a weapon for a leader. A halberd is better, then a spear, and best of all a bow and arrow.” Kaladin pulled another handful of spheres—skychips—from a soldier’s pocket. They were stuck to an aged hunk of sow’s cheese, fragrant and moldy. He grimaced, picking the spheres out and washing them in a puddle. “Spears, used by lighteyes?” Drehy said. “That’s ridiculous.” “Why?” Sigzil said, sounding offended. “I find the Emuli way to be interesting. In some countries, it is seen as displeasing to fight at all. To the Shin, for instance, if you must fight a man, then you have already failed. Killing is, at best, a brutish way of solving problems.” “You’re not going be like Rock and refuse to fight, are you?” Skar asked, shooting a barely-veiled glare at the Horneater. Rock sniffed and turned his back on the shorter man, kneeling down to shove boots into a large sack. “No,” Sigzil said. “I think we can all agree that other methods have failed. Perhaps if my master knew I still lived…but no. That is foolish. Yes, I will fight. And if I have to, the spear seems a favorable weapon, though I honestly would prefer to put more distance between myself and my enemies.” Kaladin frowned. “You mean with a bow?” Sigzil nodded. “Among my people, the bow is a noble weapon.” “Do you know how to use one?” “Alas, no,” Sigzil said. “I would have mentioned it before now if I had such proficiency.” Kaladin stood up, opening the pouch and depositing the spheres in with the others. “Were there any bows among the bodies?” The men glanced at each other, several of them shaking heads. Storm it, Kaladin thought. The seed of an idea had begun to sprout in his mind, but that killed it. “Gather up some of those spears,” he said. “Set them aside. We’ll need them for training.” “But we have to turn them in,” Malop said. “Not if we don’t take them with us up out of the chasm,” Kaladin said. “Each
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time we come scavenging, we’ll save a few spears and stash them down here. It shouldn’t take long to gather enough to practice with.” “How will we get them out when it’s time to escape?” Teft asked, rubbing his chin. “Spears left down here won’t do these lads much good once the real fighting starts.” “I’ll find a way to get them up,” Kaladin said. “You say things like that a lot,” Skar noted. “Leave off, Skar,” Moash said. “He knows what he’s doing.” Kaladin blinked. Had Moash just defended him? Skar flushed. “I didn’t mean it like that, Kaladin. I’m just asking, that’s all.” “I understand. It’s…” Kaladin trailed off as Syl flitted down into the chasm in the form of a curling ribbon. She landed on a rock outcropping on the wall, taking on her female form. “I found another group of bodies. They’re mostly Parshendi.” “Any bows?” Kaladin asked. Several of the bridgemen gawked at him until they saw him staring into the air. Then they nodded knowingly to one another. “I think so,” Syl said. “It’s just down this way. Not too far.” The bridgemen had mostly finished with these bodies. “Gather up the things,” Kaladin said. “I’ve found us another place to scavenge. We need to gather as much as we can, then stash some in a chasm where it has a good chance of not being washed away.” The bridgemen picked up their findings, slinging sacks over their shoulders and each man hefting a spear or two. Within moments, they headed down the dank chasm bottom, following Syl. They passed clefts in the ancient rock walls where old, storm-washed bones had gotten lodged, creating a mound of moss-covered femurs, tibia, skulls, and ribs. There wasn’t much salvage among them. After about a quarter-hour, they came to the place Syl had found. A scattered group of Parshendi dead lay in heaps, mixed with the occasional Alethi in blue. Kaladin knelt beside one of the human bodies. He recognized Dalinar Kholin’s stylized glyphpair sewn on the coat. Why had Dalinar’s army joined Sadeas’s in battle? What had changed? Kaladin pointed for the men to begin scavenging from the Alethi while he walked over to one of the Parshendi corpses. It was much fresher than Dalinar’s man. They didn’t find nearly as many Parshendi corpses as they did Alethi. Not only were there fewer of them in any given battle, but they were less likely to fall to their deaths into the chasms. Sigzil also guessed that their bodies were more dense than human ones, and didn’t float or wash away as easily. Kaladin rolled the body onto its side, and the action elicited a sudden hiss from the back of the group of bridgemen. Kaladin turned to see Shen pushing forward in an uncharacteristic display of passion. Teft moved quickly, grabbing Shen from behind, placing him in a choke hold. The other bridgemen stood, aghast, though several fell into their stances by reflex. Shen struggled weakly against Teft’s grip. The parshman looked different from his dead cousins; close
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together, the differences were much more obvious. Shen—like most parshmen—was short and a little plump. Stout, strong, but not threatening. The corpse at Kaladin’s feet, however, was muscled and built like a Horneater, easily as tall as Kaladin and far broader at the shoulders. While both had the marbled skin, the Parshendi had those strange, deep-red growths of armor on the head, chest, arms, and legs. “Let him go,” Kaladin said, curious. Teft glanced at him, then reluctantly did as commanded. Shen scrambled over the uneven ground and gently, but firmly, pushed Kaladin away from the corpse. Shen stood back, as if protecting it from Kaladin. “This thing,” Rock noted, stepping up beside Kaladin, “he has done it before. When Lopen and I take him scavenging.” “He’s protective of the Parshendi bodies, gancho,” Lopen added. “Like he’d stab you a hundred times for moving one, sure.” “They’re all like that,” Sigzil said from behind. Kaladin turned, raising an