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

[Lithos Maitreya]

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

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27

Freedom



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I record these words because, should we fail tomorrow, there will be none left to remember them.

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"How is this?" Rock asked, holding up the small mirror.

Sarus' eyes traced the line of his beard. Rock was good with his razor, he had to admit. They stood in the shadow of the awning just outside Bridge Four's new barrack. It was even starting to feel like theirs. The effects of the dead men who once slept in those beds had been emptied out that morning, before the highstorm, though the process was still ongoing for several of the other barracks.

Just two paces to Sarus' right, water streamed down from the sloped roof, mingling with the rain still drizzling from the sky. The highstorm itself had passed, but the rain left in its wake would linger for an hour or more. In the thin shower several of the other former bridgemen were pouring water from buckets onto one another's backs. Sarus remembered with longing the heated baths of his youth, but here on the Plains such things were a luxury afforded only to the most elite of lighteyes.

"It looks good," he said finally, running his fingers down the black and gray bristles. "Thank you, Rock."

"You are welcome," said Rock, clapping him on the shoulder and pocketing his razor. "Is good that you can speak now, to tell me how you like it trimmed. I think there were cremling nests growing in the tangle you had before!"

Sarus rolled his eyes. "That seems unlikely."

"So did your beard."

Sarus' lips twitched, but before he could retort, the doors to the barrack opened. He turned, smiling as Kaladin stepped outside. Behind Sarus, the rest of Bridge Four raised a cheer. Kaladin looked around at them. There was a small smile on his face, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sarus, Moash, Teft," he said, pointing at the three of them. "Come with me. I want to take a look at the rest of the barracks."

Sarus nodded, falling into step beside Kaladin, Teft and Moash flanking them. Teft's injuries were healing quickly, though he still limped slightly and tired easily. Together they stepped out into the rain, though all of them save Kaladin were already soaked.

They walked past one of the twenty barracks in the former bridgemen's new battalion quarters. Sarus saw a few dozen scribes working to carry out the effects of its former inhabitants. Several of the women did so with eyes red from weeping.

"Seems cruel to make them clear out their own husbands' barracks," Teft commented, looking at them with some pity.

"I doubt they are clearing their own husband's barracks," Sarus said softly, nudging Teft to get him to stop staring. "But I also doubt that Highprince Dalinar would have enough scribes, ardents, and support staff to do this work if everyone who was grieving was exempt. Thousands of men died on that plateau, and they left behind thousands of widows and orphans."

"As if we needed another reason to hate Sadeas," muttered Moash.

Kaladin grunted in agreement as they passed another barrack, one without a crowd of scribes working outside its doors. He glanced inside, and Sarus followed his gaze. Inside were three dozen men, seated or lying on bunks, expressionless faces and glazed eyes gazing at nothing.

There were nearly a thousand of these wretches. Former slaves, less than a full day into their newfound freedom, unable just yet to grasp that their lives were now theirs to save or spend. Sarus couldn't blame them.

"How are we going to turn these men into an army?" Moash asked quietly.

"Kaladin did it with us," Teft pointed out.

"But he started by learning every one of our names," Sarus said. "I doubt he can do the same with more than twenty times our number."

"No," Kaladin agreed. "No, we can't teach each of these thousand men personally. We need to delegate."

"You think we should split up?" Sarus asked him. "Disperse ourselves, Bridge Four, among the other men so that each of us can train a small squad more directly?"

Kaladin grimaced. "That might make the most sense, but I don't like the idea," he said. "Most of you are still training yourselves—as far as we've come, Bridge Four is still not a troop of soldiers. Besides, most of us still need to focus on protecting Dalinar."

He nodded in the direction of the palace. Sarus followed his gaze. It was relatively tall for a soulcast building on the exposed Plains, which meant that it was about three stories at its turrets. It loomed imposingly in the half-light, though it was brightening as the clouds began to thin.

"We should organize them into units," Sarus said. "If we assume that Bridge Four is going to stay organized as it is, the rest of them should be able to form nineteen crews of about fifty. We can house them in the other barracks, form companies."

Kaladin nodded. "Teft, I want you on that. First, though, I need you to find thirty-eight men who have at least a little spirit left in them."

"Are there thirty-eight men with some spirit left?" Moash asked darkly.

"There will be," Kaladin said firmly.

"And if not," Sarus added, "we can make do. As we've all learned, Moash, spirit—hope—is like a fire. Just because it's gone out doesn't mean it can't be reignited."

"Still, find the thirty-eight who look the most promising," Kaladin said. "Then spread them among nineteen groups of about fifty, two to a group. We'll train those thirty-eight first, and they can train the rest of the companies."

"I don't think I can train thirty-eight men on my own," Teft cautioned. "I'm not you."

"I'll give you a few men to help," Kaladin said. "But most of us will need to focus on our new duties as Dalinar's guard."

If someone had told a younger Sarus that a group of half-trained darkeyed former slaves would one day replace the famed Cobalt Guard of House Kholin, he would have assumed them disturbed. But here they were. Over five thousand men were dead, among them nearly the entire Cobalt Guard. And Bridge Four stood here as the only reason any survivors had escaped the Tower.

All this only because Kaladin had looked back and refused to let those men die. In the moment, Sarus had been right there beside him—had even encouraged him to act, to save Dalinar and prevent Sadeas' betrayal from succeeding. But now, here in the pouring rain, he realized that he had only been Kaladin's own conscience, speaking the lessons Kaladin had taught back to him. Just echoing Kaladin's own thoughts back to make the decision easier.

He forced his mind away from those thoughts. He had chosen to speak again. He had achieved the First Ideal. No, he was not Kaladin, and never would be. But he needed to learn to be satisfied with his station, satisfied with what he deserved—lest he lose everything all over again.

"We need to keep Dalinar alive," Kaladin said, almost to himself. "I don't know if we can trust him, exactly, but that man is the only one on these storming Plains who has shown even a hint of compassion for us. If he dies, we'll be sold right back to Sadeas to buy goodwill."

Sarus doubted that. Adolin might be a bit of a fool, if he was still anything like Sarus remembered, but he would not be quick to forget Sadeas' betrayal of his father. He might not treat Bridge Four with the respect Dalinar seemed inclined to—what lighteyes would, save apparently for the Blackthorn?—but he would never again seek the goodwill of Torol Sadeas. For once, Sarus and Adolin Kholin were entirely in accord on something.

"I'd like to see them try, with two Knights Radiant at our helm," Moash said dryly.

"First of all, keep your voice down," said Sarus. "Second, if you think the two of us can hold back the collective might of ten Alethi highprincedoms, I think you greatly overestimate us."

Kaladin turned to face them all. "Why did we choose to stay here on the Plains?"

"Wouldn't do us much good to run," Moash said. "We'd just end up conscripted, most likely, or contracted if we tried to set up as mercenaries. This place is as good as any, so long as we're free."

"So long as we're free," Kaladin agreed. "Dalinar Kholin is our best chance at keeping that. With him, we're bodyguards, not conscripts, and free despite the brands on our foreheads. No one else will give us that. So we keep him alive."

"And if the Assassin in White comes calling?" Moash asked. "He's been showing up all over Roshar for weeks. Even we heard about it. Didn't seem to matter when we were bridgemen, but now…"

"Hopefully, killing Gavilar was enough for him in Alethkar." Kaladin's voice lowered. "Listen. If worst comes to worst—as bodyguards, we'll be paid well. We'll be able to train and outfit ourselves—and the rest of the crews—as real soldiers. A group of thirty-something former bridgemen is easy to ignore or crush. But almost a thousand hardened mercenaries? That would be a force even the highprinces couldn't ignore. As a single crew we're an afterthought. As a battalion, we might be able to make this work. If we can buy a year with this thousand, we can do that."

"This plan I like," said Moash, grinning.

"It's better than nothing," Kaladin said. "I'm going to name the three of you, as well as Murk and Rock, as officers. My lieutenants."

"Darkeyed lieutenants?" Teft asked, eyebrows rising almost to his hairline.

"Dalinar made me a captain," Kaladin said. "Highest rank he dared commission a darkeyes, he said. Well, I have a thousand men now, and they need a command structure. That means something between sergeants and captain. For now, that's the five of you. Rock will be our quartermaster, and Lopen can be his second. Teft, you're in charge of training, Drehy's your second. Murk's the only one of us who can read, so he'll be our clerk. Sigzil can read glyphs, so he'll be Murk's second."

"I can also read glyphs," Sarus offered.

"You can?" Kaladin blinked at him. "Well, I need you with me anyway. The rest of us are going to be focused on protecting Dalinar Kholin. I want either you, me, or Moash personally watching him whenever possible. Another of us will watch his sons, but make no mistake—he is our priority. He's our only guarantee of freedom."

"Agreed," Sarus said.

"Good," Kaladin said. "Now, let's get the rest of the men. I have an idea for how we can convince the rest of Roshar to see us as free men too."

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Kaladin's idea, as it turned out, was tattoos.

"You all have official writs of freedom now," Kaladin explained as Bridge Four followed him to a tattooist in the Kholin warcamp. The scribes had distributed writs to the former slaves as they cleared the barracks of the effects of their erstwhile occupants. "But that's just paper. You can lose it, or it can be stolen or destroyed, and with those brands you could be captured again as a runaway. So we're going to replace those slave brands with symbols of freedom."

They arrived at the tattoo parlor, a small building near the middle of the warcamp. Kaladin turned to face the rest of them. "Well?" he said. "Who wants to go first?"

Several of the others turned to look at Sarus. He grimaced. Before he could accept the apparent nomination, Archive spoke up.

"The tattoos will not be," she said.

Several of the others started at the sound of her voice, looking around wildly as if to find her. Sarus just looked down at the speck of ink-darkness on his shoulder. "Why not?"

"Your tattoos are not now," she said. "Stormlight healing is. Your spirit will reject the alteration, and the ink will not be."

"Does that mean it's impossible for"—Kaladin paused, glancing around before lowering his voice—"people like us to get tattoos?"

"Unless no Stormlight is for several months," Archive said. "Long enough that your soul adjusts."

"Which is probably not even an option for me," said Sarus, "given that I appear to generate my own Stormlight."

"Perhaps," said Archive. She did not elaborate further.

"Well, I'm not going to be staying away from Stormlight for months either," said Kaladin dryly. "So—Murk, how about you?"

Murk hesitated. "…I was a slave before I ever came down here," he said. "I was an ardent, remember?"

"You're free now, though," Dunny pointed out.

Murk's expression was complicated. Conflicted. "Yes," he said finally. "Yes, I guess I am." He gave Kaladin a nod. "Sure. I'll go first. But I want another tattoo as well."

Kaladin raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Vev gesheh," Murk said, eyes distant.

Bridge Four. "To remind you what you were freed from?" Kaladin asked.

Sarus shot him a look, but he seemed genuinely not to understand.

"No," said Murk. "To remind me what freed me. We may not have to carry a slab of wood onto the Plains every other day anymore, but we're still Bridge Four. Always will be."

"I like it," said Teft, grinning. "I haven't got slave brands to cover, but that's something I can get behind."

It seemed the rest of the men felt the same. Kaladin looked befuddled, but he agreed to ask the tattooist for the two additional glyphs.

The tattooist's shop was one of hundreds of nearly-identical soulcast buildings in the warcamps. Sarus remembered watching the Sadeas camp come together in the first months of the war. But once they were inside, the uniformity gave way to a much more personal space. The tattooist was an artist, and her art was draped in paintings and tapestries over the walls, hiding the featureless stone. She greeted them brusquely, took the sketched glyphs from Kaladin, sat Murk down, and began her work.

Sarus stepped up beside Kaladin as they watched Murk wince slightly as the needle pierced his skin. "Do you really not understand?" he asked quietly.

"No, I do," said Kaladin. He sounded strangely wistful. "I understand it. I just…" He sighed. "I promised to save them, Sarus. And I failed so many."

Sarus took a deep breath. Part of him wanted to lash out. Another part wanted to calmly explain his frustration with the ridiculous standards to which he held himself. It was infuriating, not because of the pain it caused Kaladin, but because Sarus simply wasn't that good a person. And Sarus couldn't help but envy Kaladin for that goodness.

But Sarus had never spoken of those darker impulses, and he would not start now. So instead, he simply said, "They don't see it that way. And nor do I."

"You should," Kaladin whispered.

Sarus forced himself to be the man he needed to be in this moment. Kaladin needed encouragement, and Sarus needed to be the one to provide it. "If we did, Kaladin," he said, "I don't think any of us would have escaped the bridge crews. If we hadn't been willing to accept the hope you offered, none of us would be standing here now. Sometimes, my friend, hope itself is the point."

"Maybe you're right," Kaladin said. Some part of Sarus, deeply buried, was pleased to see Kaladin didn't believe it.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

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

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28

Death Follows



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Gostir is dead. Even if he were not, his memory of that time would be markedly different from Koravellium's or my own. He remained loyal. Koravellium did not. I was born too late to have any loyalty in the first place, and Xisis is too young even to remember.

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"The storm is passing," Adolin observed.

Renarin glanced up. It was true. The pattering of rain on the walls of the palace was slowing, decaying into the rhythmic thrumming of the post-storm drizzle.

"You ready?" Glys asked from where he hovered in one corner of the room.

Renarin didn't answer for a moment. What will we do if someone sees us? he finally said.

"Get caught," said Glys succinctly. "But can we afford not to take the risk?"

No, Renarin admitted. Can you go into Father's room and let me know when it's empty?

"On it." Glys darted out the narrow window and left the room.

"Renarin?" Renarin blinked and looked over at his brother. Adolin was looking at him with some concern. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," said Renarin, standing. He nodded in the direction of the door connecting their room to the one where their father would be discussing the details of his latest vision with Aunt Navani. "You don't suppose they're done yet?"

"I doubt it," Adolin said. "If Father's even woken up yet, he'll still have to clarify anything to Aunt Navani that he wasn't able to explain during the vision."

This was the second highstorm since the disaster on the Tower a week and a half ago. The first had been the night after the battle, and that vision had revealed the truth.

Dalinar's visions, they now believed, were legitimate. They had been sent forward in time in the dying days of God Himself. Dalinar visibly struggled with the notion of God being dead. Renarin had watched his father throw himself into Vorinism ever since recovering from his drunkenness, but he didn't seem to be in danger of slipping back into the habit, even though his faith in the Almighty had been shaken.

Apparently, although the humans in the visions reacted to Dalinar's decisions, actions, and presence, the Almighty Himself, who appeared at the end of most visions, did not. Dalinar had misinterpreted his prearranged messages as answers to his questions, which was part of why he had made the catastrophic mistake of trusting Torol Sadeas.

It made Renarin nervous. Because, after all, wasn't he taking a risk based on cryptic visions?

The golden numbers had appeared again. And this time, Renarin and Glys had been able to conclude a chilling truth. They were counting down—counting down days. Renarin didn't know exactly what the strange, red-and-violet storm that appeared in his visions was, but he knew that if his visions were right, it would arrive on Ishishach—two days from the end of the year.

He didn't know what to do about that. But he knew that, whatever needed to happen, he wouldn't be able to do it alone.

Renarin was jostled from his thoughts when Adolin suddenly sighed and stretched. Adolin's eyes were hooded, surrounded by dark shadows. He hadn't been sleeping well since the battle of the Tower. "Do you think we should be trusting those visions?" he asked quietly.

"Now that Father knows not to think the Almighty is directly answering his questions, possibly," said Renarin. Privately, he did believe in Dalinar's visions. They were too similar to his own to ignore.

"Hm." Adolin didn't sound entirely convinced. "You were the one who said we needed to try to prove the visions true or false. We haven't really done that."

"Aunt Navani said that Father was speaking in the language Dawnchant," Renarin said. "Her scholars are translating more of the Dawnchant every day. Isn't that proof enough?"

Adolin sighed again, sitting back down in his chair. "No, I suppose it is," he said quietly. "Sorry. I'm just… rattled, I suppose."

"A lot of soldiers died in the battle, Adolin," Renarin said, trying to sound soothing. "You're entitled to feel rattled."

"To feel it? Yes. But if I show it…" Adolin shook his head. "Everyone is watching our family now. People doubt father because they've heard of his visions, and because he gave away Oathbringer. It was the right thing to do, but now it falls to me to be our family's sword-arm." His lips twitched and he shot Renarin a look that seemed apologetic. "I suppose it's unkind of me to complain to you about this."

Renarin blinked, confused. "Why would that be unkind?"

"Because they've always looked down at you," Adolin said, grimacing. "And here I am, complaining that I'm the only member of the house that they aren't looking down on."

"I don't think either of our situations are enviable," Renarin said. "I'm bitter at times, but I have to admit that there are advantages to being the overlooked second son."

Adolin was silent for a long moment. "I suppose we're both better off than some," he said. He looked sad, gazing at a tapestry bearing the Kholin glyphpair. "I wanted to trust Sadeas, you know? I didn't, but I wanted to."

"Why?"

"Because I remember what it was like when Mother died. I wanted to believe that Sadeas was pushing us so hard because he was lashing out in grief. I wanted to believe that he was coming out of it, like Father did." Adolin's lips twisted into a wry smile. "But he was always a cremling. Even before Tailiah died."

Renarin grimaced. He hadn't spent nearly as much time with Tailiah Sadeas as his brother had. She had been an obvious match for Adolin, politically—and, unlike most of his courtships over the past few years, she had seemed willing to tolerate him. If nothing else, she had kept meeting him for years. To this day it remained Adolin's longest courtship.

"Did you love her?" Renarin asked quietly. He'd never asked before—he'd been too afraid to broach the subject, when the news of Tailiah's death had reached them, so soon on the heels of the assassination of Uncle Gavilar.

