I'm a bit annoyed by the whole deal with Sadeas getting angry at Kaladin for keeping his bridge crew alive. I'm annoyed at Sadeas, because he is wrong from a practical and moral standpoint and I am annoyed at Kaladin, because he assumes that Sadeas is correct from a practical standpoint and basically gives up.
Let's review the sequence of events again:
1. Bridge four swings the bridge around to use as a shield
2. The Parshendi decide to not shoot at them and instead the archers who would have shot bridge four shoot the bridgemen on either side
3. This is enough to destroy the two bridges to each side, causing a chain reaction
4. lots of bridges get destroyed
Now, note that the Parshendi are perfectly capable of doing steps 2-4 *even if bridge four doesn't do step one*. They can just... have their archers fire at every other bridge to start with. Now that they know that is a strategy that works, they *should* do that. The cat is out of the bag now, Sadeas needs to look for a way to counter the Parshendi when they do this again because it's a working strategy and the Parshendi are sapient beings who are capable of repeating working tactics. Thankfully, he has a great example of a counter strategy: have the bridge crew use the bridge as a shield.
What does Sadeas actually do? He, uh, bans the counter strategy and hopes really hard that the Parshendi don't exploit the known weakness of his current bridge crews. Well, he never claimed to be the Highprince of War but this is a bit ridiculous.
Anyway, moving on a bit in the latest chapters we get a general view of Sadeas' philosophy and a hint as to why he was so pissed at bridge four:
"Blood was cheap. It was a lesson Sarus had not truly learned until it was his blood being spent. From the perspective of a Highprince of Alethkar, there were always more darkeyes. Training, however, was valuable. Equipment was valuable. Spheres and status were valuable. Seen through that lens, the bridge crews were an entirely economic idea."
I hate this. I hate this so much, because it's morally wrong and also stupid and I hate that the story pretends that it's smart because the morally right thing to do is sometimes also the actually right thing to do and I hate calling the highprinces smart for being both evil and wrong. Adults capable of work are not cheap, because they represent a massive investment of resources during their childhood, and losing them represents massive potential for lost work later in life. Bridgemen might not be trained as soldiers, but they're still trained as farmers, or surgeons, or whatever else and all of these jobs are also necessary for society to function and losing people capable of doing them really really sucks. Slave life is cheap if you can steal adults/mostly grown children from elsewhere and let other people bear the cost of raising them and training them, but bridgemen seem to mostly be alethi, meaning the highprinces should actually care about losses. The price of protective equipment is far far lower than the price of a life, it's one of the many reasons why we use it irl in the first place. Also when a bridgeman dies you don't even necessarily lose their armor, it can be scavenged since it would be on the alethi side of the chasm. Not armoring bridgeman should be a long term net loss.
Also, not armoring bridgemen creates short term losses because they die and then drop the bridge and then it causes massive humiliating defeats that could have prevented for the low low price of some decent friggin' armor. Sadeas isn't being economical. Sadeas is paying to be cruel. Fuck that and fuck him. You were absolutely in the right here Kaladin, don't let him get you down.
I hate this. I hate this so much, because it's morally wrong and also stupid and I hate that the story pretends that it's smart because the morally right thing to do is sometimes also the actually right thing to do and I hate calling the highprinces smart for being both evil and wrong. Adults capable of work are not cheap, because they represent a massive investment of resources during their childhood, and losing them represents massive potential for lost work later in life. Bridgemen might not be trained as soldiers, but they're still trained as farmers, or surgeons, or whatever else and all of these jobs are also necessary for society to function and losing people capable of doing them really really sucks. Slave life is cheap if you can steal adults/mostly grown children from elsewhere and let other people bear the cost of raising them and training them, but bridgemen seem to mostly be alethi, meaning the highprinces should actually care about losses. The price of protective equipment is far far lower than the price of a life, it's one of the many reasons why we use it irl in the first place. Also when a bridgeman dies you don't even necessarily lose their armor, it can be scavenged since it would be on the alethi side of the chasm. Not armoring bridgeman should be a long term net loss.
So, you're absolutely right from the perspective of society at large. Taken as a whole, it's a monstrous waste of useful human capital. But from the perspective of the highprinces, they directly pay to train and armor and support their soldiers, whereas the bridgemen are slaves that might not come from their own domains but general criminals taken from all over, so keeping them alive to keep being economically useful after the war doesn't gain them specifically anything compared to spending three bridgeman lives for one soldier life. The gains (gemhearts, status, soldier lives) are privatized while the losses are socialized, and so the highprinces who engage in the bridgeman system are selfishly optimizing. Bridgeman lives are, effectively, subsidized compared to soldier lives.
So, you're absolutely right from the perspective of society at large. Taken as a whole, it's a monstrous waste of useful human capital. But from the perspective of the highprinces, they directly pay to train and armor and support their soldiers, whereas the bridgemen are slaves that might not come from their own domains but general criminals taken from all over, so keeping them alive to keep being economically useful after the war doesn't gain them specifically anything compared to spending three bridgeman lives for one soldier life. The gains (gemhearts, status, soldier lives) are privatized while the losses are socialized, and so the highprinces who engage in the bridgeman system are selfishly optimizing. Bridgeman lives are, effectively, subsidized compared to soldier lives.
Re: your long-term argument. Alright, the highprinces don't care about losses to society as a whole. Fine, that makes sense. The highprinces could still sell the bridgemen for a personal profit after the war. I don't think training a soldier is so difficult that a soldier-slave is worth more than three bridgemen.
And in the short term, I still think that letting the bridgemen (who you need alive to carry bridges if you want to win the fight) die is stupid. It is especially stupid after the parshendi have shown that they can kill them fast enough to win the fight with a simple change in targeting priority.
I object to this. The fact that Sarus is largely buying Sadeas' bullshit even though he hates the man and Kaladin is too depressed to properly defend his decisions does not mean that I, or my story, in any way agree with Sadeas. He is wrong, both morally and tactically, and the only reason the Parshendi aren't capitalizing properly on the exposed weakness is that they don't have a single trained tactician in their entire society. That's canonical, by the way. The Parshendi haven't fought a real war in two millennia, whereas the Alethi are all in on the whole 'what is at war is healthy, what is at peace is sick' thing. The Parshendi are simply terrible at this, and the only reason they're holding their own at all is that the chasms favor their warform and abilities a lot more than the humans.
I object to this. The fact that Sarus is largely buying Sadeas' bullshit even though he hates the man and Kaladin is too depressed to properly defend his decisions does not mean that I, or my story, in any way agree with Sadeas.
This is fair, I apologize for saying the story said that, it was the character. I appreciate the explanation on Parshendi tactics as well- I was very confused on that point.
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
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18
Temperamental Kholins
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I can only remember experiencing that feeling once before. You know where.
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The King's Wit was absent from the evening's feast. It wasn't especially surprising that he would be gone from his customary pedestal—the current Wit had an unhealthy fascination with appearing unpredictable—but to be absent entirely was unusual. Yet as Torol scanned the five islands, he saw no sign of the man among the relatively sparse dinner guests. It was possible he was hidden among the thicker crowds on the king's island.
The autumn was growing colder, and this night was particularly brisk. Torol pulled his thick cloak close around him as he crossed the bridge to the central islet of the feasting basin.
"Ah, Brightlord Sadeas!" Torol turned to see Highprince Aladar approaching him. "Could I have a word?"
"Of course," said Torol smoothly, mind already racing. Aladar must be off of the king's island for a reason. Why? The only guess Torol could field immediately was that Aladar was waiting for him in the thinner crowds of the outer isles, where it would be harder to miss when Torol arrived. Why would Aladar want so badly to speak with him that he would hold back from joining the king and the other highprinces?
It has to be about Dalinar. What's the old fool done this time?
"I haven't spoken with you since you were named Highprince of Information," Aladar said, falling into step beside Torol as they crossed the isle. "How goes the investigation?"
"It is nearly complete," said Torol. And it was true.
On a chasmfiend hunt several weeks ago, King Elhokar had fallen from his horse when an essential strap of his saddle had snapped. Torol had originally assumed it to be nothing more than random chance—though he had, of course, intimated otherwise to the paranoid young king. However, the more he had his trusted servants investigate the matter, the more unsettling things became.
Elhokar's Shardplate had cracked upon being thrown from his mount. At the time, that hadn't seemed unusual. But Torol had since experimented with his own Plate, and found that a fall from that height shouldn't have been enough to do nearly so much damage. Elhokar's horse was a powerful beast, but it was several hands shorter than a Ryshadium, and he had slipped from the side and fallen cleanly where a Ryshadium might have been able to buck him and send him falling still further.
He had sent men to check with the king's stable, and they had confirmed that the strap had been cut, although it might well have been by the buckle on the saddle itself rather than a deliberate action. Still, in combination with damaged Plate…
The infused gems which had powered Elhokar's Shardplate had been cracked when Elhokar had doffed it after the hunt. It was possible that the fall had overloaded them, drawn too much Stormlight too quickly, but Shardplate often lasted the entire length of a battle without breaking and an entire campaign without cracking its gems. It seemed far more likely that the armor had been deliberately fitted with flawed gemstones, perhaps stones which had already shown signs of weakness in a previous battle.