eyebrow. “Parshman workers,” Sigzil explained. “They’re allowed to care for their own dead; it’s one of the few things they seem passionate about. They grow irate if anyone else handles the bodies. They wrap them in linen and carry them out into the wilderness and leave them on slabs of stone.” Kaladin regarded Shen. I wonder…. “Scavenge from the Parshendi,” Kaladin said to his men. “Teft, you’ll probably have to hold Shen the whole time. I can’t have him trying to stop us.” Teft shot Kaladin a suffering glance; he still thought they should set Shen at the front of the bridge and let him die. But he did as told, pushing Shen away and getting Moash’s help to hold him. “And men,” Kaladin noted. “be respectful of the dead.” “They’re Parshendi!” Leyten objected. “I know,” Kaladin said. “But it bothers Shen. He’s one of us, so let’s keep his irritation to a minimum.” The parshman lowered his arms reluctantly and let Teft and Moash pull him away. He seemed resigned. Parshmen were slow of thought. How much did Shen comprehend? “Didn’t you wish to find a bow?” Sigzil asked, kneeling and slipping a horned Parshendi shortbow out from underneath a body. “The bowstring is gone.” “There’s another in this fellow’s pouch,” Maps said, pulling something out of another Parshendi corpse’s belt pouch. “Might still be good.” Kaladin accepted the weapon and string. “Does anyone know how to use one of these?” The bridgemen glanced at one another. Bows were useless for hunting most shellbeasts; slings worked far better. The bow was really only good for killing other men. Kaladin glanced at Teft, who shook his head. He hadn’t been trained on a bow; neither had Kaladin. “Is simple,” Rock said, rolling over a Parshendi corpse, “put arrow on string. Point away from self. Pull very hard. Let go.” “I doubt it will be that easy,” Kaladin said. “We barely have time to train the lads in the spear, Kaladin,” Teft said. “You mean to teach some of them the bow as well? And without a teacher who can use one himself?” Kaladin didn’t
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respond. He tucked the bow and string away in his bag, added a few arrows, then helped the others. An hour later, they marched through the chasms toward the ladder, their torches sputtering, dusk approaching. The darker it grew, the more unpleasant the chasms became. Shadows deepened, and distant sounds—water dripping, rocks falling, wind calling—took on an ominous cast. Kaladin rounded a corner, and a group of many-legged cremlings scuttling along the wall and slipped into a fissure. Conversation was subdued, and Kaladin didn’t take part. Occasionally, he glanced over his shoulder toward Shen. The silent parshman walked head down. Robbing the Parshendi corpses had seriously disturbed him. I can use that, Kaladin thought. But dare I? It would be a risk. A great one. He had already been sentenced once for upsetting the balance of the chasm battles. First the spheres, he thought. Getting the spheres out would mean he might be able to get out other items. Eventually he saw a shadow above, spanning the chasm. They had reached the first of the permanent bridges. Kaladin walked with the others a little further, until they reached a place where the chasm floor was closer to the top of the plateaus above. He stopped here. The bridgemen gathered around him. “Sigzil,” Kaladin said, pointing. “You know something about bows. How hard do you think it would be to hit that bridge with an arrow?” “I’ve occasionally held a bow, Kaladin, but I would not call myself an expert. It shouldn’t be too hard, I’d imagine. The distance is what, fifty feet?” “What’s the point?” Moash asked. Kaladin pulled out the pouch full of spheres, then raised an eyebrow at them. “We tie the bag to the arrow, then launch it up so that it sticks to the bottom of the bridge. Then when we’re on a bridge run, Lopen and Dabbid can hang back to get a drink near that bridge up there. They reach under the wood and pull the arrow off. We get the spheres.” Teft whistled. “Clever.” “We could get all of the spheres,” Moash said eagerly. “Even the—” “No,” Kaladin said firmly. “The lesser ones will be dangerous enough; people might begin wondering where bridgemen are getting so much money.” He would have to buy his supplies from several different apothecaries to hide his influx of money. Moash looked crestfallen, but the other bridgemen were eager. “Who wants to try?” Kaladin asked. “Maybe we should shoot a few practice shots first, then try with the bag. Sigzil?” “I don’t know if I want this on me,” Sigzil said. “Maybe you should try, Teft.” Teft rubbed his chin. “Sure. I guess. How hard can it be?” “How hard?” Rock asked suddenly. Kaladin glanced to the side. Rock stood at the back of the group, though his height made him easy to see. He had his arms folded. “How hard, Teft?” Rock continued. “Fifty feet is not too far, but is not easy shot. And to do it with bag of heavy spheres tied to it? Ha! You also
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need to get arrow close to side of bridge, so Lopen can reach. If you miss with this thing, you could lose all spheres. And what if scouts near bridges above see arrow come from chasm? Will think it suspicious, eh?” Kaladin eyed the Horneater. Is simple, he’d said. Point away from self…let go… “Well,” Kaladin said, watching Rock from the corner of his eye. “I guess we’ll just have to take that chance. Without these spheres, the wounded die.” “We could wait until the next bridge run,” Teft said. “Tie a rope to the bridge and toss it over, then tie the bag to it next time….” “Fifty feet of rope?” Kaladin said flatly. “It would draw enough attention to buy something like that.” “Nah, gancho,” Lopen said. “I have a cousin who works in a place that sells rope. I could get some for you easy, with money.” “Perhaps,” Kaladin said. “But you’d still have to