Of Many Colors [Stormlight Archive/Lord of the Rings]

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

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5

Bridgeleader



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I write to you now from Roshar, as you may know depending on how this letter found its way to you. However, quite recently I was on Ashyn, and there I saw things that, if I may be frank, I found utterly terrifying.

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Sarus was, for the first time in more than five years, woken by the touch of another human being. For a moment, he didn't even realize what the pressure on his shoulder was, until Kaladin spoke above him.

"Tesh," he said. "Wake up."

Sarus sat up at once, blinking in the dim light that slipped underneath the door and through the thin spaces between its boards.

Kaladin took a startled step back. "That was fast," he said. "Light sleeper?"

Sarus nodded.

"You don't mind getting up early, then?" Kaladin asked.

Sarus shrugged, then shifted his weight off of the cot and stood up. The spren that followed Kaladin sailed up as a ribbon of pale blue light, orbiting around his head once before settling on his shoulder in the shape of a young woman. As Sarus blinked at her, her bright smile faded slightly into a look of confusion.

Archive had called her an honorspren. It wasn't a form of spren Sarus had ever heard of. Which made sense—it would have been more concerning to find that spren he had heard of had been able to speak all along.

His eyes darted back to Kaladin as the man stepped a pace away from him, searching for something in his face. "I'm going to try to get this bridge crew organized," said Kaladin. "Are you willing to help?"

Organized? What did that mean? Kaladin clearly had some sort of military training—did he intend to turn Bridge Four into a fighting force? For what purpose? It wasn't as though they were allowed weapons.

Still, something in Sarus was willing to grasp at even the vaguest, most illusory strand of meaning that was offered to his miserable life. He nodded.

"Good," said Kaladin. "If the men see you participating, it'll help get them moving. Thank you." Then he turned, marched to the barracks door, and flung them open with surprising force. The sunlight streamed in like a hail of Parshendi arrows. Groaning broke out all around Sarus, a plague that spread from bridgeman to bridgeman as sound and light woke them from sleep. At the front of the room, silhouetted against a backdrop of gold, Kaladin took a deep breath and shouted. "Up and organize!"

Sarus blinked at him. If Kaladin intended him to do something specific with that, he didn't know what.

"That," Kaladin said, glaring around at the rest of the men, "means get out of bed, out of the barracks, and form ranks! Now, storm you all, or I'll drag you out myself!"

Well, if Sarus had wanted specific instructions, now he had them. But even as he began to stride past their bunks, he knew he would be the only one. They were broken men, these condemned slaves. Despair was a blanket of black velvet, thick and muffling, laying over each of them.

They didn't want to be distracted from their misery. They didn't want to hope. Hope required thought, and thought was pain. They wanted to slide from one day to the next with a minimum of effort, trying to ease the passage of time until death set them free.

Sarus was no better than they were. He was just more bored. Even torture grew banal eventually. He had fallen so far into despair that even hope held no more fear for him.

He stepped up beside Kaladin, looking out into the morning sunlight. He was struck by a momentary thought that, six years ago, the blossoming dawn over the red earth might have been a beautiful sight. Maybe it had been, and he had forgotten.

Kaladin sighed. "So be it," he said. Sarus turned to watch as he stepped back into the barracks and stomped over to the nearest of those men who had turned over in their blankets to go back to sleep after his announcement. He grabbed the man by the arm and heaved, throwing his weight into a mighty tug, pulling the man bodily out of his cot. The man stumbled to his feet to avoid the alternative of rolling onto the floor.

"Storm off," the man growled, tugging his arm away.

Kaladin let it go, already throwing his weight behind a blow. His fist sank into the man's gut with a sound like air escaping from an inflated wineskin. The man doubled over with a wheeze, and Kaladin stepped forward, grabbed his ankles as he bent, and lifted the man over his shoulder like a sack of rockbuds. He staggered slightly under the weight, but soon found his footing and turned to leave the barracks. Sarus stepped aside to allow him to pass.

Kaladin set his burden down on the red-brown stone outside the barracks, then stomped back inside. Glaring around the barracks, he looked completely different from the defeated man who had stumbled out of the camp in the rain the night before. "I'll do the same to each of you," he said, "if I have to."

Sarus expected that he would have to, but for once he misjudged his fellow bridgemen. They stumbled to their feet and filed out behind Kaladin, Sarus at their head. They did not form ranks, although Sarus suspected that in many cases, including himself, they simply didn't know what that even entailed.

Kaladin turned to face the poorly assembled men. "Things are going to change in Bridge Four," he said. "No more sleeping in, for one thing."

"And what do you expect us to do instead?" asked one man—Azish, by his accent and dark skin.

"Train," said Kaladin simply. "Every morning before our chores, we're going to run the bridge in practice to build up our endurance."

At this, even Sarus couldn't help but stare at Kaladin incredulously.

"I know what you're thinking," said Kaladin, meeting Sarus' gaze before casting his eyes over the others. "Aren't our lives hard enough? Shouldn't we be able to relax during the brief times we can?"

"Yes," said a small, possibly Azish man. Sarus hadn't realized until this morning just how many of his fellow bridgemen weren't Alethi.

"No," Kaladin answered sharply. "Bridge runs wouldn't be nearly as exhausting if we didn't spend most of our days lounging. Our chores aren't meant to be hard work, they just keep us busy enough that the soldiers can ignore us."

And busy enough to keep us from getting any ideas, thought Sarus, who had been party to a few ideas over the past five years himself. He wondered if Kaladin was planning to try and organize an uprising.

It wouldn't be the first. Slaves rebelled all over Alethkar, every once in a while—and there were more slaves congregated in the bridge crews than in almost any other single population in the country. But such uprisings almost always failed, and none had been successful in the warcamps.

None yet, at least. In Sarus' experience, such efforts usually failed because of a combination of three lacks: a lack of training, a lack of equipment, and a lack of manpower. Kaladin, it seemed, might just have the first—especially if that was how he had earned the shash brand across his brow. And if he succeeded in motivating the rest of Bridge Four, he might succeed in bringing the other bridge crews into the fold—which might well be enough to give him the third.

But the second—the lack of equipment—would still be crippling. Did he have a plan to surmount that? Sarus hoped so—it didn't much matter to him, but it would be a shame to lead an uprising on with false hope, only to get all of them killed on the Sadeas army's spears.

"I'm your new bridgeleader,"—Kaladin was still speaking—"and it's my job to keep you alive. I can't stop the Parshendi arrows, but I can do something about you. I have to make you stronger, so that on the last sprint of a run, you can run quickly. I intend to see that Bridge Four never loses another man."

Sarus was struck by the weight of that final sentence. Kaladin spoke it with certainty—not the certainty of one confident he could succeed, but the certainty of a man who had no other choice.

One of the men started to laugh—a deep, full-bellied sound. More joined in, and Sarus saw laughterspren—something he had not seen in years—swimming through the air around them like a school of silver fish.

One of the men called out to Gaz. As the overseer stomped over, he asked, "Bridgeleader wants us to carry bridges as practice. Do we have to do what he says?"

"No," grunted Gaz. "Bridgeleaders only have authority on the field."

"Looks like you can storm off, then," said the bridgeman, before turning and going back into the barracks. He was followed by many of the others, though some peeled off and made for the mess hall.

Sarus stayed where he was as Kaladin looked after the others. The honorspren on his shoulder looked up at him. "That didn't go as well as you were hoping."

"No," Kaladin grunted—confirming Sarus' suspicion that he could hear her. "Not surprising." Then he seemed to notice Sarus still standing there, watching him. "You're still here?" he asked.

Sarus nodded, then shrugged. He had no better ideas for what to spend his day on.

Kaladin grunted. "Well, thanks. Not that it helped much."

Sarus shrugged again. To the rest of the bridgemen, he and Kaladin were nothing more than the two who had been here longest. They hadn't yet realized just how unusual that was—and none of them, including Kaladin, had any idea just how long Sarus had been here. Kaladin knew Sarus as the only man who had survived this Damnation longer than him, but to the rest of the bridgemen, the only difference between them was that Kaladin seemed to have gone suddenly mad, while Sarus had seemed mad the entire time.

"What are you going to do now?" asked the honorspren.

Kaladin didn't answer her in words—did he not think Sarus could hear her? He seemed to be avoiding looking directly at her with Sarus' eyes on him. Instead, he cast his eyes over in Gaz's direction. "Mm. I have an idea."

Across the field, Gaz caught Kaladin's eye. Sarus saw terror splatter across his face before he turned and bustled off. The violet marble of a fearspren rolled after him, hot on his heels.

Kaladin inclined his head slightly, facing away from Sarus, and mumbled something. A moment later, the honorspren on his shoulder shot off after the overseer as a ribbon of pale blue. Kaladin, meanwhile, followed more slowly. Sarus watched as the honorspren darted after Gaz while Kaladin stopped where the man had been standing before he fled.

A moment later, the honorspren returned, and after exchanging a few words, Sarus saw Kaladin turn and take a circuitous route around a barrack. For a moment, he considered following, but thought better of it.

The moment Kaladin was out of view, Archive bloomed into view on his shoulder, enlarging from a speck to a small woman the size of a fingernail. "Can you see the honorspren?" she asked without preamble.

Sarus nodded.

"Hear her?"

He nodded again.

"How unusual," she commented. "She is hiding herself. To most humans, she is not. Even to me, she is not. But she cannot hide from you."

Sarus wondered if Archive could do the same. If so, why did she always shrink down to avoid detection? Or perhaps Sarus' ability to see apparently invisible honorspren didn't extend to seeing whatever Archive was, and she was staying present for his benefit. The idea brought a strange, unfamiliar warmth to his chest.

A few minutes later, Kaladin emerged from behind the Bridge Two barracks, Gaz shouting after him—"You can't have authority without a rank!" The moment he came into view, Archive shrank down again.

Sarus saw Kaladin's lips move as he spoke quietly to his spren, hovering a foot or so in front of his face. She didn't bother to keep her voice down as she replied: "Where does authority come from, then?"

Sarus could just make out Kaladin's reply. "From the men who give it to you." The new bridgeleader met Sarus' gaze across the field. "Tesh," he called. "I'm going to train, even if it's just me. You coming?"

Sarus shrugged. Why not?

He followed Kaladin toward the lumberyard. A troop of carpenters were busy constructing more of the storming bridges that had been Sarus' life and death for the past five years. He caught up with Kaladin as the man was looking around for something. "See if you can find something we can use as a two-person bridge," the bridgeleader told him.

Sarus nodded and began the search. As he did, he heard Kaladin speaking quietly with his spren.

"Syl," he said. "You don't sleep, do you?"

"Sleep? A spren?" She laughed. Syl—was that her name?

"Would you watch over me at night?" Kaladin asked. He had drifted towards the other side of the yard, and Sarus had to strain to hear him. "Gaz might try something while I'm sleeping."

"You think he would?"

If Kaladin replied, it was drowned out by the carpenters' saws.

"You eavesdrop on them," Archive commented, still no larger than a speck of dust on his shoulder. "Why?"

Sarus shrugged.

"You cannot answer," Archive said, as though she had just remembered. "Is it because you do not trust them?"

Sarus considered that for a moment before shaking his head.

"Why do you trust them?" the spren asked. "You have not known Kaladin long, and the honorspren has never spoken to you."

Sarus shrugged. Really, it was just easier to trust Kaladin than not to. It wasn't as though he was exposing himself to any threat by being credulous. What could Kaladin do to him that had not already been done?

"Is it simple curiosity, then?" Archive asked. When he nodded, she asked to clarify, "About the honorspren?"

Sarus paused, then nodded slowly. It wasn't just the honorspren he was curious about, but he was curious about her. And it was about her that he felt he was most likely to hear when listening to her talking to Kaladin.

"I understand," said Archive. "It must be strange to find that she is. Or that I am. We have been gone a long time."

Sarus gave a quizzical look to his shoulder, where he knew she was lingering among the flecks of sawdust already settling on his vest. But if she saw his curiosity, she did not choose to elaborate.

Eventually, Kaladin found a suitable piece of bridge. It was a hair heavier than two bridgemen's usual share of Bridge Four, but the difference was small enough that Sarus expected he only noticed because of how very long he had spent running bridges. After asking a carpenter to borrow the plank, Kaladin led Sarus to a stretch of the yard just outside the Bridge Four barracks. Then they began to practice.

Keeping pace with a single other bridgeman was very different from keeping pace with thirty. Sarus had to constantly watch Kaladin's movements ahead of him, carefully modulating his speed to avoid falling behind or pushing ahead, either of which might have destabilized the partial bridge above them. Kaladin, thankfully, was clearly accustomed to rhythmic training. He moved in very predictable ways, which made Sarus' job easier.

Gradually, they drew a crowd. Bridgemen—both from Bridge Four and the other crews—as well as others gathered to watch the strange spectacle of bridgemen choosing to carry a bridge when they didn't have to. Some called out taunts and jeers, but Sarus noticed none of the other members of Bridge Four did so. Most ignored them, but a few seemed transfixed, as if they could not believe what they were seeing.

They ran for a long time—longer than any one stretch of a bridge run, although not as long as the full advance and withdrawal. Finally, Kaladin called back to him. "That's enough!"

Sarus slowed to a stop, doing his best to match Kaladin's pace. Together, they set the plank down, and Kaladin led him over to the carpenters' water barrel. It was normally forbidden to bridgemen. No one seemed inclined to remind them of that, today.

Between gulps of water, Kaladin looked at him. "Thank you," he said. "You didn't have to do this."

Sarus shrugged.

Suddenly, there was a tiny blue face inches from his own. He blinked, recoiling.

"You can see me!" Syl crowed, seeming to jump for joy in the air. Her jump carried her further, up and back, until she was sailing in a loop away from him, coming to rest up and a pace further from him than she had been. "I knew you could see me!"

"He can?" Kaladin asked, blinking at Sarus. "You can?"

Sarus nodded. He wondered if Archive would make herself known, but she seemed disinclined to do so.

"Huh." Kaladin glanced at Syl, then back at Sarus. "It's just you, I think. No one else seems to notice her."

"I can make myself visible," said Syl. "I think. But you," she waggled her finger at Sarus, "you can see me even when I don't want everyone to. And you can hear me, too!"

"Any idea why?" Kaladin asked, looking at both Sarus and Syl.

"Nope!" said Syl.

Sarus just shrugged.

Kaladin sighed. "Wonderful," he grumbled. "Two people willing to interact with me—one doesn't talk, the other talks enough for both of you."

Syl narrowed her eyes at him. "Is that sarcasm?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I knew it!" Syl cheered, then stopped, looking thoughtful. "How did I know that?"

"It's usually fairly obvious," said Kaladin.

"To humans, maybe," said Syl. "But a week ago I'd never heard of sarcasm."

Sarus wondered why Archive was silent. Surely she had some sort of opinion on this—but she wasn't offering it. Why?

He got his answer when Kaladin left to visit an apothecary after lunch. The moment he was alone, Archive popped back into view on his shoulder. "I apologize for my silence when the honorspren confronted you," she said.

Sarus blinked at her expectantly, awaiting an explanation.

For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Archive visibly hesitated. "I do not remember much," she said. "I suspect the same is true of the honorspren. But I do not think my kind are well-liked by hers. Or vice-versa."

Her kind? Sarus realized he had no idea what sort of spren Archive was. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

She seemed to guess at his meaning. "I am an inkspren," she said. "I do not remember what that means. I do not remember where I came from. I do not even remember exactly how long I have been here. I told you the first time we spoke that I did not remember why I came. That is still true, and I suspect it is also true of the honorspren. But as you are part of my reason, whatever it is, so Kaladin is part of hers. You understand?"

Sarus nodded.

"Good," said Archive. She was silent for a moment. "He is healing," she said. "Kaladin. This is important."

Sarus looked at her. For a moment, she seemed to be avoiding his gaze, before visibly forcing herself to look him in the eye.

"The honorspren—Syl—is helping him to heal," she said. "I hope I can do the same for you. Eventually."

You already are, Sarus thought. For a moment, he wanted to force the words out. To make himself speak. To break the wall of silence that had sprung up between himself and the world. He knew that once the first word was spoken, the rest would be so much easier. He just needed to get the first word out.

The very idea made him shudder, but as he looked at Archive, sitting on his shoulder watching him, he wondered if she felt just as alone as he had before she had reached out and spoken to him. He wanted to offer her the same comfort she had offered him—the same wonderful ending to the long solitude.

He opened his mouth. Archive's eyes widened.

The horns rang out. Sarus' mouth snapped shut as he rushed to his feet.

It was time to run the bridge.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading.

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6

Deathpoint



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Something has taken up residence there. Something terrible. Something I do not—perhaps cannot—understand.

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"Storming—line up!" Kaladin shouted, trying in vain to be heard over the clamor of a mustering army. "Form a line, all of you!"

He saw Tesh glance his way, then at the other bridgemen around him. None of the others reacted. Either Tesh was the only one who could hear him or, more likely, he was the only one who cared to listen. Many had been caught flat-footed, without the leather vests that kept their shoulders from being chafed raw against the bridge. There was a crush of bodies around the barracks door as those with jackets tried to get out, and those without tried to get in.

But nonetheless, the men eventually managed to assemble beside their bridge in the usual rotation. They all knew the pattern—every bridgeman was constantly aware of where he was in the rotation for each run. It was the only way to track how likely they were to make it back to camp that night.

Kaladin took his place at the front of the bridge, beside Tesh. He'd been there twice now since that first run. Tesh had never left. How the man stayed alive, Kaladin didn't know—and he suspected Tesh didn't, either.

He shot the unspeaking man a sidelong glance as they hefted the bridge over their heads. Tesh's face had gone slack, his eyes dull and dead. Kaladin could sympathize. He suspected Tesh had not been born unable to speak, nor had it been an injury or oath that had robbed him of words.

If Kaladin had been trapped here, running at the front of the bridge for so long—he could imagine eventually giving up on speech entirely. Although he already knew he wouldn't have survived long enough, at least not without Syl's intervention.

Twenty bridges set out onto the Shattered Plains. As they began the long march, Kaladin felt the ache in his muscles from the workout this morning. Tesh's presence at his side helped to ground him. Tesh was just as tired as he was, physically, and he was running just as determinedly as ever.

They crossed several permanent bridges, Kaladin leading his crew as they followed the path called out for them by Gaz. Then they came to the open chasms.

They thrust the bridge across the first gap, and then the rest of Bridge Four collapsed to the ground. All except Tesh, who remained upright without apparent struggle, as if all of this was nothing more than habit to him. Kaladin was barely able to stay standing beside him—but he did.

Tesh raised an eyebrow as Kaladin forced his hands behind his back in a formal parade rest. The silent man looked him up and down, and then—with some uncertainty—copied the posture.

"Look at the little bridgemen!" called a soldier in the line waiting to cross the bridge. "Hoping to grow up to be real soldiers?"

Kaladin shot him a look. He recognized the captain's knots on the man's jerkin. "How do you treat your spear and shield, squadleader?" he called. "This is my bridge. It is the only weapon allowed me. Treat her well."

He felt Tesh's eyes on him as he turned away from the soldiers and set his eyes on the horizon behind the army, ignoring the laughter of many—though not all—of the infantry around him. Then, quite suddenly, he saw out of the corner of his eye Tesh's attention snapping somewhere else. Kaladin followed his gaze.

Highprince Sadeas was crossing the bridge. Kaladin suddenly realized Sadeas had crossed Bridge Four almost every time he had seen the highprince on a run. Tesh's eyes were fixed on the man as he passed, red Shardplate almost gaudy with frivolous tassels on its helm.

The Highprince didn't look at the bridgemen. But suddenly, Kaladin wondered if Tesh's obvious fascination with the man was more than just the ordinary disdain of any darkeyed unfortunate to the lighteyes who held him in his situation.

He turned his head slightly to study Tesh. The man's face was perfectly blank. His eyes were so black that the pupils were indistinguishable from the irises as they followed Sadeas across the bridge.

Wait.

Hadn't Tesh had gray eyes? Kaladin remembered those eyes clearly, a dark grey almost pale enough to pass as light in the gloom of the barracks, the night before. But here in the sunlight, the eyes were two flints, black as pitch and hard as the rock beneath their feet.