Torol did not believe someone had attempted to assassinate Elhokar. If someone was capable of interfering unnoticed with both the king's saddle and the infused gems which powered his Plate, they could certainly have found a more reliable way to facilitate his death. Torol could think of three off the top of his head. The truth he suspected instead was far, far worse.
The only person who could have gained private access to both the king's horse and his Plate without raising any suspicion at all was the king himself. Torol could practically hear the young man rationalizing it: Uncle Dalinar isn't taking my safety seriously enough! A real assassination attempt would shake him.
"And have you identified any particular suspects?" Aladar asked.
"I intend to announce my preliminary findings tonight," Torol said.
Aladar hesitated, then lowered his voice. "May I speak freely with you, Sadeas?"
They were on the bridge between the islands. No one was within earshot if they kept their voices down. Torol turned, leaning back against the delicate filigree of the railing. "Speak."
"Dalinar asked to form an alliance with me a few weeks ago."
"An alliance?"
"Yes. He wanted our two armies to perform joint hunts, splitting the spoils between us. He claimed that by combining our strengths, we could attempt entirely new tactics."
Torol considered the man. "Why do you tell me this?"
"Because I believe Dalinar is growing impatient with the state of the war. I believe he wants us to focus more heavily on seeking vengeance for his brother than gemheart contests. And I believe that his loyalty to the king is beyond question." Aladar looked Torol in the eye. "I do not believe Dalinar is still entirely competent. But I do believe that his honor is, as it always has been, beyond question."
This was a threat, Torol realized. Aladar was telling him that if Torol used his position as Highprince of Information to accuse Dalinar of attempted assassination, Aladar would rally behind House Kholin.
Torol considered his next words carefully. "I assure you, Highprince Aladar," he said finally, "I remain as committed to the unity of Alethkar as I ever was while I campaigned with Gavilar. I have no desire to see it descend into civil war."
Aladar looked slightly mollified. "I am glad to hear it. If you have evidence to contradict anything I have said, I would be willing to hear it."
"I think," Torol said, "that my announcement will clarify things entirely for you."
Aladar's face fell. "I hope you are right. Have a pleasant evening, Brightlord Sadeas."
"The same to you, Brightlord Aladar."
Aladar nodded and turned, crossing back to the central island. Torol watched him go for a moment. He must be going to speak with an advisor.
"The rest of the kingdom waits with bated breath for this mysterious announcement."
Torol turned. The King's Wit had somehow snuck up behind him, making scarcely a sound as he traversed the bridge. "Wit," he said.
"Highprince," said Wit with a nod. The dark rings Torol had seen around his eyes at the previous feast had faded somewhat, but they were replaced with an unexpectedly grim expression on the man's angular face. "I'm afraid I can't stay for your speech—I must be going at once. Would you mind satisfying my curiosity before I do?"
"Yes," said Torol. "I would. Where are you going?"
"Away," said Wit vaguely. "The cosmere waits for no one, I'm afraid. There is work to be done, and I appear, tragically, to be the only one willing and able to do it."
"Well, I'm sure whomever you must go so urgently to insult will be very glad of your presence."
Wit sighed dramatically. "I am unfortunately cursed to be underappreciated everywhere I go, no matter how vital the service I may perform there." His light blue eyes fixed on Torol with a sudden intensity. "In case I do not return, I will share something with you. A morsel of knowledge that I've acquired which might be of interest to you. I may be wrong—but I seldom am."
"Enough dodging," Torol said flatly. "What is it, Wit?"
"Your blame," said Wit, "is not only misplaced—it need not be placed at all."
Torol frowned. "What?"
Wit smiled suddenly. "Ah, you should see your face! I'm afraid that being cryptic is one of the great joys of my life. So, for now, that's all you get. If we both survive, I'll tell you more one day."
Torol rolled his eyes, already putting the man's words out of his mind. "I'm sure. Perhaps the king will be able to find a slightly more competent Wit with your absence."
"Perhaps," said Wit. Then his expression went solemn again. "The winds are changing, Brightlord Sadeas. I ask that you survive them. It would be a terrible shame if you were to die before the truth becomes clear."
"I am not in the habit of dying," said Sadeas.
"No?" asked Wit. "You might be surprised. I would tell you to keep your eyes peeled, but that would perhaps be in poor taste." He passed Torol and crossed the bridge. "Good evening, Brightlord," he called behind him. "Farewell."
Torol sighed, filing the man's parting words away in his mind's rubbish-bin. Then he turned and crossed to the king's island at last.
The crowd of lighteyes parted for him, allowing him easy access to the king's table between the stone Jezerezeh and Ishi. "Your Majesty," he greeted as he arrived.
"Ah, Highprince Sadeas," Elhokar said. He gestured vaguely, and a lesser lighteyes—third or fourth dahn, most likely—vacated the seat at his immediate right.
Torol took it, then called for a plate from a servant. The meal today was more traditionally Alethi than the past few feasts. On Torol's plate was a steamed stagm tuber in a peppery gravy thickened with tallew flour. It was hearty in a way few nations of Roshar could match, like all good Alethi food. Torol cut himself a bite.
He sat patiently eating as Elhokar quickly finished exchanging pleasantries across the table with Highprince Bethab. As soon as it was polite to do so, however, the king turned to him. "Highprince Sadeas," he said. "Welcome. I was worried you wouldn't make it to the feast."
"I would not miss it, Your Majesty," said Torol. "It is an excellent feast. My compliments to your kitchen staff."
"They shall hear of it, I'm sure," said Elhokar. "How go the gemheart hunts?"
"Well enough, Your Majesty," said Torol, though he couldn't help the flicker of rage that suddenly ignited in his heart. Even now, more than two weeks later, he still remembered watching Bridge Four rotate on the field, dooming his assault to disaster. "There was a discipline problem among the bridge crews, but it has been resolved."
"I heard you had a slave strung up in a highstorm," Elhokar said. "Rumors say he survived the ordeal."
"Rumors always spring up around such things," said Torol lightly. "I do not put much stock in them, myself."
Those two sentences were not lies. However, Torol knew that the bridgeleader had miraculously survived the highstorm to which he had been condemned. Torol wasn't willing to break the appearance of honor just to punish one slave, but he had found another solution.
Matal was a fool and a drunkard, but he was a fool and a drunkard with an ambitious, absolutely vicious wife. Brightness Hashal would see Bridge Four brought to heel, and in exchange her husband's past indiscretions would be forgiven. That was the accord.
"I see." Elhokar looked slightly disappointed. Torol supposed that was understandable—if it hadn't been his slave, one who had ruined his battle, he would also have been entertained by the story of a darkeyed man surviving a highstorm. Still, Elhokar willingly changed the subject. "I wonder how many more Shards the Parshendi have out on the Plains. There is at least one more Blade, isn't there?"
"At least one," Torol confirmed, relishing the envy that ignited at the thought. So far, three Blades and two sets of Plate had been won in the war. Torol had not gotten lucky enough to win any of them, but there was at least one more Blade out on the battlefields. Hopefully, that one would be his. "They do not deploy their Shardbearers to every fight—or even to most fights. That suggests that if they have more than one Shardblade left, it is not much more than one."
"I agree," said Elhokar. "And I think—" he cut off suddenly, glancing across the table. "Yes, Uncle?"
Torol turned. Dalinar was standing on the other side of the table, glowering in his direction. For a fleeting moment, Torol could see the shadow of the Blackthorn on his face, a remnant of the terrifying, glorious warrior Dalinar had once been. But then the moment was gone, and Torol was left looking at the shadow of his former friend. "Sadeas," Dalinar said. "What is the status of your investigation into His Majesty's cut girth strap?"
Torol blinked, his mind quickly racing through questions. Had Aladar told Dalinar of their conversation? What did Dalinar think Torol was going to say? If he was challenging Torol like this, did that mean he was ready for a fight to break out in the middle of the feast? Surely he wouldn't risk an open conflict, not here in the middle of the king's court, would he? "Dalinar," he began, "are you—"
Torol sighed and looked at Elhokar. "Your Majesty, I was planning to make an announcement regarding my investigation tonight. I intended to wait until later and speak with you first. But if Dalinar is going to be so insistent…"
"Go ahead, Sadeas," said Elhokar with a wave of his hand. "I'm curious now." He waved to a servant who rushed to quiet the flutist while another rang the chimes for silence.
Torol gave Dalinar an annoyed look. "Your Majesty, I wasn't planning to have such an audience," he said. "This was mostly planned for your ears only."
Dalinar rolled his eyes, and Elhokar scoffed. "Don't weary me with your sense of drama, Sadeas. I'm listening, they're listening. Dalinar looks ready to burst a vein. Speak."
Well. Now Torol absolutely could not talk to Elhokar about his private suspicions. Maybe he could talk to Elhokar in private later… but probably not. Not without raising some questions. No, he would have to provide the sanitized version of his findings, and improvise as necessary. Damn these Kholins. Stop taking me by surprise!
"Very well," Torol said aloud. "My very first task as Highprince of Information was to identify the source of the attempt on His Majesty's life during the greatshell hunt some weeks ago." He snapped his fingers at one of his servants. The man handed him the cut strip of leather while another went to fetch the groom from Elhokar's stable. He'd been planning on confronting Elhokar with the evidence, but he had also been prepared to offer much of it in public afterward. He would have to make do with having things out of order. "I took this strap to three leatherworkers in three different warcamps. All agreed—this leather is too new, and too well cared for, for this to have occurred naturally. Someone slit it." Albeit that 'someone' might have just been the buckle.