hide it in the litter, then hang it down into the chasm without anyone seeing. And to leave it dangling there for several days? It would be noticed.” The others nodded. Rock seemed very uncomfortable. Sighing, Kaladin took out the bow and several arrows. “We’ll just have to chance this. Teft, why don’t you…” “Oh, Kali’kalin’s ghost,” Rock muttered. “Here, give me bow.” He shoved his way through the bridgemen, taking the bow from Kaladin. Kaladin hid a smile. Rock glanced upward, judging the distance in the waning light. He strung the bowstring, then held out a hand. Kaladin handed him an arrow. He leveled the bow back down the chasm and launched. The arrow flew swiftly, clattering against chasm walls. Rock nodded to himself, then pointed at Kaladin’s pouch. “We take only five spheres,” Rock said. “Any more would be too heavy. Is crazy to try with even five. Airsick lowlanders.” Kaladin smiled, then counted out five sapphire marks—together about two and a half months’ worth of pay for a bridgeman—and placed them in a spare pouch. He handed that to Rock, who pulled out a knife and dug a notch into an arrow’s wood next to the arrowhead. Skar folded his arms and leaned against the mossy wall. “This is stealing, you know.” “Yes,” Kaladin said, watching Rock. “And I don’t feel the least bit bad about it. Do you?” “Not at all,” Skar said, grinning. “I figure once someone is trying to get you killed, all expectations of your loyalty are tossed to the storm. But if someone were to go to Gaz…” The other bridgemen suddenly grew nervous, and more than a few eyes darted toward Shen, though Kaladin could see that Skar wasn’t thinking of the Parshman. If one of the bridgemen were to betray the rest of them, he might earn himself a reward. “Maybe we should post a watch,” Drehy said. “You know, make sure nobody sneaks off to talk to Gaz.” “We’ll do no such thing,” Kaladin said. “What are we going to do? Lock ourselves in the barrack, so suspicious of each other that we
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never get anything done?” He shook his head. “No. This is just one more danger. It’s a real one, but we can’t waste energy spying on each other. So we keep on going.” Skar didn’t look convinced. “We’re Bridge Four,” Kaladin said firmly. “We’ve faced death together. We have to trust each other. You can’t run into battle wondering if your companions are going to switch sides suddenly.” He met the eyes of each man in turn. “I trust you. All of you. We’ll make it through this, and we’ll do it together.” There were several nods; Skar seemed placated. Rock finished his work cutting the arrow, then proceeded to tie the pouch tightly around the shaft. Syl still sat on Kaladin’s shoulder. “You want me to watch the others? Make sure nobody does what Skar thinks they might?” Kaladin hesitated, then nodded. Best to be safe. He just didn’t want the men to have to think that way. Rock hefted the arrow, judging the weight. “Near impossible shot,” he complained. Then, in a smooth motion, he nocked the arrow and drew to his cheek, positioning himself directly beneath the bridge. The small pouch hung down, dangling against the wood of the arrow. The bridgemen held their breath. Rock loosed. The arrow streaked up the side of the chasm wall, almost too fast to follow. A faint click sounded as arrow met wood, and Kaladin held his breath, but the arrow did not pull free. It remained hanging there, precious spheres tied to its shaft, right next to the side of the bridge where it could be reached. Kaladin clapped Rock on the shoulder as the bridgemen cheered him. Rock eyed Kaladin. “I will not use bow to fight. You must know this thing.” “I promise,” Kaladin said. “I’ll take you if you agree, but I won’t force you.” “I will not fight,” Rock said. “Is not my place.” He glanced up at the spheres, then smiled faintly. “But shooting bridge is all right.” “How did you learn?” Kaladin asked. “Is secret,” Rock said firmly. “Take bow. Bother me no more.” “All right,” Kaladin said, accepting the bow. “But I don’t know if I can promise not to bother you. I may need a few more shots in the future.” He eyed Lopen. “You really think you can buy some rope without drawing attention?” Lopen lounged back against the wall. “My cousin’s never failed me.” “How many cousins do you have, anyway?” Earless Jaks asked. “A man can never have enough cousins,” Lopen said. “Well, we need that rope,” Kaladin said, the plan beginning to sprout in his mind. “Do it, Lopen. I’ll make change from those spheres above to pay for it.” Dalinar fought, the Thrill pulsing within him, swinging his Shardblade from atop Gallant’s back. Around him, Parshendi fell with eyes burning black. They came at him in pairs, each team trying to hit him from a different direction, keeping him busy and—they hoped—disoriented. If a pair could rush at him while he was distracted, they might be able to
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shove him off his mount. Those axes and maces—swung repeatedly—could crack his Plate. It was a very costly tactic; corpses lay scattered around Dalinar. But when fighting against a Shardbearer, every tactic was costly. Dalinar kept Gallant moving, dancing from side to side, swinging his Blade in broad sweeps. He stayed just a little ahead of the line of his men. A Shardbearer needed space to fight; the Blades were so long that hurting one’s companions was a very real danger. His honor guard would approach only if he fell or encountered trouble. The Thrill excited him, strengthened him. He hadn’t experienced the weakness again, the nausea he had on the battlefield that day weeks ago. Perhaps he’d been worried about nothing. He turned Gallant just in time to confront two pairs of Parshendi coming at him from behind, singing softly. He directed Gallant with his knees, performing an expert sweeping side-swing, cutting through the