As Sadeas's horse stepped off the bridge on the other side, a tension seemed to leave Tesh. He settled back into his stance for a moment before noticing Kaladin's gaze on him. He shot Kaladin a quizzical look.

"Do you have a history with the Highprince?" Kaladin asked.

Tesh's mouth thinned to a pale line in his tanned, leathery face. Slowly, he nodded. Then he turned his eyes from Kaladin and set them forward, clearly trying to put a stop to the conversation.

Kaladin didn't press. He had some idea what the story would have been, anyway. Sadeas is your Amaram, isn't he?

The soldiers finished crossing, and then it was the bridgemen's turn. They crossed the bridge, pulled it behind them, and started across the next plateau. The routine continued, cycling repeatedly enough times that Kaladin lost count. Every single time, Highprince Sadeas crossed their bridge. Every single time, Tesh focused completely on him as he did.

Then, finally, the dreaded command came. "Reverse runners!" Gaz ordered. "Cross and reverse!"

This was it. The next crossing would be the assault. He squinted, trying to see the edge of the next plateau—and, yes, there was a line of dark figures gathering there. They were still moving—the Parshendi had beaten them here, but not by much. It wouldn't be the worst bridge run Kaladin had seen, but it wouldn't be a good one.

He wasn't the only one who could tell. The men were rising up around him in silence, faces dark, eyes downcast, as though they were marching to their own funerals. As far as they knew, they were.

Beside Kaladin, Tesh turned and walked back towards the front of the bridge. He had never rotated from the first row in Kaladin's entire time with Bridge Four. He was as much a fixture as the bridge itself.

The rest of the crew was leaving a space in the center of the very back for Kaladin. Syl landed on the bridge above it, looking down at the opening. Then she looked at him. He couldn't read her expression.

Kaladin took a deep breath, then turned and followed Tesh. Several men—Drehy, Teft, Sigzil—stared at him as he passed them, walking up the length of the bridge.

Tesh blinked at him when he reached the front. Kaladin didn't look at him—instead, he tapped the man standing one pace to Tesh's left, Rock. "You're in my spot."

"What—"

"To the back with you." Kaladin was too tired to talk, too tired to explain. Was this how Tesh felt all the time?

Fortunately, it wasn't difficult to convince Rock to fall back. Kaladin took his place at the very head of the bridge. He was in the deathpoint—the very center of the front row. To his right was Tesh, and past him Adis. To his left were Murk and Corl.

I intend to see that Bridge Four never loses another man. Kaladin inhaled, then breathed out.

Syl flew down from over the bridge and alighted on his shoulder. "I'm proud of you," she said softly. Beside them, Tesh made a slight motion that might have been a nod.

The final run began. The Parshendi had managed to get into position while they had been lifting the bridge, and now the bows were being raised. There weren't quite as many archers as there had been on Kaladin's first run, but it was worse than any since.

The Parshendi fired.

Kaladin screamed his brother's name.

The arrows landed.

They zipped by Tesh, leaving him completely untouched. One scored across Kaladin's ribs. The rest of the front line—Adis, Murk, Corl—all fell like cremlings who had lost their footing.

But Kaladin kept running. The group of Parshendi immediately ahead of Bridge Four had lowered their bows, blinking in apparent surprise. Kaladin didn't know if they were just surprised to see two survivors in the front row, but their momentary lapse gave the bridge crew precious time.

Kaladin screamed orders, and the men dropped the bridge. With a heave, they quickly shoved it across so that its far end made contact with the Parshendi's plateau. Then, alongside the rest of the crew, Kaladin dove out of the way of the Alethi cavalry charge. As the battle was joined, the bridgemen were mercifully forgotten.

Kaladin finally had time to examine the wound across his chest. He quickly determined that it wasn't severe.

Tesh stood up. Kaladin watched his head tilt, eyes following a volley of Alethi arrows as they sailed overhead. Then he turned to Kaladin, looking down at him expressionlessly. Those black eyes were just as piercing as the projectiles.

Kaladin forced himself to join Tesh on his feet. He wasn't done yet. "Help me get people to safety," he told Tesh.

Tesh cocked his head, then nodded once. He turned and jogged in the direction of a few fallen bodies in the leather and rags of bridgemen. They lay face down where they had been shot. Kaladin couldn't even tell if they were part of his crew.

He turned to grab another body himself. It was Teft, teeth gritted against the pain of an arrow whose point had buried itself in the flesh just above his hip. The shaft had snapped, but the stone head was buried deep.

"What are you storming doing, lad?" Teft growled as Kaladin grabbed him and forced him to his feet. He offered his own shoulder to keep the man's weight off his injured side, despite the protestations of his aching muscles.

"Saving your life," growled Kaladin.

"You're not saving a storming thing," Teft snapped. "I can't possibly carry the bridge like this."

"We can worry about that later," Kaladin said. "Right now, we just have to survive."

He helped Teft to the cover of a hill in the irregular rock of the plateau. Several of the others were already hiding in a hollow beneath the small cliff. Kaladin sat Teft with his back against the rock face, then gave his wound a momentary glance. It was severe, but not severe enough that the few minutes Kaladin needed to find the rest of the crew would make a difference.

"I'll be back," he told Teft, then turned and almost ran into Tesh. The silent man was bent almost double as he jogged into the hollow, carrying a groaning figure on his back. It was Skar, an arrow buried between his eighth and ninth ribs. Kaladin's heart sank immediately. He couldn't be sure whether it had penetrated anything immediately lethal, but the odds weren't good.

"Lay him down on his back," Kaladin ordered. "Then go find everyone else. Anyone alive, bring them here, injured or not."

Tesh slowly lowered the groaning Skar to the stone, then gave him a stiff nod and sprinted back out, heedless of the arrows zipping overhead.

Kaladin knelt beside Skar, looking around at the other bridgemen. "Gadol," he said, pointing. "Go find me a knife. Amark, find a rockbud and break it open, then bring me its watergourd. Anyone have a flint and steel?"

"I do," Moash said.

"Get a fire going," Kaladin ordered him. "Use arrow shafts for tinder."

Orders given, he turned back to his patient. A red stain was spreading across Skar's side. His face was going pale, his eyes glazing over. There was not much hope for him, Kaladin knew, but if a lack of hope were an excuse to give up he'd be at the bottom of the Honor Chasm right now.

He tore open Skar's shirt, careful not to dislodge the shaft of the arrow. By its positioning, it might have pierced the man's liver, or it might have just missed by less than an inch. He couldn't be sure. Kaladin could at least thank his lucky stars that the arrow didn't seem to have broken the man's ribs on the way in—that meant he could apply pressure without worrying too much about driving shrapnel deeper into his flesh.

He quickly stripped off his shirt and vest. He rolled up one corner of the vest and put it between Skar's teeth. The shirt he quickly bundled into a thick pad. Then, moving as quickly as he dared, he closed one hand around the shaft of the arrow. As he tugged it free, he pressed into the wound with the shirt.

The shirt went red alarmingly quickly. Skar screamed into his makeshift gag. His glazed eyes suddenly went sharp and wild, like a rabid animal's. With surprising deliberation, he spat out the vest. His mouth opened, and he spoke in a harsh, rattling voice. "He dies, he lives, he dies again!" he rasped. "He is the bridge between what is and what cannot be, and where he forms the path, she comes! She comes in hunger, and she feasts!"

Then he fell back with a final exhalation, his eyes dull. Dead.

Kaladin staggered back, the shock of losing a patient knocking him just as off-balance as it always did. He was snapped out of it, however, when Tesh returned. The man was somehow supporting a limping Bisig on one shoulder while carrying a limp Murk over the other. Kaladin leapt to his feet and helped him get the two injured men onto the ground.

Bisig's injury wasn't severe—at least not by bridgeman standards. He had been shot in the thigh, and the arrow had embedded itself deep and then splintered. The bleeding wasn't too bad, but the man's face was a rictus of pain. Still, that was an injury Kaladin knew how to treat.

Murk, however, was pale and unconscious. Kaladin wasn't immediately sure why. There was a wound on the outside of his chest, just below his shoulder, which didn't seem to be bleeding too badly. Kaladin tore aside that part of the man's shirt, wondering if he was bleeding internally. He was, but not severely enough to knock him out.

Tesh stood up again once the men were lowered.

"Is there anyone else?" Kaladin asked him.

The silent man raised a single finger, then turned and dashed from the hollow again.

Kaladin looked around, doing a quick head count. Six dead, then, counting poor Skar—assuming the final man Tesh had seen was still alive when they returned. Kaladin was horrified to find that, in the haze of his exhaustion, he couldn't immediately remember which faces were missing from the hollow.

Rather than let that distract him, he focused on what he could do. "Gadol," he said, "heat that knife in the fire. Amark, give me that gourd."

As he took the sloshing sac from Amark, he turned his attention to Murk. On a hunch, he reached his hand around the back of the man's head. Yes—there was a large lump growing on the back of his skull. Murk had been in the front row. He must have fallen, then been trampled by the rest of the crew as they ran.

There was nothing Kaladin could immediately do for a head injury, so he moved on to Teft. His face fell as he looked at the older man. Teft's eyes were closed, and his skin had gone a few shades lighter. For a moment, Kaladin didn't understand—the arrowhead in Teft's side shouldn't have been bleeding that severely.

Then he noticed the blood seeping from an entirely different wound in the man's opposite arm. The arrow seemed to have dug through as much flesh as it possibly could as it passed through, and then hadn't even stayed present to slow the bleeding. The gash in Teft's upper arm was wide, deep, and pouring blood.

Kaladin dashed over. "Gadol, that knife!"

He took the hilt from Gadol—for something heated on a makeshift campfire in such difficult conditions, Gadol had managed to get the blade impressively hot. He tore away Teft's shirt, and moved as quickly as he could.

First, clean the wound. He poured the liquid from the watergourd onto the wound, rinsing it as thoroughly as he could while being mindful of how little time Teft might have if he kept bleeding. The liquid smelt slightly bitter, but he knew from his lessons that a rockbud's watergourd was reliably sanitary.

Next, cauterize. The hot knife steamed as it pressed against the wound. The man didn't react.

"You," Kaladin said, barely even conscious of his own voice, "will not die. Not today. Not now."

He tied a tourniquet around Teft's shoulder, as tight as he could under the circumstances, then pulled out his needle and thread and began to stitch.

Tesh returned silently as he worked. He spared a quick glance to see who he had brought. It was Arik—wounded, but not severely. There were gashes along his right arm and left leg where arrows had clipped him, but nothing life-threatening. Kaladin tossed the roll of bandages to Tesh, then held out the watergourd to him. "Wash the wounds, then tie those around them," he ordered, already looking back at Teft's much more severe injuries. "Tightly. Don't use more than you need, and give me back what you don't use. I need the rest."

Tesh didn't reply, of course, but nor did anyone else. All around Kaladin, the hollow was silent. Twenty-six bridgemen watched as he did all he could to save Teft's life.

The bleeding slowed. By the time Kaladin had backed away from Teft's wounds, the bandage on his arm had soaked through and been replaced—but the replacement was holding.

Someone groaned behind him. He turned sharply.

Murk was stirring, clutching his head. Kaladin felt the relief break over him like sweat after a fever. He dashed over and gave Murk a portion from the watergourd to drink, then moved on.

The wound in Bisig's leg didn't need to be cauterized. Kaladin washed it with most of what remained in the watergourd, picked out the splinters, then stitched it closed and bandaged over it.

Finally, he was finished. He leaned back, mind numb. Four injured men, treated as best he could manage. And, he reminded himself, glancing over at Skar's corpse, one patient he had failed.

Tesh knelt beside him. Kaladin couldn't even muster the energy to look at him, to try to read his intentions in his face and gestures.

He did look, however, when he felt something nudge his arm. He glanced down to see that Tesh was prodding him with the watergourd. Kaladin blinked down at it for a moment, then reached down and took it. The liquid was bitter, but it was also cool and fresh. "Thanks," he said.

Tesh nodded.

Kaladin looked around, trying to remember faces and names. Six of Bridge Four were dead today, assuming Teft survived. Jaks, he remembered. Adis. Corl. Koorm. Dabbid.

And, of course, Skar.

He slumped down into the hollow.

"Where did you learn to be a healer?" Sigzil asked quietly.

Kaladin looked up and saw the small Azish man staring at him with something like awe. Many of the bridgemen were looking at him with similar expressions on their faces. "I wasn't always a slave," Kaladin said, voice rasping through his exhausted throat.

"These things you have done, they will not matter," Rock said, but it wasn't spoken with belligerence or bitterness. He sounded almost mournful. "We must leave behind wounded who cannot walk. Gaz makes it so. Orders from above."

"I'll deal with Gaz," said Kaladin. He turned the knife in his hands and handed it, hilt first, to Gadol. "Take this back wherever you found it," he said. "I don't want to be accused of looting."

The battle was long, but it eventually came to an end. Kaladin heard the Alethi soldiers shouting their victory. He wondered what it might be like to care who won in a battle like this. It was all he could do to force himself to his feet and go find Gaz. The arrows had stopped flying, but they would be here a while yet while the soldiers pounded against the chasmfiend's chrysalis.

Those chrysalises, Kaladin had learned, were the reason for every brutal bridge run. The chasmfiends emerged from the canyons and formed these shells around themselves. It was in this vulnerable state that both the Alethi and the Parshendi could attempt to harvest the massive emerald gemhearts inside them, which were large enough that soulcasters using them could produce enough grain to feed whole regiments.

Kaladin had spent years wanting to come to the Shattered Plains, to fight in the honorable war of the Vengeance Pact against the Parshendi. Now that he was finally here, he knew the truth. The entire War of Reckoning was little more than a vanity project, allowing highprinces to grow wealthy off the backs and blood of darkeyed slaves.

Kaladin shook the thoughts off. Gaz was standing well behind where the battle lines had been, head casting this way and that as though trying to keep his one eye on everyone around him. He glanced over as Kaladin approached. "Lot of blood for one man," he commented. "How much of it's yours?"

Kaladin looked down at himself, suddenly conscious of all the blood that had soaked into his clothes after nearly an hour of intense medical work. He didn't bother to answer Gaz's question. "We're taking our injured with us."

"No, you're not," Gaz grunted. "If they can't walk, they stay behind. Not my choice—orders from above."

"I wasn't asking."

Gaz's one eyebrow rose. "Brightlord Lamaril won't stand for it."

"Brightlord Lamaril will be in the front of the column," Kaladin said. "He won't want to miss the victory celebrations. You'll send Bridge Four last, and he doesn't have to see our injured. We'll keep pace with the other bridges." He pulled out his last sphere, the last of the clearmarks Gaz had paid him that very morning. He had spent the rest on the medical supplies he'd used to keep his men alive today. "You'll keep this between us."

"One clearmark?" Gaz sneered, though not until after he'd taken the sphere. "You think I'd risk—"

"If you don't," Kaladin interrupted, "I'll kill you, and let them execute me."

Gaz started. "You wouldn't—"

Kaladin took a step forward. It wasn't a deliberate intimidation. It was just that, if he did have to leave his men behind after so much effort to save them, he didn't think surviving was worth letting Gaz live.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. Tesh. Gaz bared his teeth. "That's right, Dullard," he said. "You'd best—"

Tesh stepped past Kaladin. Suddenly, the man seemed taller than he had a few minutes ago, in the hollow beside the cliff. He seemed to tower over Gaz, his unkempt, prematurely-white hair billowing unnaturally in the faint breeze.

Gaz staggered back, one eye wide enough that a ring of white was visible around his dark irises. "Storm it, fine!" he said. "But if Brightlord Lamaril asks, I don't know a thing about it!"

"Fine," Kaladin said. It didn't matter.

Gaz's gaze darted down to the dark sphere in his hand. He made a derisive sound in the back of his throat. "And a dun sphere, at that," he said.

Kaladin turned and walked away. Tesh followed him.

Syl darted ahead of both of them. "I don't trust Gaz," she said. "He could easily say you threatened him and send people after you."

Tesh shook his head.

"You think?" Kaladin asked him.

Tesh held out his hand, two fingers and thumb extended like talons closed around a small object, then flicked them into a fist, as if pulling something close.

"He definitely wants my spheres," Kaladin agreed. "Badly. Maybe badly enough to keep him in line. Maybe not. We'll see."

Tesh nodded.

As they returned to the hollow, Kaladin's mind drifted. He hadn't kept his promise. Bridge Four had lost men under his watch. But Kaladin was getting used to breaking promises by now.

It was almost possible for him to convince himself that, just maybe, he had made a difference today. Maybe Teft would die tomorrow, but he had not died yet. Maybe all of them would die tomorrow, but they had not died yet. It was a cold comfort, but it was all he had, and Kaladin clutched it as tightly as Gaz had clutched that dun clearmark.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

7

Precognition



-x-x-x-​

The surviving humans on Ashyn have started using its power, much as humans on shardworlds use Investiture.

-x-x-x-​

"You realize, Brightlord, that you have now committed two entire battalions to patrolling?"

"Yes," said Renarin's father.

Brightlady Teshav pursed her lips. "That is in addition to the battalion already peacekeeping between the warcamps and in the markets," she said. "Over a quarter of your forces are standing by, Brightlord."

"I know. The orders stand, Teshav." Dalinar's voice was short but not annoyed, despite being questioned by a subordinate in his wartime decisions, and a woman at that. If anything, he sounded tired. "See to it. But first, head to the ledger room. I'll meet you there; we have more to discuss."

"Of course, Highprince," Teshav said, nodding respectfully before withdrawing.

Renarin leaned closer to his father. "She wasn't pleased about that."

"She wants me to send her husband out to fight," Dalinar said. "She hopes I'll win another Shardblade and give it to him."

He was probably right. Renarin was good at reading the emotions in people's faces, but not as good at attributing them correctly. He'd assumed Teshav had felt insulted that her advice was dismissed, but his father's assessment probably made more sense.

Dalinar led him into the royal palace. After five years out here on the Plains, Elhokar's royal court had come together astonishingly well. It couldn't hold a candle to the grand citadel at Kholinar, of course, but for a palace that had been hastily erected in one of the most hostile environments on Roshar, it had come together very well.

As they crossed the threshold, Glys darted ahead and hovered just in front of Renarin's face, keeping pace perfectly as they walked. It was something he did often. Renarin wondered how he maintained the exact distance between them so effortlessly. It wasn't as though Glys had legs with which to mirror Renarin's stride. Was it flight, the same as many other types of spren, and mere practice allowed him to so easily maintain a constant distance? Or was he anchoring himself to Renarin somehow, rather than being anchored to Roshar itself?

"Who do you think cut the strap on Elhokar's saddle?" Glys asked.

I don't know, Renarin said without moving his mouth. It was a skill he and Glys were practicing. The mistpren might be able to go invisible and inaudible, but Renarin was not so lucky. They might need to communicate in public situations, and Renarin's public image was far too tarnished already to survive being seen talking to himself. Glys couldn't read Renarin's mind, but he could receive thoughts Renarin deliberately projected to the very surface of his consciousness.

"I didn't get that," Glys said after a moment.

…It was still a work in progress.

Before Renarin could try again, his father spoke quietly at his side. "Son, I've been meaning to speak with you about the hunt last week."

Renarin couldn't suppress the twitch that went through his face, though he did manage to control the urge to flinch at the sudden anxiety that rose up from his gut like bile.

Dalinar didn't wait for a verbal reply. "You realize that rushing into battle like you did was reckless," he said. "You could have died."

"What would you have done if it had been me in danger?" Even as the words left his mouth, Renarin knew they were weak. He and his father were fundamentally different. Dalinar was a war hero, a soldier of peerless skill and incredible strength, a man about whom men whispered with awe and fear in equal measure. Renarin, meanwhile, was little more than the punchline to the cruelest joke of his father's life.

"I don't fault your bravery; I fault your wisdom." The words were spoken sternly, but kindly. They still cut like knives. "What if you'd had one of your fits?"