"For what purpose—" Dalinar interrupted.
Torol held up a hand, forcibly keeping his glare down. Dalinar was worried that Torol was about to accuse him of attempted assassination on his own nephew. It made sense that he would try to control events the only way he knew how—by riding roughshod over everyone in his path. That didn't mean it wasn't incredibly annoying in this moment. "Please, Highprince," he said stiffly. "First you insist I report publicly, then you interrupt me?"
Dalinar fell perfectly still, his eyes fixed on Torol in a mixture of dread and anger. The crowd around them was growing thicker. Torol would have to choose his words carefully; the slightest misstep could lead to potentially devastating rumors.
"But when was it cut?" Torol asked rhetorically. "That is the essential question. I interviewed several men on that hunt. None reported anything specific, save one odd event. There was a moment when Highprince Dalinar and His Majesty raced to a rock formation. For that brief moment, a few short minutes, His Majesty and Highprince Dalinar were completely alone.
Dalinar paled a shade. Beside Torol, so did Elhokar.
Damnation, thought Torol. Elhokar's face wasn't that of a man learning his uncle might have made an attempt on his life. It was the face of a man who was realizing he might have accidentally condemned his uncle to be accused of a crime he had not committed.
But there would be time to deal with that revelation later. "There was a problem, however," Torol said. "One Dalinar himself raised. Why cut the strap on a Shardbearer's saddle? It would be useless. The Plate would easily protect His Majesty from such a fall." He held out his hand, and a second servant handed him a pouch of gemstones. Torol produced a large sapphire—one of the cracked ones he had found in Elhokar's Plate. "That question," Torol continued, "led me to examine the king's Shardplate. Eight of the ten sapphires used to infuse it were cracked following the battle."
"It happens," said Dalinar's elder son, Adolin, stepping up beside his father. "You lose a few in every battle."
Torol rolled his eyes. Would you idiots just let me finish? "But eight?" he asked. "One or two is normal. Even three. Have you ever lost eight in a single short battle, young Kholin? Let alone to a single fall from a horse?"
Adolin shot him a venomous look but gave no other reply.
Torol tucked the gemstone away before turning to the groom who had just arrived. "This is one of the grooms in the king's employ." The darkeyed boy looked on the edge of fainting. Torol took pity on him. "Fin, isn't it?"
"Y—yes, Brightlord," stammered the boy. He was so young. Younger than Tailiah had been.
Torol swallowed down the grief. "Tell me again what it is you told me earlier, Fin," he said. "Speak loudly enough for all to hear, please."
The darkeyed boy looked sick. He must have feared reprisal, even though he had done nothing wrong. "Well, sir, it was just this: Everyone spoke of the saddle being checked over in Brightlord Dalinar's camp. And I suppose it must have been. But I'm the one as prepared His Majesty's horse before it was sent over to Brightlord Dalinar's men. And I did. Put on his favorite saddle and everything. But when it…"
He trailed off, looking positively terrified of Dalinar, who seemed to be on the verge of summoning his Blade. Stop looking at the boy like you're going to do to him what you did to Rathalas, thought Torol crossly. We both know you won't. "When it returned?" Torol prompted.
"When the king's head grooms took the horse past the stable on the way to Highprince Dalinar's camp, it was wearing a different saddle. I swear it's true!"
Dalinar's face froze in confusion. Torol almost couldn't hold back his amusement at the comical expression on his face.
"But that happened in the king's palace complex!" said Adolin triumphantly.
"Yes," Torol said dryly. "How very astute of you. This discovery, in combination with the cracked gemstones, leads me to an inescapable conclusion. Whoever attempted to kill His Majesty must have planted flawed gemstones which would break when strained, then placed a careful slit in his saddle. As His Majesty suspected, they must have intended him to fall to an accident while hunting. However—these things all happened within the palace complex. My current suspicion is that whoever attempted to kill His Majesty likely intended to cast suspicion upon Dalinar." Or just to force Dalinar to take the threats seriously, because my king is a paranoid child. "It may not have even been intended to kill His Majesty—only to cast suspicion upon his uncle."
Adolin Kholin broke the silence. "What?"
"All evidence," said Torol, speaking slowly, as if the boy was slow of wit rather than merely dumbstruck, "points to your father's innocence." Then, in a burst of pettiness, he added, "You find this surprising?"
"No, but…" Adolin trailed off.
Torol turned away from him, handing the strap and gemstones back to his men before sending them away with the king's groom. Then he gave Elhokar a stiff nod before moving away towards the trays of food along one side of the islet.
Damnation, he thought. Damnation!
He had hoped that he was wrong. That was not an experience he was familiar with. But he really didn't want to have to deal with a king who was so paranoid that he was willing to attempt assassination on himself just to throw a tantrum and get his uncle's attention. Being arbitrary and mercurial was bad enough. This was so, so much worse.
Torol took a small plate of peppered tallew biscuits from a tray and looked out over the low waters of the artificial lake. The light of Mishim reflected viridian in the water.
Gavilar, what would you want me to do? He's your son. He's our king. He represents the unity of Alethkar. But how long can we stay united when he seems determined to give us reasons to crumble?
Suddenly, Torol felt a hand on his arm. He turned. Dalinar stood beside him, an odd look on his face. "Thank you," said Torol's former friend. "For not going through with it."
Torol took a moment to think through his options. Dalinar assumed that Torol had taken the office of Highprince of Information in order to cast suspicion on Dalinar. It wasn't completely inaccurate. The primary goal had been the same as Dalinar's reasons for seeking the office of Highprince of War—to give the other highprinces someone to rally behind, and to make Elhokar seem a little more objective than he really was. But Torol wouldn't have shed a tear if it had turned out Dalinar was guilty. He had even considered fabricating the evidence before deciding that doing so would only cause Alethkar to shatter completely.
But telling Dalinar that would open no doors. It would confirm Dalinar's suspicions and make him grow only more wary of Torol in future. Whereas convincing Dalinar that Torol was not his enemy had a great deal of potential.
"For not going through with what?" Torol asked, tugging his arm out of Dalinar's grip. "I had hoped to make this presentation with more evidence—enough to fully exonerate you. There will still be rumors."
Once again, every sentence was true. He had hoped to collect more evidence, because he hadn't wanted to believe that Elhokar was the monumental disaster he appeared to be. He had wanted to exonerate Dalinar, because accusing him would fracture Alethkar. And there would still be rumors, even if Torol had to fuel them himself.
The best lies were always completely true.
"Wait," said Dalinar. "You wanted to prove me innocent?"
Torol scowled at him. This isn't about you, senile old fool. "Do you know what your problem is, Dalinar?" he snapped. "Why everyone has begun to find you so very tiresome? The self-righteousness. Yes, I asked Elhokar for this position intending to prove you innocent. Is it so difficult for you to believe anyone else in this army might do something honest?"
"I…"
"Of course it storming is. You've been looking down on every other man in this court like a man standing on a single sheet of paper and thinking he can see for miles." Torol turned away with disgust that wasn't even feigned. "That book you hold onto like it's the last memory you have of Gavilar," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, it's little more than crem, and the same for those Codes of War you cling to. I would understand if you wanted to keep to them because Gavilar did—but you seem to believe in them. They're nothing more than lies people in antiquity pretended to follow to soothe their wounded consciences. But Codes or no Codes, book or no book, I didn't want to see you maligned for this attempt to kill Elhokar. We both know that if you'd actually wanted him dead, you'd have just burned out his storming eyes and been done with it."
He turned back to Dalinar, taking a sip of his violet wine. It burned pleasantly going down. "The problem was that Elhokar kept going on and on about that blasted strap," he said. And that was true—it was a problem. A paranoid king was a king who felt insecure, and a king who felt insecure was a king who was insecure. "And people started talking because he was under your protection. Stormfather knows how they thought you would try to have him assassinated—you can barely bring yourself to kill the Parshendi these days. But the rumors were problems all the same, and I sought to correct them." Torol shook his head and picked his plate back up, turning to walk away.
Dalinar caught his arm again. "I owe you a debt," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have treated you as I have these six years."
Torol rolled his eyes, swallowing a bite of his pepper cake. "It wasn't for you. It was for Alethkar. If everyone suspected you, no one would look for the truth. And if there really was an assassin"—I should have said 'is,' but Dalinar isn't likely to catch that—"then they would have been entirely free to try again. And someone did try to kill him. The strap might be a coincidence, but eight gemstones cracking after one fall from a horse? That's absurd. The strap alone would have been a ridiculous way to attempt assassination, but with weakened Plate?"
Torol stopped, a thought suddenly occurring to him. What if Elhokar only cut his own strap? he thought with rising dread. Even without the strap, the gemstones would have worked alone as a sincere attempt on his life. Is there a real assassin out there? We can't survive losing another king so soon.
"And the talk of me being framed?" Dalinar asked.
"Entirely possible," Torol said. "But also something for the others to gossip about while I investigate the reality." He looked down at Dalinar's hand, still clutching his sleeve. "Would you let go?"
Dalinar did.