Adolin was silent for a moment. "No," he said finally. "No, I don't think I did. I liked her, certainly. And I respected her. She was brilliant, Renarin. Sharp as a Shardblade. I think we would have learned to work well together if we had decided to marry. But I suppose we'll never know now."

"I suppose not." But talking about Tailiah reminded Renarin of the other child he'd met in Sadeas' castle. How in Damnation had Sarus, one of the smartest people of his own age Renarin had ever met, ended up making Sadeas angry enough to condemn him to the bridge crews?

For a moment he considered bringing the topic up to Adolin, but his brother had never even met Sarus. The darkeyed boy Renarin had known had been much too careful to risk any trouble by seeming to interfere in Adolin's courtship of Tailiah. While Adolin despised Sadeas' bridge crews nearly as much as their father did, there was no reason for him to share in Renarin's curiosity over the story that had led one particular bridgeman into those crews.

I need to find a way to talk to him. But he won't thank me if I bring undue attention on him.

Suddenly, Glys slipped back into the room. "Dalinar's asleep," he said. "We can head in as soon as we can get away from Adolin."

Easier said than done. How was Renarin supposed to distract Adolin without making his brother suspicious? All their lives, Adolin had done whatever he decided, and Renarin was left to follow. How was he to invert that entire relationship without arousing any suspicion?

"Renarin," Glys whispered, suddenly mere inches from Renarin's face. The irregular red crystal of his body glowed softly, illuminating the stone walls with a light only Renarin could perceive. "You're spiraling."

Renarin found that his hands were shaking. So I am, he thought distantly.

"It'll be all right," Glys told him. "There's no rush. We don't need to force this. Adolin isn't going to stay here much longer—he never does. And once he's gone, we'll duck into your father's room and jot down a few glyphs. In and out in five minutes. It'll be fine."

"Renarin?"

Renarin jumped, whirling around at Adolin's voice suddenly breaking into his thoughts. "What?"

His brother didn't look surprised by his reaction. He just smiled indulgently. "I'm going out to see if the highstorm damaged anything," he said. "You want to come?"

"See?" Glys murmured. "Told you."

"No," Renarin said, trying not to let his relief show. Fortunately, not showing emotion was something he was good at. "No, I'll stay here. Might get something to drink."

"Save some for me," Adolin said, then turned and left the room. One of the former bridgemen, a man with brown hair and a lean build, gave Adolin a curt nod as he left. The door shut before Renarin could see more.

He took a deep breath. Then he turned away from the door out of his father's quarters… and towards the room's other door.

"We'll be fine, Renarin," Glys said.

"Yes, we will." Squaring his shoulders, Renarin carefully turned the knob and opened the door.

Dalinar sat slumped in a chair near the center of the room. His head rested on his chest, which rose and fell slowly as he quietly snored. Renarin passed him, doing his best to balance the need for haste with the need for silence. He stopped before the wall his father would be facing when he awoke. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shard of soft limestone. It wasn't a common substance in Alethkar, but this 'chalk' would serve his purpose perfectly.

Carefully, he reached up and pressed the stone against the wall. He tried not to wince as it squealed against the soulcast slate. He paused after a moment, hardly daring to move, but Dalinar's breathing was entirely unchanged. He swallowed and continued.

Renarin had not written many glyphs in his life. It simply wasn't a skill that the highprince's son had much occasion to practice. His lines were clumsy. The number was easy, but the words…

"Careful," Glys said quietly. "That line should be a bit longer, shouldn't it?"

Renarin frowned, squinting. Glys was right. The glyph, as it was, read broken rather than death. He carefully made the repairs, lengthening the symmetrical lines as necessary. Once he was done, he stepped back, examining his handiwork.

Sixty-two days, read the glyphs. Death follows.

…Or, possibly, Sixty-two days follow death. Or Sixty-two days of death and following. Or something else entirely. Four glyphs were not enough to convey grammatical details, as Renarin was learning from his studies into the women's script.

He let out a soft breath. It would have to do. He needed his father to be able to read what he wrote. He couldn't risk the meaning being lost entirely, going unheard by the ears who needed to heed it. If he had written in the women's script, even if he had trusted himself to write it, there was a possibility that the ardent or scholar who read it would not accurately report its meaning to Dalinar, or might not report it at all if Dalinar wasn't curious. He could not risk that. The risk of a slight misunderstanding in grammar was, by comparison, far less.

"Renarin," Glys said. "We should go."

Renarin's hands twitched. He nearly dropped the stone in his hand. I can't lose focus like that! He berated himself. Not now, of all times! He pocketed his chalk and turned to leave.

Dalinar twitched in his chair. Renarin froze, but his father merely shifted his weight, allowing his head to loll onto his shoulder, and kept dozing. Renarin crept out of the room unnoticed, and shut the door behind him. He leaned back against the wood, shaking with relief.

"There," Glys murmured soothingly. "That wasn't so bad, was it? In and out, perfectly safe."

"Perfectly safe," whispered Renarin. He stood like that for a few minutes, just letting his heart rate come down, before he stood up and left his father's quarters. The former bridgeman gave him a curt nod with hard, judging eyes as he left, but Renarin didn't even mind. He just nodded in return and started down the corridor.

"Where are we going?" Glys asked.

"I need a drink," Renarin said. "I really, really need a drink."

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

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

-x-x-x-

29

The Oath of an Elsecaller



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If Koravellium and I fail tomorrow, we will surely be consumed by the fain and die. If that happens, not a soul will remain in the cosmere who remembers the world that came before. Unless, of course, one counts Adonalsium itself.

-x-x-x-​

Sarus looked up as Kaladin rounded the corner down the hall, Syl hovering just above his left shoulder, followed by Moash, Teft, Arik, and Bisig. The six of them approached Sarus' squad, on guard duty outside King Elhokar's chambers. At Sarus' sides, Gadol and Lesk saluted. Sarus just gave his friend a nod.

"Report?" Kaladin asked.

"Highprince Dalinar and the Queen Mother arrived several minutes ago. We're still waiting on Princes Adolin and Renarin." Sarus took a moment to listen for any sign of eavesdroppers or approaching lighteyes. When he heard none, he added, "His Majesty is nervous. I hear him pacing in there. I think he fears reprisal from the highprinces."

Dalinar, as the newly-named Highprince of War, had just announced a change in the structure of the war. Henceforth, the spoils of all chasmfiend hunts were officially property of the crown, not the claiming highprince, to be distributed back to the highprinces according to their contributions to the war. Ideally, this would allow King Elhokar to reframe the metrics of success on the plains—valuing incursions against the Parshendi higher than vain hunts for glory and wealth. However, it also displeased his vassals and placed him under further scrutiny. Even the most fiercely loyal might think him biased if he was not careful and transparent with how he weighed the value of their contributions.

"Good," Kaladin said. "Easier to guard a man who will take threats seriously."

"Unless he considers us a threat," Sarus pointed out. He caught a twitch in Moash's face, but didn't comment on it.

"Well, we'll have to see to it that he doesn't," said Kaladin firmly. "Gadol, Lesk, you're with Teft for the rest of the day. Teft, take them back to the barracks to help you drill the men from the other crews. Sarus, do you have another shift in you?"

"Of course."

"Then we'll take this shift together. Moash, gather a squad to come back to relieve us for the afternoon shift."

The men saluted and parted from them, marching back down the corridor. Only Kaladin, Sarus, Arik, and Bisig remained in front of the door to the meeting room.

After casting a wary glance over his shoulder, Kaladin looked Sarus in the eye. "You know how to handle yourself around lighteyes." It wasn't a question.

"I used to," Sarus said.

"You think you can convince the king to trust us?"

Sarus hesitated. King Elhokar was paranoid and high-dahn, which was not a combination that made it easy for any darkeyes to win his trust. However, he was also vain, proud, and inexperienced. Those were all traits Sarus knew how to exploit. "Most likely," he finally said.

"Then I'm going to have you watching him more often," said Kaladin. "Dalinar already trusts us, and as long as we don't alienate his sons too badly they don't need to trust us as much. But the king can override Dalinar if he decides he wants to. I need you to make sure he doesn't."

"I'll do what I can. But some of the men will be tempted to undermine my efforts. They all have ample reason to be bitter about lighteyes generally, and His Majesty hasn't won them over as Highprince Dalinar did."

"I'll keep the men in line," Kaladin promised.

"Then I'll keep His Majesty happy," Sarus returned.

"Good." Kaladin stepped past him and pushed the door open into the king's conference chamber. Sarus followed him inside.

The room had windows on its leeward side, wide and unshuttered. Its floor was adorned with an ornate rug—Sarus thought it was a Thaylen pattern—and had one door besides the one through which they had entered, situated just between two of the windows, leading onto a balcony. King Elhokar paced beside a desk near the back of the room. Highprince Dalinar and Queen Navani sat in two of the chairs situated around a small table, talking quietly to one another.

Kaladin pointed to the balcony door. "Arik, Bisig, go out there, close the door, and keep watch."

The two men saluted Kaladin and hurried out onto the balcony.

"I don't recognize these guards, Uncle," Elhokar said, shooting the former bridgemen, Sarus included, a suspicious look. He had seen Sarus earlier this morning, but had been seemingly lost in thought as he hurried into this room to await, apparently, this very meeting.

"They're new," Dalinar told him. "Captain, there is no other way onto that balcony. It's a hundred feet off the ground."

"Then that's how I'd try to get in if I wanted to, sir."

Sarus saw Elhokar nod jerkily to himself, muttering something approving.

"Are there any other ways into this room, Your Majesty?" Kaladin asked him. "Secret passages?"

"If there were, I'd not want anyone knowing about them," the king said stiffly.

"My men can't keep a room safe if we don't know what to guard. If you share any secret passages with me, I'll use only my officers guarding them."

The king looked Kaladin up and down before turning to Dalinar. "I like this one. Why hasn't he been in charge of your guard before?"

"I haven't had the opportunity," Dalinar said. Sarus wondered why he was trying to keep their identities as former bridgemen secret. Was it simply a question of class? Kaladin and Sarus' slave brands were still visible, though those of the other men were now hidden behind their tattoos. Or was he trying to draw scrutiny away from them? If so, why?

"Wait," Elhokar said, narrowing his eyes at Kaladin's shoulder—and the captain's knots on display there. "Is that—a captain's rank, on a darkeyes? When did that start happening?"

Dalinar didn't answer, instead standing and pulling Kaladin to one side of the room. Sarus took the opportunity to give the king a bow. "Captain Kaladin was promoted for incredible valor and honor on the battlefield," he said. "He brought many from his old unit, including myself, into his new position, Your Majesty."

"Hm." Elhokar studied Sarus' face. "Are those slave brands?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Sarus. "Many of the men in Captain Kaladin's unit are former slaves. He has turned us into a respectable fighting force nonetheless."

"You speak well for a former slave."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," said Sarus with a modest bow. "I had the good fortune to be somewhat educated before I was enslaved. It is good to be able to use that education again."

Elhokar frowned, but Sarus noticed that the nervous tapping on his fingers against his thigh had subsided. Good—Sarus' deep voice and smooth cadence were having a calming effect. That would help him win the king's trust. "Why were you enslaved, soldier?"

—blood running over the flagstones—

Sarus shook off the memory, giving Elhokar a self-deprecating, chagrined smile. "I made an error while in the service of Highprince Sadeas," he said. "Though the mistake was an accident, it angered the highprince and he saw fit to have me punished severely." Which was true, although missing every single important detail.

Elhokar nodded slowly. He looked like he wanted to continue the conversation before Kaladin returned. "Sarus," he said. "Dalinar wants me in here. Keep watch outside."

Sarus met Kaladin's eyes, saw the slight, apologetic quirk to his lips. He buried the envy once again. "Of course, sir," he said, saluting, and stepped outside.

"Four more people are expected," said Dalinar. "My sons, General Khal, and Brightness Teshav, his wife. Anyone other than those four should be kept back until the meeting is over."

Sarus bowed to the highprince. "Yes, Brightlord."

"A quick word," Kaladin said, joining Sarus outside the room and closing the door behind them. "Have you ever guarded lighteyes before?" he asked.

"A few times," Sarus said, thinking of that fateful night as the army bunkered down in preparation for the highstorm.

"Then you know what they mean when they say 'don't let anyone in'?"

"Of course." It wasn't complicated. If you let someone in, I'd better think it was important enough or it's on your head.

"Good," said Kaladin. "Sorry to kick you out. If it were my choice…"

"But it isn't," said Sarus, smiling around his jealousy. "Such is the fate of the darkeyes—even those of rank."

"True enough." Kaladin grimaced. "I can't tell you whatever they talk about in there, but if it's bad news for us…"

"I know," Sarus said. Kaladin's loyalty was unquestionable—and, unquestionably, first to Bridge Four, only then to Dalinar and Elhokar.

Kaladin nodded, clapping Sarus on the shoulder. "See you soon," he said, and entered the meeting room.

Sarus took a relaxed stance—carefully not leaning back against the wall, but still at rest with his hands clasped formally at the small of his back—and stood beside the door. Less than five minutes later, two men approached.

Adolin barely shot Sarus a second glance as he entered the room. Renarin, however, focused on him immediately. Sarus met his gaze and immediately knew that, sometime in the days since Bridge Four's arrival in the Kholin warcamp, Renarin had realized his identity.

Don't draw attention, Sarus thought, holding Renarin's gaze. You know how to be subtle, Renarin. I know you do.

Thankfully, Renarin did not cause a scene. He lingered momentarily at the door, seemingly debating whether to speak to Sarus, but when Adolin shot him a curious look over his shoulder, Renarin turned and hurried into the room. As he passed, Sarus glimpsed a faint, red glow coming from the prince's breast pocket. An infused ruby sphere, perhaps?

Then the door closed, and Sarus was alone in the corridor.

"Their meeting is, and you are not present," Archive observed, growing slightly so that she was visible on his shoulder.

Well, mostly alone. "Yes," Sarus said quietly, casting his senses about. No one was within earshot, and he was confident he would hear anyone approaching before they heard Archive.

"This displeases you. Why?"

Sarus raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't it?"

"My judgement is not. I ask why. I do not judge whether your displeasure is worthy."

"Fair enough." Archive, Sarus had noticed, tended to speak more directly than most humans. Implications, connotations, and subtleties were typically absent. It was at once refreshing and frustrating, especially since Sarus so often relied upon those unspoken layers of conversation when trying to steer someone in a particular direction. "It frustrates me that Kaladin is being invited into the counsel of highprinces and kings while I'm being left behind."

"Your envy is."

"Yes. Again." Sarus grimaced. "I can't seem to escape it."

"You will grow past it," Archive said, with simple confidence.

"Why do you think so?"

"You are an Elsecaller," Archive said. "Our oaths are. An oath to protect, like the Windrunners, is not. An oath to remember, like the Edgedancers, is not. Our only oath is to ourselves. We will fulfill our potential. We will grow."

I will fulfill my potential. "What do you look for in an Elsecaller, then?" Sarus asked. "How do you determine whether a person has hidden potential to fulfill? After all, doesn't everyone?"

"Kaladin's potential is not hidden," Archive countered. "You and I both know what he is and will grow to be, if his strength is, and not his weakness. Yours is less clear. What will you be, in a year? Five? Ten?"

"Dead, most likely," Sarus said dryly.

"Life before death," said Archive chidingly.

"How do you know I have hidden potential?" Sarus asked. "How do you know I'm not exactly what I appear to be—a bitter, mean man, envious of those better than him but unwilling to truly emulate them?"

"That is why," Archive answered. "Your self-loathing is. Your intelligence is. You understand where you are, what you are. You do not like it. You reject the present circumstances."

"I resent the present circumstances. That's not the same thing."

"Strength before weakness. The one will become the other." She kicked him in the side of the neck. He felt it like the flick of a finger. "Your determination is not, but it could be. Your success is not predestined, but it may yet be all the same. I believe it will be."

"Why?" Sarus asked again. "What evidence have I given to suggest that my potential, even if it exists, is going to be fulfilled?"

"You spoke," said Archive. "I arrived after you had ceased to speak. Your suffering was. But your breaking, your death, was not. Life before death, Radiant, even when struggle is. Your tongue was not. Your hope was not. But your death, also, was not.

"The Honor Chasm was, for dozens of men, but never for you. Sometimes, Sarus, the thing needed for growth is simply to survive long enough to sprout. And when you spoke, when you pushed Kaladin to embody his oaths, I knew you had sprouted. You spoke no words, but I knew you had sworn the First Ideal in your own way."

Sarus found that his mouth had twisted slightly as Archive spoke, as if he had bitten into a sour, underripe jellafruit. He loosened his lips to speak. "I hope I can prove worthy of your faith," he said.

"Journey before destination," said Archive. "Grow because your potential is, not because my faith is. The oath of an Elsecaller is to himself."

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

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

-x-x-x-

30

If Only



-x-x-x-​

And Adonalsium should not be counted. There is a consciousness behind it, but that consciousness does not reside within the hollow shell buried in the Well of Crystal. That consciousness remembers, as it remembers all things, but Adonalsium itself is no more conscious than my flame is once it leaves my lips.

-x-x-x-​

Torol stared out the window of his war palace's smallest sitting room. It was high, several stories above the rock of the Plains, and its window looked out eastward over the Unclaimed Hills. On a clear day like this, he almost imagined he could see the low forests of eastern Alethkar—the Deathbend River valley at the heart of the Eastern Crownlands. Somewhere to the north of that valley, at the mouth of the Sunmaker River, the blasted wreckage of Rathalas lay piled in a tangle of corpses and debris.

Why did his mind keep returning to that place? It felt as though it was one of only three places he had really been in his life. The rest of the world was an interchangeable panorama of scenery playing host to a vaguely connected chain of events. But Rathalas, Kholinar, and Sadaras were different.