I wouldn't, Renarin thought. He hadn't had a seizure since bonding with Glys more than two weeks ago. While he had gone that long without suffering one in the past, it was rare—and Glys thought it was more likely that he had unconsciously healed his own blood-sickness using Stormlight. Renarin hadn't even realized that was a possibility.

But he couldn't exactly tell his devoutly Vorin father that his blood-sickness had been cured by his Knight Radiant magic. Even if Glys hadn't asked him to keep his powers secret for now. Renarin knew he should just accept the criticism gracefully and disengage, let the conversation end.

…But it hurt. It hurt to be dismissed again. It hurt to have it thrown in his face that even now, even when he had been chosen to be the first—one of the first, as Glys had corrected him—Knights Radiant in almost two thousand years… he was still the overlooked, unwanted outsider he'd always been.

"Then maybe the chasmfiend would have swept me off the plateau," Renarin found himself saying before he could reel the words back, "and I'd stop being such a waste of space."

Glys hummed his displeasure, darting right into Renarin's ear to make his disapproval known, even as his father spoke sharply. "Don't even joke about such things!"

"Was it a joke, Father?" Renarin asked, shaking his head slightly to dislodge his spren. It didn't work, of course. Glys was mostly incorporeal most of the time. "I can't fight."

His father, of course, repeated the same worthless platitude he always did. "Fighting is not the only thing of value a man can do."

Renarin's mouth twisted. He was so storming tired of people who only cared about warfare telling him it was perfectly fine that he wasn't capable of joining them in it. He tore his eyes from his father and set them forward, staring at nothing in particular. "You're right, of course," he said stiffly. "I'm not the first hero's son to be born without a talent for combat. The other's all managed; so will I. I'll probably end up as a citylord of some small town on the fringes, assuming I don't hide in the devotaries."

His father was silent for a moment. Renarin didn't look at him. Part of him wanted to see what was happening on his face; the rest of him couldn't bear to know. "Perhaps," Dalinar said after several long seconds, "it's time to try again."

Renarin blinked. "Try again?"

"To teach you the sword, son."

Renarin's resolve to keep his eyes front splintered. He blinked at his father, looking for any sign of a joke in his thoughtful expression, and found none. "But… my blood sickness—"

"Won't matter if we get you into Plate and give you a Blade," Dalinar said.

"Father," Renarin said, "I'll never be a Shardbearer. You said yourself that any we recover from the Parshendi have to go to the most skilled warriors we have."

"None of the other highprinces have given up their spoils to the king," said his father, with a wry curl to his lips. "And who would fault me if I made a gift to my son?"

Renarin stared at him. "You're serious?"

"I swear to you, son," Dalinar said with surprising firmness. "If I can capture another Blade and Plate, they go to you." Suddenly, the old warrior grinned. "To be honest, I'd do it just to see the look on Sadeas' face."

Renarin couldn't help but smile too.

"Sorry to bring a highstorm through your parade, Renarin," said Glys quietly, "but I don't think it would be a good idea for you to bond a conventional Shardblade."

Renarin blinked at the spren. Why not?

Glys hesitated for a moment before answering. "I suspect that it would have… unpleasant interactions with our bond. For both of us."

You suspect?

"There haven't exactly been many Radiants since the Recreance for me to check against," Glys protested.

Why wouldn't you be able to research Radiants from before the Recreance, then?

Glys drew back suddenly, as if in surprise. "...Oh," he said. "Of course, you wouldn't know."

Know what?

There was a beat of silence. Then, "Very few of the spren who had ever bonded Knights Radiant survived the Recreance," said Glys. "I don't have anyone to ask about Radiants wielding Shardblades before that point."

That made sense. But… What don't I know, Glys?

Glys didn't answer for a long moment. Then, "If you said something, it didn't go through."

Renarin sighed and let the matter drop. He'd ask Glys about it later, when he could just ask the question instead of having to project it.

A few minutes later, they joined Teshav among the ledgers. She had already started, finding the most recent books among the dusty shelves and opening them to those records relevant to House Kholin's finances. Or so Renarin assumed.

"We have got to teach you to read," Glys said.

No, Renarin replied immediately.

"Why not?"

Oh, that had gotten through? I'm already barely a man by my father's standards, Renarin said. I'd rather not be even more of an embarrassment to my family.

"You're not an embarrassment to your family, Renarin." Glys' voice was soft, his tone kind. It stung the way pity always did.

I disagree, Renarin said. And so would most of Alethkar.

"Who cares about most of Alethkar?" asked Glys. "Your actual family doesn't agree. Adolin doesn't think you're a disappointment. Dalinar doesn't think you're a disappointment."

Elhokar does, Renarin said.

"No, he doesn't," Glys said firmly.

How would you know? You've seen him maybe twice.

"There are things I can't tell you, Renarin, but trust me—there is exactly one member of your family that Elhokar views as a disappointment, and it's not you."

Then who? Renarin asked. Surely not Adolin.

Glys didn't answer. Renarin shot him a quick, quizzical look, but the mistspren was as impassive as a floating red crystal dripping crimson droplets upward could hope to be. "If you said something," Glys said, "I didn't get it."

Damnation. With a sigh, Renarin turned his attention to Teshav's ledgers. In this, at least, he could probably make himself useful.

-x-x-x-​

Hours later, they finally left the musty ledger room and turned towards Elhokar's throne room. Work on the palace, Renarin noticed, was still continuing—stonemasons were actively carving out a new relief along one of the walls as they passed.

"Which Herald is that supposed to be?" Glys asked, darting over to the half-completed scene.

Nalan'Elin, Renarin said.

"Oh. The Skybreaker." Glys spoke the word as one might refer to a particularly persistent stray hound. "Right."

Not a fan of the Skybreakers? Renarin asked. Weren't they also an order of Knights Radiant?

"They were," Glys said. "But highspren and mistspren have never really gotten along. Especially not lately. And I have specific reasons to dislike highspren dogma even more than most."

Care to share?

Glys paused. "I should," he said, and he sounded guilty. "You've trusted me so far, and there's still so much you don't know." He sighed. "We really need to teach you to read. There's a book that should have a lot of answers for you."

I can just get someone to read it to me, Renarin said. What's the book?

"The Mythica. By someone named Hessi, I think. It's sort of a compilation on some of the myths of the old Desolations." He paused. "It's specifically about the Unmade."

The what?"

"Nine extremely powerful spren who served the enemy during the Desolations," said Glys. "I—look, I'll tell you later, when we have actual privacy, all right?

They passed Highprince Ruthar on the way in and found Renarin's cousin on his balcony. He turned to them as they approached and gave Renarin's father a respectful—almost deferential—nod. His eyes glided over Renarin as though he wasn't even there.

"Do you think they watch us?" Elhokar asked, glancing back out the window. "From out there on the Plains."

"I can only assume that they do, Your Majesty," said Dalinar. Renarin saw his eyes dart up and down Elhokar's body, something disapproving in the furrow of his brow. But Renarin couldn't guess as to what.

"You look thoughtful, Uncle," Elhokar said. Renarin glanced his way and saw the glint of displeasure in his eyes. Had he also seen whatever Renarin had? Maybe he had a better idea what it meant.

"Just contemplating the past, Your Majesty."

"The past is irrelevant," said Elhokar, and Renarin saw how his eyes flickered to something in the back of the room momentarily. They returned to Dalinar's face reluctantly. "I only look forward."

Mmm, lies, said Glys in Renarin's mind. There was something odd in his voice, a lilting amusement, as though he was imitating something. He chuckled to himself, but whatever the joke was, Renarin didn't get it.

He also wasn't coming out the way he usually did when he spoke to Renarin. Why are you hiding? Renarin asked, gingerly putting his hand into his pocket. His finger brushed Glys' crystalline surface—a feeling they only encountered when the mistspren made himself deliberately corporeal.

You're getting better at hiding when you're talking to me, but you're not perfect yet, said Glys. Someone who knows what to look for might be able to tell I'm here if they saw you look at me. Someone like another spren.

Renarin blinked, trying to keep his expression under control. There's another intelligent spren here?

Yes. Don't ask any more details, I can't tell you.

Why not? Renarin asked, hoping he didn't sound as petulant as he feared.

Oaths, Glys said. Humans aren't the only ones who swear them. The bond of a spren with its chosen Radiant is a sacred thing, one of the last sacred things, and those of us who remember all swore not to interfere with one another's.

Renarin stared at Elhokar. He and Dalinar were arguing about the strategy for the war and the feasibility of continuing the Vengeance Pact. Renarin wasn't listening for any details. My cousin is a Knight Radiant, he said.

I can neither confirm nor deny that a spren is scoping out your cousin, said Glys. Nor can I confirm or deny that, if one was, it would clearly not have managed to form a true Nahel bond at this point. If there were another Radiant spren in this room, it would probably be trying to convince him to say the First Ideal. And, if I had to wildly speculate on this complete hypothetical, doing a thoroughly terrible job at it.

Renarin had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. It wasn't often he was turned towards outbursts of emotion, let alone laughter, but somehow Glys' dry, sarcastic monologues reached him in whatever dark crevice his sense of humor lived. And if you had to speculate on, as you say, this completely unfounded hypothetical, Renarin said, why do you think this hypothetical spren would be doing so badly at forming a hypothetical Nahel bond with my hypothetical cousin?

There's nothing hypothetical about your cousin, Glys pointed out. He very specifically exists, Elhokar Kholin. He chuckled. I shouldn't answer your question, but you're a Truthwatcher, and the only thing worse than me telling you would be you poking it yourself out of curiosity. Promise me you'll leave this to sort itself out?

I promise, said Renarin.

This hypothetical spren is probably a Cryptic, said Glys. Or, as some call them, a liespren. They're attracted to people who compartmentalize or bury parts of themselves in one way or another. The moment I saw your cousin, I thought he'd be a great fit for a Lightweaver.

And why would that make the spren bad at forming Nahel bonds? Renarin asked.

Oh, Cryptics are all stupid, said Glys. Well, no, that's uncharitable. Better to say they have a few very bad habits. Specifically, when they see a person with an obvious flaw or flaws, they would much rather poke it than avoid it. Your cousin has a tendency towards paranoia, and I can't imagine seeing a creepy shape sliding across the walls in the corner of his vision is helping things.

Renarin frowned. That's… cruel.

I agree, Glys said. To be fair, they would put what they do very differently. But Cryptics are not kind. They're not malicious, either. They treat each other like that, too. Relationships are a science to them, to be deconstructed and examined. Often, this causes friction between the Cryptics and their prospective Radiants. Or the Cryptics and their bonded Radiants. Or the Cryptics and the other spren. Or the Cryptics and the other Cryptics.

Renarin hesitated. Shouldn't we… help, then?

Depends what you mean, Glys said. If you mean 'should we' as in, would it be better for Elhokar if we did? Possibly. Depends how it went. We might just as easily spook him into never bonding his Cryptic, and that would be bad. But if you mean 'should we' in the non-hypothetical, 'let's talk to Elhokar Kholin about his potential spren as soon as possible' way, then the answer is no.

Why not?

Because you promised you wouldn't poke it, Glys said firmly. And so did I. The Nahel bond is sacred, remember?

I'm not even sure I know what that means, Renarin said. And it's not as though we're stopping him from creating a Nahel bond.

No, we'd just be allowing the bond to be founded on a broken base, said Glys. The Radiant and their spren have to approach each other, Renarin. Naturally, without being forced or coerced, or even encouraged from outside. Otherwise, the Nahel bond ends up weaker.

I don't understand why, Renarin said. If the Nahel bond is just a manifestation of our oaths, why does it matter the circumstances under which we say them?

Glys sighed. You're getting into some pretty deep Radiant philosophy, he said. Some of which I simply don't know. You're my first Radiant, remember. Almost every mistspren who ever had one died at the Recreance.

But you do know something, Renarin said. Or you wouldn't be trying to keep me from talking to Elhokar.

Something, yes. Not much. Look, in the old days, the oaths of the Knights Radiant were generally known. Some of the higher Ideals were kept secret within their particular Order, but the First Ideal was widely known all over Roshar, and so were a lot of the Second and Third Ideals. Do you think that means that everyone who said the First Ideal in the presence of a Radiant spren formed a Nahel bond?

No, Renarin said. It has to be reciprocal, right? You have to believe we mean it.

Precisely, said Glys. So imagine you're a spren who's scoping out a potential Radiant. Then a third party barges in, tells your human about you, and gives him the information he needs to say the First Ideal. Would you trust your human's sincerity when he said it?

Renarin's heart sank. It breaks the foundation of the spren's trust, he realized. But you said the Ideals were commonly known?

They were. It was a problem, or so I've heard. A lot of spren had trouble learning to trust their Radiants. I know for a fact that quite a few inkspren didn't see First-Ideal Knights as real Radiants at all. That was more of a trial period. This is also why squires became so common—the entourage of a Radiant of the higher Ideals can draw a measure of power from the Radiant's Nahel bond without finding a spren of their own. It gives the other spren a chance to observe them, see their potential.

And that mistrust will have only gotten worse after the Recreance, Renarin said.

Exactly. Even if this Cryptic—which may or may not exist—did decide to bond Elhokar after you revealed yourself to him, it might not commit itself completely to the bond. Which would stunt Elhokar's growth as a Radiant.

Renarin sighed. I understand.

Of course you do, said Glys. You're a Truthwatcher. You wouldn't stop asking questions until you did.

Renarin's lips twitched upwards.

"…Let us part ways, then." Elhokar stood up. Renarin blinked, coming back to the other humans in the room. "It's growing late, and I must speak with Ruthar."

Renarin's father nodded. "Farewell, then, Your Majesty," he said. Then he turned and started from the room, glancing once at Renarin to be sure he was following. After a quick nod to Elhokar—which the King ignored—Renarin did.

It wasn't until they had left the palace entirely that Glys darted out of Renarin's pocket. "It is far too cramped in there," he complained. "We should invest in a better alternative, Renarin."

What would you suggest? Renarin asked as he hurried after his father in the direction of the stable. A knapsack? I'd look very odd, the Highprince's son carrying a soldier's pack around with him.

"There is a spectrum of spaciousness between the polar extremes of tiny pocket and giant sack," said Glys. "I'm not asking for much. Just a satchel. Or even clothes with larger pockets."

Dalinar leapt astride his massive Ryshadium, Gallant. In the stall beside him, Renarin mounted his own horse. My pockets are no smaller than everyone else's, he pointed out.

"This is why the Alethi have no Radiants," Glys said. "It has nothing to do with the Recreance and everything to do with your tiny pockets."

Renarin snorted, shaking his head at Glys as they cantered out of the stable. Then he stopped, squinting as he looked eastward. Was that—

Oh, no.

Glys rotated, following his gaze. Oh, he said. Oh, Mother mine.

"Father," Renarin called, unable to keep his voice from shaking.

A highstorm was coming.

Dalinar turned back to look at him. Renarin just pointed.

"Was there supposed to be a storm today?" Dalinar asked sharply.

"Elthebar didn't think so," said Renarin. "But he's not always right."

"The highstorms used to be more predictable," said Glys. "Back when the Stormfather was just the Stormfather, and not whatever the Damnation he is now."

Not the time, Glys.

"Fair enough."

"Should we go to Aladar's camp?" Renarin asked aloud. Highprince Aladar's warcamp was near enough that the sentries could probably hear them talking.

Dalinar hesitated. Renarin knew exactly what he was thinking. They'll see me having an episode. They'll see me at my weakest. A shameful satisfaction bubbled up in Renarin, and guilt followed hot on its heels. Then the man's face hardened. "We ride!" he called back, turning and spurring Gallant onward.

"Father!" Renarin called, already nudging his horse into a gallop after him. "Are you sure?"

"We have enough time!" his father shouted.

They almost made it.

As they passed the checkpoint at the edge of the Kholin warcamp, Renarin glanced back at the stormwall. He knew immediately it was too close. "Father!"

Dalinar looked back at him, then at the wall of wind and rain less than a quarter mile from them. "We can make it," he said, and Renarin realized with a start of horror that his father was panicking. "We can—"

Renarin caught his arm. "Father," he said, lowering his voice the way Jasnah had always lowered hers when it all became too much for her little cousin. "I'm sorry."

His father gritted his teeth and dismounted. They passed their reins to one of the last soldiers outside, then darted into a stone barrack. The doors thudded shut behind them. The only light was a pale red glow from garnet-lamps mounted on the walls.

Dalinar Kholin breathed heavily. Renarin could see the tension in every line of his body. He knew that feeling—the dread, the sense that he was speeding towards something he could not control, could not stop—

Renarin, Glys said.

Dalinar's expression froze. His eyes glazed over.

Renarin, Glys said.

Renarin pointed at the four soldiers nearest his father. "Hold him," he ordered.

"What?" the highest ranked of the men, a captain with pale blue eyes, blinked at him. "Brightlord—"

"My father," Renarin said, trying with all his might to sound authoritative. "Hold—"

Dalinar moved. Renarin flinched, but it was a small motion, this time—he startled, staring down at something only he could see against his hip. Then his face seemed to soften. He spoke something in a language Renarin couldn't understand.

Renarin, Glys said.

"What?" Renarin snapped. It was only when the soldiers turned to him that he realized he'd spoken aloud. "Hold him," he ordered, no longer caring whether he looked as regal and imposing as a highprince's son should. "He's not moving too much yet, but he—"

Dalinar dove to the side, almost bowling over another man. Finally, the guards moved, closing their hands around him as he thrashed.

Renarin, Glys said.

What is it, Glys!? Renarin roared silently.

I need you to find somewhere quiet to sit, Glys said.

What? But— Renarin stopped. He recognized the tone of Glys' voice.

Adolin, he remembered saying, I think I need somewhere quiet to sit for a minute.

No, he whispered.

I'm so sorry, Glys said. I don't know what this is. I'm holding it back, but I can't hold it long. I need you to sit down and close your eyes.

Renarin realized his hands were shaking. He looked down at them, then up at the sergeant in command of this barrack. "I am having a fit," he said, keeping his voice perfectly steady. "The stress."

The sergeant looked at him with pity. For once, Renarin didn't care at all.

"I will be safe," he said. "I just need to be left alone for a few minutes. My father may be more violent. Keep him safe, please."

"Of course, Brightlord," said the sergeant.

Renarin turned and marched to the nearest corner. He sat down with his back nestled in it, tucked his chin into his knees, and breathed out. His eyes slid shut.

"I'm ready," he whispered.

I'm sorry, said Glys.

Renarin didn't hear him.

Blood-red lightning flashed. A storm hung suspended in the lurid sky, spearing down with a hundred streaks of power. The bolts crackled in the air like pillars of crystalline light, perfectly still, converging on a single man. He knelt on the edge of a chasm, screaming loudly enough to tear the flesh of his own throat.

You cannot hold me back forever, said a voice as resonant as the wind and as terrible as the lightning. You are not strong enough.

The man's screams only grew louder.

The vision changed.

A great beast, with two massive wings of leathery membrane stretched over a skeletal frame, stared down at a man in robes of red and gold. She was scaled like a fish; a million tiny plates of emerald stretching over a body the size of a chasmfiend. She stood across a threshold, barring the man's way. His eyes flashed with fury beneath a crown with three empty sockets.

"You would stand against me?" asked the man in the same awful voice as the storm. It sounded like rocks scraping against one another. "You stand against your very nature."

"Yes," said the scaled beast in a woman's voice. She said something else, but the words were suddenly distorted and incomprehensible.

When the man spoke again, it was clear. "Then you will die," he said, and in his hand was a spiked warhammer of black metal. He struck.

She died.

The vision changed.

A river of fire wound its way through a blasted landscape. The sky boiled overhead. A city sparkled in the distance, contained within a protective bubble of pale blue.

Two men stood atop ruined ground, their backs to the city, staring out at an oncoming storm whose rain was liquid flame. There was a shape in that storm, twisted and unnerving, its appearance shifting between horrible, indescribable forms.

One of the men bore a pale blue Shardblade, though the length of its hilt made it look almost like a short spear. He wore a uniform of Kholin blue. His unkempt hair whipped around his face in a wind only he could feel. "There are worse places to die," he said.

"And worse men to die beside," said his companion. He wore robes which shifted in a thousand scintillating colors, and leaned heavily upon a silvery staff.