Torol looked into his face. The man was off-balance, but there was hope in his expression. Almost vulnerability. He wanted to believe the best of Torol.
Torol could use that.
"I haven't given up on you yet," he told Dalinar. "Alethkar will need you before this is through. But I have to admit I don't know what to make of you lately. There are rumors of you wanting to abandon the Vengeance Pact. Is there any truth to that?"
"I mentioned it in confidence to Elhokar," Dalinar said. "So yes, there's truth to it. I don't want to abandon the Vengeance Pact, but I'm tired of the state of this war. We've been out here for five years, killing Parshendi by the handful, making no real progress to avenging Gavilar. Retreat would be better than this—Alethkar needs its king and highprinces to be in Alethkar. But I've given up on that idea—instead, I want to win. But the others won't listen." He sighed. "They assume I'm trying to outplay them with some trick."
"You'd sooner punch a man in the face than stab him in the back," Torol said.
"Ally with me."
Torol froze. He had expected something less overt than that—and he had expected it to take far longer than a single evening.
"You know I'm not going to betray you, Sadeas," Dalinar said. "You trust me in a way the others don't. Even if you don't like me, you know I'm forthright. Jointly assault plateaus with me."
"It won't work," Torol said. "I can't even get my whole army to the assaults in time. There would be no point in doubling that force."
"Together, we can try new tactics. Think, Sadeas! Your bridge crews are fast, but my shock troops are the best in the kingdom. What if you pushed to a plateau quickly to harry the Parshendi, buying time for my slower troops to arrive as reinforcement."
That… might actually work. Dalinar wasn't wrong. It wouldn't exactly be traditionally virtuous—the Alethi way was contest, in all things. But it would give them better odds. And if he could convince Dalinar to expose himself…
"It could mean a Shardblade, Sadeas," Dalinar coaxed.
Torol didn't even try to hide the greed and envy those words spurred in him.
"I know you've fought Parshendi Shardbearers," said Dalinar, "but you've lost. Without a Blade, you're at a disadvantage. I've slain two, but I don't often reach the plateaus in time. Together we can win more often, and I can get you a Blade. It will be like the old days."
Torol smiled, almost nostalgic. "Like the old days," he said. "I'd like to see the Blackthorn in battle again."
But that was the problem, wasn't it? Dalinar still had a tactical mind, but the Blackthorn was gone. He had died in the ashes of Rathalas, and his remains had spent years pickling in wine. Whoever stood before Torol now was a different man.
"How would we split the gemhearts?" he asked.
"Two thirds to you," Dalinar said immediately. "You have twice the success rate as I do on assaults alone."
"And the Shards?"
"The first Blade to you. The first Plate to me, to give to my son, Renarin."
"The invalid?"
"What do you care?" Dalinar asked. "You already have Plate. Sadeas, this could mean winning the war. Winning, and finally going home."
Torol's heart sank. Ialai was here on the plains with him. What did he have to go home to? An empty castle and memories. But he kept the grief inside, shrugging. "Fine," he said. "Send me the details by messenger later. But for now, I've missed enough of this feast."
Dalinar smiled and left him to his food.
Torol turned back to the water. He wasn't yet sure how he was going to use this… but he could already see more than a dozen ways he could. The essential question was where he wanted Dalinar to end up.
The man had his uses. He was straightforward, honest, and had a fearsome reputation. But that reputation was decaying more and more rapidly with every passing month. Soon, there would be nothing left but an embarrassment. The punchline of the joke that was the Kholin name.
Adolin was young. Hotheaded. He might yet become a good highprince in time, but with every passing month, Dalinar left more of an impression on him.
I need to keep this kingdom standing, Torol thought. Can I do that with Dalinar preaching about his Codes and sneering at everyone who behaves properly Alethi?
…No. I can't. Not if Elhokar is also going to be throwing tantrums on a yearly basis. I can only deal with one temperamental Kholin at a time.
Torol sighed. He didn't want to see Dalinar die. But he was the last of Gavilar's allies left who hadn't died, gone mad, or changed completely. This kingdom was on his shoulders, and he would keep it standing.
Even if it meant driving the knife into his oldest friend's back.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shape scuttle across the surface of the table, like a cremling darting from one crack to another. But when he glanced back, it was gone.
I honestly much prefer this version of Sadeas as a political operator who genuinely thinks he's the one sane man keeping everything afloat to someone who brags about trying to undermine the only chance at stopping the apocalypse.
Sadeas does seem to if not underestimate Dalinar than fail to understand him.
There's some surface level understanding (which lets him play Dalinar like a fiddle in certain aspects) but nothing deeper.
He's caught up in looking at how far Dalinar has fallen that he fails to see all the ways Dalinar has risen above. Which is the story of his life really.
I honestly much prefer this version of Sadeas as a political operator who genuinely thinks he's the one sane man keeping everything afloat to someone who brags about trying to undermine the only chance at stopping the apocalypse.
It's honestly not far off from the Sadeas we see in WoK. It's in the second book that he starts to go off his rocker, and that's implied to be a mix of middle age crisis and the entity behind the thrill fucking up his emotions.
The power is out here and the storm is even interfering with cellular data, although that part is improving. I'll get the chapter uploaded when it clears up some.
Whatever it was, it was ravenous. I remember that: its intense hunger. Other than that, I can recall only a comparison I made at the time.
-x-x-x-
Kaladin dreamed he was the highstorm.
He sailed over the wide waters of the Ocean of Origins. He passed the storm-tossed coast of New Natanan, blowing on a wave of wind and water past the Natan people's slanted homes half buried in the rock.
He crossed the Shattered Plains. He saw in a mere moment the way the chasms grew wider in the east, where the storms had nearly worn away the plateaus entirely, leaving the Unclaimed Hills to smoothly join with the depths, interspersed with tall, spindly pillars.
Despite the difference between east and west, there was a symmetry to the chasms themselves. It was as if some incredible impact had broken the ground in an entirely regular pattern—one which had been slowly eroded over centuries by the billowing storms.
Then he was past the plains, sailing over the inland Sea of Spears where jagged rocks rose from the water's surface. Waves were jostled by his passage, crashing into the irregular stones. He passed over Alethkar in the north, glimpsing for an instant the great cities of Kholinar and Revolar.
Then he turned southward, far from anything he knew. He passed the wide plains until he reached a majestic range of mountains higher than any of the Unclaimed Hills, densely populated around steam vents near their summits. These, he realized, must be the Horneater Peaks, completely enclosed within the kingdom of Jah Keved.
The highest peaks breached above the stormwall itself. He left them behind, rolling with thunder and fury into foreign lands. He passed fields and cities, villages and rivers, hills and valleys. Among it all there were many armies. Dozens of them. They cowered in encampments built against the leeward sides of rock formations all over Roshar. Lighteyes and generals planned their campaigns within wagons and Soulcast forts.
There were so many. How many wars were being fought across Roshar? Was there anywhere at all that wasn't embroiled in it? Anywhere men didn't die in vain?
He passed over cities that looked strange to his eyes. Wonders built both by the hands of men and by the natural forces that had shaped Roshar, long before men had ever built their first houses. The armies grew scarcer as he sailed westward, but still they remained.
He passed into a city laid out in a triangular pattern, with four tall mountains spearing upwards at the corners and center. There were flashes of light coming from a building on the central peak. Kaladin rushed towards it, then burst in through an unlatched window. He billowed down the hallway, passing servants with long skirts and hair like spun gold, calling out in a strange language.
He burst through a door and passed into a hall where a man stood over two corpses. The man wore white. His head was shaved. In his hand he held a long, thin sword. He turned as Kaladin blew past him, revealing wide, Shin eyes. Stormlight was dissipating around him like mist in the morning sun.
Kaladin blew out another window and sailed further. Then, quite suddenly, he was caught. He was plucked out of the storm like a fish on a line. He felt the winds blowing past him as he fell still, turning in the air.
There was an eye looking down at him. It was as if a crystalline moon hung low in the sky, and within the glass sphere was a green eye the size of a nation. Yet—no, it was not that the eye and its sphere were large. It was that, quite suddenly, he was small. The size of a cremling pierced by a pin and affixed to a table.
Well, said a woman's voice, at once soft and warm yet powerful as the storm itself. I thought I felt someone gliding past the Valley. Do you know you smell of Invention?
Smell of invention? What did that mean? How could someone smell like invention? It would be like reeking of creativity. "Who are you?" Kaladin called out.
No one you need to concern yourself with just yet. I am Cultivation, but I doubt that means anything to you.
It didn't. "There are so many wars," Kaladin said. If this was a dream, he wanted to ask the important question before he awoke. "Why are so many men fighting? What are they all fighting about?"
Ah, you aren't much for pleasantries, are you? the voice asked. She sounded amused—and a little sad. I should have expected that of a son of Tanavast. You remind me of him.
"What does that even mean?"
Nothing to you. For now. I could give you a more detailed answer to your question, but you wouldn't understand it. For now, this is all you need to know. Her voice grew quiet. Odium reigns.
"Who?"
Odium. Come and find me when he arrives, Son of Tanavast. I predict that we will be able to help one another before this story ends.
"Find you where?" Kaladin called out, struggling against the hands holding him down. Then he blinked. Hands?
"You have returned to us, I think," said Rock in his ear.