necks of two Parshendi, then the arm of a third. Eyes burned out in the first two, and they collapsed. The third dropped his weapon from a hand that grew suddenly lifeless, flopping down, its nerves all severed. The fourth member of that squad scrambled away, glaring at Dalinar. This was one of the Parshendi who didn’t wear a beard, and it seemed that there was something odd about his face. The cheek structure was just a little off…. Was that a woman? Dalinar thought with amazement. It couldn’t have been. Could it? Behind him, his soldiers let out cheers as a large number of Parshendi scattered away to regroup. Dalinar lowered his Shardblade, the metal gleaming, gloryspren winking into the air around him. There was another reason for him to stay out ahead of his men. A Shardbearer wasn’t just a force of destruction; he was a force of morale and inspiration. The men fought more vigorously as they saw their brightlord felling foe after foe. Shardbearers changed battles. Since the Parshendi were broken for the moment, Dalinar climbed free of Gallant and dropped to the rocks. Corpses lay unbloodied all around him, though once he approached the place where his men had been fighting, orange-red blood stained the rocks. Cremlings scuttled about on the ground, lapping up the liquid, and painspren wriggled between them. Wounded Parshendi lay staring up into the air, faces masks of pain, singing a quiet, haunting song to themselves. Often just as whispers. They never yelled as they died. Dalinar felt the Thrill retreat as he joined his honor guard. “They’re getting too close to Gallant,” Dalinar said to Teleb, handing over the reins. The massive Ryshadium’s coat was flecked with frothy sweat. “I don’t want to risk him. Have a man run him to the back lines.” Teleb nodded, waving a soldier to obey the order. Dalinar hefted his Shardblade, scanning the battlefield. The Parshendi force was regrouping. As always, the two-person teams were the focus of their strategy. Each pair would have different weapons, and often one was clean-shaven while the other had a beard woven with gemstones. His
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scholars had suggested this was some kind of primitive apprenticeship. Dalinar inspected the clean-shaven ones for signs of any stubble. There was none, and more than a few had a faintly feminine shape to their faces. Could the ones without beards all be women? They didn’t appear to have much in the way of breasts, and their builds were like those of men, but the strange Parshendi armor could be masking things. The beardless ones did seem smaller by a few fingers, and the shapes of the faces…studying them, it seemed possible. Could the pairs be husbands and wives fighting together? That struck him as strangely fascinating. Was it possible that, despite six years of war, nobody had taken the time to investigate the genders of those they fought? Yes. The contested plateaus were so far out, nobody ever brought back Parshendi bodies; they just set men to pulling the gemstones out of their beards or gathering their weapons. Since Gavilar’s death, very little effort had been given to studying the Parshendi. Everyone just wanted them dead, and if there was one thing the Alethi were good at, it was killing. And you’re supposed to be killing them now, Dalinar told himself, not analyzing their culture. But he did decide to have his soldiers collect a few bodies for the scholars. He charged toward another section of the battlefield, Shardblade before him in two hands, making certain not to outpace his soldiers. To the south, he could see Adolin’s banner flying as he led his division against the Parshendi there. The lad had been uncharacteristically reserved lately. Being wrong about Sadeas seemed to have made him more contemplative. On the west side, Sadeas’s own banner flew proudly, Sadeas’s forces keeping the Parshendi from the chrysalis. He’d arrived first, as before, engaging the Parshendi so Dalinar’s companies could arrive. Dalinar had considered cutting out the gemheart so the Alethi could retreat, but why end the battle that quickly? He and Sadeas both felt the real point of their alliance was to crush as many Parshendi as possible. The more they killed, the faster this war would be through. And so far, Dalinar’s plan was working. The two armies complemented one another. Dalinar’s assaults had been too slow, and he’d allowed the Parshendi to position themselves too well. Sadeas was fast—more so now that he could leave men behind and concentrate fully on speed—and he was frighteningly effective at getting men onto the plateaus to fight, but his men weren’t trained as well as Dalinar’s. So if Sadeas could arrive first, then hold out long enough for Dalinar to get his men across, the superior training—and superior Shards—of his forces worked like a hammer against the Parshendi, smashing them against Sadeas’s anvil. It was still by no means easy. The Parshendi fought like chasmfiends. Dalinar crashed against them, swinging out with his blade, slaying Parshendi on all sides. He couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for the Parshendi. Few men dared assault a Shardbearer directly—at least not without the entire weight of their