Renarin blinked and the world came back into focus. He breathed deeply in silence for a moment.

Renarin? Glys murmured.

"I'm here, Glys," Renarin whispered back, too exhausted to try to project mentally.

I'm so, so sorry, Glys said. I knew you might be able to see the future eventually. I never imagined it would manifest like this.

"That was the future?" Renarin asked.

Yes, Glys said. And… well, it doesn't look good.

"I didn't really understand it," Renarin admitted.

I'd expect not; you're missing context. But we can talk more later, when we have more privacy, I don't think this is the time or place.

"No, probably not." Renarin stood up on shaking legs. His father was yelling in the same language he'd been speaking in before Renarin's vision, but he was no longer thrashing about. Renarin staggered over and found that with each step, his strength was returning.

"Brightlord," greeted the sergeant with a grimace.

"How is he?" Renarin asked.

"He stopped moving so much about a minute ago," said the sergeant. "Does that mean he'll wake soon?"

"It might," said Renarin.

As if on cue, Dalinar's speech suddenly became comprehensible. He was shouting in Alethi. "What sort of answer is that?" he roared, suddenly struggling against the hands holding him again. Then he froze. He blinked, and his eyes cleared. He looked at the shoulders holding him down, then at Renarin. He took a slow breath.

"My mind is clear again," he said. "You can let me go. It's all right."

The sergeant glanced at Renarin. He nodded, and the men hesitantly let his father go.

Slowly, Dalinar Kholin stood up. "Thank you," he said, and Renarin wasn't sure whether he was speaking to him or to the soldiers.

Just in case, Renarin nodded, but his mind wasn't really on his father or the other people in the room. Now that Dalinar's fit had ended, his thoughts were drifting back to his own.

What, exactly, did I just see?

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

8

The Old Bitterness



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However, this power does not derive from a Shard. It does not appear to be Investiture at all.

-x-x-x-​

Sarus ignored the eyes of the other bridgemen as he swung his legs over the side of his bunk. A few of them glanced his way as he moved, but most of them kept their eyes fixed upon their enigmatic new bridgeleader.

Kaladin was awake. Sarus could tell by the occasional hitches in his breathing, the soft groan he let out as he rolled onto his side. But he didn't rise. Sarus found himself watching with just as much attention as the rest of the crew. Had the previous day been a one-time miracle, never to be repeated? Or would Kaladin rise and face today with the same impossible determination as the day before?

A single twining ribbon rose up from the ground by Sarus' feet, drifting slightly in the faint breeze coming in through the cracked door. Sarus blinked at it, surprised. He had not summoned an anticipationspren in almost five years.

With a sudden movement, as if trying to outrun his own exhaustion, Kaladin threw off his blanket and stood up. He looked at the row of faces turned his way, then caught Sarus' gaze.

Sarus nodded at him. He wasn't sure what he even meant, but he was sure that a nod was the right way to say it.

Kaladin's lip twitched, though whether it was in the direction of a smile or a frown, Sarus couldn't say. A single painspren faded into being, reaching towards Kaladin's hip, before fading away again. He didn't even notice it.

With a grunt, Kaladin stumped past Sarus and the rest of the watching bridgemen, moving towards the front of the barrack and the wounded men laid up there. He quickly examined the most severely injured of them—the older man who had monopolized Kaladin's efforts the previous day. Sarus saw his expression soften in relief. It appeared the man was still alive.

Four injured bridgemen. In all Sarus' time running the bridges, he had never seen such a thing in the barracks before.

Kaladin moved on to the other men. One of them clasped his hand as he approached.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "Before you, I'd have been left out there."

Kaladin's lips twitched again, as though he felt he ought to smile but couldn't quite remember how. "Rest, Bisig," he ordered. "Keep that leg clean. Let me know if you see any rotspren—they look like tiny red insects. I'll bring you food and water from the mess."

"Yes, sir," said the man. Bisig, Sarus supposed. "Thank you, sir."

Kaladin turned then to look at the man whose wounds Sarus had bandaged. He seemed to be recovering well. He even tried to stand up when Kaladin approached him before Kaladin held out a hand to forestall him. "Not until I've had a look," he said, pushing the man back down onto his cot and gently tugging his arm up to examine his wounds. After a moment, he nodded to himself. "Rest today," he said. "We can try some supervised light activity in the afternoon, and if all goes well you'll be able again in two or three days."

"Able to run the bridge," grunted the man. "Joy."

Kaladin let out a breath. "I'll let you know when I figure out a way to get us out of bridge runs."

The injured man snorted, but Sarus doubted Kaladin was joking. The bridgeleader moved on to the last man—the one who had been trampled by the crew. He was awake, but he didn't look happy about it.

"You s-some sort of-of surgeon?" he asked, his voice stuttering oddly.

"Some sort," said Kaladin. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"Ca-can't seem to sp-speak prop-per," said the man, wincing in mingled pain and frustration. "And m-my head is st-still killing me."

"Those sorts of symptoms usually go away on their own," Kaladin said. "Not much I can do about them, I'm afraid, but you can expect to get better over the next few days. Have you been outside yet this morning?"

"No."

"Try when you feel up to it," Kaladin said. "You may be more sensitive to light and sound than you're used to. That should also go away on its own."

"I'll t-take your w-word for it," stuttered the man. Then, almost begrudgingly, "Th-thank you, s-sir."

Kaladin just nodded. He stood still for a moment, as though mentally readying himself, then turned and stomped out of the barracks.

Sarus stared after him for a moment.

"Do you suppose he intends to drill again today?" asked Archive from his shoulder, her voice barely a whisper on the breeze. She was still no larger than a speck of dust.

Sarus hesitated for a moment. In the corner of his vision, he saw Syl, Kaladin's honorspren, drifting around the barrack among the other men.

"Absolutely storming mad, that man," said someone.

"You're not lying," said another, sounding darkly amused.

Sarus felt his upper lip curling. He forced the displeasure down into the same void that had eaten all his anger and grief these past five years, then strode out of the barracks after Kaladin.

Syl drifted beside him, her form clarifying into a blue girl again. "You don't like it when they talk about Kaladin like that," she observed. "Do you?"

Sarus shrugged with one shoulder—the one Archive wasn't riding on.

"Do you ever speak?" Syl asked.

Sarus shook his head.

"Huh." Syl seemed to regard that as a curiosity. Then she shrugged and sped away, following Kaladin toward the lumberyard.

Sarus joined them.

Inside the yard, a small team of carpenters was already working on a half-finished bridge. Kaladin began stretching just outside, and Sarus joined in. Sometimes he copied stretches and exercises he did not recognize as Kaladin moved through them. Other times, he did know them—remembered them from days spent training beneath blue skies and forest-green banners.

Then, once their muscles were looser, he and Kaladin found a length of wood and began running it up and down the barracks again. There was a tightness in Kaladin's expression, a diamond-hardness that Sarus couldn't understand. Sure, he was jogging with Kaladin, carrying the same weight on his shoulders, but in five years on these crews he had never come out to do this himself. What was it in Kaladin that gave him the strength to do this? To seek this out? To take this harder road, when he could just idle in the barrack with the rest of the men, or throw himself into the chasm like so many before?

Sarus didn't understand it. And even as he followed Kaladin, even as he felt he could keep following Kaladin as long as the man survived the bridge, he felt an old bitterness rising up in him. The same bile that had landed him here in the first place, galling him once again.

What made Kaladin so much more than other men?

And why am I always less?

"You two!" Gaz's voice called from across the yard.

They slowed to a stop. Gaz was jogging in their direction from across the lumberyard, coming from the direction of the warcamp. Following Kaladin's lead, Sarus lowered the plank to the ground, then stepped back as his bridgeleader folded his arms, waiting for the overseer to speak.

"I've got news for you," said Gaz. "Brightlord Lamaril heard about what you did."

"How?" Kaladin asked sharply.

Gaz scoffed. "Storms, you think people wouldn't talk? I didn't even have to tell him—he'd already heard from at least three others by the time I saw him."

Kaladin sighed. "Fine. What does it matter? We didn't slow the army."

"No, but the Brightlord isn't keen on the idea of paying and feeding bridgemen who can't run bridges," said Gaz. "He asked the Highprince for leave to have you strung up."

Sarus' fists clenched involuntarily.

"And?" Kaladin asked woodenly.

"Brightlord Sadeas wouldn't let him do it," said Gaz.

Kaladin started. Sarus didn't. He already had a guess what was coming next.

I've never been much for commensurate punishment. Your death will be slower.

"Brightlord Sadeas," Gaz said, "told Lamaril to let you keep the soldiers, but to forbid them food or pay while they can't work. Said it'd show why he leaves bridgemen behind."

Sarus felt fury licking at him like a fire in his belly. It turned cold when it mingled with his grief, but it kept burning.

"Cremling," muttered Kaladin.

Gaz visibly paled. "That's your storming Highprince you're talking about, boy!"

"He's trying to make an example of my men," Kaladin growled. "Wants the rest to see the wounded suffer. Wants it to seem like a mercy to leave the wounded to die."

"Maybe he's right," said Gaz, but Sarus could tell he didn't believe it any more than Kaladin or Sarus did.

"He's not," said Kaladin flatly. "It's just cheaper to find new slaves than care for wounded ones." He sighed. "Thank you for bringing word to me."

"Bringing word?" Gaz sneered. "I was sent with orders for you, lordling. Don't try to get extra food from the mess hall for your wounded. Understood?"

"Understood," said Kaladin, but Gaz was already stomping off, muttering darkly to himself.

For a moment they were still, Sarus standing a bit behind Kaladin, the late morning breeze brisk as it brushed across their skin.

Then Kaladin sighed and turned to Sarus. "What am I going to do now, Tesh?" he asked.

Sarus shrugged. He didn't know, but he couldn't deny he was curious to find out.

"Where the Damnation am I going to find food for four men," Kaladin muttered, turning and starting back towards the barracks. "My rations aren't even enough to feed one more."

Sharing rations might work. Sarus tapped Kaladin's shoulder, then gestured to himself when the man looked up.

"You offering your rations too?" Kaladin asked.

Sarus nodded.

Kaladin sighed. It wasn't quite a sound of relief, but it was in that direction. "Thanks, Tesh," he said.

The two of them would not be enough, but they might be able to get one or two more people to help. That might be just enough.

As it turned out, it was.

"No ex-extra sensitivity, sir," the man with the head injury reported when they returned. "I th-think I'm physically all r-right."

"Good," Kaladin said, looking at him, then at the rest of the crew. "The cooks have been ordered not to provide food for the injured bridgemen," he announced. "Which means we have to share our rations with them." He nodded at the stuttering man. "Since you're able to move and walk like normal, Murk, you'll be able to get your own food. Arik should be able to do the same in just a couple days. Which just leaves Bisig and Teft. I want to pool our resources to buy medicine and get food for them—and Arik, until he's recovered. Who has something they can spare?"

The men stared at him. Then Moash began to laugh. A few other men joined him, until Sarus stepped forward, fixing his eyes on the man. Moash's laughter cut off with a faint choking sound as he stepped back, away from Sarus, blinking at him. The others who had joined in soon stopped too.

"Storms," Moash said, shaking his head. "I'm not giving up what little I have to throw food at men who're bound to die anyway."

You're just as much a dead man walking as they are, Sarus thought. What's one corpse's stomach over another's? But it wasn't worth saying.

"It could be you, next time," Kaladin said. "What'll you do when it's you that needs healing?"

"Die," said Moash. "Quickly, on the plateau, rather than over a week back here." He shot Sarus a quick glance before pushing past Kaladin and leaving the barrack.

Kaladin sighed.

"I'll h-help," said Murk quietly.

Kaladin blinked at him.

"If it-it won't slow m-my recovery," said Murk quickly.

"It won't," Kaladin promised. "Thanks, Murk."

"I have no spheres." The speaker was the large man whose place in line Kaladin had taken during the previous day's run. He approached slowly, walking with the singular focus of a man trying to convince himself, with every step, that he was walking in the direction he wanted to go. "But I will give some food."

Kaladin blinked up at him.

"But not for the dying one," the Horneater added, pointing at the unconscious, older man. "He will die. Is certain. Other two may recover. For them, you may have some of my food."

"Thank you, Rock," said Kaladin. A small smile had spread across his lips. It was one of the first such expressions Sarus had seen in a very long time.

Rock shrugged. "You took my place," he said. "I would be dead if you had not."

Kaladin's smile twisted in wry amusement. "I'm not dead, Rock. You'd have been fine."

Sarus shook his head.

"No," Rock said, nodding in Sarus' direction in agreement. "I'd be dead. Is something strange about you. Whole crew can see it, even if they don't want to speak of it. I looked at bridge where you were. Both of you." He glanced between Sarus and Kaladin. "Arrows hit all around you, but they do not hit you."

"Luck," said Kaladin.

"Is not so much luck in all of Roshar," said Rock dryly. "Besides, there is mafah'liki who always follows you." The Horneater bowed his head reverently in Syl's direction, making a strange gesture with his hand.

"You can see her?" Kaladin asked, glancing at Syl, then at Sarus. The honorspren seemed surprised, so she hadn't deliberately appeared to Rock any more than she had to Sarus.

"See wh-who?" Murk asked, blinking a foot or so behind where Syl was standing in midair. "What are y-you all talking about?"

Kaladin visibly hesitated. "Syl?" he asked.

Style shrugged, and suddenly Murk's eyes snapped to her.

He started. "What?—Ow." He winced, rubbing his head.

Kaladin grimaced. "Try to minimize sudden head movements," he said. "Your brain is bruised, and while you shouldn't make it any worse with small jerks like that, it might hurt."

"Y-yeah, you don't say," grunted Murk, with one eye screwed shut and the other narrowed at Syl. "What am I l-looking at?"

"This is Syl," said Kaladin. "She… follows me around."

"How do you know you're not following me around?" Syl asked.

Kaladin blinked. "Because I'm a slave? I don't have the right of travel. I don't choose where I go. You do."

"Oh," Syl said. There was a complicated expression on her face. "I—I knew I didn't like you being a slave, but it never—I didn't think about it like that."

"Ishi's r-receding hairline, it t-talks," Murk said.

"Excuse you," said Syl. "I am a she, thank you. How would you like to be called an it?"

"I'v-ve heard worse," Murk said, staring at the honorspren. "S-so you're a talking sh-she-windsp-spren who follows k-Kaladin. Sure. Why n-not."

"But, Rock," Kaladin said, looking back at the big Horneater. "You could see her before she showed herself to you. How?"

"I am alaii'iku," Rock said with a shrug.

Alaii'iku? What did that mean? And does it explain how I can see Syl, even when she hides herself?

"Which means?" Kaladin said.

Rock grunted. "Airsick lowlanders. You know nothing you should. But even if you are airsick, you are special."

"Luck," said Kaladin.

On Sarus' shoulder, Archive let out a whisper-soft, derisive snort.

"Airsick," said Rock, shaking his head.

"I h-have to say," Murk said, "I'm with R-Rock."

Kaladin chuckled. "Well, thank you, Rock." Then his smile faded. "We still need medicine, though."

Sarus watched the bridgeleader think. After a moment, Kaladin seemed to be struck with an epiphany. "I have an idea," he said, glancing at all three of them—Sarus, Rock, and Murk. "Come on."

They followed as he left the barrack, then made for Gaz, talking to the leader of Bridge Three.

"Gaz!" Kaladin called. "I have an offer for you."

The other bridgeleader scowled at Kaladin, then made himself scarce. Gaz looked at the four of them approaching him with the hunted look of a scavenger axehound faced with a much larger predator. "What is it this time?" he asked. "More dun spheres?"

"All out of spheres," said Kaladin. "But we can't keep going like this, with you avoiding me and the other crews hating me."

"Don't see why not," Gaz grunted. "Or what we can do about it."

"I have an idea," said Kaladin. "Is anyone on stone-gathering detail today?"

"Bridge Three," Gaz said, gesturing over his shoulder. "But they lost two thirds of their men yesterday. And it'll be my hide that gets tanned if they miss their quota."

"Why not send a different bridge team?" said Kaladin.

"You know what kind of trouble that makes," Gaz said. "I can't be playing favorites. I'd never hear the end of it."

"Favorites, sure," said Kaladin. "But what about least favorites?"

Gaz blinked. "Eh?"

"No one will complain if you make Bridge Four do it."

Sarus blinked at Kaladin. Beside him, Rock was staring. Murk looked almost mutinous. Where was this going?

Gaz narrowed his eye at Kaladin. "Didn't think you'd react well to being treated differently."

"I'll do it this once," Kaladin said. "Look, Gaz, I don't want to spend the rest of my time here fighting you and watching my back with the other crews. This makes things easier for you and makes Bridge Four not seem as lucky. I'll take one bad detail for that."

Gaz still hesitated. "Your men won't like it. I won't let them think this was my idea."

"I'll tell them it was mine," Kaladin promised.

"Fine, then," Gaz said. "Third bell, meet at the western checkpoint. Bridge three can take kitchen cleaning." He turned and strode away, moving quickly, as if afraid Kaladin might change his mind.

"Little man is right," Rock observed. "The men will hate you for this thing. They were looking forward to easy duty." But when Rock himself looked at Kaladin, Sarus noted, his eyes were not narrowed with displeasure. He looked, if anything, intrigued.

Murk, however, looked furious. "I can barely see straight," he hissed. "And you w-want me to do sto-one gathering detail?"

Kaladin winced. "I won't aggravate your injuries, Murk, but if your headache gets worse while we're working I want you to stop and tell me."

Murk looked only slightly mollified.

"But why?" asked Rock. "Why change for harder work?"

"It gets us out of the warcamp," Kaladin said.

Was Kaladin hoping to escape? Or to scavenge? Both were fraught propositions, but scavenging, at least, was not completely impossible.

"What good does that do?" Rock asked.

"Enough good, maybe," said Kaladin, "to make the difference between life and death." He looked between the three of them, visibly considering. "The four of us might be enough," he said. "While we're out of the camp, we're going to look for a certain plant. A reed."

"Y-you want us to d-do stone gath-thering," said Murk, with impressive incredulity for a man stuttering on every other word, "to find reeds?"

"Yes. Its sap serves as an antiseptic," said Kaladin. "If I can get enough of that sap, I can keep our people's wounds from getting infected. I might even be able to save Teft."

Rock nodded slowly. "And this reed, it grows here?"

"In patches outside the camp," said Kaladin. "But without an excuse to leave the camp, I can't collect any."

"This thing makes sense," said Rock. "I shall help you gather these reeds."

Sarus nodded.

Murk looked between them, then sighed. "Oh, f-fine." He glowered at Kaladin. "You're l-like a poorly-t-trained axehound, you kn-know," he said. "G-give you an inch of s-slack on the le-lead, and you take off r-running."

Kaladin laughed. "I'll owe you one for this, Murk," he promised. "Thank you. All three of you."

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

9

The King You Have



-x-x-x-​

You may say this is impossible. Until I saw it for myself, I would have said the same. The word Investiture is, by design, a catch-all term. Yet what I saw on Ashyn breaks all the rules.

-x-x-x-​

"Well, hello there, Highprince Sadeas!" The King's Wit spoke with his customary lilting tone, his lips raised into the smirk that was as much a part of his uniform as the black suit and silver sword at his side. "How pleasant to see you here! Are you in the mood to be eating men's food today, rather than men?"

Torol raised a single eyebrow. "Is that a joke about cannibalism, or my preferences?" he asked.

"Can it not be both?" asked Wit, crossing his legs as they dangled from his raised stool. His pale blue eyes glittered with mischief, but Torol noticed dark rings around them.

"Of course it can," Torol said. "But I'd hope His Majesty's Wit would be a bit more decisive than that."

"Oh, come now, Highprince," said Wit. "I know you're familiar with the difference between indecisiveness and multitasking. After all, the sheer number of women you've slept with has no bearing on your devotion to your wife, isn't that right?"

That one… actually stung. More than Torol would have expected. But he didn't show it on his face. "In future, I recommend making one joke well, rather than two badly," he said. "But that is, perhaps, beyond your means. Good day, Wit."