Truthfully, he knew why he could not tear his mind from that destroyed city right now. His fingers clenched suddenly around the hilt of Oathbringer, gripping hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Then he turned sharply from the window. With sudden fury, he raised the sword and drove it, point first, into the center of the stone table in the middle of the room. It sank in with hardly any resistance.

For a long moment he stood there, his hand still on the hilt, staring down at the Shardblade. Then he stepped back and sank into one of the couches surrounding the table. He could see his face reflected in the curved metal of the Blade. His skin was wrinkled, especially around the eyes, and his dark hair was beginning to go gray in earnest.

Torol was getting old. He knew it. He could feel it, sometimes, in the reluctant creaking of his bones and the aches that lingered briefly in the morning after a highstorm.

It had taken him decades, but at last he had a Shardblade. It didn't help. Once, he had envied Dalinar this Blade, had lusted after it, coveted it. He still did. He was pleased to have it. But it did little to fill the deep hollow in his chest, nor to assuage the soul-deep envy that made some animal part of him want to strangle Dalinar until his face went blue and slack in Torol's grip.

Dalinar had collapsed completely after his wife's death. He had lost himself in drink, stumbling through life like a blind man through a storm. Torol, at the same time, had been working tirelessly to protect Alethkar from threats without and within. He had faced rebellions within his own highprincedom and malcontents throughout the kingdom. He had done everything that was asked of him, and done it well.

Yet now it was Dalinar who, in his old age, had two sons to groom to take his place. It was Dalinar who could one day pass his title to the next generation, secure in the knowledge that it would still be his blood, his legacy, in the seat of power.

Torol's eyes pricked. He raised a hand to cover them, rubbing at his temples.

The door opened. He didn't look up as Ialai stepped inside. "I see you've destroyed my table," she observed, closing the door and coming to sit next to him. He felt her put an arm around his back. "Are you all right?"

Torol rubbed his hand down his face before looking at her. "Fine," he said.

She met his eyes, and he could see that she knew exactly what was on his mind. It was never far from either of them, that grief. It skulked in the shadows, always just out of sight until the moment it reached out and placed its cold fingers upon their shoulders.

"I swore to avenge her, Ialai," said Torol quietly. "The sword is named Oathbringer, and I claimed it by breaking an oath."

"She would understand," Ialai said softly.

"She can't understand anything anymore," Torol said, leaning back and looking at the sword again. He felt hatred surging up in him—hatred for the sword, for Dalinar, for Gavilar, for Ialai, for himself, but most of all for the boy who should have protected his daughter, and had instead taken her from him.

Torol had never fully understood what had happened that night. Partly, that was because he hadn't been there. He had been in Kholinar, advising Gavilar. Even now, five years after the man's death, he had not entirely forgiven his dead king for being the reason he was away during that fateful storm.

But even once he had returned and interrogated all the witnesses personally, their reports made no sense. But all of them agreed on who, exactly, was responsible. Not just for taking his daughter from him, but for ensuring he didn't even have a body to bury.

He had sworn to avenge his daughter. Yet when the opportunity presented itself to have in his hand the thing he had coveted for so long—a Shardblade of his own, to finally stand as tall as anyone in Alethkar—he had been unable to resist. His greed had overwhelmed his honor, and he hated himself for it.

"She always understood that sentiment had to yield to need," Ialai said softly. "We haven't lost the opportunity to see Tailiah avenged. If anything, it may be easier now. The boy is no longer useful to us—so we have no reason to let him live any longer."

"Are you suggesting we send your assassins after him?" Torol asked. It was tempting. It would be highly unusual to send trained assassins after a darkeyed former slave—but that darkeyed former slave could not be suffered to live, to survive the war, to escape Torol's justice.

"I've placed many agents in Dalinar's warcamp," Ialai said. "His recruitment drive has given me opportunities aplenty. It wouldn't be hard to see to it that a knife found its way into one of their hands. Nor would it be difficult to ensure those hands were already trained in its use."

"Hm. Tempting." But… "Hold off for now. If the war comes close to ending, we can always take that approach then, before he has the chance to escape into the Kholin Highprincedom. But I want to see if we can arrange something more suitable than a knife in the back." The punishment should always outstrip the severity of the crime.

"Very well," said Ialai. "But remember that, one way or another, she will be avenged. You haven't given up on that in order to gain a Blade."

Torol took a deep breath and nodded. "You're right. We will have vengeance."

"We will," Ialai agreed.

He stared at the Shardblade for a moment before speaking again. "I'm tired of this, love," he said quietly. "These stupid hunts, this stupid game. It's all so meaningless."

"It enriches us," Ialai pointed out.

"Which is the only reason I've tolerated it so long. But it's so boring, Ialai! I'm made for war. This? Hours of marching in the hope of finding one little skirmish against barbarians with barely one set of Shards among them? This isn't war. I want it back. The conquest." It's the only thing that makes sense anymore. The only thing that has meaning.

"Do you want to go along with Dalinar's initiative, then?" Ialai asked neutrally.

Torol snorted. "He and I agree that this foolishness must end, but that is all we agree on. And I cannot afford to empower him by openly supporting it. No, we will take the opposition, but steer our conflict so that once we defeat Dalinar, this game will be on its way to ending anyway."

"How?"

That was always the hard part, wasn't it? "I need to speak with some of the other highprinces," Torol said. "Dalinar has made his announcement, yes? Of the new form of chasmfiend hunts?"

"He has," Ialai said. "Earlier today."

"That will alienate several of the others. We can certainly bring Ruthar and Thanadal to our side, as loathsome as Thanadal is. And as much as Aladar personally likes Dalinar, we may be able to sway him as well. Roion is too obedient, Bethab is too stupid, Sebarial is too lazy, and Hatham and Vamah are both too cautious to commit to either side before the conflict is decided."

"And what will we do with this coalition once it's built?"

Torol rubbed his chin. "If we show ourselves superior to Dalinar's alliance… that may allow us to harness his momentum without empowering him." The idea was building itself in his mind like a building being Soulcast into existence. "If our armies, lighter and faster than Dalinar's joint runs, can beat the other highprinces to the plateaus but still give up the gemhearts according to the new decrees, that will win us influence while at the same time letting Dalinar's new initiative build the momentum of the war. The only issue is that it still empowers Elhokar."

"Could we pry Elhokar away from Dalinar?"

Torol shook his head. "I don't think so; not anymore. Dalinar is openly courting Elhokar's mother—if that isn't already enough to drive them apart, then her influence over him will be too much for us to overcome. Especially after Dalinar's escape from the Tower. I could probably have fooled Elhokar if none of the Kholin witnesses survived, but now? He's paranoid, and I just betrayed his uncle and cousin. He's not likely to trust me again anytime soon." Torol's lips twitched. "Honestly, I'm not too displeased with that."

"Oh?" Ialai asked curiously. "What happened to trying to keep this kingdom together?"

"I will keep Alethkar together," said Torol. "But Elhokar is a failure, and it's time to acknowledge it. I want conquest again—and of the men who conquered Alethkar thirty years ago, I am the only one still alive and in control of his faculties. I can do it again." I want to do it again.

"Is that our plan, then?" Ialai asked. "Finish this war on the Plains, discredit Dalinar, then seize the kingdom from Elhokar?"

"I don't want to commit to open rebellion just yet," said Torol. "But the option is certainly open." He reached out and pulled Oathbringer out of the table. "Three more days until I've bonded the Blade. After that, I'll go speak with Ruthar and Thanadal. Aladar will have to be handled more carefully. Once we've built an alliance to counter Dalinar and Elhokar, we'll figure out the details of outrunning their planned hunts." He smiled thinly, holding up the sword to look his aging reflection in the eye. "Dalinar's proclamation will fracture the kingdom. And I will be the one to reforge it stronger."

"What will we do if he succeeds?" Ialai asked. "Dalinar has surprised us once already. What if he finds a way to unite the other highprinces, if his coalition outnumbers our own?"

Torol smiled at her. "That is when your assassins will be of use, my dear. One way or another, I will conquer Alethkar anew. Herdaz and Jah Keved will follow. I will have my conquest again. I will reclaim the Thrill of war."

You will never rule the kingdom I will build, my daughter. But I will build it in your honor nonetheless.

Ialai nodded and stood. "I'll continue sending agents to infiltrate Dalinar's new support staff," she said. "The moment he so much as sneezes, we will know about it." She glanced past him, out the window, and there was something wistful in her eyes. "This would be so much simpler if Tailiah were still here," she murmured. "If we could marry her to one of Dalinar's sons, we could make this whole process much less uncertain."

"If Tailiah were still here," Torol said, "everything would be different. There's no sense dwelling on what might have been. We'll hurt ourselves and no one else."

"I suppose you're right." Ialai stood still for a moment, clutching her hand to her breast. Then she glanced at him once, briefly, before turning away and leaving with a quick farewell.

As she shut the door behind her, Torol turned and gazed out the window again. He was somewhat comforted. The world made more sense when he thought of conquest and war. A little bit more sense, at least.

If only, he thought. If only.

For a moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of something moving on the very edge of his vision. But when he turned his head, there were only the shadows in the corner of the room.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

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

-x-x-x-

31

Envy



-x-x-x-​

That leaves only Koravellium and myself. The last two dragons to remember what that means. A race once so terrible that our wingbeats heralded the endings of civilizations. The greatest experiment and success of the king of power.

-x-x-x-​

"To start with," Murk said, tapping his pen against the ledger in his hand, "we should try to figure out how to measure quantities of Stormlight. We can't make any calculations without units."

Kaladin nodded. "Makes sense. How do we start?"

"First, are you infused with Stormlight now?"

Kaladin shook his head. "I don't stay infused long once I draw Stormlight in. Longer now than before the Tower, but still not long."

"Is that normal?" Sarus asked, looking at where Archive was leaning against the chasm wall.

She nodded. "Radiants leak Stormlight, like gemstones. For stones, the rate varies. Some flawless gemstones are. These hold Stormlight indefinitely. The same may be for Radiants who have sworn all the Ideals of their Order."

"How many is that?" Kaladin asked.

"My memory is not. I would guess five or ten. These numbers are… sacred."

"Are spren Vorin, then?" Murk asked. "I… sort of assumed you didn't have religion the way men do."

Archive frowned. "No. Syl would be better to ask, as an honorspren."

"I can hardly remember any of this," Syl complained from where she hovered over Kaladin's shoulder. "All I know is that spren are tiny pieces of gods. I think some of Vorinism's traditions are based on the real stories of those gods, but other parts have been filled in along the way. Archive is right about five and ten being sacred, though."

"Gods, plural?" Murk asked. He didn't sound as affronted as Sarus would have expected of an ardent being confronted with contradictions to his religion. If anything, he sounded eagerly curious. "How many?"

"Depends how you count them," Syl said. "I remembered a little more. The spren you know are all fragments of two gods—Honor and Cultivation. Mostly we're… blends of the two of them. Honorspren are almost all Honor. There's another type of spren, Cultivationspren, that are almost all Cultivation."

"Inkspren are more of Cultivation than of Honor," Archive interjected quietly.

"That makes sense. I think the Almighty of Vorinism might be based on Honor or Cultivation, or maybe both." Syl settled on Kaladin's shoulder, tucking her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arms around her legs. "And then there's the other god."

"Odium," Kaladin said.

A sudden jolt ran through Sarus' spine at the name. A sharp sound rang in his ears, a different note in each, jarring and inharmonious against one another; the two tones rubbed like the shrieking of metal on metal. He found himself clapping his hands over his ears, but the sound was already gone by the time he finished the motion. Beside him, Archive hissed sharply, and Syl winced visibly on Kaladin's shoulder.

"Yes. Him." Syl narrowed her eyes at Kaladin. "I told you not to speak his name if you didn't have to!"

Kaladin didn't look at her. He was instead staring curiously at Sarus. "I didn't expect you to react that way," he said as Sarus removed his hands from his ears. "Is that an Elsecaller thing?"

"I do not believe so," said Archive, watching Sarus as well. "I think it is a Sarus thing. Like the orange Light."

Sarus crossed his arms. "Who is he?" he asked, bringing the conversation back on topic. "This other god?"

"He's the entity behind the Desolations," said Syl. "He has spren too, I think. But I don't remember what any of them might be like."

"Then the Desolations were real?" Murk asked. "That's one of the parts of Vorin tradition that's based on real history?"

"The Desolations," murmured Archive, "are more than history. The Desolations are."

Syl grimaced. "I wondered about that."

"Then one is coming?" Kaladin asked the inkspren. "A new Desolation?"

"Yes," said Archive. "I do not remember how I know this, but I remember that this is."

Murk had gone pale. "Vorin tradition says the Heralds told us that Aharietiam was the end of the Desolations," he said. "How much of that was false?"

"My memory is not," said Archive. "The Heralds are. I remember this. But whether they said that the desolations ended four millennia ago, I do not know."

"Desolation or no Desolation," Kaladin said, "we can't do much about it now. Murk, you had an idea for how to measure Stormlight?"

"Right, yes." Murk reached into the pouch at his belt and drew out six chips containing different gemstones—two each of diamond, ruby, and amethyst. All of them were infused with Stormlight.

The light which softly emanated from them was the color of the gemstone inside, but there was also a hint of the pale blue color inherent to the Stormlight itself. It was most visible in the diamond chip, as the gemstone itself provided little to no color of its own. It was that trait which had made the orange tint that Sarus left behind in his spheres so obvious—bridgemen were paid entirely in diamond clearchips. Since being freed, Sarus had experimented with infusing non-diamond spheres. While the Light within them was still markedly different from Stormlight, it was far less obvious when masked behind a colored stone.

"You said you can use Stormlight to attach two things together," Murk said. "Like a rock to the wall?"

Kaladin nodded.

"And how long it stays attached depends on how much Stormlight you use?"

"As far as I can tell."

"Then the first thing I want to test," said Murk, "is whether different stones contain different amounts of Stormlight. Obviously, every individual stone is going to be more or less flawed, so we can't be too exact without having a lot more spheres, but this should be enough to start with."

Kaladin reached out and Murk handed him one of the spheres. He picked up a stone about twice the size of his fist, then sucked in the Stormlight. It streamed into him in a line of pale blue, bright in the half-light of the chasm. Kaladin reached up and pressed the stone against the crem-encrusted wall, and when he removed his hand it remained there.

"Adhesion," said Syl.

"Hm?" Kaladin asked, glancing at her.

"That's the Surge of Adhesion. Connecting one thing to another, binding them together."

Kaladin grunted. "You said I have two Surges. What's the other?"

"Gravitation," Syl said. "It lets you control the force that pulls things toward the ground."

"What, groundspren?" Murk asked.

"Groundspren, gravityspren, gravitationspren…" Syl shrugged. "All different names for the same thing."

"The spren is attracted to the force, not its source," said Archive. "The force is, independent of the spren."

"Huh. Really?" Murk asked

"If memory serves," Archive said. "I recall that evidence is, though I do not recall that evidence."

"Is that the case for all spren?" Kaladin asked.

Archive raised an eyebrow. "You should hope so."

Kaladin blinked at her. "What do you mean?"

She smiled thinly. "Before Syl, had you ever seen an honorspren?"

Kaladin's eyes narrowed. "No. But given my experiences, that's not exactly proof."

"Did Syl's arrival suddenly render you capable of honorable behavior? Before she came to you, were you inescapably selfish? No. Honor is not dead," said Archive, with a tone that suggested recitation, "so long as He lives in the hearts of men."

No sooner had Archive spoken these words than Syl was streaking towards her face as a ribbon of light. "How do you remember all this?" she demanded. "That's an honorspren saying. I don't even think it's one we use very often anymore! Why do you remember so much?"

"Connection is," said Archive, as if that was all the explanation anyone could need.

"What connection?"

"My Connection to the Physical Realm is. How long ago did you cross over?"

"About eight months ago," Syl said. "I think. Things were fuzzy at first. Fuzzier."

"I came here more than five years ago. Even if a Nahel bond is not, merely being here strengthens the Connection, albeit slowly. Very slowly." Archive looked past Syl at Kaladin. "Your prospective Radiant was. You saw him even from Shadesmar, I suspect. My plan… was not. Or at least, not as clear."

"Then why did you come, if not because you found Sarus?"

Archive smiled. It was not a happy expression. "I do not remember. My memory is of honorspren proverbs, Surgebinding mechanics, and other esoterica. But of myself, of what drove me to leave behind all I knew and brave the mindlessness of Roshar? My memory is not. Your envy should not be, Syl. At least you know why you are here."

Syl looked away. Then she darted back to Kaladin. "Let's keep testing," she said. "We've got more spheres to test, right?"

Sarus watched as Kaladin sucked in Stormlight and began lashing stones to the wall. He watched Murk timing how long they remained affixed. But he couldn't focus.

Archive didn't come to Roshar for me. But Syl came for Kaladin.

It wasn't really a surprise. That only made it hurt worse.

I am here for you, she had said. He doubted it had been a lie—there was nothing for that lie to give Archive, no purpose to the manipulation, unless she had thought it would push him towards the First Ideal. And maybe it had, but there had been so many other factors, and such a delay in time, that to tell that lie so early into their acquaintance wasn't sensible.

No, mostly likely she had believed it at the time. And now that he had sworn the First Ideal, she had remembered the truth. She hadn't come here for him. She might not remember what she had come for, but it wasn't for him.

Sarus leaned back against the wall of the chasm, closed his eyes, and simply let himself feel. Seethe.

Once they finished testing Kaladin's Surges, he would paint the stalwart companion over the loathsome creature he was when all the masks came down, like a coat of paint over rotting wood. But every once in a while, he needed to let himself bathe in that rot for a time.