Kaladin was pinned to the floor of the barrack by Rock and Tesh, who were each holding down two of his limbs. Several others were standing nearby, watching nervously. Syl was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn't unusual—she often liked to fly out into the highstorms.
After his dream, he thought he could even see the appeal.
"You tried to walk out into the storm, lad," said Teft quietly.
"I'm—I must have been sleepwalking," said Kaladin, finding his throat unexpectedly hoarse.
"Sleep-screaming, too," said Murk, looking shaken. "You all right now?"
"I think so," said Kaladin as Rock and Tesh let him sit up. Tesh reached down and pulled him to his feet. His head ached, and he breathed in, trying to clear it.
The pain faded. Tesh's face twitched, and Kaladin realized he must have drawn in some of that strange, orange light from the man's sphere pouch.
"Sorry," he said.
Tesh shook his head, as if to say, No harm done.
"What is it you dreamed?" asked Rock
Kaladin hesitated, but these men knew he was apparently a Knight Radiant and so far had told no one. He could trust them with a strange dream. "I dreamed that I was the highstorm," he said. "I saw all of Roshar, going east to west. I saw cities like nothing I've ever seen before. I think I might have even seen the Assassin in White."
"What cities did you see?" Sigzil asked from a nearby bunk.
"Probably nothing real," said Teft.
"Which is why it's worth checking," Sigzil said dryly.
"I saw…" Kaladin thought back. "There was a city built into troughs in the ground, concentric rings with spiraling cuts connecting them."
Sigzil's face visibly tensed. "Sesemalex Dar," he said. "What else?"
Kaladin swallowed. "There was a city in the far west built around four peaks. It was laid out like a triangle, with one peak at each corner and one at the center."
"Rall Elorim, the City of Shadows."
"That's where the Assassin in White was," Kaladin remembered. "He had just killed two people in a building on the central peak. A palace, maybe."
"Wait," Teft said. "You've never heard those places described before?"
"Never," Kaladin confirmed. "Not that I recall, anyway."
"It is possible that you have consciously forgotten something you once heard," Sigzil said. "My master taught me to be wary of memory. It is so often inaccurate. But this seems… too much to be coincidence."
"There was a voice, too," said Kaladin. "At the end of the dream, it plucked me out of the storm. It called me a 'son of Tanavast,' and said that I smelled of invention."
Sigzil frowned. "Invention…" he mused. "I think I have heard that word before. Used as a specific name, not the generic term. But I can't recall where."
"In one of your travels, maybe?" Rock asked. "Your kind travel far."
"My kind?" Sigzil asked. "The Azish?"
"Not your race, your trade," Rock laughed. "The Worldsingers."
Sigzil's expression froze. Then, stiffly, he stood and walked out of the barrack.
Rock blinked after him. "Now why is he so upset?" he asked. "I am not ashamed of being cook. Why is he ashamed of being Worldsinger?"
"Worldsinger?" Kaladin asked.
Rock shrugged. "Is strange people. They travel to each kingdom and tell the people there of other kingdoms. They think this thing is important, but I do not know why."
"Hey, what'd you do to Sigzil?" Dunny asked, joining them. He was probably the youngest of the bridgeman, with an infectious cheer that always lifted the spirits of the rest of the crew. "He promised to tell me about my homeland after the storm, but now he's all grumpy."
"Your homeland?" Murk asked. "I thought you told me you were from the Roion highprincedom."
"Sigzil said my violet eyes aren't native to Alethkar," said Dunny. "He said I must have Veden blood in me."
"Your eyes aren't violet," said Moash from his bunk.
"Sure they are," said Dunny. "You can see it in direct sunlight. They're just really dark. Sort of like how Tesh's eyes look almost pale in the right lighting."
Tesh glanced at him, and Kaladin noticed that today was apparently not 'the right lighting.' Tesh's eyes were a dark slate-grey in the gloom of the barrack. The man must be in a dour mood, possibly because he'd been woken in the early morning and forced to hold down his bridgeleader for who knew how long.
"Ha! If you are from Vedenar, we are like cousins!" Rock laughed. "The Peaks are near Vedenar. Sometimes the people there have our hair!"
"Could be worse, Dunny," said Kaladin. "Someone could have mistaken your eyes for red and called you a Voidbringer. Rock, Murk, Teft, Moash, get your subsquads together. I want the men oiling their vests and sandals."
The men nearest him sighed, but all got to work. In the after-storm damp, oiling the leather gear was the only way to prevent the hogshide from rotting after a few months, and the metal buckles would rust far faster. Most bridgemen typically did not live that long, but their leathers were reused. The army provided the oil so that new, expensive leather wouldn't need to be bought.
About an hour into the morning chores, Kaladin saw a line of wretches being herded into the lumberyard. It was Chachel, the third day of the week, and the day in which new wares were displayed in the slave markets. It was thus also the day that the bridge crews had their numbers replenished.
Kaladin beckoned to Tesh, and together the two of them crossed the yard to meet Gaz.
The bridge sergeant saw them approaching. "Now, I know you'll probably yell at me anyway," Gaz said, "but I really can't change anything here."
"You're bridge sergeant," said Kaladin dryly.
"Yeah, but I don't make assignments anymore. Brighness Hashal does it herself. In her husband's name, of course."
"So we get nothing."
"Didn't say that," Gaz said. "She gave you one."
"Which?" Kaladin asked, looking over the men. There had to be nearly a hundred. "He'd better not be an invalid, or too short to carry the bridge."
"Oh, he's plenty tall," Gaz said. "Good worker, too, by all accounts." He gestured at the other slaves, who parted to reveal…
"A parshman?" Kaladin asked incredulously.
The parshman had been looking eastward towards the horizon, but at the exclamation, he turned and met Kaladin's eyes. His were black, and his round, hairless head was marbled in symmetric red and black. His face was completely expressionless.
"Why not?" Gaz scoffed. "They're the perfect slaves. Never complain, never talk back. He's domesticated, or so I was told."
"I thought parshmen were too valuable to use in bridge runs," Kaladin said. And I assumed that Sadeas wasn't sure they'd be tempting enough targets for the Parshendi archers.
"Just an experiment, lordling," Gaz said. "Brightness Hashal wants to know her options. Finding enough bridgemen has been difficult lately. Parshmen could help fill in holes."
"Right," said Kaladin, rolling his eyes. "How long you think until she manages to grind Bridge Four into the ground?"
"I give you a few weeks," Gaz said. "Maybe even a couple months. You are good at keeping your crew alive, lordling, I have to give you that."
It was perhaps the most sincere thing Gaz had ever said to him. Kaladin sighed. "We'll see if I'm good enough," he said. "You, parshman—come with me."
The parshman followed him and Tesh back towards the Bridge Four barrack. They were greeted by Kaladin's four subsquad-leaders—Murk, Rock, Moash, and Teft.
"What on Roshar?" Teft asked, staring past Kaladin at their newest crewmate. "What are they playing at?"
"An experiment, according to Gaz, and I believe him," said Kaladin. "Either we find out parshmen can be trusted to run bridges, or he snaps and tries to kill us. Either way, Hashal gets what she wants."
"Pailiah's safehand fingernails," Murk cursed—although, with how imaginative his curses could be, the word blasphemed might be more accurate. "That woman will see us all dead, Kaladin."
"That's her goal," said Kaladin. "But we're not quite doomed yet."
"No," Moash agreed, looking speculatively at the parshman. "We could get him to run out in front of the bridge, take an arrow for one of us. Turn things to our advantage.
Turn a liability into an advantage whenever you can. Kaladin had first heard those words spoken by the man who had sent his brother out to die. As they echoed in his head, Syl alighted on his shoulder, finally returning from her jaunt on the winds. She was looking at the parshman, a strange grief on her face.
Storm it. "No, Moash," Kaladin said. "He's one of us now. I don't care what he was before. I don't care what any of you were. We're Bridge Four, and so is he."
"But he's a parshman," Moash protested.
"And you're a darkeyes!" Kaladin snapped back. "You think the lighteyes don't talk about us the same way? You think it's right for you to do it to him, but it's wrong when they do it to us?"
Moash grimaced, but gave no further argument. Kaladin turned to the parshman. "You have a name?"
The parshman shook his head.
That's two members of the crew I've had to come up with names for, Kaladin thought wryly. "Well, we'll have to call you something. How about Shen?"
The newly-named Shen shrugged, which was about the same response Tesh had given on that first evening.
"All right," Kaladin said, turning back to the others. "This is Shen. He's one of us now."
"I don't like it, Kaladin," Teft said. "I've never liked the parshmen. They make me uncomfortable. Especially down here."
"If we rejected people from the bridge crews because they made the rest of us uncomfortable, Teft, we'd have had to kick you out long ago."
Teft snorted in laughter, suddenly smiling. "Fair enough. But I'll be keeping an eye on our friend 'Shen.'"
"Feel free," said Kaladin. "Rock, find him a vest and sandals. He's in your subsquad."
Rock nodded, beckoning to Shen. The parshman followed him into the barrack.
"The rest of you," Kaladin said, looking at the other four men. "Make sure the men take care of their equipment."
"What will you be doing?" Moash asked.
"I'm going to take a walk," said Kaladin. "I'll be back in an hour or so. I need to think."