"Have a lovely evening, Brightlord," Wit called after him. "I know that, with you here, none of us will!"

Torol rolled his eyes at the parting shot. Unimaginative, he thought. At best.

King Elhokar's 'feasting basin'—a small hollow below the hill where his Soulcast palace had been raised—had been flooded several months ago by a redirected stream. Five circular islands dotted the water, connected with wooden bridges. Each island bore several tables, but occupancy was limited by design. The flooding had been Torol's own suggestion. By limiting the available space for seating, those seats gained value—which meant that the goodwill King Elhokar bought with each invitation was sharply increased. Twice the flattery among a hundred and fifty invitees was worth far more than half as much among three or even four hundred.

He crossed the first bridge onto the foyer-island. There was no seating here, only a series of ornate fountains and sphere-lit statues, interspersed with low tables bearing light fare. As he passed one, he took a plate bearing a small, palm-sized tart. It was topped with a pale green herbal cream, and when he bit into it he found that the fluffy, buttery dough was stuffed with what was unmistakably Natan fish, spiced to perfection.

To one uneducated in the vagaries of trade in eastern Roshar, it might seem like Natan exports would be easy to find here in southeastern Alethkar. New Natanan, joke of a nation that it was, was nestled just on the other side of the unclaimed hills, built in small cities along the storm-tossed coast. But the highstorms, coupled with the treacherous and underexplored terrain of the Hills, made transportation difficult. Natan spices, dried, were not hard to find in Alethkar. But something as perishable as fresh fish was another matter. It was only possible to transport them in relatively wide gaps between storms, and with the inherent unreliability of the stormwardens, that was always a difficult and dangerous proposition.

Some merchants tried to transport fish and other goods through the highstorms, intending to use the hills for cover. Every so often, one of them even survived.

Torol finished the tart as he crossed the second bridge, making a mental note to compliment King Elhokar's taste. It wasn't even all flattery—it really was a very good tart, and he would have to see if he could poach one of Elhokar's cooks. But more importantly, it was expensive. Even most lighteyes of the third or fourth dahn would only have Natan fish once a year, at most. The king was taking his lessons on the importance of impressions to heart, it seemed.

As Torol crossed the second island, the lesser lighteyes—those of eighth to fifth dahn, generally, as ninth-dahn and tenners were largely unwelcome at the king's feasts—averted their gaze from him. A few tried to catch his eye. When he met their gaze, they typically regretted it, and immediately looked back down at their food.

One comely woman leaned in his direction with a flirtatious fluttering of her eyelashes as he passed by. For a fleeting moment he looked her up and down, noting her beauty, the way her green dress—his colors, was she one of his vassals?—hugged her form and supported her breasts.

She's young enough to be my daughter.

The thought sent a sick thrill through him. He tore his eyes away and swept past, ignoring the single shamespren tumbling through the air beside him like the delicate petal of a Shin flower.

The five islands were arranged in a cross. The bridge from the shore led east to the foyer, and from the foyer, another led east to the tables of the lesser lighteyes. That island connected on its northern side to the men's island, where male lighteyes of fifth and fourth dahn ate, and to the south was the women's island for their female parallels.

But it was the final eastern bridge which Torol crossed. His finger ran along the intricate scrollwork on the railings as he crossed onto the final island. This island was decorated with ornate statues of the Ten Heralds around its edges, facing outward, as if to guard the people drifting among the tables. Here were gathered men and women of second and third dahn, and at the table on the island's far side, flanked by the marble Jezerezeh and Ishi, sat King Elhokar himself.

As Torol stepped onto the island, Elhokar's eyes sought his own. Torol stopped and gave a slight bow—low enough to show deference, but not low enough to draw attention to the exchange. After all, they were still on opposite sides of the islet; it would do Elhokar little good to be seen as too focused on one of his highprinces at this distance. It was forgivable when he paid overly close attention to Dalinar, his uncle, but with Torol he had to maintain a more professional distance. It was something Torol had done his best to drill into the boy.

He was relieved when Elhokar looked away, returning to his conversation with Highprince Aladar. He needed to speak with Elhokar before Dalinar got to him tonight, but he also needed a few minutes first. He cast his eyes over the dining area, looking for—ah, there she was.

Surrounded, as always, by a gaggle of other well-dressed and well-mannered women, Ialai sat watching two of her friends carry on an engaging conversation. He saw the way her entourage looked to her for approval but did not attempt to draw her in. His lips twitched. Not for the first time, he mentally thanked Gavilar for his aid in establishing the match between the two of them. Ialai Sadeas was, in Torol's educated opinion, as close to a perfect wife as a woman could be. She was fiercely loyal, cunning as a knife, and as adept at moving through and controlling the social circles of women as he was those of men. And it helped that she was still, even as she aged, nearly as beautiful as the day they were married.

Tailiah had been blessed with her eyes.

Torol forced himself to keep his smile fixed on his face as he crossed to his wife's table. She saw him coming, and gave him a wide, performative smile. "Ah, husband," she said, waving elegantly in his direction.

He stepped up next to her seat. "Wife," he replied, casting his eye around the table, noting how the other women's conversation had stalled at his approach. A result of Ialai's deliberate call to him. He knew she would tell him anything important later, but it was important that she appear to be merely Sadeas' wife before the other women, rather than his partner and confidante. It would open many doors to both of them. "I'm glad to see you made it here."

"Of course," said Ialai, with an airy disregard meant to signal dismissiveness to anyone listening to their conversation. "Jayla's carriage was very comfortable. We really must see about getting some of those horses from Ruthar, husband. I've never had such a smooth ride across the plains before."

It was probably a true statement. But it was also a clear indication that Ialai had already spoken with Highprince Ruthar's wife about Dalinar's 'decline.' Torol would have to wait until they could discuss in private to learn the details, but this boded well.

The cleft between House Kholin and the other highprincedoms continues to widen, Torol thought. Aloud, however, all he said was, "I will look into it, darling. But I shan't keep you; I'm sure you all have much to discuss, and I really must speak with the king."

"Of course," said Ialai. "Do give him my regards, won't you?"

"I will," Torol promised, and moved on. Behind him, he heard the women's discussion pick up once again—this time, seemingly, comparing the horses of the various highprincedoms with the few remaining Ryshadium bloodlines.

He stepped between the tables. When one particularly drunk lighteyes in Roion's orange and brown colors began flailing a little beyond propriety, Torol deliberately stepped into the path of his arms. When the man glanced up indignantly, Torol shot him a look with one raised eyebrow.

The man quailed, and his friend immediately tugged him away by the arm, apologizing to Torol as he went, leading him off the king's island entirely.

Smiling to himself, Torol walked around the king's long table to where the young man himself was still speaking with Aladar. "Your Majesty," he said. "May I have a word?"

Elhokar glanced up at him with a nod. "Yes, of course, Highprince Sadeas," he said. "Highprince Aladar was just finishing telling me about his latest gemheart capture."

"Ah, yes, Your Majesty," said Aladar, his mouth a stiff line as he stood up. "Well, I hope you will consider my offer if you ever have ambitions to join another hunt."

"I certainly will, Aladar," said Elhokar. "I thank you for the offer."

Aladar bowed stiffly and then turned, leaving the king's side.

Torol took his seat. "You shouldn't have thanked him," he said.

Elhokar blinked. Then he grimaced. "Oh, of course. I would be doing him a favor by joining one of his hunts, not the other way around."

"Precisely," said Torol. "You're learning, Your Majesty, but you haven't yet made these facts into instinct."

"I'm trying," Elhokar whined.

"I know," Torol said soothingly. "And it will come, I promise. You simply must keep trying, and be patient with yourself."

Elhokar sighed. "All right. Thank you, Torol."

It had been Ialai's idea to get Elhokar to start using Torol's given name. It could be framed as a gesture of affection, but it also brought them closer in Elhokar's mind. Just one more of the strokes of political brilliance for which Torol was so thankful of his wife.

"You're quite welcome," said Torol aloud. "Has there been any word on the attempt on your life?"

Elhokar's face fell, and Torol knew he had struck gold. "Uncle Dalinar doesn't believe that my saddle strap was cut," said the young king. "He claims that it just broke. He promised to look into it, but…"

"…But you're not sure he'll treat this with the gravity it deserves," said Torol sympathetically. "I understand. Highprince Dalinar…"

…has a poor track record with protecting his kings from assassins.

"…Can be hard to reason with, at times."

"That's certainly true," grumbled Elhokar. Then he paused, eyeing Torol speculatively. "Actually, given… present circumstances, I wonder if you could give me a second opinion on a suggestion of his?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," said Torol, ignoring the anticipationspren that lanced out of the ground behind Elhokar's chair. Hopefully there wasn't another one where the king could see it. Even if there was, this place was crowded enough that he might assume it was drawn by someone else.

"My uncle said that the Highprinces have grown complacent in their places in the Vengeance Pact," said Elhokar. "He claims that they've let the hunt for gemhearts distract them from the actual goal of the war—vengeance for my father."

For the second time tonight, a shamespren drifted down beside Torol. He saw Elhokar's eyes dart to it, but he ignored it. Hopefully, Elhokar would assume it was someone else's—or that the king had called it himself. "I suppose it's possible," he said, "that some of the highprinces have forgotten what the Parshendi did to us. Particularly those who were not present that night."

Elhokar nodded, tearing his eyes from the shamespren which had settled on the table between them. "Yes," he said. "Uncle Dalinar suggested that they need an authority to focus them. Someone who can approach them more directly than their king can. A Highprince of War."

Torol grimaced. "And he volunteered himself, I assume."

"Yes," said Elhokar. "You don't think it's a good idea?"

"Your uncle and I have had our differences lately," said Torol. It was important that he not appear to be manipulating Elhokar against Dalinar. The boy wasn't stupid—just young, inexperienced, and deeply flawed. The best way to handle this was to draw attention to it, tilting the truth like the shades of a spherelamp, casting his most obvious motivations into the light and allowing his real agendas to lurk outside it. "But even if Dalinar were still the same Blackthorn I fought beside for decades, I would still think this was a bad idea."

"Why?" asked Elhokar. It was spoken with genuine curiosity—the question of a student to his tutor.

Fortunately, Torol had an answer ready. It was even entirely true. "We are Highprinces of Alethkar," he said. "It would gall even the most mild-mannered of us, even Sebarial, to have another man placed above us in war. That is our highest calling. It's what we, as a people, pride ourselves on. It's one thing to be defeated—many of us faced defeat on the battlefield at the hands of your father—but it's another entirely to be subordinated. Not just as a vassal to a king, but as a lesser warrior. Every one of the highprinces would be furious that they were not named Highprince of War."

"That makes sense," said Elhokar, nodding. "I'll tell my uncle that we'll have to find another way, then."

"Well, hold a season," said Torol. "I don't think the idea is entirely meritless."

Elhokar blinked. "But you just told me it was a bad idea?"

"Naming Dalinar Highprince of War is a bad idea," said Torol. "But naming someone to a different specialized office might not be."

Elhokar's eyes widened. "Oh," he said. "Yes, I see."

"I will say," said Torol, "that I don't think your first appointment should be of Dalinar at all. The other Highprinces already whisper that he is too close to you, has too much influence. They worry he is influencing you beyond his right."

Elhokar grimaced. "Sometimes I worry about that, too," he admitted.

Suddenly, all the pieces of the conversation fit together for Torol. "I have an idea," he said. "I think we can make your problems solve one another, Your Majesty."

Elhokar frowned at him. "How so?"

"You may have an assassin on the loose," said Torol, thinking quickly. A logicspren—a very rare spren that he had only seen a few times before—seemed to be coalescing over the table beside him, like a tiny, stationary highstorm. "There is concern that Highprince Dalinar may have too much influence over you. And the Highprinces need to be reminded of your royal authority. What if you appointed Dalinar's most well-known rival—which, I admit, is me—as your Highprince of Information? That office would make me duty-bound to investigate the threat on your life."

Elhokar leaned back thoughtfully. "Huh. That does seem like an elegant solution." Suddenly something dark entered his gaze. He shot Torol a look. "Almost too elegant. Were you planning this, Highprince Sadeas?"

"No," Torol said honestly.

"It strikes me," said Elhokar, "that a man in the position of my Highprince of Information would be very well-placed to—"

"Before you finish that sentence, Your Majesty," said Torol through gritted teeth, as an angerspren began to bubble from the ground at his feet like a pool of boiling blood, "I would ask if you remember just where I was on the night of your father's death."

He remembered that night. His hands shaking as he suggested the exchange. Hurriedly stripping out of his Sadeas colors in exchange for the king's blue while Gavilar disguised himself in his Shardplate. Seeing the man in white out of the corner of his eye as he bustled down the hallway. The certainty—total, terrifying—that he would never see his wife again.

The knowledge that he might see his daughter again soon.

Elhokar paled. A veritable shower of shamespren fell about his shoulders in a drifting rain of red and white. "I… I do remember," he said. "I'm sorry, Torol."

Torol took a deep breath to steady himself. "You have reason to be concerned," he said. "The Assassin in White was not the first attempt on your father's life, only the last. There are many men who would benefit from your death. But you must remember, Your Majesty, that you do have friends. And you must not allow yourself to alienate them."

And you, he told himself, must not allow yourself to be alienated. Remember Gavilar. Remember the dream of a united Alethkar. Remember the Thrill, the glory, of fighting for unity instead of petty skirmishes on tiny borders. Elhokar is not a good king, but he's the one you have.

"You're right, of course," said Elhokar. "I—yes. You're right. And your idea is a good one. In fact…" Quite suddenly, he stood up. "Highprinces and lighteyes!" he called out, and immediately, the feast fell into a hush.

Torol hurried to compose himself, burying his anticipation—and ignoring his anticipationspren—and quickly running through possibilities in case Elhokar called on him to speak.

"I'm sure many of you have heard the rumors regarding the attempt on my life three days ago," said Elhokar. "When my saddle girth was cut during a chasmfiend hunt. Thanks to the vigilance of the King's Guard, and of my uncle, I was never in real danger. However, I consider it wisdom to treat all threats with due seriousness. Therefore, I am appointing Brightlord Torol Sadeas to be my Highprince of Information. It shall be his duty to unearth the truth regarding this—and any future—attempts on my life." He nodded, then sat back down. "There," he said, looking back at Torol. "That's done."

Torol blinked at him. "I—thank you, Your Majesty," he said.

"It isn't a favor to you," Elhokar said. "Your arguments were good. And I do expect you to investigate that strap."

"Of course, Your Majesty," said Torol. He stood and bowed. "I should go," he said. "I suspect your uncle will want to speak with you, and I have people to speak to about this as well. I should begin my investigation at once."

"Of course," said Elhokar, waving a hand. "Go. I'll speak with you later."

Torol turned and left. Almost immediately, he was surrounded by lesser lighteyes, filling his ears with a mixture of congratulations, flattery, and questions. As he planted a smile on his face and began the social dance once more, he examined the tumult of his thoughts.

On the one hand, Elhokar had just given Torol the best opportunity to manipulate both himself and Dalinar he'd had in years. A gemheart of intrigue had practically fallen into his lap, and he had Elhokar to thank.

On the other hand, he hated being taken by surprise. Elhokar was arbitrary, paranoid, and inconsistent; all of which were crippling flaws in a king.

He is the king you have, Torol told himself again.

Somehow, it wasn't as convincing the second time.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

So there's been some non-Cosmere readers very confused on the SpaceBattles thread. To alleviate their confusion, I've posted a big primer on the story-so-far and linked it in the introduction there. I've also added the Roshar Lore Primer video to the introduction. Since I want to keep the introductions synchronized, I'm going to post both of those things here, starting with the video in this post.

The following video is a fairly comprehensive guide to the background lore of the world of Roshar, which manages not to spoil any part of the canon story.

Spoiler: Roshar Lore Primer

View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xL4M7Yx0SSE

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

The world of Roshar is routinely (as in, once every couple weeks) buffeted by cyclic hurricanes which blow from east to west, called highstorms. These highstorms grow weaker as they get further west, so naturally the lands farther to the east are less hospitable. The kingdom of Alethkar, where the action so far has taken place, is the farthest eastward of the human kingdoms.

Alethkar was only unified a few short decades ago by King Gavilar Kholin, a conqueror who unified the ten independent highprincedoms as vassals beneath him. Then, five years ago, King Gavilar was assassinated by a man who has come to be known as the Assassin in White. On that night, his brother was blackout-drunk and unable to assist, and as such Highprince Sadeas took on the role of decoy, to try and draw the assassin after him and away from the king. This ploy failed, and Gavilar was killed.

Credit for the assassination was taken by a race which the Alethi people had only discovered a couple of years prior, known as the Parshendi. They had been present in the capitol city of Kholinar that very night to celebrate the signing of a peace treaty between themselves and the Alethi, and for reasons which the Alethi do not yet understand, they decided that very night to send the human Assassin in White to kill the king. In response to this assassination, the Gavilar's son, the new King Elhokar Kholin, declared the War of Reckoning and called all ten of his vassal highprinces to aid him in conquering the Parshendi in their territory on the Shattered Plains to the south of Alethkar.

It is now five years later. The Shattered Plains, in addition to being the final known stronghold of the Parshendi, are also the habitat of a type of massive crustacean known as a chasmfiend. Chasmfiends have an organ known as a gemheart, which is a very large gemstone capable of being infused with Stormlight, and therefore highly useful both as a source of wealth and for use in Soulcasting, the most common widely-used form of magic among the humans of Roshar. The Vengeance Pact between the ten highprinces has devolved into a contest over these gemhearts rather than a sincere attempt to press inwards towards the heart of the Shattered Plains and the Parshendi stronghold hidden deep within.

Highprince Torol of House Sadeas, a longtime ally of King Gavilar, has pioneered a means of deploying soldiers to seize chasmfiend gemhearts much faster than was previously possible. Since the Shattered Plains are an intraversible landscape of wide chasms between uneven plateaus, bridges are necessary to move soldiers any relevant distance across the Plains. Originally, these bridges were pulled by large beasts of burden known as chulls, or were carried by armored and defended phalanxes of soldiers. Highprince Sadeas theorized that unarmored slaves would be able to carry bridges much faster, albeit with much heavier losses. He was correct, and has achieved significantly more success than many of his rivals in the hunt for chasmfiend gemhearts. Many of the other highprinces have now copied his strategy.

The primary exception to this rule is Highprince Dalinar Kholin, brother to the deceased King Gavilar and uncle to the current King Elhokar. Highprince Dalinar has refused to spend the lives of men in this way, and continues to use slow, armored, chull-pulled bridges. Additionally, he commits a large portion of his army to defensive patrolling and other measures to keep the warcamps relatively civilized and safe for their civilian occupants. As a result, Highprince Dalinar is accruing a reputation for weakness, since despite his close connection to the assassinated king, he is not demonstrating the same level of commitment to the war as the other highprinces. Highprince Sadeas is deliberately fueling these rumors, both because he is still bitter that Dalinar was not present to assist on the night of Gavilar's assassination, and because he knows that he is Dalinar's most relevant rival and that weakening the position of House Kholin can only strengthen him among the other highprincedoms.

This has come to a head in this most recent chapter. King Elhokar recently fell from his horse in the midst of a battle with a chasmfiend as a strap on his saddle snapped, sending the entire thing from the beast's back. He claims this was an assassination attempt on his life. Highprince Dalinar has expressed doubts on the matter. As a result, Highprince Sadeas is in a position to curry favor with the king by taking the investigation over.

That is the plot currently being experienced by Torol and Renarin, although Renarin is also currently involved in the other ongoing plot. That second narrative is regarding the return of the Knights Radiant.

The Knights Radiant were an order of magically-empowered warriors and scholars who defended mankind against a series of cyclic apocalypses known as the Desolations. During the Desolations (at least, according to religious tradition), a race of beings known as the Voidbringers would return to Roshar from Damnation (hell) to destroy humanity. Each time, they were repelled by the ten Heralds chosen by the Almighty and the Knights Radiant who served them. However, about 4500 years ago, the Desolations came to a permanent end with Aharietiam, the Last Desolation. Roughly 2000 years later, on a day known as the Recreance, the Knights Radiant abandoned their calling for reasons lost to history. Since then, they have been condemned by the ardentia (the priesthood of the Vorin religion) as traitors. None are known by the common people or most scholars to have existed in the intervening two millennia.