After all, the only thing worse than a wretch who knew he was pathetic was one who didn't.

-x-x-x-​

"Stormblessed!" The call came from one of the watchtowers overlooking the chasms just as Sarus was scrambling up onto the plateau behind Kaladin. Behind him, Murk was still clambering up the rope ladder. "Have you heard the news?"

"No," Kaladin called back. "What news?"

"A hero's come to the Shattered Plains! He's coming to meet with Brightlord Kholin now, perhaps support him! It's a good sign. Our fortunes might be improving!"

"Who?" Sarus asked, his deep voice carrying easily across the distance.

"Brightlord Meridas Amaram. He's a vassal of Sadeas, but he's apparently a much better man than his highprince."

Sarus saw Kaladin stiffen as the name reached his ears. His face paled, and his knuckles went white on his spear. Then he took off running, not even waiting for Murk to finish pulling himself up. Sarus blinked after him, then turned to help Murk up.

"What was that about?" Murk asked, looking after their captain.

"Don't know," said Sarus. But he could guess.

Sarus had never met Meridas Amaram. He'd heard good things about the man, of course, just like most of Alethkar. A true lighteyes, some said. An honorable man. A war hero, fighting tirelessly in contest against his neighboring citylords.

But he had also seen Torol Sadeas smile as those rumors were spoken in his presence. He had seen the twinkle in Ialai's eye as she joined in the gossip.

Sarus and Murk followed Kaladin into the warcamp. They arrived just in time to see a man in a green uniform following Dalinar into the highprince's palace. Kaladin stood surrounded by cheerful spectators returning to their work, gossiping to one another about the hero in their midst, the Shardbearer, the one honorable lord in all of the Sadeas highprincedom.

But Kaladin did not look cheerful. He did not look much of anything. He looked, if anything, just like he had that night when the crew had given him a smuggled scalpel. Lost. Grieving. Hopeless.

Sarus stepped up beside him. "He can't touch us," he said quietly.

"But Dalinar can." Kaladin's voice was hoarse.

For a moment, Sarus teetered on the edge of a terrible precipice. He could inflame this surging dread in Kaladin. He could push Kaladin to mistrust Dalinar, push him away from the man who had saved them, curtail his growing influence with the Kholin family, not by making them distrust him—that would only make them dangerous to all of the former bridgemen—but by doing exactly the reverse.

Sarus could already see the course charting itself before him. He could drive a wedge between Kaladin and Dalinar, then insert himself as an intermediary so that Kaladin didn't have to deal with the highprince himself. From there he would be poised nearly as well as he had been before any of this had happened, albeit now within the Kholin highprincedom instead of Sadeas. His ambition hungered for it. His envy demanded it.

But as Sarus looked at Kaladin's drawn face, at Syl staring at him in concern, he felt a hesitance. Yes, he envied Kaladin. Yes, he wanted for himself the influence that seemed determined to fall into Kaladin's lap.

…But it wasn't Kaladin's fault that he was simply better than Sarus. For all Sarus' spite, he couldn't blame Kaladin for any of this. He didn't want to hurt Kaladin. He didn't want Kaladin miserable.

These two impulses—to help Kaladin find his way, or to seize the compass for himself—balanced perfectly against one another. Sarus stood upon a narrow stretch of stone, a chasm on either side. He could choose which way to fall. He could choose which impulse to feed.

"It is the curse of good men," said Sarus, "that they often think the best of those around them. Look at what happened with Sadeas."

Kaladin turned and met his eyes. "Why would Dalinar believe me?" he asked. "It's my word against Amaram's—and anyone Amaram wants to pay off to be an eyewitness."

"True," agreed Sarus. "But you have something Amaram does not. You saved Dalinar's life. More importantly—you saved those of his men, and of his son."

"Amaram might have done those things, too," Kaladin argued, but something desperate was in his face. Sarus saw there the same indecision he had just felt—the desire to believe in Dalinar warring with the desire to indulge his hatred of Amaram. "I don't know much about either of their campaigns before the Plains."

"Ah," said Sarus. "But I do. And while they have fought together, many times, Amaram has never rescued Dalinar from certain death."

"How do you know?"

"Have I asked you to recount your history with Amaram?"

"No." Kaladin sighed. "I understand, Sarus. You're sure?"

"I'm sure," Sarus said.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

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

-x-x-x-

32

Calling



-x-x-x-​

I was born in the year 3128 of the Second Age of Arda. I was born under the name Krimfas. In those days, the dragons of the Withered Heath—where I was born—primarily communicated and gave their hatchlings names in the Black Speech as codified by Sauron, first lieutenant of our fell god.

-x-x-x-

Eleven Years Ago​

Sarus sat on a bench along the edge of one of Sadaras' courtyards. In his lap was a tray of his mother's cooking—tender strips of chicken over a bed of ground lavis, sauced with a rich, peppery gravy. The heat blossomed on his tongue, opening his perceptions to the other subtleties of the flavor.

His mother no longer had time to cook for him every day as she had when he had been smaller. But he relished every day that she did. He leaned back against the wall, watching the gardeners tending the blooming vinebuds. None of them looked in his direction.

"Have you decided?"

"No," Sarus said quietly, carefully not looking over his shoulder at the window only a few feet from where he sat. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he saw tresses of dark hair dangling over the sill as Tailiah leaned on it from inside.

"Any ideas?" she asked.

"Several," he said. "But I don't much like any of them."

"Yeah. I understand that."

"Do you?" Sarus asked. "Do you really?"

"Yes," she said after a long pause. "You don't have a monopoly on not being able to make the choices you want to, Sarus. How was Renarin?"

Sarus immediately felt guilty. "Fine. He's improving. How was Adolin?"

"Cute," Tailiah said. "Like an axehound puppy. A puppy I'm going to be offered to like breeding stock."

"If you told your father you felt that way, he wouldn't force you," said Sarus. "He loves you."

"He does," Tailiah agreed. "He loves me so much that he wants what's best for me. Sure, I could convince him that Adolin wasn't the right match for me. But only if I could give a reason why Adolin specifically is a poor match. Which, unfortunately, he isn't."

"It's possible there's someone out there you'd like more," Sarus pointed out.

"Yeah. It is." Tailiah didn't elaborate further.

He sighed. "Welcome to the real world, I suppose," he said. "We're growing up. Time to put away childish fantasies that we can do what we want."

"I'm not giving up," Tailiah murmured. "Just because Alethkar isn't willing to give me what I want doesn't mean I'm going to give up on taking it."

"Pretty words," said Sarus dryly. "But what can we actually do?"

Tailiah didn't answer.

-x-x-x-​

"Young Sarus," said Ardent Lobor. The old man had grown wise to Sarus' quirks in the past two years as his tutor, but he seemed more tolerant of them than most of the ardentia. He could be stern when he caught Sarus in a lie, but so long as the lie wasn't directed at him, he was sometimes almost indulgent. "On Jesahev you will have seen ten years on Roshar."

"Yes, sir," Sarus confirmed, not looking up from his carving. Today, as for the past several weeks, he was working on whittling a set of pieces for a game board as part of learning to emulate the virtues of Kelek'Elin the Builder.

"On that day," continued Lobor, "you know what will be expected of you?"

"I would not dream of denying you the opportunity to remind me, sir."

Lobor frowned. "There is no call for sarcasm, young one. It is unbecoming."

Sarus' knife slipped. With some effort, he kept himself from swearing as he nicked his fingertip. Blood came forth, staining the wood red. "Forgive me," he said, standing and crossing the room without shooting the ardent a single glance. He snatched a strip of cloth from the rack on the side of the carving shop and started walking back to his seat as he wrapped it around his finger.

Lobor let him begin his carving again. Sarus felt the old man's gaze on him as he worked. "As your teacher," the ardent finally said, "I suspect I know what weighs on your mind."

"I doubt it's all that difficult to guess, sir," said Sarus dryly. "I'm sure I'm not the first nine-year-old to doubt his ability to judge the course of his entire life in a few short months."

On his tenth birthday, Sarus would be expected to choose his Calling and Glory in the service of the Almighty. Every Vorin child with the benefit of a classical education, even such a one as was afforded to a darkeyes like Sarus, chose both on the day they concluded their tenth year.

A Calling was more than a job. It was more than a career. It was a vocation. There were people with the Callings of surgeons, of musicians, of storytellers, of warriors. There were people whose Calling was carpentry, and people whose Calling was mathematics, and people whose Calling was faith. Most of those last joined the ardentia, of course.

A Glory was different. A person's Glory was the aspect of the Almighty they tried to personally emulate and embody on Roshar. A person's Glory tied them to one of the devotaries within the ardentia, and from then on ardents of that devotary would be their primary point of contact in spiritual matters.

Lobor was of the Devotary of Sincerity. This did not make Sarus particularly more or less inclined to choose one of the associated Glories.

"The Almighty does understand that men change in the course of their lives, Sarus," said Lobor gently. "Choosing your Calling does not have to be a permanent thing. It is a decision you should consider carefully, of course, because it is through your Calling that you will draw closer to the Almighty. But if in the future you learn that you have chosen incorrectly, you can change your Calling. It renders your service in your previous Calling moot, but better that than to be trapped in an incorrect Calling for eternity when you go to join the Almighty and His Heralds."

"I know, sir," said Sarus. "I would just… like to get it right the first time."

That wasn't actually the problem. Sarus knew exactly what his Calling was, what it should be. That was the problem.

In Vorin tradition, the Almighty created each person with an innate talent for their Calling and an innate love of their Glory. In Alethi tradition, the Almighty placed each person at a rank that befit their moral worth. The ardents taught that these two facts together ensured that, if only a young man heeded the wisdom of the ardentia and the desires of his own heart, he would find himself serving joyfully in a suitable station.

Unfortunately, Sarus's Calling was politics, and he was a darkeyes. So either the Almighty had slipped and cut himself while molding Sarus out of the primordial clay, or the ardentia were simply wrong. Or, more likely, both.

"Sir," Sarus said slowly, an idea occurring to him. He couldn't ask Lobor openly whether there was any way for a darkeyed boy like him to pursue one of the most noble Callings on Roshar, something reserved only for lighteyes of fifth dahn and higher. All that would earn him was another lecture on the dangers of envy and learning to be content with his lot in life. But he didn't have to ask openly. "I have a question."

"Ask, young one."

"What would happen," he said, "if a man born to the, say, third dahn—a highprince's son—found that more than anything else, he enjoyed the satisfaction of baking bread?"

Lobor blinked at him. "I… beg your pardon?"

"What would happen," Sarus said, "if a man desired a Calling far below his station? Would he be able to pursue it?"

"Tradition would suggest that if a man were destined for the calling of baking, he would have been born at the suitable rank."

"But a man born at the third dahn may not remain there forever," Sarus pointed out. "If his elder brother dies, he may be promoted to second dahn. If his father is deposed, he may be demoted to fourth or below. Is his destined Calling, then, going to be at the station to which he was born, or the one at which he will eventually die?"

Lobor leaned back in his seat, looking thoughtful. "I suppose that would depend on whether his change in station was caused by servants of the Almighty, or of the Voidbringers."

"But mortal men can't know that. Such things are known only to the Almighty and His Heralds."

"Correct."

"So how would the ardentia react?" Sarus asked. "If a man's rank changes to one at which his old Calling is no longer acceptable, or he desires a Calling not acceptable at his current rank, how would a wise ardent advise him?"

"Hm." Lobor's lips twitched. "You ask deep questions, young Sarus. Perhaps you should consider the ardentia as your own Calling?"

"I will consider it," Sarus promised. He already had, as a matter of fact.

"Well, I suppose the only wise approach would be to assume that a man's current rank is the rank he is destined for, and that one of the Callings available to his current rank must be the one for which he is destined," said Lobor. "Men cannot look to the future, and to try to do so is profane. So we cannot know if a change of rank is in a man's future. Though our knowledge will always be imperfect, the only safe approach is to assume that a man's current rank is the one at which he will remain."

At that moment, the idea struck Sarus like a hammer to the temple. "Thank you," he said. "I think I have more clarity now."

-x-x-x-​

"I know what I'm going to do," he said the moment Tailiah slipped inside his window two nights later. She couldn't visit him every day, but she tried to do so at least twice a week.

She raised an eyebrow as she shuttered the window behind her. "Oh?"

"I talked to Lobor. Not directly, don't look at me like that. You know how easy it is to get an answer without asking the actual question."

She grinned. "Sure. But you haven't told me the actual question or what the answer is."

"Hey, let me have my dramatic timing."

She rolled her eyes. "So long as your dramatic timing doesn't take all night."

"I am going to choose war as my Calling," Sarus said.

She blinked, her smile fading. "What? Why?"

"No, listen," Sarus said excitedly. "I can't just choose politics like you can. But I asked Lobor about changes in rank and how those affect peoples' Callings, and he said that the ardentia would assume that a person's current rank dictated what Callings were acceptable for them to have."

"So?"

"So, how does a darkeyed boy become a lighteyes?"

Her eyes widened. He'd expected that, it was the correct response to the elegance of his idea. He hadn't expected her face to go pale. "Sarus…"

"What?"

She was silent for a moment, looking him in the eye. There was a strained, complicated expression on her face. "You'll die," she said finally. "There's a reason everyone's willing to allow any darkeyes who kills a Shardbearer to become a lighteyes. It's because it never happens."

Her words were like a shock of cold water. Somehow, he'd been so enamored of the audacity of his idea that he hadn't fully registered that the reason it was so audacious was that it was incredibly dangerous.

…But then again…

"Every darkeyed spearman in every army in Alethkar has a chance of running into a Shardbearer on every battlefield he ever visits," Sarus said. "For most of them, that's a death sentence, so they spend their efforts trying to avoid that. But I'll be doing everything I can to be ready for it. I can do this, Tailiah. I have to do this."

Her green eyes held his for a long moment before she lowered them. "I wish you didn't," she whispered. "Sometimes I really hate Alethkar, Sarus. I hate that it makes us both be people we're not on the road to even trying to be who we are."

"Me too," he admitted. "But that's life, Tailiah. We can't change it. We can't choose another country to be born in, and most of them are just as bad or worse anyway. All we can do is be stronger than the forces trying to break us."

She took a deep breath. Then raised her eyes to meet his gaze again. "I don't want to marry Adolin," she said. "It's not because anything's wrong with Adolin. It's because… well, it's hard to explain. I don't know how to explain. But I think I would rather be married to you than to him."

That drew him up short. "Wait. What?"

She flushed. "No, I'm not telling you I'm in love with you. I'm not. That's not what this is. It's just that if I have to be married to someone I don't love, I'd rather it be someone who can at least understand me."

"What are you saying, then?"

"I'm saying," said Tailiah quietly, "that if you're going to try to become a lighteyes, I'll try to wait for you. I don't know how long I'll be able to make excuses, but I'll try. If you succeed, it might be a way for both of us to get out of the traps we were born into."

He stared at her for a long moment. "What… what do you want, Tailiah?"

Tailiah didn't meet his gaze for a long moment. "I'm only nine," she said. "Maybe everything will look different when I'm a few years older, like Mother always says it will. But I doubt it." She visibly steeled herself, then looked up and met his gaze. "I want to fall in love," she said. "I want to have someone who understands me, someone who cares for me the way my parents care for each other. More than that. More sincere. More pure. I want something without expectations, without tradition or politicking or status."

"And you can't have that with Adolin?"

"Maybe I could," said Tailiah. "If Adolin was a girl." And with those words she turned away from him and fled.

The next day, he managed to find her in private for just long enough to agree to her plan. If he became a Shardbearer, he would do what he could to help her.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

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

-x-x-x-

33

Shardblade



-x-x-x-​

My own name translates, roughly, to 'the cold that binds.' More specifically, it refers to the bitter cold that makes flesh stick painfully to steel after a winter night.

-x-x-x-​

"What's he doing now? Another of those traditions?"

Renarin sighed, carefully not looking in Glys' direction. Yes.

Glys made a derisive noise that sounded like it came from deep in his throat, only as far as Renarin knew, he didn't have one. "What's this one?" he asked, drifting idly around the staging room, trailing droplets of red light that fell upward into the ceiling. "Hopping around the room on one leg? Singing every other word of his favorite nursery rhyme?"

Renarin shot Glys a glare. The only other person in the room was Aunt Navani, and she was engrossed in painting her glyphward. An integrated glyphpair was taking shape, red on the white cloth—the glyphs for safety and glory, interwoven with one another to form a single glyph of increased complexity. Renarin was getting better at deciphering those as he practiced his reading. He talks to his sword, he told the Mistspren silently.

Glys visibly paused. "Oh," he said. "That… makes sense, actually."

Renarin blinked. It does?

"Yes." Glys didn't elaborate.

Why?

There was a brief pause while Glys seemed to collect his thoughts. "There was a time when talking to your Shardblade would have had a very real impact on a fight. That time is past, now, but it's… well, it's like talking to someone's grave. They can't hear you, or if they can, they can't answer. But you do it anyway to remind you that there was a time when they were alive."

Is this another thing you'll tell me when I swear the higher Ideals?

"Again, Shardblades? Third Ideal. I told you this."

Renarin sighed.

At that moment, one of the room's three doors—connecting to the meditation chamber—opened. Adolin stepped inside. His face was set, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

"Well timed," said Aunt Navani. She put her brush down on the pedestal and stepped away from it, holding up the completed glyphward for Adolin and Renarin to see.

"Victory?" Adolin guessed, with, in Renarin's opinion, enviable courage. Storms, he didn't even sound embarrassed.

"'Safety and glory,' actually." Navani folded the glyphward and laid it in the brazier to burn. Renarin lowered his head as the prayer burned, as tradition dictated.