"Hold a moment, Kaladin," said Teft, nudging Tesh. The silent man nodded, holding out his sphere pouch to Kaladin.
By now, all four of Kaladin's subsquad leaders had seen Tesh's strange orange spheres. Other than them, however, no one was told. Kaladin didn't mind the rest of the crew knowing about his apparently being a Knight Radiant, but Tesh's strange orange Stormlight was his secret, not Kaladin's. For as long as he seemed to want it kept secret, Kaladin was happy to oblige him.
Teft had taken a keener interest in the matter than the others. He had suggested that Kaladin and Tesh rotate their spheres between each other, so that Kaladin would always have infused spheres, and Tesh would have dun.
It was a good suggestion. So, with a sigh, Kaladin took Tesh's pouch and handed his own over. "I doubt I'll get into any fights in the warcamp," he told Teft. "I'm not that stupid."
"You never know for sure," Teft warned. "Always be ready, lad. It may not matter today, but one day, carrying those spheres may well save your life."
-x-x-x-
About an hour later, Kaladin had still not returned to his crew. He strolled through the warcamp, deep in thought.
He had promised to try and train the bridgemen, and he intended to do so. But that would take time they did not have. Shen's arrival showed that Hashal was not content to wait for the natural course of the bridge runs to kill him and his men—which, given that her predecessor had apparently been killed for Kaladin's mistake, made a fair amount of sense.
But he had seen the plains in his vision. The east side had chasms so wide that they eventually melted directly into the Unclaimed Hills. It was an awful, inhospitable part of Roshar—but, if Kaladin's vision was to be believed, it might be their best option.
"You seem troubled, Kaladin," Syl said, coming to a stop directly in front of him. She had spent much of the walk darting hither and thither in front of him, dancing between market stalls, making faces invisibly at passing soldiers.
"I am," Kaladin said.
"What about?"
"Getting the bridgemen free is going to be more difficult than any of my previous escape attempts as a slave. And I failed in all of those."
"It will be different this time," Syl said confidently. "I can feel it. You've said the Words now."
The Words. "You said you didn't remember those," he said. "The—the other spren woman, she knew them. What was she?"
"An inkspren," said Syl. "I don't think her kind like mine very much."
"What, windspren?"
"No," said Syl. "Honorspren. I remembered it after you said the First Ideal. It's… hard, Kaladin, sometimes. My head feels fuzzy a lot of the time, like I'm trying to think through water. That doesn't make any sense, does it?"
"No," Kaladin admitted.
"Well, it's true. It's like my thoughts are heavy, and I keep dropping them. But saying the Words was like opening a gate, or like lifting off a weight. Everything's a little clearer now. And I remember a little more. Not much, but a little. I remember noticing you from a long way off, and sneaking off to find you even when everyone else thought I was crazy to do it. But I don't remember where that was or why they thought that."
Kaladin considered that. "There are more of those ideals," he said.
"There are," Syl confirmed. "I don't remember what they were, but I think that's less because I'm still too dumb to remember them and more because they're different for everyone. Your Second Ideal is going to be a little different from someone else's. I think." She paused. "Or maybe the Second Ideal is specific to the Order? Either way, I don't think I'm supposed to remember the other Ideals. Only you can figure out what the oaths are."
"Oaths?"
"Speak again the ancient oaths," Syl recited, and Kaladin remembered the strange woman—the inkspren—intoning the very same words into the rising wind. "The oaths deepen the bond between a Radiant and their spren. They let me give you power, and they make it easier for me to think."
Kaladin frowned. "But—if you need Radiants to be able to think, how were you able to come and find me? And how are there more honorspren out there if there haven't been any Radiants in two thousand years? Are they all just acting like windspren?"
"No…" Syl said slowly. "No, we can think fine. We just can't think fine here."
"In Alethkar?"
"On Roshar. I think I'm from… somewhere else."
Kaladin glanced at her. "The Tranquiline Halls?"
"I don't think so. But I can't remember."
That was frustrating. But as he looked at her face, her downcast eyes, he realized it must be even more frustrating for her.
Still, if her memories were starting to return…
"Syl," he began, struck by an impulse, but before he could ask his question Syl cut him off.
"Kaladin, I'm worried about Tesh." Then she blinked. "Oh, sorry, what were you saying?"
"It's nothing," Kaladin said. "What worries you? I think he's improving. Still not speaking, but he seems happier."
"I… that's true. And I'm happy for him. Really!" She looked reluctant. "I'm not worried for him. I'm… worried about him. I know it's Tesh, and I appreciate everything he's done for you. I don't like being suspicious. But that inkspren came from somewhere."
"You think she's tied to him?" Kaladin asked. "Like you are to me?"
"I think she has to be connected to someone. And I can't think of anyone else it might be. But even an inkspren shouldn't give him the abilities he apparently has. That orange Light he makes… Kaladin, no human should be able to make Light. Even spren can't make Light, besides the Stormfather."
Kaladin frowned. That felt somewhat dogmatic—Tesh was odd, yes, but so was Kaladin. If having strange abilities were cause for concern, then Kaladin himself should have been right at the top of the watchlist. "Is it dangerous?"
"I… don't think so. You can use it, and it should work the same as Stormlight does when you do. But it's a bad sign. Even if the Light itself isn't dangerous, the fact that a man is creating it probably is."
"He seemed just as surprised as we were," Kaladin pointed out.
"That's true…" She didn't seem convinced.
"We'll keep our eyes open," Kaladin promised. "If I start feeling any odd effects from that orange Stormlight, I'll let you know. You keep an eye on Tesh and let me know if you see him doing anything concerning. But remember, he's our friend. He's one of my men. We can be careful, but we shouldn't be paranoid."
"Okay. Yes, we can be careful. Whatever this is, we'll get to the bottom of it." She looked encouraged. "Oh, you were going to say something, right?"
"Right, I had a question. There were three names I heard in my dream. Four, if invention counts. I wonder if you've heard any of them before."
"We can see if they jog any memories," Syl said. "Invention doesn't, unfortunately."
"That's fine. I'm not sure it was even a name." Kaladin thought back, remembering the woman's voice. "The first one is Tanavast."
Syl breathed in sharply. Her eyes widened. "I know that name," she whispered. "Where do I know that name from?" For a long moment, her face remained screwed up in concentration. Then, slowly, she said, "...I don't think that's the name I knew them by. I think I heard it once or twice, but I think whoever Tanavast is, I knew them by a different name. I can't… remember anything else. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. That's something, at least."
She didn't look like that was especially comforting. "You said there were three names?"
"The second was Cultivation."
Syl sighed happily. "I think she might be my mother," she said speculatively. "That's what it feels like, anyway." Then she frowned. "I also get the feeling that the other honorspren wouldn't like me putting it that way."
"Your mother?" Kaladin asked. "Spren have parents?"
"Not like humans do," Syl said. "Spren are little splinters of gods. I think Cultivation is one of the gods that spren are little bits of. But I don't think there's much of Cultivation in honorspren."
Gods? That sounded… "Not very good Vorin orthodoxy," Kaladin commented. "Teaching about gods other than the Almighty."
"Oh, I think the Almighty might be the other one," Syl said. "Or one of the other ones. I think there are only two, but there are also more."
"That makes even less sense than anything else you've said."
"I know," she complained, hanging her head. "I really can't remember much, Kaladin. Just impressions. I remember that I'm a little tiny piece of a god. I remember that Cultivation is that kind of god. I remember that there was one other. But I also remember that there were a lot more than one other. I realize that's a contradiction, but I don't know how it fits together. I'm sorry."
"Well, I'll have to figure out the next oath and we can see if you remember then," Kaladin said.
Syl smiled. "Yes, that might work," she said. "I don't think I ever had a Radiant before who swore past the Fourth Ideal at the latest, and I remember being a lot less… muzzy than I am now. I think my head was clearer most of the time, in the old days." She looked at Kaladin. "You said there were three names?"
"The last was Odium," said Kaladin.
Syl froze, her whole transparent body tensing. She hissed out a breath through her teeth. "I know that name," she said. "I don't think you should say it out loud, Kaladin. Not if you can avoid it."
"Why?"
"Because he might be able to hear," Syl said. "He probably can't, but you never know. He's the enemy, Kaladin. The god behind the Desolations."
Kaladin's footsteps stuttered to a stop. "The what?"
Syl nodded. "He's why we exist," she said. "Why spren started to make Radiants in the first place. It's all so that humanity would have a way to fight him. I remember that much."
Kaladin swallowed. "Cultivation said that—that he reigns."
"That's probably why I decided to come, then," Syl said. "I figured there had to be a reason. A reason why I'd decide to make a new bond now after two thousand years without Radiants. It's probably because of whatever Cultivation was talking about."
Kaladin swallowed. "Does that mean…" he whispered, suddenly keenly aware of how many people were walking down the streets around him. None were in earshot, but he was still unsettled. "Does that mean that a Desolation is coming?"
Despite the best efforts of both God and PG&E, I have arrived at last. Sorry for the delay. Y'all ever been gaslit by a government-sanctioned monopoly for nine straight hours? I don't recommend it.
I genuinely have no idea how Stormlight 5 is going to go, which is pretty unusual. There's so many different ways the character arcs can satisfyingly resolve.