However, according to Glys, Renarin's bond with him makes Renarin one of the first of at least a few Knights Radiant returning to the world now. Glys also claims that King Elhokar is being scouted by a different type of spren known as a Cryptic for the same purpose. Though the characters themselves do not yet know this explicitly, Sarus' bond with Archive and Kaladin's bond with Syl are also markers that they are beginning to be initiated as Knights Radiant.

Below are more significant spoilers for canon. Most of this will be explained in this story in one capacity or another, but if you want more clarity on what's happening right now, read on.

Spoiler: Knights Radiant, Desolations, and Canon

Why the Knights Radiant are returning now is not yet clear to the characters. However, the prologue shows that the evil god Odium, who rules over the creatures that humans know as Voidbringers (who call themselves the Fused) has been overtaken by Melkor. In canon (and also here) Odium and the Fused are imprisoned on Braize (the planet which the humans remember as Damnation) by a work of incredible magic called the Oathpact, which requires that the ten Heralds return to Damnation with them after every Desolation. If any of the Heralds allows the Voidbringers to pass into Roshar, a new Desolation begins. As such, the Fused tortured the Heralds to force them to break and allow them passage.

Heralds killed on Roshar automatically return to Braize. At Aharietiam, the Last Desolation, only one herald was killed—Talenel, nicknamed Taln. Taln was also, coincidentally, the only herald who had never once broken to allow the Voidbringers and Odium back into Roshar. It was theorized by the other Heralds that if they didn't return to Braize, Taln might be able to hold back Odium for a long time on his own, whereas any of them was at risk of breaking in a matter of years if not months. As such, the other nine Heralds abandoned the weapons which symbolized their office, the Honorblades, and went their separate ways, abandoning Taln to torture and solitude.

Despite this, Taln has never broken. 4500 years have passed since Aharietiam, and he has held back Odium all this time. However, the prologue ended with two events. First, Odium's previous Vessel, Rayse, had his consciousness overtaken by Melkor Bauglimar. Second, the Herald Chanarach finally died and was summoned back to Braize. Whether she has broken, or will break, remains to be seen—but in canon, a new Desolation began at the end of Book 2; and, by Word of God, we know that Talenel did not break to cause it.

There are more details that are relevant, but I think this is enough to get the gist of what's happening so far. Apologies for pinging anyone who knew all this already!

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

10

Comfort



-x-x-x-​

The people of Ashyn are doomed, by the way. More so than they were already. These new powers have them killing one another in droves.

-x-x-x-​

Sarus had been treated with knobweed sap once, after an accident in the training grounds had ended with the point of a spear lodged in his hip. The wound had healed surprisingly quickly, according to the physician, but he had still applied sap to the wound daily until the scab had darkened and fallen off on its own.

"Is many of these reeds," Rock observed, looking at the bundle between them.

"Which is why I'm glad I don't have to do this on my own," Kaladin said wryly. "Hopefully Murk will also be up to helping us tomorrow." Murk's head injury needed rest to heal, according to Kaladin, so he had been released from this late-night duty.

Rock chuckled and sat down, his thick calves dangling over the edge of the chasm. Sarus followed suit, already picking up one of the thin reeds. He broke off the fuzzy bulb at the top, then lowered the broken point towards the bottle as Kaladin had and squeezed out the sap. Syl watched them work, hovering a few feet past the ledge, her blue dress pressed against the backs of her legs as if she was seated on an invisible chair.

"Why are you doing these things?" Rock asked suddenly, after several minutes of silent work.

"What things?" Kaladin asked.

"Caring for these men. Saving me. Now, trying to heal the others. Why?"

"They're my men," said Kaladin simply, as if that was answer enough.

"How are they yours?" Rock asked. "They are slaves and servants to Sadeas."

"I'm their bridgeleader," said Kaladin.

"Which means nothing," Rock said. "It means you get to run in back. Only you don't."

"It means whatever we decide it means," Kaladin said. "And I've decided it means I'm responsible for all of you."

"Why?"

There was silence for a moment. "Because it's better," Kaladin said finally, "than the alternative."

"What is this alternative?" Rock asked.

"Death," Kaladin said.

"We will all die anyway, eventually," Rock pointed out. "Unless you can make us stop running bridges."

"I disagree," said Kaladin. "In theory, every soldier has a chance of dying in every battle. That doesn't make their deaths inevitable. The trick is to last enough battles to get out the other side."

Sarus let out a breath. Did Kaladin actually believe that stupid rumor about being set free after a hundred runs? Surely he wasn't that foolish. Surely Sarus wasn't following a man whose only hope he could break with a single word?

"You think we can survive a hundred runs?" Rock asked. "Win our freedom?"

"I don't think they'd set us free even if we did," Kaladin said. "Storms, I wouldn't be surprised if Tesh here had already survived a hundred runs."

Sarus nodded.

Kaladin started. "Wait, really?"

I thought you said you wouldn't be surprised. Sarus nodded again, still staring down at the reed between his fingers. He thought about trying to sign a number, but he'd long since forgotten how many runs he'd done anyway.

"Impossible," Rock said. "No one survives so many runs, least of all in the front row."

Sarus shrugged. Sure, it was impossible. That was the joke, and his life was the punchline.

"Sometimes I wish you could speak," Kaladin said quietly. "You must have a Damnation of a story."

Sarus shrugged once again, tossing his spent knobweed into the chasm and picking up another.

"Were you always silent?" Kaladin asked.

Sarus shook his head.

"Is it temporary, then?"

Sarus froze with his fingers halfway down his reed. Was it temporary? Would he ever speak again? After a long, long moment, he nodded, then continued his work.

"Then I can wait for the story," said Kaladin with a satisfied nod. Then he turned to Rock. "What about you, Rock? What's your story? You're from the Horneater Peaks, right?"

"Yes," said Rock. "I came down with my nuatoma—is like your lighteyes, this thing, only their eyes are not light—to duel for Shards."

"What, did Sadeas insult your nua—what was that word?"

"Nuatoma. And, no, is not like that. We Unkalaki have no Shards, not Blade or Plate. Many nuatoma see this thing as source of great shame. Sometimes, brave nuatoma come down to challenge lowlander Shardbearers for theirs."

"What, without any Shards?"

"Yes," said Rock. "This thing, we know it will not be easy. And in order to entice the lowlanders to the duel, our nuatoma must offer much—often, all their possessions—if they are defeated. But we keep trying, and one day, a nuatoma will win, and then we will have Shards."

"One set of Shards," Kaladin said. "Still not exactly enough to compete with Alethkar or Jah Keved."

"Or even Thaylenah or Selay," Rock said. "But it is as many as are in Herdaz, and more than are now in Iri or the Purelake. One is a beginning. From a beginning, we can grow." He shrugged. "But my nuatoma lost, so now I am a bridgeman."

"You were your nuatoma's slave," Kaladin interpreted, "and as one of his possessions, you were offered to Sadeas as collateral?"

"Not his slave," Rock said. "I was his family."

"Wait." Kaladin leaned back. "That'd make you a Horneater lighteyes, wouldn't it?"

"This is not how the Unkalaki do things," said Rock. "Among the Unkalaki, a nuatoma's family are his servants. His close family, maybe they are like lighteyes, but I was only umarti'a—cousin."

"Huh." Kaladin let out a breath. "Well, that's a new way of doing things."

"Is not new. Is very old." Rock chuckled. "You airsick lowlanders have strange traditions. And you say same about Unkalaki."

"I'd guess everybody says that about everybody else, wouldn't you?"

"This thing is true," said Rock.

"Anyway, if it's any comfort," said Kaladin, "there's no way they'd have let your nautoma walk away with Sadeas' Plate."

"You know this?" Rock asked.

"Lighteyes are only much for tradition when it suits them," Kaladin said. "The story that a darkeyes who kills a Shardbearer becomes a lighteyes is the same as the story that a bridgeman who runs a hundred bridges goes free—a lie to keep us docile."

Sarus grimaced. There were lighteyes who would give up their Shards if they were beaten, and there were lighteyes who would honor the terms of a duel that had lost their Shards to an untrained darkeyes. But Torol Sadeas was not such a man, and nor were the people he surrounded himself with.

"This thing, it is not comforting," Rock said. Then he heaved a sigh. "But I think you are right."

-x-x-x-​

The next two days passed by in much the same way. The mornings were spent on drills, running the plank up and down the barracks with Kaladin. The afternoons were spent on duty out gathering stones, and surreptitiously hunting for reeds. In the evenings, late into the night, Kaladin, Rock, and Sarus would all gather on the edge of the Honor Chasm and empty reeds into the bottle.

Each morning, Kaladin applied antiseptic to the wounded. They were already showing improvement. The unconscious one—Teft, Sarus had learned—was no longer crawling with rotspren, and Murk's stutter was growing less pronounced by the day.

On the third night, Murk had actually asked if he could join them. "My headaches are almost gone," he'd said to Kaladin. "I'm feeling m-much better."

Kaladin's lips had twitched. "I'm glad," he'd said, "but take at least one more night to see if that stutter goes away."

By now, Sarus was exhausted after three nights harvesting sap past third moonrise. He was hungry after sharing his food for all that time. And, of course, there had been a bridge run.

It was a good day for the bridge crews. They arrived before the Parshendi, which meant safety. But the Alethi line had eventually buckled against the Parshendi assault, so Sadeas would be winning no gemheart today.

After the run, Kaladin returned to the barrack, then emerged with the bottle of antiseptic. "It's about full, Tesh," he told Sarus in a low voice. "Full enough to sell, I think. There's an apothecary I think I can get some spheres out of in exchange, which we can use to buy food for the wounded."

Sarus cocked his head, giving the bottle a significant look.

"Teft's wounds have closed now," Kaladin said. "If we're lucky, he won't reopen them, at least not before we can gather more sap. And he needs food, too, not just antiseptic."

Sarus nodded.

"I'll be back soon," he said. Something like a weak grin crossed his face. "Keep the men out of trouble?"

Sarus rolled his eyes. Kaladin, chuckling, went on his way, and Sarus returned to the barrack.

Murk looked up from his bunk near the door as Sarus walked in. However, when he saw that Kaladin had not come in with him, he sighed and laid back down.

Sarus crossed the barrack and sat on his bunk, leaning forward onto his knees. Archive leapt, light as a speck of dust, from his shoulder to his arm, a single black fleck against his tanned skin. "One is glaring at you," she observed.

Sarus looked up. She was right—Moash was glowering across the rows of bunks, though he looked away when Sarus met his eyes. Sarus watched him leave the building.

"They see you as an extension of Kaladin," said Archive. "They resent Kaladin, and they resent you by extension."

Sarus nodded.

"Why?" Archive asked.

Sarus' brow twitched downwards. Why what?

Why did they see him as an extension of Kaladin? That part was easy—to most men, for whom speech was the easiest and readiest way to interact with the world and one another, a man who did not speak was little more than an animal. To them, he was little more than Kaladin's pet or beast of burden. Which of those, he suspected, varied from bridgeman to bridgeman.

Why did they resent Kaladin? Sarus could understand it. He had been quick to accept Kaladin's outstretched hand, but that was a consequence of his exhaustion more than his despair. He was, quite literally, bored of hopelessness. These men had not passed through the night storm of forsaken terror into the doldrums of mundanity as he had, and so to them Kaladin's attempts to look to the future only served as a reminder of the inevitability of all of their deaths. They were afraid, and Kaladin served to remind them what they were afraid to lose.

"I hope," said Archive quietly, "that a day for me to hear those thoughts will be."

Sarus grimaced and looked down at the floor between his feet, keeping his eyes firmly away from the speck of darkness on his arm.

The barrack door burst open. "Gaz has changed our rotation," Kaladin said, eyes hooded with quiet anger. "We're on chasm duty. Everyone up."

-x-x-x-​

Sarus had been down in the chasms many times in the past five years, but there was still something alien about them.

Following Kaladin down the swaying rope ladder, he watched the light slowly dim as he descended further from the narrow crack high above. The ladder dangled from the chasm's edge, but the walls tapered outward like a narrow bell, so the line of descending bridgemen dangled just far enough into the open air to leave them with no rock to catch if they should slip on the rain-soaked rungs. The chasm was relatively shallow here, as it was at all of the standard entry points—only about fifty feet, from fissure to depth. But that was enough distance to separate worlds.

Kaladin was first to jump off the ladder, a few rungs from the bottom. His sandals hit the ground with an audible splash. Sarus followed, landing in a large puddle about ankle-deep. Murk was next, followed by Rock. Murk cursed as the big Horneater sent water splashing as high as his elbows when he landed. "Careful there," said the smaller man. It was the first time Sarus had worked near Murk since the bridge run three days ago. The man was small and wiry, with arms slightly too long for his torso. The lump on the back of his head had all but disappeared now.

"Sorry," grunted Rock.

As more bridgemen dropped down into the puddle, Sarus watched Kaladin pull his torch from the sling on his back, stick it under his arm, and pull out his flint and steel. It took a few tries to light it, but when it did, the otherworldly depths were dimly revealed.

Scuttling cremlings scattered in the light. Tubular fungi grew in clusters along the walls, their flesh an eerie, jaundiced yellow. Gray-green moss grew in streaks, and fragments of wood, cloth, and bone hung suspended among tendrils of creeping vine and embedded in cracks in the rock. The floor of the chasm was a smooth, almost polished expanse of lumpy crem, deposited and smoothed in layers by thousands of years of highstorms.

A short distance from the wall lay a broken figure, body twisted and mangled by the long fall. It was a bridgeman from one of the other crews. The stink of the corpse was filling the chasm, and Sarus watched Kaladin cover his nose with one hand as he knelt beside the man.

He must have thrown himself down here sometime in the past two days, Sarus realized. If he had been here before the highstorm, it would have washed him away. He sighed, averting his gaze.

"May you find a place of honor in the Tranquiline Halls," Kaladin said quietly. "And may we find better ends than you." He stood and, torch held aloft, led the way deep into the chasms.

"Chasm duty" was glorified grave-robbing, only without any glory and with corpses who had no graves. Parshendi and Alethi alike fell into the chasms in every battle, and the supplies they carried still had some value. The greater value, Sarus knew, was keeping bridgemen busy. They would descend into the dark with empty sacks, and emerge with them laden with bloody spoils, only to have their loot confiscated the moment they reached the surface again.

Sarus had once seen a bridgeman find an amethyst broam down here and try to sneak it past the sentries. He would have managed, if only the bridgeman beside him hadn't informed on him. Both men had died the very next bridge run.

"I heard a whole crew got eaten by a chasmfiend down here, once," said Murk in a hushed voice as they descended further into the dark. The chasm floor sloped downward, and they had to take small steps to avoid slipping on the slick, damp crem.

"If they all disappeared," said Rock, "maybe they just fled. Deserted."

"No way out of these chasms without a ladder," said Murk. "Pretty useless way to desert, I'd think."

Sarus glanced up at the narrow sliver of blue, almost seventy feet above them by now. The story was partially true. A whole bridge crew had disappeared down here. The only inaccuracy was the assumption that it had only happened once.

"Reminds me of a slot canyon," said Murk darkly, shooting a glare skyward. "Always hated them, back home. This is worse, though."

There had been no slot canyons in the central plains of the Sadeas Highprincedom, where Sarus had grown up. They were narrow fissures running beside tall mountains, where water and wind left deep furrows as highstorms were deflected away by the rock face. They mostly appeared in the Roion and Kholin Highprincedoms to the east, and seldom as far west as the Sadeas lands on the border of Herdaz. Murk had most likely come from one of those dominances. Sarus wondered how he had ended up in the Sadeas bridge crews.

"What is this thing, slot canyon?" Rock asked.

"You don't have them in the Peaks?" Murk asked.

"They don't really show up any further west than Danidan," Kaladin said. "So I doubt they have them all the way in the Horneater Peaks."

"Must be nice," grumbled Murk. "It's a slit in the land beside a mountain. They make the Weeping feel like a highstorm if you're in one of them. This is even deeper, and even further east, without the Unclaimed Hills to break the stormwalls. This would be worse."

"Too much water?"

"Way too much water, getting anywhere it can. Including inside you."

"So long as it also gets outside you," Rock said with a grin. "Would give you bath, which you need."

"I'll have you know," sniffed Murk, "that I am the pinnacle of Alethi fragrance. If anyone needs a bath, it's your Horneater hide."

Rock laughed. The sound echoed in the dark. Sarus' heart stuttered, and he was suddenly conscious that he was witnessing something that, maybe, had never happened before since these plains were formed, eons ago. For who would laugh at the bottom of a chasm?

The chatter continued. Sarus saw Kaladin glance back, and then smile to himself. Sarus followed his gaze to see that the rest of the crew seemed to be drawing nearer to their little band at the head of the column, like moths drawn to the flame of their conversation.

"You know, Rock," Kaladin said suddenly, "I think you might be onto something with your talk of airsickness. Certainly smells sickly enough down here. Is it like that for you all over Alethkar?"

"A little bit," said Rock. "Less stink of corpses, more stink of Alethi. Is not quite as bad. Only nearly so."

"I don't think that's all Alethi," said Kaladin. "Only bridgemen who don't get to bathe very often."

"And non-bridgemen who choose not to," said Murk. "I knew a man once who refused to bathe more than once a month—bad for the complexion, he said. Now that was an airsick one. And so were all of us, whenever we had to be within a dozen paces of him."

The conversation continued, but it petered out as they came upon a confluence of multiple chasms, where a combination of the merging channels and a low hollow in the floor seemed to have given bodies a place to collect as they were swept along by the water. Most of the men were dressed in Sadeas green and white, but there were a few in Kholin blue and Ruthar red. There were no Parshendi in the group. Sarus had a sneaking suspicion that the Parshendi sent their own crews down into the chasms to collect their fallen. It would just be the next in a long litany of ways that they were more civilized than his own people.

They began collecting the fallen men's gear. First they pulled the corpses into a line for inspection, then started down that line, taking armor, boots, belts, weapons.

Sarus was just pulling the boots off a lighteyed footsoldier when he heard Moash's voice call out, "What are you hoping to do, lordling?"

Sarus turned. Kaladin stood a few paces apart from the rest of the group, his hands on a long two-handed spear. He leaned against it, stooped over the pile of other weapons, eyes closed. He looked like an old man, wizened and bent by long years and many cares.

"Going to jam that thing into your own gut?" Moash jeered. "Rid us all of you?"

Other men joined in the gibes. They mostly spoke to each other, rather than to Kaladin, but it was the sort of speech that was meant to be heard by the subject being discussed more than the one to whom it was addressed.

"It's his fault we're down here," said one man. "If he hadn't gotten Gaz to send us to stone duty the other day…"

"Running us ragged just so he can feel important," said another. "Who does he think he's fooling?"

"Sent us to gather rocks just to shove us around, now this…"

"I'd bet a skymark he's never held a spear in his life!"

Sarus straightened. Moash's gaze darted in his direction. As Sarus took a step towards him, he saw the man's eyes widen. The men immediately nearest Sarus seemed to shrink from him as he strode forward.

But before he had crossed even half the distance to Moash, Kaladin moved, and suddenly the entire chasm seemed to orbit around him. Sarus stopped and stared.

Kaladin had shifted his weight and whirled the spear around himself in a single, fluid motion. The point was held down and outward, at a careful, guarding angle. Sarus recognized that exact stance—an adapted form of the duelist's Stonestance, commonly used by darkeyed soldiers with the longspear.

And then, his eyes still shut, Kaladin danced. He wove the spear through the air around him with a speed and grace to match any duelist Sarus had ever seen. The point of the spear trailed a thin, glittering thread of water droplets as it passed, like Talenel's tears streaking in the dark. And, weaving in and around the weapon, Syl danced as a ribbon of blue-white light, bright as Nomon on a dark night.