Glys sniffed, despite the lack of a nose. "Religion."

Not really. As the light of the fire dimmed, he looked up, eyes falling on the ashes in the brazier. Adolin motioned to the armorers who had slipped inside while the ward burned, and they began the process of attaching Adolin's Plate to his harness.

"No?" Glys asked. "You're burning a prayer because you think the Almighty will answer. How is that not religion?"

Because I don't actually expect the Almighty to answer the prayers, said Renarin. But the rituals put Adolin at ease. Look.

Glys rotated in place, as if turning to look at Renarin's brother. Adolin's fists had loosened, and some of the tension in his face had eased as he stepped into his boots. "Oh," said Glys.

"Any news from the ship?" Adolin asked Aunt Navani.

Navani made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "No, but Jasnah is on that ship. If it's delayed, it's because she's up to something."

"If you're certain, Mashala," said Adolin, sounding less than certain himself.

"Just wait. In a few weeks, we'll get a communication from her demanding some information. She won't even tell us why she vanished unless I pry it from her."

Renarin stood up while his aunt and brother spoke, taking the final piece of the Plate, Adolin's cobalt-blue helmet, from the final armorer. He approached Adolin with it while the servants slipped his pauldrons into place. As Adolin turned to take the helmet, he blinked to see Renarin there.

"You ate chicken?" Renarin asked, passing the helm over.

"For breakfast," said Adolin, grinning as he slipped the helmet over his head, visor still raised.

"And you talked to the sword?"

"Had a whole conversation. It says hello."

"Mother's chain?"

"In my pocket. Checked twice."

"Really?" Navani asked them. "Still with this foolishness?"

Adolin looked askance at their aunt. "They're not superstitions! I haven't done a formal duel in years. I just don't want anything to go wrong."

"Rich of her to talk," muttered Glys. "What does she think burning someone's bedsheets is going to do?"

Hush.

"Foolishness," Navani said, shaking her head. "Trust in the Almighty and the Heralds, not chicken."

Adolin glanced sidelong at Renarin, looking slightly sheepish in the way only he could—an expression that portrayed embarrassment without any shame or regret.

"Our guards aren't happy about this," Renarin said quietly. He'd heard Sarus speaking to one of the others earlier while he was trying to catch his old friend alone. "I heard them complaining about how hard it'll be to protect you when someone else is swinging a Blade at you."

Adolin grinned. Renarin caught only an instant of the expression before he closed the faceplate. Cold mist flared around the edges of the visor as the metal sealed itself together. "I deeply regret denying them a chance to baby me."

"What bothers you so much about them? It's not just that you don't like minders—you've had bodyguards before."

"I don't like their captain," Adolin said.

"Why? He saved Father's life. He saved your life."

"There's something off about him. He makes me suspicious."

"Says the man who ate chicken for breakfast," muttered Glys. "He's just a Radiant. Probably. Nothing off about that."

"I think," said Renarin, "that you don't like that he ordered you around on the battlefield." He'd pried the story out of Adolin the evening after he returned from the Tower.

Adolin turned and started walking towards the door. "I barely even remember that," he said. Renarin wished he could see his brother's face. It was hard to judge the intent behind people's words at the best of times; it was so much harder without being able to see their faces.

"All right then," Renarin called after him. "Try not to lose."

Adolin turned back for a moment to raise a hand in an acknowledging wave before pushing the door open and stepping out into the arena. Renarin rushed out the side door and into the stands of the arena. As he stepped out, Glys slipped into his breast pocket.

He was about to sit down in the Kholin box when he happened to glance over in the direction of the royal box, where Elhokar sat, and where Aunt Navani was going. He recognized Elhokar's guard. Sarus stood, straight-backed, a longspear in one hand and a shortspear at his belt.

Then he glanced back to the Kholin box. His father waved him over. Renarin approached, but only to lean down.

"Would you mind if I sat in the royal box, Father?" he asked. "It'll offer a better view. It's Adolin's first duel in years."

Dalinar glanced speculatively at the royal box, then nodded, standing up. "I'll join you," he said. "Assuming your cousin doesn't object, of course."

Damnation. Renarin had hoped that there would be an opportunity to get Sarus alone, but with Elhokar, Aunt Navani, and now his father all there, that would be next to impossible. Still, he nodded and followed Dalinar into the royal box.

Sarus glanced at them as they opened the low gate and stepped inside. "Would you mind if we joined you, Your Majesty?" Dalinar asked.

"Of course not, Uncle," said Elhokar, but Renarin noticed that he wasn't smiling. He hadn't seen even Elhokar's obviously fake smiles nearly as often since the Battle of the Tower. Whether that was just because of the shock of Sadeas' betrayal, or something else entirely, he wasn't sure.

They sat, Dalinar beside the king, Renarin a little behind the other three—right next to Sarus. He didn't dare try to speak with Sarus with everyone here. Even if he wasn't afraid of embarrassing himself, he would have refrained out of respect to what he knew his friend would want.

Adolin and his opponent were already standing on the sand of the arena, staring one another down across the field. The other man was Salinor Eved, a Shardbearer vassal of Thanadal. Salinor had no Plate of his own, and so wore the slate-grey set of the King's Plate. Despite that, after Adolin's long hiatus from Shard duels, he'd had to wager both his Shards to convince Salinor to wager only his Blade. It was an insult, implying that Salinor needed further incentive to lower himself to Adolin's level, and Renarin knew it must chafe at his brother.

No sooner had Dalinar and Renarin taken their seats than the judge, Brightlady Istow, called out the order to summon Blades. Both combatants thrust their hands to their sides. Adolin's Shardblade fell into his hand an instant before Salinor's. It took ten heartbeats to summon a Shardblade, so Adolin's heart must be beating faster than his opponent's.

Salinor's underestimating him. Renarin tried to ignore the grain of doubt clinging to the thought. The two men shifted into ready stances. Renarin had seen enough of Adolin's duels to recognize both. Adolin took Windstance—a favorite of his. It was specialized for fighting multiple enemies at once, but Adolin was adept at using it against only one. It was an agile, dexterous stance—and, as Adolin had once admitted, very flashy.

Salinor, on the other hand, was using Flamestance. It was an aggressive stance—in the hands of someone inexperienced, such as Renarin on the few occasions he'd tried to learn the dueling stances, it could border on panicked. It was vulnerable to parries and disarming strikes, but both of those were things Windstance was not designed for. Renarin tried to ignore his worry.

The two duelists circled one another for several long seconds. Then, Salinor began to close the distance as they orbited. Adolin allowed it, though he did not move to close himself.

Then Salinor struck—a cautious thrust to test Adolin's reactions. And Adolin reacted. In the blink of an eye he had changed stances—to Ironstance, an incredibly aggressive stance relying on overwhelming power. Then he charged, shrugging aside Salinor's careful attack with his pauldron before delivering a crushing blow to the man's helm. Then another, and another, though Salinor finally managed to bring his sword up to parry the third.

Salinor managed to deal a blow to Adolin's side, but Renarin's brother scarcely seemed to notice. He raised the Blade and delivered a brutal attack to Salinor's breastplate, sending him staggering, then followed it with a kick that sent the man sprawling—and caused him to drop his Blade. It dissipated into mist, guaranteeing ten heartbeats during which Adolin would be the only man in the arena with a Shardblade.

Then Adolin dismissed his own Blade. He crossed the distance to Salinor's prone form in two strides and drove the heel of his boot into Salinor's visor, shattering the Plate.

Then he began to stomp repeatedly on Salinor's breastplate, completely ignoring the man's scrabbling efforts to catch his foot.

"What on Roshar?" murmured Elhokar. "What is he doing?"

"I've never seen him fight like this," said Dalinar, sounding somewhat concerned.

"I assume," said a deep, sonorous voice, "that he is cultivating a reputation as a musclebound brute. It will help to ensure that future opponents also underestimate him."

Renarin glanced up at Sarus, whose eyes were on the duel. Elhokar looked back too. "What do you mean?" he asked. To Renarin's surprise, he didn't sound upset at the darkeyed man's interruption. Rather, he sounded genuinely curious.

"I presume Prince Adolin knew he could defeat Brightlord Salinor, Your Majesty," said Sarus. "And if I'm not mistaken, House Kholin had some difficulty finding him an opponent for this duel."

"That's true," said Dalinar neutrally, still watching the duel.

"Then attacking this way, with no finesse, will lead more skilled duelists to underestimate Prince Adolin," Sarus concluded. "Thus making future duels easier to schedule."

Elhokar nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. Clever."

It was. And not just of Adolin, Renarin thought, shooting his one-time friend another glance. Sarus momentarily met his eyes before looking back at the duel.

"Stop!" shouted Brightlady Istow, sounding rather shrill. "Stop!"

Adolin did, lowering his foot beside Salinor's head. Renarin saw that his relentless assault had shattered Salinor's breastplate too.

"Adolin Kholin!" Istow snapped. "This is not a wrestling match! It is a duel!"

"Did I break any rules?"

That brought the judge up short. Renarin could imagine her frantically going through the customs and traditions dictating dueling in her head before concluding that, no, he had not.

The entire arena was silent for a long moment before Adolin repeated himself, even louder. "Did I break any rules?"

"This is not how a duel—" Istow protested.

"So I win," Adolin said.

"The duel was to three broken pieces of Plate. You've only broken two." The woman seemed to be grasping at anything that might restore the dignity of the contest.

Adolin did not seem interested. He looked down, then reached down, tore off Salinor's pauldron, and drove his fist into his palm directly through it, sending molten metal scattering. "Done." In the silence that followed, Adolin knelt down by his opponent. "Your Blade."

Salinor tried to stand, but the enhanced strength offered by Shardplate failed when the breastplate broke. He tried to push himself up on his arms, but Adolin put his hand on the man's remaining pauldron and shoved him back down. "You've lost," Adolin growled, and he sounded genuinely angry.

Renarin had seen his brother angry before, of course. But never like this, standing over a defeated foe in the lists. He'd never found himself fearing that his brother might do something cruel.

"You cheated!" Salinor spat.

"How?"

"I—I don't know! It's just not supposed to be like…" Salinor trailed off as Adolin laid a gauntleted hand directly on the man's throat. Renarin saw fearspren crawling out of the sand around him and rolling around like fully infused amethyst broams. "You wouldn't."

"My prize," said Adolin.

Salinor's Blade appeared in the man's hand, and the judge called out judgement. "Adolin Kholin is the victor. Salinor Eved forfeits his Shard."

Salinor let the blade slip from his fingers. Adolin caught it before it hit the ground, and held the pommel out to the man. "Break the bond," he ordered.

Salinor reached out and touched the ruby at the base of the hilt. The gemstone flashed, visible even from the stands. Adolin stood, ripping the ruby free, and crushed it in one hand. Then, without shooting Salinor another glance, he stomped back towards the staging room.

Renarin didn't even consider waiting to talk to Sarus. He stood and rushed to meet his brother. "That was incredible," he gushed as Adolin stepped inside. "It has to be the shortest Shard bout on record!"

"Thanks," said Adolin. He sounded drained, with none of the triumphant glory Renarin had expected. He held out Salinor's Shardblade. "Here. A present."

Renarin froze. In his pocket, Glys moaned. "Oh, no." The mistspren's words echoed in his head: I suspect that it would have unpleasant interactions with our bond. For both of us.

"Adolin," he said hesitantly, casting about for something, anything, he could say to stop this. "Are you sure? I'm not exactly skilled with the Plate I already have. Wouldn't someone else be better suited to carry it? Someone who can actually use a sword?"

"Might as well have the full set," Adolin said. "Take it." Then, when Renarin hesitated, he shook the Blade insistently. "Take it."

Swallowing in trepidation, Renarin reached out and closed his hand around the hilt of the Blade. The moment he touched the sword, he wanted to drop it again.

The Shardblade was screaming.

It sounded like a man wailing in unending, agonizing torture. The scream was rough and raw, as if the man—the Shardblade—had been screaming without pause since the Radiant who once bore it put it down over two thousand years ago.

Glys grunted in pain, as if some echo of the Shardblade's pain were blooming in him. "Damnation," he said hoarsely. "Damnation."

Renarin was inclined to agree. Can I even bond this thing? he asked. What will it do if I do?

"You can," said Glys. "And you should. Ugh. Once you can dispel it back to Shadesmar it'll stop that. It's being here in the Physical Realm that hurts it."

Renarin swallowed. That'll be a week cloistered away with it. Touching it almost constantly.

"I know. I'm sorry, Renarin."

So am I.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

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

-x-x-x-

34

In Memory



-x-x-x-​

I have long since forgotten most of the Black Speech. It fell into disuse among the dragons during the early Third Age, and I rarely heard more than a few words of it after the Withered Heath was emptied in the early years of the Fourth Age, when the full might of Gondor renewed fell upon us.

-x-x-x-​

"You know," Moash said, looking around the training grounds with a critical eye. "I always thought this place would be… I don't know. Better. It looks the same as where the darkeyes practice."

"There are different sorts of training areas," Sarus commented, remembering the spearmen's lists in the courtyards of Castle Sadaras, the duelists' salles, the archers' range. "But out here on the Plains, even the lighteyes have to, in some small ways, rough it with the rest of us."

Moash shot him a look as they both followed Kaladin, along with Drehy, Leyten, and three members of the original Cobalt Guard. Kaladin had been given command over most of the survivors from among Dalinar's bodyguards. To Sarus' surprise, all of them—even the four surviving lighteyes—had accepted the captain's authority without complaint. Sarus hadn't yet learned all their names, though he suspected Kaladin had. The three with them today were darkeyed, however, and had started slowly assimilating into Bridge Four. They had even sewn Bridge Four patches into the left shoulder of their uniforms, to match the glyphs of the Cobalt Guard on their right.

"You know an awful lot about how lighteyes live," Moash commented, his eyes hooded with suspicion.

"I was raised in closer proximity to them than most," said Sarus evenly, trying not to think too hard about what he was saying. "The wealthiest lighteyes have darkeyed house servants. My mother was a maid when I was born and became a cook when I was a child. We had a small suite within the servants' quarters. I saw more of lighteyed society than many lighteyes do, I suspect."

"Huh. Can't imagine that was much fun."

Sarus shrugged noncommittally, thinking of green eyes in the dark. "It had its moments, as any childhood does." He turned his gaze to follow a small knot of ardents bustling in their direction. Their leader was a woman in her mid-thirties, if Sarus had to guess. Her eyes were a deep blue, barely bright enough to qualify as light.

"This," she said sharply as she reached them, "is the lighteyes training ground. What business do you have here?"

"Captain Kaladin, Bridge Four," said Kaladin, without even looking at her. He was scanning the ground, his spear on his shoulder, a thoughtful scowl on his face.

"Captain?" one of the ardents scoffed. "Darkeyes—" One of the others shushed him before he could finish embarrassing himself.

"Moash," Kaladin said, ignoring them. "See those rockbuds up on top of the wall there?"

"Yes."

"They're cultivated, so there's a way up. I want you up there, keeping an eye on things. Shout if you see any trouble brewing."

Sarus narrowed his eyes at the wall along the edge of the training ground. His eyes were keener than most, he knew. Kaladin hadn't seen the tip of the railing running along a stairwell rising up along the inside of the northern side of the wall, almost hidden from this angle, but Sarus could clearly make it out. He turned to the ardents. "Do one of you happen to have the key?" he asked politely.

"I have," said the woman at the front of the group stiffly.

"Great," said Kaladin. "You can let him in."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "And what danger do you expect to find here?"

"I see a lot of weapons, including two Shardblades. A lot of people moving in and out, with no one monitoring who except to check their eyes. You're right, I'm sure nothing could possibly go wrong."

Sarus carefully kept his lips from twitching as the ardent sighed and passed her key to an assistant.

Kaladin turned back to the rest of the group, though his eyes kept scanning the edges of the field for good vantage points. "Drehy, you head up onto that boulder there. Leyten, head over to that corner, back to the wall. Ahis, over by that building. Morel, on that hill over there. Veslin, by the gate. Sarus, with me."

All five men saluted and jogged off. Kaladin himself remained standing near the center of the field, watching the two men practicing with their Shards. Both wore Plate, and both suits were painted in simple Kholin blues with no further adornment.

"I don't recognize those Shardbearers," Kaladin commented.

"They aren't Shardbearers," said the ardent with a roll of her eyes. "They're practicing with the King's Blades."

"Elhokar lets other people use his Shards?" Kaladin asked, raising an eyebrow.

"His Majesty does, yes," Sarus said, before the ardent could get too annoyed with Kaladin's attitude. My friend, you really need to cultivate better habits if we're going to continue working in such close proximity to lighteyes. "One of the many traditions that keeps Alethkar in control of more Shards than any other nation on Roshar. It allows men who do not yet have their own Shards to train with them, either for battle against Shardbearers or, more often, for duels. As a rule, the second-in-command of a Shardbearer is always familiar with his superior's Blade. Just in case."

"Makes sense. The king has two Blades, then?"

"One was King Gavilar's."

"It is kept for this exact purpose," said the ardent, "though His Majesty has hinted that he may one day give his father's Blade to a worthy warrior."

Kaladin nodded with a sort of snide appreciation. "Good way to trick men into training," he said. "Tempt them with the possibility of being given a Shard if they're disciplined."

Sarus passed his hand over his eyes, then turned to the ardent, who looked genuinely affronted. "Is there a procedure for darkeyed men to train against Blades?" he asked, trying to distract her from his pathologically disrespectful superior. "We have been assigned to fill the… recently vacated positions within the Cobalt Guard. It seems all too likely that anyone with designs on Highprince Kholin or His Majesty may be so armed."