Character arcs are a topics I ave been wanting to bring up for a while.
When Brandon Sanderson was talking about Dalinar in one of his spoiler-casts, he spoke about how in the 'Way of Kings Manuscript,' he had Dalinar kill his nephew Ellokar and assume to kingship because such an event was demanded by Dalinar's character arc, while Dalinar's not killing his nephew the king necessitated a similar, yet markedly different character arc.
Do you think Brandon is referring to collection of meta-character arcs here? And if yes, what does such a collection mean for storytelling?
I apologize and asked for your forgiveness for dumping such a heavy question(s) on you, but it(/they?) has been bugging for a while now.
Character arcs are a topics I ave been wanting to bring up for a while.
When Brandon Sanderson was talking about Dalinar in one of his spoiler-casts, he spoke about how in the 'Way of Kings Manuscript,' he had Dalinar kill his nephew Ellokar and assume to kingship because such an event was demanded by Dalinar's character arc, while Dalinar's not killing his nephew the king necessitated a similar, yet markedly different character arc.
Do you think Brandon is referring to collection of meta-character arcs here? And if yes, what does such a collection mean for storytelling?
I apologize and asked for your forgiveness for dumping such a heavy question(s) on you, but it(/they?) has been bugging for a while now.
No harm at all in the question, it's an interesting one. I do think Brandon is referring specifically to Dalinar's character arc there. Killing Elhokar would have been the culmination of a chapter in a character arc about accepting responsibility and refusing to stand idle while wrongs and errors are committed that he has the power to prevent. Not killing Elhokar allowed Brandon to retain the subtext of accepting responsibility (If I must fall) but also wove more tightly into the wider themes of Stormlight regarding ends and means (Journey before destination). I think it's a vitally important change in transforming SLA into what it is rather than just another dark fantasy slog in the tradition of ASOIAF. Not that it would have ever been exactly like ASOIAF, but a version of SLA where that version of Dalinar was a hero would have been morally a lot closer to Martin's work.
Thank you for your answer to my question.
You provided more insight into the topic than I anticipated.
Again, thank you for your thorough and expansive answer.
I wouldn't be surprised if we see a subversion. If you read the Mistborn trilogy, it seemed at the beginning that the main character was going to be the one to inheret the godlike power granted by the Well of Eternity, and then
Turns out the religious character who is devoted to a God who turns out to be dead ends up inheriting the power of both the Good and evil Gods and becomes the God he recently lost faith in
Completely out of left field.
I wouldn't necessarily expect a straight line plot resolution from Sanderson.
I wouldn't be surprised if we see a subversion. If you read the Mistborn trilogy, it seemed at the beginning that the main character was going to be the one to inheret the godlike power granted by the Well of Eternity, and then
Turns out the religious character who is devoted to a God who turns out to be dead ends up inheriting the power of both the Good and evil Gods and becomes the God he recently lost faith in
Completely out of left field.
I wouldn't necessarily expect a straight line plot resolution from Sanderson.
Dalinar could end up claiming Honor and Odium as I've seen one theory claim, with the two Shards making him become War to Sazed's Harmony.
Given that one of the secret projects revealed that Roshar and Scadrial are at war with each other, and that The Lost Metal revealed that there are Rosharan refugees on Scadrial, this means that Odium either ends up winning, or Dalinar becomes like Sazed but evil due to Odium and Honor not mixing as well as Preservation and Ruin did for Sazed.
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
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20
Desecration
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It reminded me of an immense, terrible spider.
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Sarus turned over a corpse dressed in a Kholin blue officer's uniform. The man's pale green eyes stared sightlessly up, his red officer's knots hardened by congealed blood from the arrow wound in his neck. Quickly, Sarus rifled through the man's pockets for spheres and valuables. Finding little, he picked up the man's side-sword and then returned to the pile of weapons the crew was accumulating.
Many of the men were drilling in spear forms with Teft in a nearby hollow. He could hear the commands to 'hold,' 'strike,' and 'parry' echoing through the chasm. Most of the remaining crew—Rock and Murk's subsquads, mostly—were searching for as many supplies as they could gather. They didn't need to gather as much plunder as the whole crew together could—they just needed enough to fool Hashal and Gaz. Since neither was particularly adept or at all familiar with the situation in the chasms, that was easier than it might have been.
Kaladin and Syl were scouting eastward. The armies had tried that, in the past, as a few questions to soldiers and merchants had revealed. But those men hadn't had an honorspren capable of flight, or a Knight Radiant who could use Stormlight to keep from tiring, to speed up their expeditions. It was still all too likely that any path eastward out of the chasms might be too long for them to manage without running afoul of highstorm or chasmfiend. But with Kaladin and Syl scouting, they would at least be able to make a guess as to how likely.
But with every passing rotation of chasm duty, the odds of escaping through the depths seemed to grow thinner. There was still no sign of an eastward exit. Even if they found one, it would almost certainly be too far to reach while carrying supplies, gear, and their injured companions, especially with chasmfiends on the hunt. It was looking increasingly likely that any attempt to flee the bridge crews would need to be made on the surface, through the Sadeas army's sentries.
Luckily, things were changing in the warcamp. A few short weeks ago, Kaladin had reported seeing Adolin Kholin in the Sadeas camp. Shortly afterward, the Kholin army had begun joining Sadeas on plateau assaults. Since that day, Kholin soldiers had been increasingly present throughout Sadeas' territory. Sarus hadn't yet figured out how to use that, but he suspected it would be possible. If he could distract a guard post by making them focus on the Kholins…
"Tesh," called a voice.
Sarus looked up. Kaladin had returned, and was beckoning him.
"I need a hand," said Kaladin in a low voice as Sarus approached. "And I can't risk Shen hearing."
Sarus cocked his head. Why?
"I've had an idea for how I can make the Parshendi archers focus on me instead of the others," Kaladin said. Two more men had died in the past two weeks—Idolir and Brils. Kaladin had taken each as a personal failure.
Sarus followed Kaladin towards a cluster of fallen Parshendi corpses. Then Kaladin picked up a shortspear and tossed another to Sarus.
"We're going to peel off their armor," he said. "Cut it away from them, then use it to make a suit for me."
Sarus blinked. Why would Kaladin want to armor himself? Then he realized, and his eyes widened.
Kaladin nodded. "You get it. I got the idea from how Shen reacted when we scavenged that bow from the Parshendi archers last week. I know the Parshendi are different from parshmen, but that's the one situation that makes even parshmen react strongly—interfering with their dead. I'm hoping the Parshendi will react similarly."
Focusing their fire on you and leaving the bridge crew alone. Sarus nodded appreciatively, kneeling beside the body. Clever.
"I've asked Lopen to gather any leather straps he can salvage from the soldiers' gear," Kaladin continued as they worked. "Then I'm hoping to piece together a suit for myself. It won't be much real protection, I expect, but it will be clearly visible. Hopefully, that'll be enough."
Sarus began to nod, already working to sever the carapace from a corpse. Then he froze, spear tip half wedged beneath the Parshendi's armor. With a quick motion, he reached out and seized Kaladin's forearm, stopping his efforts to pry the carapace free.
"What--?" Kaladin began, before looking at Sarus' expression. Then he heard it too.
There was a terrible grinding, scraping noise coming from down a nearby chasm. Sarus slowly turned his head. He could just barely see, down a long, straight chasm, a distant shape creeping along on the rock. It was larger than the chrysalises Sarus had seen on bridge runs—much larger. The size of a building, nearly as big as the forty-bed barracks where all of Bridge Four slept.
But it didn't come in their direction. Sarus saw it turn down another chasm. Painfully slowly, the echoes of its passage grew quieter, more distant.
Kaladin let out a breath. "I heard another one while I was scouting," he said. "That's why I came back. We'll never make it out this way, Tesh. Even if we held out for a break in the storms that lasted two or more weeks, there are too many chasmfiends down here. We'd never make it that far."
Sarus nodded grimly. He'd suspected as much.
"So our best chance," Kaladin said, returning to his work, "is to get the men trained with the spear, then break through one of the guard posts under cover of night. Head south, away from Alethkar. But the men need time to train, and that means I have to find a way to give them that time."
Sarus let out a breath, then continued peeling back the Parshendi's carapace. Kaladin was right.
"I'm going to need Stormlight," Kaladin said. "Your spheres are still getting infused?"
Sarus nodded.
"Good. That's going to be a necessary part of this. I can't pull the Parshendi fire if I get killed the first time I try."
"Hey, gon!" Lopen's voice came from nearby. The Herdazian rounded a corner, laden with strips of leather under his remaining arm and a coil of rope over his shoulder. "Found what you were looking for."
"Keep your voice down," ordered Kaladin, taking both leather and rope from him. "There's a chasmfiend just a few plateaus over. We heard it."
Lopen paled. "Sure, I'll keep it down," he said, a little shrill. "Quiet as a flamespren in a blizzard, that's me."
They soon scavenged enough carapace to construct a workable suit of armor. Workable in the loosest sense, at least—it was little more than pauldrons, a breastplate, and a makeshift shield. It would provide far less protection than anything made by a professional, but it was recognizable as Parshendi plate, and that was all they needed.