All around Sarus, the men fell silent and stared. Sarus understood them. He, too, felt the same awe. That candle-flame that he had felt in Kaladin several nights ago, the light the bridgeleader had shared with him, seemed suddenly to blaze, illuminating the gloom of the chasm like a second sun.

For an instant, Sarus was no longer looking at a man in the gloom performing a kata, but a girl with flowers in her dark hair, green eyes sparkling as she gazed at him, a silver flute glittering between her fingers.

His heart seized. The old bitterness, the envy, surged in him again, mingled with sorrow and grief.

Kaladin fell still, the spear point perfectly still, suspended in the final stance of the kata. His eyes opened. Then, with seeming reluctance, he fell out of his stance and let the spear fall from his fingers into the weapon pile. Sarus thought he heard the bridgeleader whisper an apology to the weapon as it fell among the rest.

Then Kaladin turned and seemed to notice all of them staring at him. "Back to work!" he ordered. "I don't want to be down here by dusk."

Not a single man complained as they returned to work. Kaladin, meanwhile, turned and saw where Sarus, Rock, and Murk were all standing near one another. He flushed slightly as he approached them. Syl landed on his shoulder.

"Jezrien's left ear, Kaladin," Murk said quietly. "What was that?"

"Just a kata," Kaladin mumbled, seemingly embarrassed. "A soldier's workout. More showy than it is useful."

Not quite true, as Sarus knew. Katas were advanced drills. Once a warrior knew his way around the basics of what he could do with his weapon, a kata was meant to show him the ways in which those moves could be strung together, how they could flow into one another, and allow him to experiment with when one or another might be useful. True, that was more true for duelists' katas than the adapted forms used by spearmen and footsoldiers—some of the moves made far less sense when adapted to the longspear than they had for the Shardbearers who originally conceived them—but the principle remained.

"Never seen a soldier work out like that," Murk said. "And there was some kind of spren around you, too. Like a streak of light."

"You could see that?" Rock asked, startled.

Sarus, too, glanced at Murk in surprise, before shooting Syl a look where she sat on Kaladin's shoulder. She sat primly, avoiding all of their gazes.

"Of course I could see it," Murk said. "Bit hard to miss, wasn't it?"

Kaladin tore his eyes from Syl, shaking his head. "It was nothing."

"This thing is not true," said Rock. "Perhaps you should challenge Shardbearer!"

"No." The sudden vehemence in Kaladin's voice surprised Sarus. The bridgeleader seemed to notice it himself a moment later, averting his eyes from them. "Besides," he muttered, "I tried that once." He ran his eyes over the bridge crew. "Where's Dunny, anyway?"

"Wait," Murk said. "Back up a season. You—"

"Where," said Kaladin, with all the firmness of a cliff face, "is Dunny?"

Sarus pointed to where Dunny had rounded a bend shortly before Kaladin had begun his performance.

"He found some Parshendi," said Murk. "Doubt they have much we can use, though."

"Their weapons, they are nice," said Rock. "And some wear gemstones in their beards."

"Not to mention the armor," said Kaladin.

That brought Sarus up short. Sometimes, he forgot that even though Kaladin had been in the crew so long, there were some things he still, by sheer coincidence, hadn't seen yet.

"Well, yes," said Rock, "but we cannot use this thing."

"Why not?" Kaladin asked.

"Never seen a Parshendi up close, have you?" Murk asked. "Come on, I'll show you."

They rounded the bend to where Dunny was lining up the Parshendi corpses. There were four of them. Sarus hoped that, if the Parshendi did send crews to retrieve their dead, they didn't seek to find these four in the next hour or so.

Murk knelt beside one. "Come here," he said. "See if you can see what's wrong with this picture."

Kaladin knelt beside him. Sarus saw the moment realization crossed his face. "There's no straps," he said wonderingly.

Murk nodded, reached down and trying to pry away a pauldron. The skin of the Parshendi's shoulder moved with it. "They grow their own armor," he said. "It's not something they wear on top, like us."

"But that's ridiculous," protested Kaladin. "People—even parshmen—don't grow armor."

"Don't let the name fool you," Murk warned. "They may be called parshmen who can think, but they're no more like the parshmen we have in Alethkar than they are like you or me."

It wasn't the last realization Kaladin was to have over the Parshendi corpses. He held up one of their knives to his torch, squinting. "Tesh," he said, glancing at Sarus. "Can you read glyphs?"

Sarus nodded.

Kaladin flipped the knife in his hand, so that one side of the flat was facing in Sarus' direction. "You recognize these?"

Sarus squinted. Those… were not modern glyphs. Or, if they were, they were engraved in such an ornate calligraphic style as to be illegible. He shook his head.

Kaladin shrugged. "Me neither," he said. "But look at this." He pointed at a figure engraved on the hilt. "I'd swear this is a Herald. Jezerezeh or Nalan."

Sarus cocked his head, looking closely. He… would have guessed Talenelat, actually, based on the corded hair.

"The Parshendi out here are supposed to be barbarians without culture," Kaladin said. "Where did they get something like this?"

Sarus gave him a look that, he hoped, conveyed his incredulity. Kaladin flushed. "What?"

You've been out here for weeks, Sarus thought. You've been suffering one of the worst things a slave in Alethkar can be made to suffer. You've been watching the Parshendi compete with the Sadeas soldiers for gemhearts all this time. And yet you still buy that they're subhuman barbarians?

For a moment, he toyed with the idea of saying something. But instead he just sighed, stood up, and returned to the rest of the crew. There was more looting to be done.

As he walked away, he heard Murk ask Kaladin, "Do you know how long Tesh has been here?"

"Too long," said Kaladin.

-x-x-x-​

That night, Rock served a homemade Horneater stew just outside the Bridge Four barrack. And as the men gathered around the fire, eating good food and joining in a song with Rock and Dunny, Sarus watched the glacier of despair begin, at long last, to melt away.

As he watched them—even some of the complainers and naysayers—talking and even laughing in the twilight, Sarus found a smile spreading across his face. Everyone was eating, which meant that even those who weren't taking part in the community that Kaladin was building had no choice but to be exposed to it. Soon enough they, like Sarus, would realize that despair wasn't really a thing worth fighting to maintain. He suspected many more of the men would join him and Kaladin for drills the following morning.

Then, suddenly, a voice Sarus didn't recognize groaned from inside the barrack. Sarus blinked, turned from the fire, and stepped inside.

The older man, Teft, who had been lying injured in the barrack for three days, was stirring. He seemed to be trying to sit up, grunting in pain and exertion.

Sarus stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. Teft blinked up at him, growing still. "What…?" he mumbled. "Where…?" He blinked again, and his eyes seemed to clear. His face fell. "Oh. Is this Damnation, or am I really back at the barrack?"

Sarus gave him a wry look.

"The barrack, then," sighed Teft. Then he sniffed. "What smells so good?"

Sarus gestured for him to wait, then stepped back outside. Rock gave him a quizzical look as he took another bowl of stew and brought it inside to Teft. He set it on the edge of the bed, then helped the older man to sit up.

"Thanks, lad," said Teft, and began to eat.

"Tesh?" Kaladin stepped inside. "What's—Teft! You're awake!"

Teft stared up at the bridgeleader. "Suppose I am," he said. "And I suppose I have you to thank."

Sarus looked away, and found that he was smiling.

"They have found hope," said Archive from her perch on his shoulder, her voice a bare whisper in his ear, far too soft to be heard by any of the other bridgemen.

But they hadn't, Sarus knew. Every one of these men still knew that they were going to die. They still knew that they were bridgemen, doomed to die pathetic deaths on the plateaus. They had just been persuaded to forget it tonight.

They had not found hope. But they had found comfort. And tonight, that was enough.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading.

-x-x-x-

11

Moash



-x-x-x-​

Ashyn's lingering civilization will not survive the next few decades.

-x-x-x-​

Four men sat on the edge of a chasm. It was their ninth night of knobweed milking, and Murk's first. He'd had no symptoms for the past two days, so Kaladin had given him permission to join them starting tonight. He'd be lying if he claimed not to be relieved. Another pair of hands would speed up the process considerably, and though Teft's condition was improving, he still needed regular treatment. He was also unfit for duty, which meant any food he ate needed to be bought or shared. For that, they needed funds, and for that, they needed this antiseptic. His deal with the apothecary didn't yield many spheres, but it was just enough to keep everyone alive. So far.

"Where'd you learn to use a spear like that, anyway?" Murk asked between knobweed reeds, breaking the soft silence of the night. "Like you did a few days ago on chasm duty."

Kaladin paused with his fingers halfway down another reed. He didn't really want to discuss it. But can I really keep my story close while trying so hard to get the rest of the crew to open up?

"I was a soldier," he said finally. "Before…" He paused, then just gestured at the brands on his forehead.

"On the plains?" Murk asked.

"No. Fighting in border skirmishes within the Sadeas Highprincedom."

"How can there be border skirmishes within a Highprincedom?" asked Rock.

"Between Highprince Sadeas' vassals," Murk told him. "It was common in the days before the unification, and in some Highprincedoms it's still not rare."

Kaladin glanced at Murk. With the absence of his headaches and stutter, a personality was starting to shine through like the sun breaking through summer clouds. "You know a lot about lighteyed politics?"

Murk paused in the act of picking up another reed. "I… studied it, for a while."

"An Alethi man, studying history?" Rock said. "This thing seems unusual. In my experience, the only study your people engage in is learning new and more imaginative ways to impale your enemies."

Kaladin thought of his surgeon father. "Not all of us," he said.

"No," said Murk. "In Alethi society, war is the highest Calling; that doesn't make it the only Calling."

"You're an ardent," Kaladin realized.

Murk looked down, his face shrouded from the moonlight. "Not anymore."

Kaladin stared at the wiry man, reed forgotten between his fingertips. "How did an ardent end up here?"

"Same as you, I imagine." A ribbon of grey, billowing in the wind, drifted down around Murk's shoulders before vanishing. Kaladin recognized it as a gloomspren. "I made my lighteyes angry."

There was a soft exhalation on Kaladin's other side. He glanced over. Tesh's eyes were a dark grey the color of a highstorm.

Kaladin was certain, by now—the man's eyes changed color. They ranged from a moderate grey on the lighter end of dark eyes, to pitch black with no color to speak of. He had no idea how that was possible, but there was also no particular reason he would have learned. His abbreviated education had focused on more practical knowledge than more theoretical concepts about the body.

"Tesh, I've been wondering," said Murk, leaning forward and following Kaladin's gaze. "I've heard of slaves who said something to offend their masters, and were punished with… well. I was just wondering if there's a physical reason you don't speak."

Tesh looked over at them, his brow very faintly furrowed. His expressions, Kaladin had noticed, tended to be largely flat, as if the sustained horror of his situation had deadened his ability to feel. Kaladin couldn't relate, but he could sympathize. He had seen it before. The silent man opened his mouth and stretched his tongue out momentarily, before closing it again and turning back to his reeds.

"I guess that's a relief," said Murk. He looked at Kaladin. "You ever hear him say anything, Kaladin?"

"Not a word."

"Is this thing common?" Rock asked. "A special kind of lowlander airsickness?"

"No," said Kaladin. "I've heard of it before, and I've seen men who didn't speak much, but never someone who was so completely silent for so long." He studied Tesh, who seemed content to continue emptying knobweed into the bottle with an air of aloof serenity, as if completely unbothered by their conversation. "Do you mind us discussing you, Tesh?"

Tesh shook his head.

"This thing feels strange, though," said Rock. "It is as if you are not here."

Kaladin didn't know how he expected Tesh to respond, but it wasn't for Tesh's mouth to twist into a tiny, wry smile, and for his head to bow in a small nod.

-x-x-x-​

In the thirteen days since Kaladin's first run as bridgeleader, Bridge Four had seen its numbers replenished with four new recruits: Lesk, Brils, Evenk, and Foran. This was less than any of the other bridge crews, but they hadn't had another lethal run since that day.

That streak changed the day after Murk joined in on knobweed duty. It wasn't an awful run, by bridgeman standards, but it was more than bad enough by Kaladin's. One death—Rens—and three injuries.

Drehy had caught an arrow in the arm, but the wound had been clean and with just a few days rest, and so long as he didn't have to bear the weight of the bridge on that arm, Kaladin was confident he'd make a full recovery. The other two injuries had been the two men in the front row with Kaladin, Tesh, and poor Rens.

Treff had come out fairly well. He'd been on Kaladin's immediate left, and a few arrows had grazed his arms and torso. He'd lost a fair amount of blood on the battlefield, but the wounds themselves weren't too severe. Once they bore him back atop the bridge and got some food and water into him, and once Kaladin had changed his bandages and applied a fresh layer of antiseptic, he improved rapidly. He was even on his feet before sundown.

The most severe injury of the run, however, had been Moash. He had been on the outside of the front row, to the right of Tesh, when a Parshendi arrow had hit him directly in the gut. It was a stroke of incredible fortune that the man was alive at all. The arrow had punctured the man's stomach, but only very, very slightly. Kaladin had been forced to stitch the organ shut first before he could close the wound itself, and Moash had bled the entire time.

Yet somehow, the man had still been breathing when they returned to the camp. He even woke up just three days later.

Kaladin marched up to the door of the barracks, a jug in his hand, preparing to force the unconscious man to drink again, but he was brought up short by the sound of voices speaking quietly just on the other side of the wall.

"I just don't understand," Moash was saying quietly.

"Me neither, lad," said Teft. "But—well, I can't say I'm not grateful."

"You don't get it," said Moash. "After that first run—I refused to share my food. I told him I'd rather he left me out there than that I starve back here. So why…?"

Kaladin pushed the door open. The two men looked at him, Teft sitting up while Moash remained prone. "Well," said Kaladin, "if nothing else, no one has to go hungry anymore to feed you." He stepped up to Moash's bedside. "How's your pain?" he asked.

"Bad," said Moash, "but manageable."

"Good. Try not to move any part of your torso today, and we'll see if you're doing better tomorrow. For now, I can feed you."

Moash winced. "Must you?"

"I thought you didn't want to die a slow death back here."

"I can feed him, Kaladin," said Teft. "I'm doing well enough for it."

"Sure," said Kaladin, handing him the jug. "Tesh'll be along with a tray from the mess. Only liquids for Moash, for now."

Teft thanked him, and Kaladin turned to leave.

"You want an apology?"

Kaladin looked back, frowning at Moash. The man wouldn't meet his gaze, and it wasn't just because his position made the angle difficult.

Moash wasn't charismatic in the traditional sense. Kaladin had met charismatic men—Amaram was a charismatic man. But Moash had a surly self-confidence that, to his fellow desperate wretches, had been infectious. He hadn't led the malcontents, nothing so organized as that, but he had always been the first to grumble, protest, or jeer at every decision Kaladin made. And when he did, other men followed suit.

"Moash," said Kaladin. "I don't need you to share your food. I don't need you to like me, and I definitely don't need your apology. I have just one thing I'd like from you."

"…What is it?"

"Stop making this harder for me," said Kaladin. "There are thirty-two people in this crew. If you want me to leave you behind next time, that's your affair. But stop making it more difficult for me to protect the others."

"Why does it matter so much to you?" Moash asked. "Aren't you just delaying the inevitable? We're all still bridgemen. We're doomed, Kaladin."

"Do you know how I became bridgeleader, Moash?"

"I assume Gaz came by and gave you the job?"

"Do Gaz and I seem friendly to you?"

Moash didn't answer.

"The night before I asked your name," Kaladin said. "The night before I asked all of your names, I went out into the last drizzle of the highstorm. Guess where I was going."

"The Honor Chasm."

"I looked down into that chasm, and…" Kaladin stopped. His eyes caught on Syl where she sat, invisible to the two injured men, suspended in the air above Moash's head. She smiled at him. "I realized," he said, "that I wasn't ready to give up. Not yet." He looked down at Moash. "And I think that if you were actually as certain as you pretend to be that we're all doomed, you'd have thrown yourself down there already."

"Maybe so," said Moash after a long pause. And that was all he said.

"Kaladin," Rock ducked his head in the door. "The crew is assembling by the bridge, and Tesh is returning with the food."

Kaladin nodded at him. "I'll be out in a minute," he said. As Rock shut the door again, Kaladin turned back to Moash. "You've been unconscious for three days," he said. "In that time, I've managed to get every member of this crew to start drilling with me and Tesh. I'm not asking you to join us, even once you're able. But I am asking you not to be the reason any of the men stop drilling. Can you do that?"

"Or you'll stop feeding me?"

"No," Kaladin said. "No, I'll keep feeding you even if you make things more difficult for me."

"That's what I don't understand," said Moash. "Why?"

"Because I decided not to give up on Bridge Four," said Kaladin. "And you're part of Bridge Four, Moash, whether either of us likes it or not. Teft, don't let him move around."

"Aye, Kaladin."

Kaladin turned just in time to see Tesh walking in with a tray. He placed it on Moash's lap, then handed a bowl of broth to Teft. He pointed at the bowl, then at Moash—all without once looking at Moash's face.

"Sure," said Teft, "I can feed him."

"Remember, no solids yet," Kaladin said. "Water and broth only."

"Understood, sir."

Tesh walked past Kaladin and left the barrack. He didn't meet Kaladin's gaze on his way out, but Kaladin saw that his eyes were barely a shade lighter than black.

"Call if you need me," said Kaladin. "Not you, Moash—no shouting. We'll be drilling near the barracks."

Then he turned and stepped outside. Twenty-nine men stood beside their bridge, watching him and Tesh as they rejoined the group. "All right," said Kaladin. "There's something I want to try today."

It had occurred to him the previous night while he'd been applying antiseptic to Moash's wounds. He could talk all he wanted about how he hadn't given up on Bridge Four, but all the determination in the world wasn't going to stop a Parshendi arrow. Bridge Four might be losing fewer men than any of the other bridges with each run, but the past two bad runs had both cost them at least one. He had already failed seven men. Rens, Adis, Corl, Koorm, Skar, Jaks, Dabbid. If he didn't want to fail the rest, he needed something actionable.

Bridgemen were not allowed armor or shields. But they carried a massive wooden construct on their backs—a construct that had taken more arrows than any bridgeman without leaving more than a mark. And Kaladin could use that.

"I call it," Kaladin said, "side carry."

-x-x-x-​

After nearly a week of drilling, Kaladin could honestly say that the crew was better at carrying the bridge on its side.

In the same way that a one-legged axehound is faster than one with no legs, he thought grimly.

Gaz had given his blessing for Bridge Four to use side carry on a run. Kaladin suspected he thought the maneuver would slow them down and might get Kaladin killed. He might even be right.

He called a halt to the drill and let his men go towards the water barrels. As he watched them, Syl darted out in front of him. "They don't understand why you want them to carry the bridge like that," she said.

"I know."

"I heard Sigzil and Malop talking about it."

"Were they complaining?"

"Yes. Wait, no, not really." She looked momentarily confused, then hesitant. "No, I guess not. They sounded more like they were questioning it out of habit than really complaining."

Kaladin nodded. "Still dangerous, but not as much so. That kind of talk can feed itself; the men can push each other further towards mutiny than any one of them would reach alone. But if they're not seriously complaining, then we still have time."

"Why are you having them carry the bridge like this?" Syl asked. "They're right that it's slower."

"Yes," said Kaladin. He glanced around, just in case Gaz was watching. He wasn't. Instead, he was standing on the other side of the yard, talking to Lamaril as the lighteyes led a troop of men into the camp. New bridgemen.

More hands would be a great help. Side carry was harder, and even though his men were much better trained than the rest of the bridge crews, it was much easier to drop the bridge when they were holding it awkwardly alongside themselves. Bridge Four was already moderately undermanned, since neither Teft nor Moash was fit for runs yet. But the last time new recruits had come through, Gaz hadn't sent a single one his way.

He couldn't let that happen again.

"I'll tell you later," he told Syl, then jogged in Gaz's direction.

The overseer was separating the men into groups. "You three, you're in Bridge Nine. You four, Bridge Twelve. You and… you, Bridge Two.

Kaladin watched as Gaz sorted all twenty-two new recruits. Not a single one was assigned to Bridge Four. Not this time. "Gaz."

Gaz jumped and whirled to face him. Kaladin realized he'd been standing on the man's blind side. "Storming—what, Lordling?"