Her pursed lips loosened just slightly as she considered him. "There is no such tradition," she said, though she didn't seem as affronted by the question as by Kaladin's flagrant impertinence. "You would have to ask one of His Majesty's advisors to suggest the idea."

"Could you perhaps bring it before the Devotary of Jezerezeh?" Sarus asked, with a disarming smile. That was the branch of the ardentia dedicated specifically to advising monarchs in all the Vorin kingdoms. One of their members would certainly have Elhokar's ear.

She seemed pleased to see that, even if Kaladin himself were an uncultured brute with no knowledge of Alethi traditions, at least this man knew something of them. "I will ask Ardent Meletam," she said, before turning and walking away, taking the rest of the ardents with her.

Sarus allowed his smile to fall as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Kaladin," he said. "My friend, my brother. You may have a captain's knots on your soldier, but that does not mean you can disrespect the king in front of half the ardentia."

"Disrespect the—oh." Kaladin blinked, visibly going back through the conversation in his head. "You're right. Sorry."

Sarus nodded once and let the matter drop. "The princes should be arriving before too long," he said instead.

"Assuming they bother to be on time."

"You saw Prince Adolin's duel. Did that seem to you like the performance of a man who shirks his training?"

Kaladin sighed. "No, it didn't. Doesn't mean I have to like him."

"Of course it doesn't. But you can acknowledge a man's strengths without believing they outweigh his flaws. Adolin Kholin is an accomplished duelist, a charismatic figurehead, and—for a man in his position—relatively principled. He also happens to be something of an idiot, vain as a four-color chicken, and prouder than Ishi'Elin. We can acknowledge the flaws without lying to ourselves about the virtues."

"This isn't about Adolin."

Sarus raised an eyebrow. "Who do you think I'm talking about, then, Kaladin?"

Kaladin didn't answer.

"I'm not talking about anyone specific. Generally, it is possible—and necessary—to acknowledge the strengths, as well as the weaknesses, of potential enemies and rivals. I'm sure you know this. But you must make it second-nature if you are to be a leader among lighteyes."

Kaladin shot him a look. "You were more than just a house servant," he said.

Sarus took a deep breath to keep himself from visibly flinching. "I was." Kaladin wouldn't pry, he knew, but he needed the man to believe that he knew what he was talking about. Kaladin would never be a maneuverer and manipulator like Sarus was. Like Tailiah had been. But he needed to learn the very basics or all of Bridge Four might suffer for it. "My best friend was second dahn."

Kaladin nodded once. Then the exact number seemed to sink in, and he whirled on Sarus. "Second dahn?" he hissed.

"Yes."

"Who in Damnation—"

"Tailiah Sadeas," said Sarus, eyes fixed on the horizon.

Kaladin stared at him with wide eyes. Sarus could practically see the questions running through his head. Which only made it more admirable when he visibly bundled them up and buried them at the expression on Sarus' face. They stood in silence for a moment, Kaladin watching him, wrestling down his curiosity, while Sarus stared out at the Plains.

Then Kaladin spoke. "I was a squadleader in Amaram's army," he said, following Sarus' gaze.

Sarus didn't turn to look at him. They stood there, shoulder to shoulders, eyes fixed upon the past.

"A Shardbearer came after him in a battle," Kaladin continued hoarsely. "My men and I were close enough to help. I ordered them to go that way. Every other squad was just trying to get out of the way, but we went towards the Shardbearer. He killed almost my whole squad. Sixteen men, dead in two blows. I managed to kill him before he got Amaram. They tried to give me his Shardblade but I… I couldn't. I didn't want it. That thing killed sixteen of the best men I knew. I gave it to one of the last four members of my squad."

"Ah," said Sarus.

"You want to know how Amaram repaid me?"

"I already do." Sarus could see it as clear as if Meridas Amaram were whispering the words directly into his ears. We need skilled Shardbearers. We need people who know how to use the weapons. Gifted people. It would be one thing if the man who killed a Shardbearer with nothing but a spear took up the Blade with no prior training. But an untested darkeyes? Those resources can be better allocated elsewhere. They can be better allocated to me.

Certainly, Amaram would have wanted the Blade and Plate for himself even if Kaladin hadn't rejected them. But men like him…

Amaram, Sarus realized, was not like Torol Sadeas. Sadeas knew himself nearly as well as anyone Sarus had ever known. Sadeas knew exactly what a cremling he was. If a darkeyed spearman had saved him from a Shardbearer, that spearman wouldn't have even had the chance to reject the Blade, and not a single darkeyed witness would have survived the experience.

But Amaram had, if Sarus had to guess, managed to delude himself nearly as much as he deluded the people around him. Killing the man who had saved his life would have broken his own belief in himself. It would have been a bridge too far. He could not simply do whatever he wanted without sparing it a second thought, because he was neither good enough to desire honor and justice nor evil enough to enjoy cutting them open and watching them bleed.

But he was pathetic enough to close his eyes and strike out with the knife anyway.

"Not every lighteyes is a monster, Kaladin," said Sarus quietly.

"I know," Kaladin said. "It's just hard to believe it, sometimes. Tailiah was better?"

"Tailiah was incredible. You might have hated her, or you might have loved her. It would have depended entirely on how she wanted you to feel."

"Huh."

"The princes are," said Archive suddenly, her voice soft enough that only the two of them—and Syl, who stood looking sadly down at Kaladin above their heads—could hear her.

Sarus and Kaladin turned. It was true—Adolin and Renarin were entering the field. Renarin's Blade was in his hand. Only a day had passed since Adolin's duel, so the blade had not yet had time to bind to its new wielder, which meant Renarin could not yet dismiss and summon it at will. The two princes were followed by Murk's squad. As they approached, Murk saluted them. "Captain."

Kaladin saluted back. "You and your squad are dismissed for the afternoon, Murk," he said. "We'll take it from here."

"Sir." Murk gestured to his men, and they turned and left the training ground.

Kaladin turned to Adolin. "The area is as secure as we can make it, Brightlord. My men and I will keep an eye out while you spar."

Adolin grunted without looking at Kaladin, instead surveying the field himself. Sarus caught Renarin's eye. There was a tension in the younger prince's face, as if he were trying to ignore a sore muscle or irritated rash.

"Sarus," Kaladin said, turning to him. "I want you by the water barrels, there. I'll take a post over by those fences."

"Understood, Captain," said Sarus with a crisp salute.

Kaladin nodded and turned to go towards his post.

"Bridgeman," Adolin called, forestalling him.

Not bridgemen, Sarus thought, and suddenly all of the years-old resentment he'd once held against Adolin Kholin, all the bitterness, envy, and impotent rage, came back in a rush. He wrestled them back down, but he knew Renarin had seen the way his eyes must have flashed and gone dark. Not anymore.

"You've decided to start using proper titles for people?" Adolin continued, not sparing Sarus a glance. "Didn't you call my father 'sir'?"

Kaladin turned back, his expression wooden. "He's in my direct chain of command."

"And I'm not?"

"No."

"Then if I give you an order, you don't intend to obey?"

"I'll comply with requests within reason, Brightlord," said Kaladin. "But if you want someone to shine your boots, you'll have to get someone else—"

Sarus cleared his throat, having successfully buried his sudden rush of fury. "What Captain Kaladin means," he said, "is that he cannot obey any commands of yours if they countermand Highprince Kholin's prior orders to protect you and your brother from any potential threat, Brightlord. He cannot promise to obey any command that might put our own mission at risk."

"Oh, is that what he means," Adolin said sarcastically, and oh, why had Sarus said anything? Now the young man's glare was on him. Not a position he wanted to be in.

But as he met Adolin's eyes, he suddenly realized that Adolin had no idea how this exchange felt from a darkeyes' perspective. He had no idea what it was like to be on the receiving end of an expression like that from someone who could kill you on a whim and suffer not one significant consequence.

Paradoxically, that made Sarus feel better. Because although it threw Adolin's sheer privilege into sharp relief, it also meant that he had no intention of actually harming any of them on a whim. He simply didn't think in those terms. If he hurt them, it would be out of thoughtlessness, not malice. And Sarus was more than capable of doing enough thinking for both sides of the conversation.

He thought back on what he knew of Adolin. Tailiah had always called him kind, if somewhat dim. She had said that he treated his servants with respect, even if that respect was sometimes tempered with entitlement.

Sarus… could use that.

"Yes, Brightlord," he said, holding the prince's gaze. "I humbly ask your indulgence, sir—if I may, Captain Kaladin and the rest of your new guards, myself included, were until recently bridgemen, and in many cases slaves, to Highprince Sadeas. Many of us have, to put it mildly, some difficulty adjusting to serving a house like Kholin, whose members would not sooner see us dead than smiling."

The words struck Adolin somewhere unarmored. Sarus saw the way his suspicion—did not die, but was suppressed behind layers of guilt and sympathy. "I… suppose I can understand that," he said. He shot Kaladin a look. "I still don't like you," he said flatly. "But… you did save my life. And my father's. And I suppose you took on some terrible risks to do it. I'll do my best to work with you if you do your best to stay out of my way."

Kaladin looked practically flabbergasted. But he had the presence of mind to nod. "I think I can agree to that much."

"Good," said Adolin. "Come on, Renarin, let's go find Zahel."

Sarus met Renarin's eyes again as the prince followed his brother towards where the two men were still practicing (badly, if Sarus was any judge) with the king's Shardblades. Renarin was smiling, slightly, although the expression seemed a little pale. Sarus noticed as he passed that the younger man's knuckles were white on the hilt of his Blade.

"How in Damnation did you do that?" Kaladin asked, staring after the princes with something like wonder.

"Tailiah knew Adolin when we were all younger, so I had a head start," said Sarus quietly. "But the principle is simple. If you know how a person's mind works, you can find the right words to say. If you find the right words to say, you can get them to do nearly anything."

"Sounds callous," Syl commented softly.

"I disagree," countered Archive. "The important part is not that manipulation is. It is that humans cannot be manipulated into anything. Only nearly anything. Honor lives in the difference."

"Hm." Syl watched the two princes approach the head ardent. They bowed formally to her before beginning to speak. "Hang on, isn't she a slave? One their father owns?"

"Technically, yes," said Sarus. "But the ardentia walk a very complex line between power and servitude."

"Humans don't make sense."

"Neither do spren," Archive said dryly.

"Honorspren make sense," said Syl primly.

"A disagreement is."

Syl snorted. "I don't like them," she said. "Either one of them. Renarin or Adolin."

"You don't like anyone who carries Shards," Kaladin said.

"Exactly."

"Why not?" Sarus asked curiously.

"She called the Blades abominations before," Kaladin said. "But the Radiants carried them, didn't they? So were they wrong, too?"

"Of course not," Syl said, looking down at Kaladin like he had just asked if the sky was red. "The Shards weren't abominations back then."

"Then what changed?"

"The knights changed," murmured Syl, looking sad.

"So it's not that the Blades are abominations themselves," Kaladin said, sounding bitterly triumphant. "It's that the wrong people are carrying them."

"No," said Archive. "Your biases are. Your prejudices are. You are not listening, Kaladin."

Kaladin blinked over at the speck on Sarus' shoulder. "What? What does Syl mean, then?"

"If Adolin lost his Shards in the duel yesterday," Archive said, "Syl's approval would immediately be."

"He could stand to be humbled some," Kaladin said.

Archive sighed in exasperation. "Your ears are," she said. "Why do you insist on not using them?"

"You're saying," said Sarus, interjecting before the squabbling could really start, "that something fundamental changed about the Shards. Something that had to do with the Radiants."

"There is a reason you are my Elsecaller," said Archive.

But you didn't come here for me, Sarus thought, then tried to bury the hurt.

"But what could have changed about the Shards?" Kaladin asked. "Besides, Syl said the Knights Radiant changed. Well, the Shards aren't being held by Knights Radiant anymore. So how does that even matter now?"

Sarus stared at Syl. He felt as though he was dangling just below the answer to that very question, searching for one more handhold to climb the rest of the way. Radiants are bonded to spren. Radiants bore Shardblades. Radiants betrayed their calling at the Recreance. Shardblades are abominations now. The Radiants changed, and somehow that changed their Shards.

The Recreance was the heart of it, he was certain. But what exactly had happened at the Recreance? He didn't know. He doubted Archive or Syl even remembered.

"Who's that?" Kaladin asked suddenly.

Sarus followed his gaze. There was a man standing in the shadows of the wall, leaning on the wooden railing, watching the princes. There was something about him… Sarus frowned, narrowing his eyes.

Was the air… different around the man? It almost looked like the very colors of the red stone around his feet were somehow more vibrant.

"What about him?" Syl asked.

"He's watching the princelings," Kaladin said.

"Do me a favor," said Sarus. "Never call them that within their hearing."

Kaladin grinned.

"So is everyone else," Syl pointed out.

"He's different." Kaladin glanced at Sarus. "You see it, right? You have an instinct for people."

"There's… something odd about him. Be careful."

"Sure," Kaladin said. "I'm always careful."

"That's not encouraging." But Sarus followed Kaladin as he approached the man.

As they drew near, Kaladin's foot scraped against a patch of sand upon the stone. The man immediately spun towards them, and Kaladin, startled, leveled his spear. Then, after a long moment, he lowered it. "Sorry," he said, making Sarus wince at his painfully affected tone of childish innocence. "I'm a little jumpy. First few weeks on the job."

"Right," said the man dryly. He looked past Kaladin at Sarus, then back again. Then he turned away and looked back at the princes. "You're the bridgemen. The ones who saved the highprince."

"Former bridgemen," said Sarus stiffly. He had to accept it from Adolin Kholin. He did not have to accept it from an ardent, no matter how odd of one.

"You don't need to worry. I'm not going to hurt your Damnation prince," said the man. Sarus couldn't even begin to place his accent—which was odd, given that he and Tailiah had made accents and foreign customs something of a study. And who used Damnation that way, anyway? It was grammatically wrong, using the noun Damnation like an adjective. It was almost as though… as though the man were translating the words he was saying directly into Alethi from a different language, word by word, without worrying too much about the differences in grammatical rules. He also wore the simple tunic and trousers of an ardent, but his hair was long rather than shaved close, and his beard was similarly unkempt.

"He's not our prince," said Kaladin stiffly. "Just our responsibility. You're a soldier, aren't you? Or ex-soldier."

"Yeah," said the man. "They call me Zahel."

"The princes were looking for you," Sarus observed. That the princes knew this man suggested they didn't need to fear him. Still, he found himself wary.

"They would be," he said. "I'm one of the swordmasters. One of the better ones. The boy—Renarin—he never practiced much, so he needs one. They probably want me to choose him."

"Choose him?" Kaladin asked.

"Swordmasters have to choose their apprentices," said Sarus. "Although I imagine that choice isn't entirely free when it's the highprince's son as the apprentice in question."

Zahel grunted.

"Swordmaster Zahel!" called Adolin, noticing them. "You're not sitting with the others!"

Sarus looked over and saw that, yes, several of the ardents—mostly the ones who looked well-trained and physically fit—were seated in a small ring near the princes.

Zahel sighed. "You're not wrong," he told Sarus dryly. "I'll try not to hurt the boy." He turned and jogged over.

"Why didn't Renarin ever train when he was younger?" Kaladin asked. He sounded like he was talking mostly to himself, but Sarus answered.

"Health issues," he said. "Renarin suffered from what the lighteyes called a 'blood sickness.' Seizures."

"Ah." Kaladin grimaced. "Seems like something his bodyguards should already have known about."

"It's common knowledge among the lighteyes," Sarus said. "I assume it didn't occur to them that the new darkeyed guards wouldn't already know."

Kaladin grumbled something inaudible. "Odd man," he commented, looking where Zahel was sitting down among the other ardents.

"Extremely," agreed Sarus. "But probably harmless, if the Kholins trust him to teach their sons to use Shards. Still, we'll keep an eye on him."

"Two eyes," Kaladin said. He nodded to Sarus. "Get over to the barrels, there," he said, pointing. "I'll see you in a few hours, when they're done training."

Sarus saluted and jogged off.

-x-x-x-​

Two hours later, Sarus watched a sweating Renarin stab his Shardblade into the ground, looking like a towel that had been wrung out a little too vigorously. The moment the Blade was securely in the rock, he tore his hand away like a child pulling his hand from a hot pan. He bowed stiffly to Zahel, then said something to Adolin and picked up his Blade again. Then he started moving towards the water barrels.

…Directly towards Sarus.

Sarus kept his expression serene as Renarin stopped beside one of the barrels and poured himself a cup with the attached spigot. "Hello, Sarus," said the prince quietly.

"Renarin."

Renarin straightened and drank from his cup. "I've been trying to get you alone for weeks," he said. "I didn't… I know how much you value the ability to control who knows what about you."

Sarus' heart suddenly surged with affection for the younger man, who even all these years later still not only remembered Sarus, but remembered him well enough to know without being told how carefully he liked to tread around lighteyes. "I appreciate it," he said softly. He glanced towards the gate, where Kaladin was gathering with the other members of Bridge Four as Adolin prepared to leave. He gestured, pointing at Sarus, then at Renarin.

Excellent. Sarus saluted over at the captain. "I have, it seems, just been assigned as your bodyguard until such time as you rejoin your family," he said. "So we have a few minutes."

"Good," said Renarin with a sigh, stabbing his Blade back into the rock. He looked over to watch Kaladin and the rest of the guards following Adolin out of the training ground.

"Is he gone?" The voice emerged quite suddenly from somewhere under Renarin's Plate. Before Sarus could do more than blink, the voice continued, "Oh, thank Cultivation."