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army forcing them forward, almost against their will. These Parshendi attacked with bravery. Dalinar spun, laying about him, the Thrill surging within. With an ordinary sword, a fighter focused on controlling his blows, striking and expecting recoil. You wanted quick, rapid strikes with small arcs. A Shardblade was different. The Blade was enormous, yet remarkably light. There was never recoil; landing a blow felt nearly like passing the blade through the air itself. The trick was to control momentum and keep the blade moving. Four Parshendi threw themselves at him; they seemed to know that working into close quarters was one of the best ways to drop him. If they got too close, the length of his Blade’s hilt and the nature of his armor would make fighting more difficult for him. Dalinar spun in a long, waist-high attack, and noted the deaths of Parshendi by the slight tug on the Blade as it passed through their chests. He got all four of them, and felt a surge of satisfaction. It was followed immediately by nausea. Damnation! he thought. Not again! He turned toward another group of Parshendi as the eyes of the dead burned out and smoked. He threw himself into another attack—raising Blade in a twisting swing over his head, then bringing it down parallel to the ground. Six Parshendi died. He felt a spike of regret along with displeasure at the Thrill. Surely these Parshendi—these soldiers—deserved respect, not glee, as they were slaughtered. He remembered the times when the Thrill had been the strongest. Subduing the highprinces with Gavilar during their youths, forcing back the Vedens, fighting the Herdazians and destroying the Akak Reshi. Once, the thirst for battle had nearly led him to attack Gavilar himself. Dalinar could remember the jealousy on that day some ten years ago, when the itch to attack Gavilar—the only worthy opponent he could see, the man who had won Navani’s hand—had nearly consumed him. His honor guard cheered as his foes dropped. He felt hollow, but he seized the Thrill and got a tight grip on his feelings and emotions. He let the Thrill pulse through him. Blessedly, the sickness went away, which was good, for another group of Parshendi charged him from the side. He executed a Windstance turn, shifting his feet, lowering his shoulder, and throwing his weight behind his Blade as he swung. He got three in the sweep, but the fourth and final Parshendi shoved past his wounded comrades, getting inside Dalinar’s reach, swinging his hammer. His eyes were wide with anger and determination, though he did not yell or bellow. He just continued his song. His blow cracked into Dalinar’s helm. It pushed his head to the side but the Plate absorbed most of the hit, a few tiny weblike lines cracking along its length. Dalinar could see them glowing faintly, releasing Stormlight at the edges of his vision. The Parshendi was in too close. Dalinar dropped his Blade. The weapon puffed away to mist as Dalinar raised an armored arm and blocked the next hammer blow.
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Then he swung with his other arm, smashing his fist into the Parshendi’s shoulder. The blow tossed the man to the ground. The Parshendi’s song cut off. Gritting his teeth, Dalinar stepped up and kicked the man in the chest, throwing the body a good twenty feet through the air. He’d learned to be wary of Parshendi who weren’t fully incapacitated. Dalinar lowered his hands and began to resummon his Shardblade. He felt strong again, passion for battle returning to him. I shouldn’t feel bad for killing the Parshendi, he thought. This is right. He paused, noticing something. What was that on the next plateau over? It looked like… Like a second Parshendi army. Several groups of his scouts were dashing toward the main battle lines, but Dalinar could guess the news they brought. “Stormfather!” he cursed, pointing with his Shardblade. “Pass the warning! A second army approaches!” Several men scattered in accordance to his command. We should have expected this, Dalinar thought. We started bringing two armies to a plateau, so they have done the same. But that implied that they had limited themselves before. Did they do it because they realized that the battlefields left little room for maneuvering? Or was it for speed? But that didn’t make sense—the Alethi had to worry about bridges as choke points, slowing them more and more if they brought more troops. But the Parshendi could jump the chasms. So why commit fewer troops than their all? Curse it all, he thought with frustration. We know so little about them! He shoved his Shardblade into the rock beside him, placing it intentionally so that it didn’t vanish. He began calling out orders. His honor guard formed around him, ushering in scouts and sending out runners. For a short time, he became a tactical general rather than an advance warrior. It took time to change their battlefield strategy. An army was like a massive chull at times, lumbering along, slow to react. Before his orders could be executed, the new Parshendi force began crossing over onto the north side. That was where Sadeas was fighting. Dalinar couldn’t get a good view, and scout reports were taking too long. He glanced to the side; there was a tall rock formation nearby. It had uneven sides, making it look a little like a pile of boards stacked one atop another. He grabbed his Shardblade in the middle of a report and ran across the stony ground, smashing a few Rockbuds beneath his plated boots. The Cobalt Guard and the messengers followed quickly. At the rock formation, Dalinar tossed his Blade aside, letting it dissolve to smoke. He threw himself up and grabbed the rock, scaling the formation. Seconds later, he heaved himself up onto its flat top. The battlefield stretched out below him. The main Parshendi army was a mass of red and black at the center of the plateau, now pressed on two sides by the Alethi. Sadeas’ bridge crews waited on a western plateau, ignored, while the new force of Parshendi crossed from the north