"Bridge Four is down to thirty fighting members," he said.

"Thirty-two, if you count the invalids you're smuggling food to," countered Gaz.

"They can't carry the bridge," Kaladin said. "Where they sleep is my affair. Making sure the bridge crews can run is yours."

Gaz grumbled something mutinous under his breath. "Bridge Three is down to twenty-six."

"Yes, and you just gave them eight new members. Along with the other fourteen you gave to bridges that aren't as understaffed as mine."

"You only lost one man on the last run, and—"

"Do you think Lamaril will thank you if my bridge doesn't make it to the chasm?" Kaladin demanded.

"That's Brightlord Lamaril to you." But Gaz had a pensive, downward curve to his lips now. "…Fine. You can have one man."

"One man of my choice."

"Fine. They're all equally worthless."

Kaladin turned to the group, which was already clustering based on their new assignments. A taller man would be especially helpful for side carrying, he mused, and for slaves, most of these men were well fed. That one might even have soldier's training—

"Hey, gancho!" a voice called. "Hey! I think you want me, sure!"

Kaladin turned. The man who had spoken was short and spindly, in spite of a hint of a paunch around his stomach. His accent was Herdazian, and he was waving at Kaladin—with his only arm. What had this poor fool done to get assigned to the bridge crews with only one arm? Whatever crew got him would put him in the deathpoint and be rid of him on his first run.

"You can use me, gon," said the man, pronouncing the final word like gone. "We Herdazians are great fighters. One time three men came at me, and sure, they were drunk, but I did beat them."

Kaladin looked the man in the eye. He was smiling. He clearly had no idea what awaited him in the bridge crews, any more than Kaladin had when he first arrived. No one would be smiling if they did.

But even taking that into account… this one-armed man with years-old slave brands was somehow managing to smile in the face of an uncertain fate which, he had to realize, would not be good.

I was just thinking that the men could easily push each other to mutiny if their complaining discouraged one another, he thought. This man's optimism might be just what I need to counteract that.

That was the rational part of him. The tactician, the soldier, the squadleader.

The elder brother in him just thought, Tien.

"Very well," he said aloud. "I'll take the Herdazian in the back."

"You're joking," said Gaz.

The one-armed man strolled up to Kaladin, his grin somehow even wider. "Thanks, gancho! You'll be glad you got me."

Kaladin gestured for him to follow, then turned to leave. As he passed Gaz, the bridge sergeant called after him, "You pushed me that hard so that you could pick that?"

Kaladin ignored him, instead turning to his new recruit as they walked. "Why did you want to come with me?" he asked. "You don't know anything about the different crews."

"You were only picking one," said the man. "That means the one man gets to be special, sure. Besides, I've got a good feeling about you. It's in your eyes. A man's eyes never lie, I've always said. What's a bridge crew?"

Kaladin noticed that he had started smiling without even realizing it. After weeks of forcing smiles onto his face for the benefit of the crew, it was startling. "You'll see," he said, already dreading having to watch this man slowly learn what he had been condemned to. "What's your name?"

"Lopen," said the man. "Some of my cousins call me the Lopen, because none of them has ever heard of another Lopen. I've asked around a lot, too. Hundreds. Not a one has ever heard of another Lopen." The man spoke so quickly and brightly that Kaladin had to wonder if he ever stopped to breathe.

As they reached the crew, already starting to assemble at the bridge again, Rock looked Lopen up and down. "Is new member?" he asked. At Kaladin's affirmation, he sighed. "The only kind Gaz would give us, I assume. This thing, it is to be expected. He will give us only the most useless of bridgemen from now on."

Kaladin almost said something in agreement, but hesitated—both because Syl would probably not be happy with the lie, and because he doubted Lopen would either.

Before he could find something to say, Rock continued. "This new way of carrying the bridge. I do not think it is very—"

A horn call sounded. The entire crew fell as silent as Tesh, conversations dying at once. Bridge Four was on duty. A second horn rang out.

Then the third.

"Line up!" Kaladin ordered. "Let's move!" As his men quickly moved themselves into position, he turned to Lopen. "You see that rain barrel?" he asked, pointing. "Get some waterskins from the carpenters' assistants—tell them you're from Bridge Four, they told me I could borrow some—and fill up as many as you can. Catch up to us down the hill."

"Sure, gancho," said the Lopen, saluting and dashing off.

He returned before the other bridges were in position—and, to Kaladin's surprise and displeasure, Teft was with him. "Did I say you were cleared for duty?" he demanded.

Teft grinned at him. "You just got us a one-armed bridgeman, sir," he said. "Least I've got all four limbs."

"You said to get as many as I could carry," said Lopen, gesturing with a small pallet he and Teft were carrying between them, laden high with bulging waterskins. "Well, I got this from the carpenters. Couldn't carry it by myself, sure, but the old man saw me and offered to help."

"I figured, if you were letting one kind of cripple out for light duty, why not another?" said Teft wryly.

Kaladin gritted his teeth. "If your wounds reopen," he growled, "you are going to sit down and stay on whatever plateau we're on right then until we come back to fetch you, understand?"

"Perfectly clear, sir."

The other bridges were catching up with them now. Kaladin took a deep breath. "Fine. Let's move!"

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

12

Execution



-x-x-x-​

The thing giving them their power does not show itself directly. Even the most private of Shards, such as Endowment, are at least willing to allow themselves to be discovered.

-x-x-x-​

Torol stood perfectly still in the center of his forward command tent. Servants bustled around him, bearing fragments of his red shardplate and attaching them to his harness. Outside, he heard the army mobilizing.

The tent flap billowed inward as General Latharil pushed his way inside. He was commander of the third of Torol's ten battalions, and it was his patrol that had sounded the horn.

"Brightlord," said Latharil, stopping one step inside the tent and bowing. He was a large man, a few inches taller than Torol himself—at least, when Torol wasn't wearing the thick boots of his Plate. His face was sharply angled, with high cheekbones over thin cheeks, and his eyes were a pale, washed-out blue.

Sadeas nodded shortly as a servant affixed one of his pauldrons over his shoulder. "Where is the chrysalis this time, General?"

"Far," said the man grimly. "Brightness Pelah is charting a course now, but her initial estimate was that we would need to make nearly forty crossings using the portable bridges."

Forty crossings. That was madness. Most incursions required fewer than fifteen crossings over the portable bridges, once the army had cleared the network of permanent bridges near the camp. Every crossing was a delay, both because getting the men across the narrow bridge was slow, and because even once they had done so, the smaller plateaus were often not wide enough for the bridge crews to catch up with the army before they reached the next chasm. "How much of that is pushing inward? If the chrysalis is closer to another Highprince's camp, there's no point in even trying to make this run."

"My watchmen know that, Brightlord," said Latharil, with just the tiniest hint of reproach in his voice. "We would not have called the muster if it was closer to one of the other camps than ours, not at that distance. It's almost directly inward. The only force we'll be competing with is the Parshendi."

"And they will provide significant competition," mused Torol, "assuming we're right that their headquarters are at the center of the Plains." He had made only one incursion of this length before, and that one had been more south than east, and thus had ended far closer to the warcamps. He had been competing primarily against Roion, that day, and that had been before Roion had adopted Sadeas' more efficient bridge crews.

"It will be difficult, if not impossible, to beat them to the chrysalis, Highprince," said Latharil. "We will have to make a crossing under fire."

"Of course. But if gemhearts weren't worth running into Parshendi archers, they wouldn't be worth the rest of this trouble, either. Which battalions are on duty today?"

"The First, Third, Fourth, Ninth, and Tenth, Brightlord."

Torol frowned, then pointed his newly gauntleted hand at Balar, his steward, who stood on the side of the tent overseeing the servants. "Is that imbecile Matal still in command of the Ninth?"

"No, Highprince. He has been replaced with Brightlord Latalar, per your orders."

Torol's steward was a lighteyes of the seventh dahn, with deep violet eyes and a moderately corpulent frame. Torol preferred the servants who waited on him when he was out of his armor not to be in peak condition.

Some might call it paranoia. He might have called it the same, six years ago.

"Avarak Matal," continued Balar, "is still awaiting reassignment. His wife has already sent a missive on his behalf, which I have forwarded to Brightness Ialai."

"Good," Torol said. "We'll come up with something suitably humbling." Matal had embarrassed himself—and, by extension, Sadeas—at the king's most recent feast, and more importantly in front of several Kholin officers. His rank was sufficient that Torol couldn't turn him out of the warcamp completely without scandal, but there were plenty of positions in the army which had enough of a veneer of decency to fool outsiders while still humiliating the man before his peers.

A servant affixed the last plate of Torol's armor, and they all stepped back to allow him to pass. He swept past Latharil out of the tent.

His horse was already saddled and waiting just a few paces from the tent. It wasn't a Ryshadium—and the fact that half the Kholins had one of the beasts while he didn't still burned—but for an ordinary horse, Nomar was exceedingly large. A powerful warhorse of excellent breeding, he had never once faltered under the weight of Torol's Plate. Torol dreaded the day when the stallion would inevitably grow too old to carry him into battle. He didn't know where he'd find another of Nomar's caliber, unless he managed to find the time to breed it before that day came.

He climbed onto the stallion's back and nodded to Latharil. "Join your men, General," he said. "I'll see you on the battlefield."

"Yes, Brightlord." Latharil saluted and dashed off.

Torol turned to Balar, standing at the entrance to the tent. "I likely won't return until after dinnertime," he said. "Tell Ialai that she needn't wait for me, but I'd appreciate her company on my return."

"Of course, Highprince."

Torol turned and spurred his horse on.

His officers and guard regiment formed around him as he took his position near the center of the army column, slowing Nomar to a gentle trot. Torol always pushed his infantry, and the army moved faster than many of the others—especially the Kholin army, with their chull-pulled bridges—but an infantry column moving at a dead run was still no faster than a light canter for the cavalry, and that would have left his army exhausted by the time they met the Parshendi.

Especially on a march like this one. He doubted any of the other highprinces would have even tried to make an assault on a chrysalis forty chasms beyond the innermost permanent bridges. Which was exactly why the very idea had him so eager—the Thrill was already thrumming in his veins, like an axehound barely held back from its quarry by the discipline of its master. The Parshendi would be ready for him. The battle would be fierce.

But, paradoxically, that meant the risks were lower. Sure, there was always a chance that he might die, but the Parshendi were clearly running out of Shardbearers—only one battle in a dozen saw an enemy Shard on the field—and without an enemy with Shardblades, the risk to a commander in Plate was negligible. The real risk in a plateau assault was the risk of shame—of an embarrassing defeat and a humiliating march back to the warcamp, visible to the sentries of all the other highprinces. But on a run to a plateau this distant, the shame of a defeat would be moderate at worst.

And the glory of a victory would be enormous.

He could see his own anticipation mirrored in the officers around him, and embodied in the anticipationspren bursting up around the hooves of their horses in streaks of red. None of them had the benefit of Shardplate to protect them, but that didn't matter to most—like any good Alethi men, they were hungry for the glory to be won, as thirsty for the Thrill to fill them up as a drunkard was for wine.

Latharil joined him as they crossed the second plateau, still well within the network of permanent bridges. "The sentries have identified the location of the chrysalis, Brightlord," he said. "It's the Tower."

Torol's heart leapt. The Tower was a famous plateau. It wasn't quite forty plateaus away—only thirty-two from the permanent bridge network—but its reputation preceded it. The Tower was taller than any of its immediate neighbors and sloped away from the warcamps. More than twenty battles had been fought on that plateau, at least one by every single highprince, and every single one of them had ended in a Parshendi victory.

If Torol won today, the glory would be more than enormous. It would be groundbreaking. House Sadeas would become the unquestioned military leader among all ten highprincedoms, cleanly supplanting Kholin's already crumbling reputation.

"Good," he said to Latharil, unable either to hide his smile or to banish the single gloryspren that was already bursting into golden light beside Nomar's ear. "Very good."

After several minutes, the column slowed as the mobile bridges were placed across the first chasm. The army split into twenty lines, each moving to cross one of the bridges.

Torol spurred Nomar to the column crossing Bridge Four.

He kept his face neutral as the horse's hooves echoed resoundingly against the wood of the bridge. He ignored the black eyes glaring at him with an emotion he could not have named even if he cared.

Bridge Four had changed. He could not help but notice, even as he kept his eyes forward and his face impassive. Where once the wretches had all cast themselves down like the barely-formed lumps of men they were, now they stood in something like formation, drinking from waterskins.

It was Bridge Four, he remembered, that had apparently retrieved its wounded from their recent bridge run. He had ordered that the wounded be denied food—partly to conserve resources that were better allocated to more valuable men, and partly out of a hope that one particular bridgeman might be among the injured who would be condemned to slow starvation. However, this seemed only to have hardened the men somehow.

Perhaps there was something special about their current bridgeleader, he mused, Nomar's hooves thumping hollowly against the wood of the bridge. Whoever the man was, he had somehow managed to turn a gaggle of thirty or so creatures unworthy to be called men into something that bore a vague resemblance to an organized group. He would have to see who that bridgeleader was. Torol prided himself on his efficiency. If the man was as talented a leader as he appeared, he was wasted on slave's work in the bridge crews.

As he left the bridge behind, Torol finally allowed a grim smile to bloom across his lips. The sight of those black eyes in his peripheral vision, burning with impotent fire, always left him feeling darkly satisfied.

You left me helpless to act, boy, he thought. Now I do the same to you. It was better than he deserved, but even as angry as Torol still was, he was still a pragmatist. Better the boy die a slow death being useful than an equally slow death keeping a trained torturer busy.

It wasn't joy that he felt whenever he crossed Bridge Four and felt those jet-dark eyes following him, far from the almost pale grey that had once looked up at him in the half-light. Indeed, if anything, it brought him back to one of the most joyless moments of his life. But it did bring satisfaction—to know that the man responsible for the awful night that had left him in worse pain than a hundred battle wounds was suffering for his crime.

That satisfaction came to him again and again on the long march. The sun drifted lazily overhead, wheeling along the aquamarine bowl of the sky in its long, early-autumn arc. It never passed directly overhead, this far south, instead staying always a little north of the center of the sky. He hadn't ever noticed something like that before, but after five years on the same front, the difference between this southern sky and the northern one of his home made him nostalgic. He wasn't homesick, but he did long for the days before he had come down here.

Before things had all gone wrong. Before the Rift. Before Dalinar had collapsed like a crumbling pillar. Before Gavilar had been assassinated and succeeded by an inept boy-king.

Before his daughter had died, not to the blade of an assassin, but to the hand of someone who should have been protecting her from them.

At long last, they reached the penultimate chasm. From here, he could see the chrysalis with his own eyes, tightly bound to the stone of the Tower. The Parshendi were busily hacking away at its shell, struggling to break it open. They had not reached the gemheart yet.

He smiled, watching his cavalry begin forming their ranks, watching the infantry marshal behind them, lowering spears and raising shields. The Parshendi might still manage to get it before he broke their line, but he hadn't missed the contest. For the Thrill—which now rose up in him joyfully—that was enough.

The bridge crews began their final run. His eyes found Bridge Four.

He frowned. What on Roshar were they doing? The crew seemed to be carrying their bridge on one side, perpendicular to themselves. The position slowed them visibly—despite having run ahead of most of the other crews across all the other plateaus, now they were lagging behind, and exposing themselves to more Parshendi fire. What on earth would possess them to hold the bridge like a…

He realized what was about to happen an instant before it did. The crew of bridge four swung about like a door being shut. The wood of the bridge interposed between the bridgemen and the archers. And the Parshendi weren't stupid enough to waste arrows on what amounted to a tower shield the width of a regiment.

His smile slid off his face as he stared at the massacre unfolding before his eyes. It was almost comical. A man less well-educated in warfare wouldn't have expected the change from twenty targets to nineteen to make such a radical difference. But someone like that would have missed a few key factors.

First, on an assault where the Parshendi had already formed their firing line, often only a dozen or so bridges made it to the chasm. The Parshendi only needed to kill between five and fifteen bridgemen to bring down a bridge, after all.

Second, even those bridges that did make it to the chasm typically lost the majority of the men they could afford to lose without falling anyway.

Third, with the loss of one target, the Parshendi did not evenly distribute their newly available arrows evenly among the other crews. No—the Parshendi were better-trained than that. Their archers always fired at the nearest available crew. That meant that, instead of nineteen bridges each facing about five percent more fire, he had seventeen facing roughly the same amount, and two which each faced half again as many arrows as before.

Of course, those two bridges fell. And then the archers redirected their fire to the next two bridges. And the next. And the next. Twice as many archers were freed by the fall of every successive bridge, so each time a bridge fell, the fire the next bridges were facing grew exponentially worse.

Even that might not have been crippling. But when the other bridge crews saw what Bridge Four had done, they tried to emulate it. But Bridge Four had clearly trained in what must be a difficult maneuver. The rest had not. They stumbled. They dropped bridges. Even those that kept them in their hands slowed to a crawl.

Normally, a Parshendi firing line could only bring down between four and eight bridges before the crew pushed it across the chasm and allowed his army to attack. Today, they felled fourteen.

His heavy cavalry charged across the bridges once they were in place, but there simply wasn't enough space for his men to cross in the necessary numbers. His men fought bravely, but a cavalry charge needed an unbroken line. Two horsemen could cross a bridge side by side, but with only six bridges—bridges which had been placed erratically, over more than ninety seconds when all twenty crews normally took less than a third of that—that was only twelve chargers trying to break the Parshendi line. Brave men died, their bodies, and those of their steeds, falling into the chasm to become fodder for fiends and cremlings. This far into the Plains, he would never be able to retrieve their gear, either.

Bridge Four had lost him this battle. All he could do now was minimize his losses.

He turned to his generals, all of whom sat in stunned silence astride their own horses, staring in horror at the carnage. "Order the remaining cavalry to fall back!" he barked. "Send the spearmen and shock infantry to hold the bridges and give the cavalry an avenue of retreat! Sound the withdrawal! Now, Damnation take you!"

The men jumped to obey. Torol caught Latharil's arm as he spurred his horse. "Find me Lamaril," he said through gritted teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bridge collapse into the chasm.

"Alive or dead, Brightlord?"

"Preferably alive." The punishment should always outstrip the severity of the crime. He remembered saying that to a shaking boy, staring up at him in terror. One man had lost him his daughter, and he had been condemned to slavery in the bridge crews. Lamaril had cost him a battle. "A quick death at the end of a spear is too good for him."

As Latharil nodded and cantered away, he stared at the inanimate wood of Bridge Four stretching across the chasm. At the men in rags, huddled in a hollow beside it. He couldn't make out individuals, but he saw a few men—including one lighteyes, perhaps Lamaril—approaching the crew. As they converged upon one of the bridgemen, most likely the bridgeleader, another bridge fell into the chasm, stranding even more of his men on the Tower.

Torol felt his fists, white-knuckled, shaking on Nomar's reins. He forced them to still by pressing them into the saddle. Not ten minutes ago, Torol had been contemplating the promotion of Bridge Four's bridgeleader. Now, the man had cemented his position as Torol's second-least favorite bridgeman. He would not survive the experience.

It was too much to expect a darkeyed slave to be a tactical genius, to know anything about military strategy. That was supposed to be Lamaril's job—to make sure the thugs on the crews did nothing to jeopardize Torol's efforts. But knowingly or not, that bridgeleader had cost Torol a battle. He would need to be punished. More than punished—made an example of.

What was a suitably spectacular method of execution? He had inspired his men. He had nearly managed to turn the wretches of Bridge Four into something resembling Alethi.

Let them feel his death, he thought. Let them hear him begging. Let them stew in the certainty that his fate is what awaits any of them who try to follow his example.

A highstorm was slated to come a little after nightfall. Torol would have the man strung up on his own barrack's outer wall and left to its mercy. It was a form of execution as traditional as it was brutal. The following morning, his men would step outside and see the ruined meat the storm had left behind, and every one of those men would know better than to try and carry on its legacy.

As the army withdrew, and the bridges were pulled back across the chasm, he turned his horse away and began the long ride back to camp.