And then something emerged from the collar of Renarin's plate. It was a spren, clearly, but like none Sarus had ever seen before. Its body looked like an irregular, vaguely star-shaped chunk of red crystal, and motes of light dripped from it like glittering water, only they sailed upwards to disappear into the empty sky. Something about it felt odd to Sarus, as though it didn't sit quite right in his vision, its edges fuzzing slightly, though somehow not diminishing its clarity in any way.

Sarus blinked at it, staring for a long moment, before he managed to realize through his astonishment that this spren probably believed itself invisible and hurriedly looking back at Renarin.

Unfortunately, the damage was done. "Damnation," the spren cursed, and dove back into Renarin's Plate.

Renarin blinked, looking at Sarus. His eyes widened. "Wait—"

Sarus very quickly took stock. He could play dumb. Or he could pretend to be nothing more than what Rock was, clear-sighted but unaware of the implications. Or he could be open with Renarin. His instincts rebelled at the thought. Sarus didn't trust people, as a rule, not if he had any other choice.

…Except, Renarin had done his best not to reveal anything about Sarus' past before they'd had a chance to speak directly. Even more than five years after the last time they'd spoken, he still remembered Sarus's proclivities and cared about them enough to indulge him like this. It would have been so easy for the third-dahn son of a highprince to simply come up to one of his bodyguards and demand answers. Renarin had not done so.

In exchange… maybe Sarus owed him a little trust. And, more to the point, Renarin had proven willing to keep secrets. Letting him in on more would go a long way to tying them together in Renarin's mind. Extend a little trust, gain a little influence. Offer some information, claim some affection.

"You're a Radiant, then," Sarus said softly.

They were all silent for a long moment. Then Archive chuckled and expanded on Sarus' shoulder, remaining small enough to be hidden from anyone else in the field, but large enough to be visible to them. "Your luck is," she told Sarus. "To meet a fellow Radiant in an old friend… yes. Your fortune is."

Renarin stared at Archive, fascinated. "You too?" he asked Sarus. "You're also—"

"I am," Sarus confirmed. "This is Archive, an inkspren."

"A pleasure," Renarin said, nodding respectfully, though his eyes remained unerringly fixed on the spren. Then he turned them on Sarus. "Forgive Glys if he doesn't come out. He's… shy."

"Glys?" asked Archive, cocking her head. "What sort of spren is he? I do not recognize the name."

"He's a mistspren," said Renarin.

"Then you are a Truthwatcher," Archive said. "An order that, I believe, worked well with the Elsecallers of old."

"Is that what you are?" Renarin asked Sarus. "An Elsecaller?"

"It is," said Sarus.

"What are your Surges?"

"Transformation and Transportation," said Archive.

"Yours?" Sarus asked.

"Illumination and Progression," Renarin said. "Wow. I knew there had to be a story behind how you ended up on Sadeas' bridge crews of all things, but I didn't expect this."

Sarus' face fell. "Archive had nothing to do with that," he said. "I only met her a few months ago, long after I arrived here."

"Months?" Renarin blinked. "I thought most bridgemen in Sadeas' crews died in a matter of weeks. How long were you here?"

"Five years," said Sarus darkly. "Since the war began."

"Since the—" Renarin stopped, staring at him. "What happened?"

Sarus tried to smile wryly. It emerged as a grimace. "Tailiah died. And I—" The damning words I killed her caught in his throat, so he said obliquely, "it was my fault."

He still didn't understand what had happened that night. But the fact was that one minute Tailiah had been there, wide-eyed and afraid…

…And the next, there had been only smoke.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

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

-x-x-x-

35

Dullform



-x-x-x-​

Not many of us survived those purges. Most who did crept into tunnels deep beneath the mountains, hiding like the worms for which Men named us.

-x-x-x-​

Rlain didn't look up as Sarus sat down on the bunk beside his. He simply continued to slump there, the cot bending around him, eyes forward and gazing at nothing.

Rlain had taken dullform before, of course. Like every other Listener, he had spent shifts in the Hall of Art trying to attract spren to experiment with new forms in the early days of the war. It was why he had elected to take up this position as a spy—he had found that his mind seemed to work better than many of the others', when they failed to bond a spren and fell into dullform.

But the longest he had ever been in dullform before coming to the Alethi camp had been two weeks. He was now pushing a year and a half. And for the past few months of that, he hadn't even spoken to another Listener—not since he had been sent to the bridge crews. It wasn't possible for a bridgeman to clandestinely meet with another Listener scout.

Sometimes he wondered if he would wake up one morning and find that dullform had given way to slaveform. If he would find himself not Listener, but parshman. Maybe that was how the other singers had become the mindless thralls they were—maybe the spren had rejected them so completely, so utterly, that all of them had been trapped in dullform for so long that their minds simply… faded away.

The most terrifying part was that he couldn't even muster terror at the thought. Just a yawning, existential dread.

The only saving grace of this assignment was that there was no one who could hear the Rhythms here. So he didn't need to force himself to attune Peace or Resolve in moments like these. He could follow his natural inclinations. Right now, that inclination was to attune Anxiety.

Sometimes he even forced himself to enhance his own natural inclinations by attuning a rhythm whose associated negative emotion he was only barely feeling. Because even an awful Rhythm like Despair, Betrayal, or Pain was so, so much better than the horrible silence. Sometimes, Rlain lost the Rhythms entirely, as though the blanket constantly smothering his thoughts had closed up entirely around his ears. In those moments, the dread that he might be turning into a parshman clarified into a deep horror… but still with none of the sharp pressure, none of the push to act, that terror would have provided.

There was no instinct to act in dullform. Never. Any time Rlain did anything, he had to force himself to make the choice. All he ever really wanted to do was simply sit, like a stone in the bottom of a chasm, occasionally pushed hither or thither by the storm—the will and desires of others—but never his own volition.

Outside, the highstorm was passing. Rlain had forced himself not to attune any of the Rhythms or channel the emotions that would attract a spren for the duration. As much as he longed for it, craved to feel one of the forms again, to feel a spren pulsing within his gemheart, he couldn't. Mustn't.

"You aren't just acting, are you?" Sarus asked softly. His voice was low enough that none of the other men in the barracks, most of whom were laughing as they played a game with cards around Gadol's bunk. "I wondered how you managed to act like a parshman for so long, but it's not entirely an act, is it?"

"No," whispered Rlain. "Not entirely."

"What is it, then?" Sarus asked. "Are all Parshendi like you—do you just think differently from us?"

"We do, but not like this." Rlain very briefly debated whether to keep these secrets from Sarus, but, well, Sarus already knew the most important secret. It wasn't as though knowing about the existence of the forms would be any worse. Besides, if he couldn't trust Sarus he was both already dead and the reason all of the other scouts within the Alethi warcamps would join his fate.

He really needed to find a way to make contact with one of the others. It was just so hard to make himself do the long, frustrating, and risky legwork of finding them. He had known only about his own contact, Lashra, and the Listeners had only become a unified whole five short years ago, a year of which had seen him here, isolated and alone. He simply would not know the marbling of most, if any, of the other spies. And while he could probably identify most of them through the other, subtler markers distinguishing dullform from slaveform—size, volition, intellect—it would be difficult. More to the point, it would require diligence and focus, both of which were things Rlain found it very, very difficult to muster these days.

"Listeners bond to spren to take forms," he said once he remembered that he'd been speaking to Sarus, that he'd decided to say more.

"Bond to spren? Like the Radiants?"

"I believe it's similar. The spren involved are not sentient, however, like Archive or Syl. They are ordinary spren, and some of them can be tempted into a Listener's gemheart to grant them a form. Our forms grant us capabilities and skills, and affect our minds to some degree. When we bond no spren at all, we fall into dullform. This is what I am. A form of no skill, no aptitude. While in dullform, our thoughts are clouded. It makes it… easier, to be like the parshmen. Sometimes too easy."

He had attuned Anxiety again while he spoke. Sometimes, he thought Sarus could hear the Rhythms, if not as a Listener did, then at least as an echo. He seemed adept at detecting Rlain's emotions, sometimes more than Rlain himself was. "You're afraid you're becoming more like them? Permanently?"

"I am," Rlain admitted. "We do not know what turned the other singers into the parshmen."

"Turned the—then you're the same species? And they once had minds like yours, but somehow lost them?"

"So our songs tell us," said Rlain. "Generations ago, all singers served our gods, but we listeners chose to flee their service, to pursue freedom in isolation. Sometime between those days and now, the rest of the singers became parshmen. I do not know how, and I do not know why we were spared."

"Fascinating," murmured Sarus. "This all ties together somehow, I feel it. Nahel bonds, the singers becoming parshmen, the change in the Shardblades. What is the missing piece?"

"What missing piece?" Rlain asked, and then was surprised at himself. Sarus had a way of bringing out his self from behind the fog of dullform. It was usually hard to muster something like curiosity, but with Sarus it was easier.

Sarus clasped his hands thoughtfully. "Syl and Archive consider Shardblades abominations," he said. "But neither remembers exactly why. Syl believes something changed in the Knights Radiant, who were the original wielders of the Blades, to turn their once-noble weapons into something that is now so repulsive to the very spren who gave them their powers. I suspect that such a dramatic change must be the Recreance, or at least some part of whatever happened at the Recreance." He tilted his head upward slightly, eyes fixing upon the shutters over the window high on the wall. "Nahel bonds," he said to himself. "Transformations. The Radiants betraying their calling. The Recreance. The Shards. And now, the singers and the parshmen. There's a connection there. If the bond you form with lesser spren is qualitatively the same as the Nahel bond I share with Archive, which I suspect it is, then these events may all share a common thread."

"We had already parted from the rest of the singers by the time any of this happened," said Rlain. "The last songs we have which remember humans at all still sing of your Neshua Kadal, your Knights Radiant, as something that still existed. So that must have been before the Recreance, unless all our songs of that event were somehow lost."

"In fairness, even our written records of those times are littered with more chasms than the Plains," muttered Sarus. "To Damnation with the Hierocracy, and with the storming Sunmaker."

At that moment, the barracks door opened. Sarus glanced over, then stood up. Rlain followed his gaze to see that Kaladin was stomping inside. There was a thunderous scowl on his face.

"Oh, Storms," Sarus muttered. He gave Rlain a nod, then approached Kaladin.

"Back to your game, men," Kaladin said, waving at Gadol and the others and visibly trying and failing to suppress his scowl. "Still a few hours before shift change." Then he turned to Sarus.

"What happened?" Sarus asked, and Rlain found himself listening in.

"I talked to Dalinar," Kaladin said, voice quiet enough that even Rlain's singer ears could barely hear. "About Amaram."

"I take it by your expression that it didn't go well."

"No," Kaladin said grimly. "And all Syl can say about it is that I'm not supposed to be like this. Apparently, I'm 'not a Skybreaker.' Whatever that means."

"Hm. What did the highprince say?"

"He said he'd talk to Amaram." Kaladin bared his teeth. Rlain was startled. He'd never seen the captain like this, surly, grim, and practically vicious. "And then immediately chewed me out for insubordination."

"Insub—" Sarus cut himself off, eyes narrowing. "Wait. Chewed you out? What exactly did he say?"

"He said I walk a line between helpfulness and insubordination, and that I have 'a chip on my shoulder the size of a boulder'. Then he sent me away and told me he'd use one of the Queen Dowager's guards as his escort for the night."

"Ah." Sarus' expression was odd. Rlain had never gotten the hang of reading human faces, even in more than a year among them. "I suspect he actually does intend to investigate."

"How the Damnation do you figure that?"

"Because his actions—look. If he thought that you accusing Amaram of the theft of a Shardblade and several murders was insubordinate, he wouldn't have said you were walking a line. No, Highprince Dalinar Kholin is… His mind doesn't work like yours or mine, or any darkeyes' can afford to, Kaladin. He doesn't approach conversation the way we do."

"What are you even talking about?"

"Listen, and I'll get to it—don't take this out on me. Highprince Dalinar is used to being the person who speaks while others listen. That he allows other people to express their thoughts at all is a testament to his character. But nonetheless, he is not easily derailed. I suspect, Kaladin, that his comments about insubordination would have come your way this evening even if you hadn't said a single word about Amaram. He wasn't talking about that at all, I don't think—he was talking about how you treat Prince Adolin and King Elhokar. It's just that, once he decided to speak to you about it, nothing short of a Parshendi assault was going to derail him. It wouldn't even occur to him that you might perceive his comment as referring to your accusation, because in his mind the two conversations are entirely separate."

There was silence for a moment. "Storms, it almost sounds reasonable when you lay it out like that," Kaladin said with a soft curse. "How do you do that? Come up with a whole narrative of what a man's thinking when you weren't even there for the conversation?"

"Your weapon is the spear, Kaladin," Sarus said. "I'm a decent spearman, but my weapon has always been my mind, and its tip has always been my ability to understand people. Highprince Dalinar is, comparatively speaking, a simple man, so long as you're able to let go of a few common assumptions." He sighed. "Storms. The Kholins seem almost determined to drive you away. First Prince Adolin's mistrust and open hostility, now this?"

"And you really don't think any of it's deliberate?"

"I'm quite certain it isn't. Both men are just storming idiots in a few key ways that happen to irritate you in particular. And you have a few rough edges that happen to rub exactly against Prince Adolin's weaknesses."

"Storms, Sarus. You're asking me to just trust that Dalinar's going to look into Amaram? When I know for a fact that every eyewitness is either dead or loyal to him, besides me?"

"You told Dalinar that?"

"Of course I did!"

"Then yes, I am asking exactly that. These things take time, Kaladin. Dalinar is trying to put down his sword and become a political actor, and we should all thank the Almighty that he's erring on the side of caution rather than trying to bowl over everyone in his path the way the Blackthorn once did on the battlefield. But the dun of that sphere is that we have to wait for results with something like this. Don't do anything rash."

Kaladin sighed, looking less angry now, but much more exhausted. "I won't."

"Good," Sarus said. He shook his head. "I'm going outside for a moment. I need to think."

"About this?" Kaladin asked dryly. "Me too."

"I'm fairly confident in my assessment, Kaladin," Sarus reassured. "Please. Just trust in what you know of Dalinar, and in my ability to read people. You've seen me in action a few times now."

"I have. I do." Kaladin shook his head. "I'm going to get some rest before shift change. You still willing to watch Prince Renarin in the morning?"

"Of course." Sarus saluted, then left the barrack.

Rlain watched Kaladin cross the room and fall into his customary seat by the hearth. He stared thoughtfully into the flames.

And, well, hearing about Kaladin apparently testing Dalinar's commitment in some way reminded Rlain of something he'd been meaning to do. It was risky, but he felt as though it was a risk worth taking.

Trying not to attune Anxiety for fear that Kaladin might somehow recognize it for what it was, Rlain approached him and squatted down beside him.

Kaladin blinked at him. "Shen?"

"Sir." Rlain stared at him for a moment, trying to get his foggy mind to put together the words the way he wanted them. Perhaps he should have discussed this with Sarus in advance—the lieutenant always knew how to make Kaladin understand others' perspectives, as he'd just done in their conversation about Dalinar. But, then, there was always a chance Sarus wouldn't approve of this.

After all, as much as Rlain liked him, as much as his presence helped stave off the fog of dullform, Sarus was still human, and Rlain was still technically his enemy.

"Is there something you wanted?" Kaladin prompted.

Rlain hesitated. But, in for a cremling, in for a chasmfiend. "Am I really Bridge Four?" he asked.

"Of course you are." Kaladin looked genuinely confused.

"Where is my spear?"

Kaladin blinked, then held Rlain's gaze. "What do you think would happen if I gave a parshman a spear, Shen?"

"I think," said Rlain, throwing caution, if not to the stormwind, then at least to a light spring breeze. "that I am not Bridge Four. I think I am Bridge Four's slave."

Kaladin let out a sharp breath. It took Rlain a moment to realize that the words seemed to have quite literally winded the captain like a blow to the stomach. "Shen," he said quietly. "I can't arm you. The lighteyes barely tolerate us as it is. I appreciate your help while we were scavenging; I know it was difficult for you to see what we did down there, sometimes."

Unconsciously, Rlain found himself attuning the Rhythm of the Lost. No you don't, he thought, but he wasn't angry. And that wasn't just the muting effect of dullform. He had been furious in the moment, furious enough that it had penetrated even through the fog over his thoughts, but now… he understood. He hated it, but he understood.

Better to desecrate corpses than to allow his friends to join them.

"You are a part of Bridge Four," Kaladin continued. "Storms know you've been through at least as much as any of us. You are one of us. But I can't give you a spear. Think of the storm it would cause."

Rlain heard everything the man was saying. And he acknowledged it was probably largely true. But… You're willing to be actively insubordinate against Dalinar's son, and to accuse one of his own personal friends of murder to his face, but you won't risk his ire just to give me a way to defend myself?

He welcomed the anger, the hurt, and allowed himself to attune Betrayal for just a moment before letting it fade into Pain. "A slave I am, then," he said, standing up and turning away from Kaladin. The captain—the human—let him go without another word.

Less than a minute later, before Rlain had done more than laid down in his bunk, Natam burst into the barrack. "The King!" he exclaimed, face red with exertion. He had clearly sprinted all the way to the barracks from wherever he had been stationed. Behind him, Rlain saw Sarus coming inside, looking curious and wary. "An assassin!"

Every man in the barrack jumped to his feet. Even Rlain rose.

"Battah's plucked eyelashes," swore Murk as Kaladin sprinted past Natam without waiting for another word. "What happened?"

"He's alive," Natam said hastily between gulps of air. "An attempt. He's unhurt."

Every other man in the barrack relaxed. Sarus sighed. "You couldn't have led with that?"

Natam might have flushed. He was already so red it was hard to tell. "Sorry, sir."

"No harm done," Sarus said. "Unless, of course, Kaladin trips and falls down a chasm on the way up to the palace, in which case I'm sure every one of us will hold you personally responsible." He grinned. "That was a joke."