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onto the battlefield. Stormfather, but they can jump, Dalinar thought, watching the Parshendi span the gap in powerful leaps. Six years of fighting had shown Dalinar that human soldiers—particularly if lightly armored—could outrun Parshendi troops if they had to go more than a few dozen yards. But those thick, powerful Parshendi legs could send them far when they leaped. Not a single Parshendi lost his footing as they crossed the chasm. They approached the chasm at a trot, then dashed with a burst of speed for about ten feet, launching themselves forward. The new force pushed south, directly into Sadeas’s army. Raising a hand against the bright white sunlight, Dalinar found he could make out Sadeas’s personal banner. It was directly in the path of the oncoming Parshendi force; he tended to remain at the back of his armies, in a secure position. Now, that position suddenly became the front lines, and Sadeas’s other troops were too slow to disengage and react. He didn’t have any support. Sadeas! Dalinar thought, stepping right up to the lip of the stone, his cape streaming behind him in the breeze. I need to send him my reserve spearmen— But no, they’d be too slow. The spearmen couldn’t get to him. But someone mounted might be able to. “Gallant!” Dalinar bellowed, throwing himself off the rock formation. He fell to the rocks below, Plate absorbing the shock as he hit, cracking the stone. Stormlight puffed up around him, rising from his armor, and the greaves cracked slightly. Gallant pulled away from his minders, galloping across the stones at Dalinar’s call. As the horse approached, Dalinar grabbed the saddle-holds and heaved himself up and into place. “Follow if you can,” he bellowed at his honor guard, “and send a runner to tell my son he now commands our army!” Dalinar reared Gallant and galloped alongside the perimeter of the battlefield. His guard called for their horses, but they’d have difficulty keeping up with a Ryshadium. So be it. Fighting soldiers became a blur to Dalinar’s right. He leaned low in the saddle, wind hissing as it blew over his Shardplate. He held a hand out and summoned Oathbringer. It dropped into his hand, steaming and frosted, as he turned Gallant around the western tip of the battlefield. By design, the original Parshendi army lay between his force and Sadeas’s. He didn’t have time to round them. So, taking a deep breath, Dalinar struck out through the middle of it. Their ranks were spread out because of how they fought. Gallant galloped through them, and Parshendi threw themselves out of the massive stallion’s way, cursing in their melodic language. Hooves beat a thunder upon the rocks; Dalinar urged Gallant on with his knees. They had to keep momentum. Some Parshendi fighting on the front against Sadeas’s force turned and ran at him. They saw the opportunity. If Dalinar fell, he’d land alone, surrounded by thousands of enemies. Dalinar’s heart thumped as he held his Blade out, trying to swipe at Parshendi who came too close. Within minutes, he
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approached the northwestern Parshendi line. There, his enemies formed up, raising spears and setting them against the ground. Blast! Dalinar thought. Parshendi had never set spears like that against heavy cavalry before. They were starting to learn. Dalinar charged the formation, then wheeled Gallant at the last moment, turning parallel to the Parshendi spear wall. He swung his Shardblade out to the side, shearing the tips from their weapons and hitting a few arms. A patch of Parshendi just ahead wavered, and Dalinar took a deep breath, urging Gallant directly into them, shearing off a few spear tips. Another one bounced off his shoulder armor, and Gallant took a long gash on the left flank. Their momentum carried them forward, trampling over the Parshendi, and with a whinny, Gallant burst free of the Parshendi line just to the side of where Sadeas’s main force was engaging the enemy. Dalinar’s heart pumped. He passed Sadeas’s force in a blur, galloping toward the back lines, where a churning, disorganized chaos of men tried to react to the new Parshendi force. Men screamed and died, a mess of forest green Alethi and Parshendi in black and red. There! Dalinar saw Sadeas’s banner flap for a moment before falling. He threw himself from Gallant’s saddle and hit the stones. The horse turned away, understanding. His wound was bad, and Dalinar would not risk him any further. It was time for the slaughter to begin again. He tore into the Parshendi force from the side, and some turned, looks of surprise in their usually stoic black eyes. At times the Parshendi seemed alien, but their emotions were so human. The Thrill rose and Dalinar did not force it down. He needed it too much. An ally was in danger. It was time to let the Blackthorn loose. Dalinar punched through the Parshendi ranks. He felled Parshendi like a man sweeping crumbs from the table after a meal. There was no controlled precision here, no careful engagement of a few squads with his honor guard at the back. This was a full-out attack, with all the power and deadly force of a life-long killer enhanced by Shards. He was like a tempest, slashing through legs, torsos, arms, necks, killing, killing, killing. He was a maelstrom of death and steel. Weapons bounced off his armor, leaving tiny cracks. He killed dozens, always moving, forcing his way toward where Sadeas’s banner had fallen. Eyes burned, swords flashed in the sky, and Parshendi sang. The close press of their own troops—bunching up as they hit Sadeas’s line—inhibited them. But not Dalinar. He didn’t have to worry about striking friends, nor did he have to worry about his weapon getting caught in flesh or stuck in armor. And if corpses got in his way, he sheared through them—dead flesh would cut like steel and wood. Soon, Parshendi blood splashed in the air as he killed, then hacked, then shoved his way through the press. Blade from shoulder to side, back and forth, occasionally turning to sweep at those trying to kill him
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from behind. He stumbled on a swath of green cloth. Sadeas’s banner. Dalinar spun, searching. Behind him, he’d left a line of corpses that was quickly yet carefully being stepped past by more Parshendi focused on him. Except just to his left. None of the Parshendi there turned toward him. Sadeas! Dalinar thought, leaping forward, cutting down Parshendi from behind. That revealed a group of them bunched in a circle, beating on something below them. Something leaking Stormlight. Just to the side lay a large Shardbearer’s hammer, fallen where Sadeas had apparently dropped it. Dalinar leaped forward, dropping his Blade and grabbing the hammer. He roared as he slammed it into the group, tossing a dozen Parshendi away from him, then turned and swung again on the other side. Bodies sprayed into the air, hurled backward. The hammer worked better in such close quarters; the Blade would simply have killed the men, dropping their corpses to the ground, leaving him still pressed and pinned. The hammer, however, flung the bodies away. He leaped into the middle of the area he’d just cleared, positioning himself with one foot on either side of the fallen Sadeas. He began the process of summoning his Blade again and laid about him with the hammer, scattering his enemies. At the ninth beat of his heart, he threw the hammer into the face of a Parshendi, then let Oathbringer reform in his hands. He fell immediately into Windstance, glancing downward. Sadeas’s armor leaked Stormlight from a dozen different breaks and rifts. The breastplate had been shattered completely; broken, jagged bits of metal jutted out, revealing the uniform underneath. Wisps of radiant smoke trailed from the holes. There was no time to check if he still lived. The Parshendi now saw not one, but two Shardbearers within their grasp, and they threw themselves at Dalinar. Warrior after warrior fell as Dalinar slaughtered them in sweeps, protecting the space just around him. He couldn’t stop them all. His armor took hits, mostly on the arms and back. The armor cracked, like a crystal under too much stress. He roared, striking down four Parshendi as two more hit him from behind, making his armor vibrate. He spun and killed one, the other barely dancing out of range. Dalinar began to pant, and when he moved quickly, he left trails of blue Stormlight in the air. He felt like a bloodied prey beast trying to fend off a thousand different snapping predators at once. But he was no chull, whose only protection was to hide. He killed, and the Thrill rose to a crescendo within him. He sensed real danger, a chance of falling, and that made the Thrill surge. He nearly choked on it, the joy, the pleasure, the desire. The danger. More and more blows got through; more and more Parshendi were able to duck or dodge out of the way of his Blade. He felt a breeze through the back of his breastplate. Cooling, terrible, frightening. The cracks were widening. If the breastplate burst… He screamed, slamming his blade
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down through a Parshendi, burning out his eyes, dropping the man without a mark on his skin. Dalinar brought his Blade up, spinning, cutting through the legs of another foe. His insides were a tempest of emotions, and his brow beneath the helm streamed with sweat. What would happen to the Alethi army if both he and Sadeas fell here? Two highprinces dead in the same battle, two sets of Plate and one Blade lost? It couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t fall here. He didn’t yet know if he was mad or not. He couldn’t die until he knew! Suddenly, a wave of Parshendi died that he hadn’t attacked. A figure in brilliant blue Shardplate burst through them. Adolin held his massive Shardblade in a single hand, the metal gleaming. Adolin swung again, and the Cobalt Guard rushed forward, pouring into the gap Adolin created. The Parshendi song changed tempo, becoming frantic, and they fell back as more and more troops punched through, some in green, others in blue. Dalinar knelt down, exhausted, letting his Blade vanish. His guard surrounded him, and Adolin’s army washed over them all, overrunning the Parshendi, forcing them back. In a few minutes, the area was secure. The danger was past. “Father,” Adolin said, kneeling beside him, pulling his helm off. The youth’s blond and black hair was disheveled and sweat-slick. “Storms! You gave me a fright! Are you well?” Dalinar pulled his own helm free, sweet cooling air washing across his damp face. He took a deep breath, then nodded. “Your timing is…quite good, son.” Adolin helped Dalinar back to his feet. “I had to punch through the entire Parshendi army. No disrespect, Father, but what in the storms made you pull a stunt like that?” “The knowledge that you could handle the army if I fell,” Dalinar said, clapping his son on the arm, their Plate clinking. Adolin caught sight of the back of Dalinar’s Shardplate, and his eyes opened wide. “Bad?” Dalinar asked. “Looks like it’s held together with spit and twine,” Adolin said. “You’re leaking Light like a wineskin used for archery practice.” Dalinar nodded, sighing. Already his Plate was feeling sluggish. He’d probably have to remove it before they returned to the camp, lest it freeze on him. To the side, several soldiers were pulling Sadeas free of his Plate. It was so far gone that the Light had stopped save for a few tiny wisps. It could be fixed, but it would be expensive—regenerating Shardplate generally shattered the gemstones it drew Light from. The soldiers pulled Sadeas’s helm off, and Dalinar was relieved to see his former friend blinking, looking disoriented but largely uninjured. He had a cut on his thigh where one of the Parshendi had gotten him with a sword, and a few scrapes on his chest. Sadeas looked up at Dalinar and Adolin. Dalinar stiffened, expecting recrimination—this had only happened because Dalinar had insisted on fighting with two armies on the same plateau. That had goaded the Parshendi into bringing another army. Dalinar should have set proper scouts to