"Ha, ha," said Natam dutifully. But somehow, despite the fact that no one had actually laughed, Sarus' words had broken the tension.

"Still," said Sarus, "I'd best follow him. Murk, you have command."

"Got it."

Sarus gave Rlain a quick nod, then turned and left the barrack, jogging after Kaladin. Rlain, seeing no reason to do anything else, laid down and tried to sleep.

If Sarus had remained, Rlain thought he would have liked to speak to him about his conversation with Kaladin. Would Sarus have disapproved of his desire to have a spear of his own? It wasn't as though he wanted to use it on the humans. Sarus would have seen that, surely. But, then again, Sarus was human, like Kaladin. He might not care about the Alethi armies and the war at large, but if there was even a small risk to Kaladin or the men?

Sarus would do exactly what he was doing now. Running out into the night just to make sure Kaladin didn't fall into a chasm. Leaving Rlain surrounded by men who didn't understand him, completely alone.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

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

-x-x-x-

36

Trust



-x-x-x-​

For myself, I fled south. That was a dangerous road, for it took me nearer to Gondor. I traveled by night, first following the Anduin with the Misty Mountain beneath my right wing. I then turned left, crossing over the vastness of the Greenwood in a single long flight, six days without landing.

-x-x-x-​

Sarus found Kaladin slumped against a wall, catching his breath as he looked into the king's study. Inside, the whole Kholin family had gathered. Elhokar was seemingly berating the captain of the King's Guard, a soldier in Kholin blue named Idrin. Frustratingly, he seemed to be pointing out Kaladin as a better example of a guard—which would make integrating Bridge Four with the other soldiers even harder than it already was.

"Moash," called Kaladin between gasps of air. Sarus followed his gaze and saw that, yes, Moash was there among the others. Leyten and Malop were supposed to be here—it was their shift—but Moash had finished his shift watching Elhokar over an hour ago. "You're supposed to be back at the barrack."

"So are you," Moash pointed out.

Sarus narrowed his eyes at the man. No, Kaladin was not supposed to be asleep. True, Kaladin's shift had been slated to end at the same time Moash's did. And, true, Dalinar had dismissed him early. But Kaladin was captain of Bridge Four—of course he would come the moment they received word of an attempted assassination.

What was Moash doing here?

"Were you here when it happened?" Kaladin asked.

"I'd just left after my shift with the King's Guard." He beckoned. "Come see."

He led Sarus and Kaladin out onto the balcony. Sarus' eyes widened at the site. The iron railing had fallen out of its mountings and was now dangling over the edge, leaving the rain-slick stone of the balcony just one careless step from a hundred-foot drop onto the irregular rock of the Plains. Several other King's Guard members were examining the damage with sphere lamps, but they parted to give the three of them room to see.

"From what we can tell, the king came out here to think after the storm. Then…" Moash gestured at the torn railing, "this."

Kaladin knelt by the empty footings where the railing had been mounted. "The railing just pulled free?" he ran his finger along the opening, then examined the mortar dust that came free. "Could just be a flaw in the design."

"Captain, I was here when it happened," one of the guardsmen said. "It fell right out, barely a sound. He leans on that railing often, sir, and it's never done anything like that before."

"Hm." Kaladin stood and walked to another section of the railing, testing it with a push. It held. It didn't so much as budge. Sarus walked past him to examine the point where the railing had separated to allow one portion to fall while the rest held.

"Kaladin," he said, too quietly for the other guardsmen to hear, touching the perfectly smooth edge where the railing had been severed cleanly at a joint. "Look."

Kaladin followed his gaze. His expression hardened. He gave Sarus a nod, then turned and strode back inside to speak to Dalinar.

Sarus remained outside, on the balcony. "What was your name, again?" he asked the guard who had admitted to being present at the time.

"Lauck, sir."

Sarus grinned self-deprecatingly. "None of that 'sir' business," he said. "I lucked into this position. Captain Kaladin is deserving of all the respect he gets, but I'm just a man who happened to be next to him when he did incredible things."

Lauck huffed a soft laugh. "There are rumors all over camp about it," he said. "Is it true he single-handedly killed an entire Parshendi battalion?"

"I think by that point there wasn't enough organization left on the field to have battalions," Sarus said. "At least not that we could tell. But his spear tasted a great deal of their orange blood that day." He glanced over at the dangling railing. "How did His Majesty avoid falling, Lauck? And who else was on duty at the time?"

"Well, he caught himself on the railing where it's dangling there," said Lauck, pointing. "And then I came out and helped him back onto the balcony. As for who else was on duty, no one was inside the room with a view of things besides me. But two of your men—Leyten and Malop, I think?—were both stationed right outside the door, and Daletel, Tus, Velis, and Ameril were elsewhere in the palace."

"Where in the palace?"

"Daletel and Tus were stationed at the end of the corridor, by the northern stairwell. Velis and Ameril were patrolling the foyer."

"Excellent," said Sarus. "You don't happen to know who all was on the previous shift, do you? And where they were stationed?"

Lauck frowned, visibly trying to remember. "Melit, Draun, Brovash, Dake, Pevral, Gaen, and… one of your men, I think. Don't remember who. And I don't know where any of them were stationed, sorry. Someone would probably have been in here, though; I'd have thought they'd see something."

Moash. "Have there been any recent recruitments to the King's Guard?"

Lauck's eyes widened. "You don't think one of us did this somehow, do you?"

"No," Sarus quickly reassured him. "No, of course I don't. But…" he hesitated, making a show of looking over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. "You know how His Majesty can get, sometimes," he said. "He worries about assassins. Understandably, given what happened to his father. But if I can get enough information to explicitly clear everyone, it'll make all our jobs easier going forward. No one actually suspects any of you, it's just about reassuring His Majesty."

"Oh, that makes sense." Lauck looked relieved. "But no, no one joined the Guard recently. Everyone who was on duty today's been in the unit since… at least a year ago? I think the last man to join up was Pevral, and he signed on in Shash of last year."

"That'll be a relief to His Majesty, I'm sure," said Sarus, smiling at Lauck. "Thanks, Lauck. I'll go report that back to the Captain."

"Of course."

Sarus turned and went back inside, thoughtful. He approached Kaladin just in time to hear Dalinar saying, "The king is insisting that I put you in charge—" he stopped, glancing over Kaladin's shoulder at Sarus.

Kaladin followed his gaze. "Sarus," he said. "You find anything out?"

"Nothing immediately helpful," said Sarus, knowing that he couldn't make even the most oblique accusations within Dalinar's hearing. He saluted the highprince. "Did I hear right? Is Bridge Four being placed in charge of His Majesty's safety as well?"

Dalinar studied him for a long moment. Those pale blue eyes in that heavy-set face were, if not suspicious, then at least wary.

Sarus, for one glittering moment, hated the man. He had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Kaladin on the rock of the Tower. He had been there when they had pulled Dalinar through the line of Parshendi—Listeners, as Rlain called his people. Yet while Kaladin had quickly become one of Dalinar's most trusted confidantes, at least among his darkeyed servants and soldiers, Sarus was still deserving only of suspicion.

Then he remembered what happened to the last lighteyes who let him get close, and the hate turned to bile in his mouth.

"Yes," Dalinar finally said, seemingly deciding that Sarus could be trusted.

"I'm not ready," Kaladin said. "My men are stretched thin as it is, sir, and we still haven't got the other former bridgemen properly trained. Not even close."

"I know. But—you realize this was done on the inside?"

Kaladin nodded grimly. "Whoever it was had to have come from inside this chamber," he said.

"And men in the King's Guard might have had access to his armor, too, that day when his Plate broke months ago." Dalinar's face looked ghastly pale in the spherelight, like a specter haunting the Plains. "I don't know who I can trust these days. Can I trust you, Kaladin Stormblessed?"

"Yes, sir," said Kaladin firmly. "I swear it."

I told you, Sarus thought with some satisfaction. Dalinar was a man who trampled over any attempt to openly redirect his thoughts, but he was not angry with Kaladin. Not really. He saw Kaladin as a kindred spirit, an honorable man in a sea of madness and disdain. He would investigate Amaram. Whether he would find the truth, however, depended on more than just his willingness to trust Kaladin.

That, however, Sarus could probably find a way to help with.

"And you trust your men?" Dalinar asked.

"I do." There wasn't a trace of doubt in Kaladin's voice.

Damnation, thought Sarus.

"I'm going to relieve Idrin of his post and give him a command in my army," said Dalinar. "It will sate the king, and I'll make certain he knows he's not being punished. To help bolster your numbers, I'll ask him for his best men and assign them to you. But in the long run, I want only men from the bridge crews—men you trust, men who have ample reason to hate Sadeas and no part in warcamp politics—watching him. Choose carefully. I don't want to replace probably loyal men with easily-bought former thieves."

"Yes, sir. Sir—this wasn't the assassination attempt you were expecting, was it?"

"No. This wasn't the work of someone who knows what they're doing. If Sadeas—or worse, the man who killed my brother—decides to strike, things will go far worse for us. We need to make ready quickly, or the storm will rip us from the stone like weak rockbuds." Dalinar turned and left the room.

Kaladin turned to Sarus. "We need to rework the schedules," he said, looking and sounding suddenly exhausted. "We're not just going to be sending a few people alongside the King's Guard patrols. Now they're our patrols."

"Yes," Sarus said. An idea was forming in his head. A way to, hopefully, keep Elhokar safe from the traitor in their midst without forcing Kaladin to confront the possibility that one of his men might turn against them until Sarus at least had more real evidence.

A way which had the added benefit of giving Sarus the influence, the power, he so desperately craved.

"I can take charge of the patrols over the king," he said. "I know His Majesty rubs you the wrong way."

Kaladin grimaced. "Dalinar put me in charge of Elhokar's guard, though."

"He also made you a Captain," Sarus countered. "You have command of over a thousand men, now, even if most of them are still in training. He expects you to delegate. You have to delegate. You're being given responsibilities based, not on what you can do personally, but on what you can organize people into doing. I'm not saying you'll never have to watch His Majesty personally—you will, if only because you've impressed the king and he'll complain if he feels like you aren't giving his safety the attention it deserves. But I can take over most of the time."

Kaladin looked at him thoughtfully. Then he nodded. "Fine," he said. "I won't lie, it's a relief. You get along better with the lighteyes than I do."

"I think Dalinar would disagree," Sarus commented with a small smile, burying the poison deep.

"Dalinar's different. You said it yourself." Kaladin shook his head, looking out at the balcony, still dimly illuminated by the sphere lamps. "I don't like this," he said quietly. "I'm supposed to protect these people from threats I can't see, threats I barely understand. I don't even like some of these people, but they're putting me in charge of their survival?"

"Who better," Sarus asked softly, "than a Windrunner?"

Kaladin's lips twisted. It wasn't a happy expression. "I suppose," he said. "I'm going back to the barracks. You coming too?"

Sarus glanced around. Adolin had left, following his father, and so had Navani. Only Renarin and Elhokar remained. Renarin was standing in a corner, methodically wiping down his spectacles, carefully avoiding everyone's gazes. The king, meanwhile, seemed about to leave, beckoning his current guards—three of whom were of the original King's Guard, joined by Leyten and Malop. Renarin's only guard at the moment was Treff, who seemed to be on the verge of nodding off.

"I don't think I could sleep now anyway," Sarus said, turning back to Kaladin. "And I want to introduce myself to the king, see if he has anything he wants me to look at now. He'll be pleased to see the man you placed in charge of his guard taking initiative."

"I suppose," Kaladin said. "You planning to take this shift from someone?"

"I think so," Sarus said. "I really don't think I could sleep now, I slept some during the storm." He glanced over. "Treff, you want to head back to the barrack?"

Treff blinked at him, clearly barely awake. "Uh. I mean. It's my shift?"

"I'll take over." Sarus grinned at him. "Go, it's been an exciting night. Get some rest."

Treff shot Kaladin a glance, but Kaladin just nodded, looking amused. Treff shot Sarus a grateful smile, then scurried away.

"Get some rest," Sarus told Kaladin. "I'll see you at shift change."

Kaladin gave him a nod, then turned and left.

Sarus stood looking after him for a long moment, then turned just in time to see the king leaving the chamber. "Your Majesty!" he called.

Elhokar turned. "Yes?"

Sarus approached and bowed low. "Your Majesty, I am Sarus. One of Captain Kaladin's lieutenants, and the best of his spearmen. He's placed me in charge of your guard, so long as you're amenable to the appointment."

"He trusts you?" Elhokar asks suspiciously.

"He does," Sarus said. "He has returned to the barracks, but you can confirm with him in the morning."

"I will," Elhokar said stiffly. "So long as he and my uncle both approve, I accept your appointment."

A king shouldn't be looking to his uncle for approval, Sarus thought, but he didn't say anything. Apart from everything else, a king who was uncertain in his decisions was one Sarus could easily influence. "Before you retire for the evening," Sarus said, "I just wanted to ask if there was anything in particular you wanted me to investigate. Anyone you suspect, or any information that might be useful to an investigation."

Elhokar studied him with narrowed eyes. "You're really taking this seriously? You don't think it was just an accident?"

"I have no strong evidence whether or not it was an accident," said Sarus. "But this is your safety we're talking about, Your Majesty. It is my duty to assume the worst."

Elhokar tried—and failed—to hide his relief. "I'm glad to hear you think so," he said. "I don't know who could have done this. Several of the highprinces might think their positions would be improved by my death, whether rightly or wrongly. Highprince Sadeas… is at the top of the list." The king looked sad about that. Sarus wondered what his relationship to Sadeas had been before the man had left his uncle to die.

"I see," said Sarus. "I am not… welcome, in the Sadeas warcamp, to say the least. But I will see about employing people to investigate on my behalf. Please let me know if you think of anything else that may be useful for an investigation."

"I will," Elhokar promised. "It's good to have a guard who takes his duty seriously."

"I'm sure many of your guards take their duties seriously," said Sarus. "But most, I suspect, do not have my particular skills or temperament. Rest easy, Your Majesty—I will allow no harm to come to you."

"Good. Farewell… Sarus, was it?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. Sleep well."

Elhokar left, followed by his current guards. With him gone, Sarus turned and stood at attention just outside the room's doors, positioning himself so that he would be visible and identifiable from inside. Renarin stepped outside a moment later to join him. "That was impressive," he said quietly.

"Elhokar is not a complicated man. He fears for his safety, which is reasonable. He worries that this fear is cause for shame, and that makes him even more fearful that being a shameful king will make him an even larger target. His anxieties circle one another like axehounds. All I needed to do was relieve some of that tension."

"And now you're in charge of his guard," Renarin observed. "That'll be an opportunity for you, won't it?"

"So I hope."

Renarin shot him a sudden look. "You won't hurt him, will you?"

"I have no intention of doing so," Sarus said. "If I did, I certainly wouldn't be openly angling to take charge of his safety. Besides, if he dies, my best chance at improving my position dies with him."

Sarus might have no particular loyalty for Alethkar anymore. He certainly had no loyalty to the Listeners either, despite liking Rlain. But he found that for all his bitterness, he was loyal to Kaladin. To the rest of Bridge Four, Rlain included. And, of course, he was loyal to himself. As he always had been. Taking charge of Elhokar's guard would give him the ear of the king of Alethkar, and from there… well. Sarus didn't know what he would do with the influence that could win him, but that was no excuse not to seek it. If a man was trapped in a house of a thousand locked doors, not knowing where they led was no excuse not to reach for any keys he could see.

"Good," Renarin said. "He doesn't like me much, but he's still family."

Sarus smiled slightly. "I understand," he said quietly.

They stood for a time in companionable silence.

"Glys can come out, if he would like," Sarus said quietly. "It's not as though I would tell anyone about him. We're on the same plateau, you and I."

"Glys is… hesitant, around people," Renarin said slowly. "More even than me. I try not to push him."

"I can understand that." Sarus glanced at Renarin's chest where, yes, a red glow was emanating from his pocket. His lips twitched and he looked back out at the night.

"I should be going to bed," Renarin said. "It's been a long night."

"As your bodyguard, it would be my honor to escort you to your father's palace."

Renarin didn't smile, exactly, but he let out a soft, amused breath. "We're actually staying here, tonight," he said. "It… simplifies things, on nights like these."

"That does simplify things," said Sarus neutrally. "I would have expected more propriety from your father and the Queen Mother, however."

Renarin flushed. "They don't—it's not like that, he said. "It's just that none of us want to be riding between the warcamps at night, things being how they are."

"Ah, of course."

Once they reached Renarin's rooms and the prince bade him good night before closing the door, Sarus took a post just outside and leaned his shortspear on his shoulder.

"The Truthwatcher is an odd friend for you," Archive commented quietly, expanding on his shoulder until she was easily visible. "His… social skills are not. You are very different."

"That's part of it," Sarus admitted. "It's pleasant to have someone who listens without judgement. I can tell him the truth about my train of thought, largely without holding anything back. It's refreshing. I was something of a mentor to him when we were younger. He really has grown much better."

"Mm." She was silent for a moment. "Where does his mistspren hide?" she asked. "I did not see where he might have been."

"His breast pocket," Sarus said.

"Ah, then you saw the plants when we were standing still?"

Sarus frowned. "The plants?"

"That is how a mistspren appears on this side, if I recall. A shimmer of light, as if refracted through crystal. When stillness is, they grow plants of light. A mark of their nature as of Cultivation."

"That's not what Glys looks like. He's a red crystal, dripping motes of light upward."

Archive slowly turned to look at him. "That," she said, "is not what a mistspren should look like."

Sarus blinked. "What does that mean?"

"My knowledge is not," said Archive grimly. "But my suspicion is nothing good."