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watch for that. Sadeas, however, smiled a wide grin. “Stormfather, but that was close! How goes the battle?” “The Parshendi are routed,” Adolin said. “The last force resisting was the one around you. Our men are cutting the gemheart free at this moment. The day is ours.” “We win again!” Sadeas said triumphantly. “Dalinar, once in a while, it appears that senile old brain of yours can come up with a good idea or two!” “We’re the same age, Sadeas.” Dalinar noted as messengers approached, bearing reports from the rest of the battlefield. “Spread the word,” Sadeas proclaimed. “Tonight, all my soldiers will feast as if they were lighteyes!” He smiled as his soldiers helped him to his feet, and Adolin moved over to take the scout reports. Sadeas waved away the help insisting he could stand despite his wound, and began calling for his officers. Dalinar turned to seek out Gallant and make sure the horse’s wound was cared for. As he did, however, Sadeas caught his arm. “I should be dead,” Sadeas said softly. “Perhaps.” “I didn’t see much. But I thought I saw you alone. Where was your honor guard?” “I had to leave it behind,” Dalinar said. “It was the only way to get to you in time.” Sadeas frowned. “That was a terrible risk, Dalinar. Why?” “You do not abandon your allies on the battlefield. Not unless there’s no recourse. It is one of the Codes.” Sadeas shook his head. “That honor of yours is going to get you killed, Dalinar.” He seemed bemused. “Not that I feel like offering a complaint about it this day!” “If I should die,” Dalinar said, “then I would do so having lived my life right. It is not the destination that matters, but how one arrives there.” “The Codes?” “No. The Way of Kings.” “That storming book.” “That storming book saved your life today, Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “I think I’m starting to understand what Gavilar saw in it.” Sadeas scowled at that, though he glanced at his armor, lying in pieces nearby. He shook his head. “Perhaps I shall let you tell me what you mean. I’d like to understand you again, old friend. I’m beginning to wonder if I ever really did.” He let go of Dalinar’s arm. “Someone bring me my storming horse! Where are my officers?” Dalinar left, and quickly found several members of his guard seeing to Gallant. As he joined them, he was struck by the sheer number of corpses on the ground. They ran in a line where he had punched through the Parshendi ranks to get to Sadeas, a trail of death. He looked back to where he’d made his stand. Dozens dead. Perhaps hundreds. Blood of my fathers, Dalinar thought. Did I do that? He hadn’t killed in such numbers since the early days of helping Gavilar unite Alethkar. And he hadn’t grown sick at the sight of death since his youth. Yet now he found himself revolted, barely able to keep his stomach under control. He would not retch on the
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battlefield. His men should not see that. He stumbled away, one hand to his head, the other carrying his helm. He should be exulting. But he couldn’t. He just…couldn’t. You will need luck trying to understand me, Sadeas, he thought. Because I’m having Damnation’s own trouble trying to do so myself. “And all the world was shattered!” Maps yelled, back arching, eyes wide, flecks of red spittle on his cheeks. “The rocks trembled with their steps, and the stones reached toward the heavens. We die! We die!” He spasmed one last time, and the light faded from his eyes. Kaladin sat back, crimson blood slick on his hands, the dagger he’d been using as a surgical knife slipping from his fingers and clicking softly against the stone. The affable man lay dead on the stones of a plateau, arrow wound in his left breast open to the air, splitting the birthmark he’d claimed looked like Alethkar. It’s taking them, Kaladin thought. One by one. Open them up, bleed them out. We’re nothing more than pouches to carry blood. Then we die, rain it down on the stones like a highstorm’s floods. Until only I remain. I always remain. A layer of skin, a layer of fat, a layer of muscle, a layer of bone. That was what men were. The battle raged across the chasm. It might as well have been another kingdom, for all the attention anyone gave the bridgemen. Die die die, then get out of our way. The members of Bridge Four stood in a solemn ring around Kaladin. “What was that he said at the end?” Skar asked. “The rocks trembled?” “It was nothing,” said thick-armed Yake. “Just dying delirium. It happens to men, sometimes.” “More often lately, it seems,” Teft said. He held his hand to his arm, where he’d hastily wrapped a bandage around an arrow wound. He wouldn’t be carrying a bridge anytime soon. Maps’s death and Arik’s death left them with only twenty-six members now. It was barely enough to carry a bridge. The greater heaviness was very noticeable, and they had difficulty keeping up with the other bridge crews. A few more losses, and they’d be in serious trouble. I should have been faster, Kaladin thought, looking down at Maps splayed open, his insides exposed for the sun to dry. The arrowhead had pierced his lung and lodged in his spine. Could Lirin have saved him? If Kaladin had studied in Kharbranth as his father had wished, would he have learned enough—known enough—to prevent deaths like this? This happens sometimes, son…. Kaladin raised shaking bloody hands to his face, gripping his head, as memory consumed him. A young girl, a cracked head, a broken leg, an angry father. Despair, hate, loss, frustration, horror. How could any man live this way? To be a surgeon, to live knowing that you would be too weak to save some? When other men failed, a field of crops got worms in them. When a surgeon failed, someone died. You have to learn when to care…. As if
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