"But gancho, how are we going to get this out of the chasm, anyway? I doubt the guards will let you keep it, even assuming Shen does." Lopen gestured upward, pointing at a permanent bridge which cast a shadow over the chasm floor. "Sure, we could tie it to an arrow and have Rock shoot it at the bridge, but I'm pretty sure it's a bit heavier than the sphere we found last time."
A little over a week ago, they had found an incredibly valuable emerald broam in the chasms. In order to get it out, they had tied it to an arrow and Rock had demonstrated skill with a bow in firing it into a bridge above. But that wouldn't work with something as bulky as this carapace.
"That definitely won't work," Kaladin agreed as he piled the armor into a sack. "But I have an idea. Help me find rocks, both of you—about the size of a fist."
What are you planning? Sarus wondered, even as he started searching. It wasn't hard to find stones of roughly the right size, and soon they had gathered a small pile in the middle of the chasm floor. Kaladin scooped them into a sack, then tied it to his belt. He took a long rope from Lopen and wound one end of it around his arm.
Then he took a deep breath. On Sarus' shoulder, too small to be seen, Archive breathed in sharply—a sure sign that the man was breathing in Sarus' orange Stormlight. Even if he hadn't heard her, it would be obvious from the way orange light began wafting from Kaladin's skin.
Kaladin ran his hand along one side of a stone. Where his fingers passed, the light seemed to adhere to the surface. Then he held it up and pressed it against the wall. He let go, and it hung there, stuck fast to the side of the chasm.
Kaladin grinned in satisfaction. He took out another stone, then affixed it a little higher up. One after another, he created handholds for himself as he climbed up the chasm wall. By the time he was about halfway up, the lower handholds were falling to the ground behind him, but he reached the bridge before he ran out of places to grip.
Kaladin tied the rope around his arm to one of the bridge's supports, a wooden strut connected to the side of the chasm. He caught hold of the short end of the rope past the knot, then looked back down and called out. "Tesh, pull this tight."
Sarus nodded, understanding. He grabbed the trailing rope and pulled hard. The knot held against him.
It also held Kaladin's weight when he leapt from his perch, swinging free. He paused there a moment, still streaming Stormlight in a cold mist all around him. "Okay," he said. "Now tie the armor to the other end of the rope.
"He is resourceful," Archive commented. Sarus tied a knot around the sack, pulling it tight so that it would remain closed when Kaladin pulled it up.
He did just that, gripping the rope with his legs and pulling the length below him up towards the bridge. He tied it to the underside of the bridge, near the railing, where a man could stretch out over the side and grab it from above. He looked down, then back up at the knot holding him. Sarus heard him speaking quietly to Syl, too softly to be audible from the chasm floor. He was still for a moment, then moved sharply, as if afraid of losing his nerve. Sarus' eyes widened as he slashed at the rope above him with his knife. It snapped, and he fell. Sarus moved to catch him, but then stopped as he saw Kaladin twisting in midair. Orange light poured from him, streaking behind him like the tail of a comet in the night sky. Kaladin set his feet facing the ground just before he struck the chasm floor. A burst of mist escaped him, and frost crept along the floor beneath his sandals.
Kaladin let out a grunt at the impact, his knees bending to absorb the shock. Then he stood up as easily as if he had fallen no more than five or six feet.
"Storms! Teft said you could do strange things with Stormlight, gon," said Lopen faintly. "But seeing it…"
Kaladin smiled. "I'm still learning how it works, but I think it might come in useful. Still—keep it quiet. The men can know, but no one outside Bridge Four." He pointed up at the sack, now suspended high above them. "You think you can get that on our next run, Lopen?"
"Sure," Lopen said. "Nobody will see. I'm easy to ignore."
"Good. Let's see how the men are doing in their drills."
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They had an opportunity to make use of Kaladin's new carapace armor just a few short days later. When the horns rang out to call the crew to another bridge run, Kaladin pointed to Lopen. "Bring a bigger sack than usual for the waterskins," he ordered. "Something that'll hold the water and the… gear we prepared."
Lopen nodded and dashed into the barrack. The rest of the crew formed up by the bridge. Kaladin took his place beside Sarus. The two of them didn't bother to rotate when the rest of the crew did. No one complained—if they were going to run at and immediately beside the deathpoint on every single run, they earned the right to see where they were going on the long march.
"Here's hoping this works," Kaladin muttered.
Sarus nodded.
"It will," said Syl, flitting about their heads. "It's a good idea, Kaladin. I didn't like it when you came up with it, but it does make sense. And it'll help you protect the crew."
"I hope so."
They raised the bridge and began to run. Sarus knew the moment they crossed the bridge with the armor tied beneath it—not because the sack dangling below was visible, but simply because his mental map of the chasms and bridges near the warcamps was extremely well-developed after so long.
It had the added benefit of being one of the bridges closest to the warcamp, which meant they were nearly guaranteed to cross it. Unfortunately, that meant Lopen would have a great distance to run to catch up with them, laden with both armor and water.
Lopen alone could not carry water enough for the entire crew, so another man always went with him. That role, like every position beneath the bridge itself, was on the rotation for the crew. It was the most coveted position by far, because it meant the lucky man didn't need to carry the bridge or expose himself to the Parshendi arrows on that run. Today, it was Treff.
Lopen and Treff caught up with them a few minutes after they pushed the bridge across the first chasm. They distributed the water, and Kaladin took the opportunity to reach inside the sack and verify that the armor was still in one piece. By the look of dark satisfaction on his face, Sarus guessed that it was.
As the bridgeleader pulled back from the sack, Sarus saw Shen looking down at it. There was a complicated expression on his face—subtle, difficult to distinguish from his usual blankness, but Sarus could see it clearly. His eyes were sad and horrified as he gazed on the defiled carapace. Sarus even saw his hands shaking slightly.
Sarus suddenly imagined the Parshendi wearing human skin and bones into battle. He imagined a helmet made of half a ribcage on the head of an archer aiming at him as he ran across the final plateau. Was that how it felt to Shen to see them using the carapace of the Parshendi this way?
On an impulse, Sarus reached out and caught Shen's shoulder. The parshman looked up and met his eyes. They stood there for a moment, perfectly silent while the men chatted around them, a half-full waterskin in each of their hands.
Then Shen nodded once. It was not the slow, ponderous movement that Sarus had grown accustomed to. It was sharp. Almost military.
And, quite suddenly, Sarus understood.
You shouldn't be here, he thought, studying the man. His red brow was marbled with patterns of black creeping up from his cheeks, and his black eyes seemed suddenly deep and alien in the sunlight. You should be the servant of some highly-placed lighteyes. You were, weren't you? But somewhere you slipped up, you unsettled someone, and they sent you here to die. You're not a parshman at all, are you?
The Alethi had assumed that the Parshendi looked different from the parshmen they kept as slaves because they always had. Sarus still remembered those first days after the expedition had encountered them in the deep south. They had been described as having strange, alien forms, often as radically different from one another as from the humans. He remembered the chatter in the warcamp during the first year of the war, as men wondered where the strange carapace armor had come from—armor which they had never seen on the Parshendi until they were in battle. Armor which the Parshendi could apparently grow from their bodies.
If the Parshendi could grow armor some of the time, could take different shapes when they were called for… who was to say they could not take the shape of a parshman?
Shen's eyes narrowed. Sarus had been staring at him for a while. He must be making the man—the Parshendi infiltrator—nervous. But there was no need for Shen to worry.
Sarus grinned, baring teeth. Shen blinked. Now he knew what to look for, Sarus saw him cycling through a dozen different expressions. Then he smiled back—a small, hesitant expression, but there nonetheless.
What loyalty did Sarus owe Alethkar anymore, after all?
The final soldiers crossed the bridge. Sarus and Shen joined the rest of the crew as they dashed across, pulled it behind them, and continued the run.
At the penultimate crossing before the assault, Kaladin reached into the sack, using the rest of the crew to hide him from the army. He pulled out the armor and put it on. Sarus saw Shen wince and turn his eyes away.
"I'll run alongside the bridge," Kaladin said quietly to Sarus. "You mind taking my spot in the deathpoint?"
Sarus shook his head.
"I appreciate it," Kaladin said. "With luck, they won't be shooting at you anyway."
They crossed, lifted the bridge, and began the final run. The Parshendi had already prepared a firing line, and as they drew nearer, Sarus saw them drawing back bowstrings. Then, just before they fired, Kaladin ducked, taking his hands from the bridge and sprinting ahead. Sarus heard Brightlord Matal, Hashal's husband and the official overseer of the bridge crews, screaming in shock and panic.
But he could do nothing to stop Kaladin now.
Sarus saw the Parshendi within sighting distance of Bridge Four lower their bows. It was too far to see their expressions, but he could imagine their fury. He had seen a pale echo of it on Shen's face less than an hour ago. Then, nearly every archer in the Parshendi line—all those, at least, within range—turned and fired on Kaladin instead of the bridges.
From her perch among the handholds of the bridge, Archive gasped. Sarus couldn't see it in the bright daylight, but he knew Kaladin must have started streaming orange light. The man moved, sharp and erratic, dodging between arrows and ducking beneath the rain of death. Not a single arrow was fired on Bridge Four. Few were fired at any of the nearby bridges. Sarus saw that the bridges most distant from Kaladin were still taking fire, whether because the archers there had not noticed Kaladin or because they could not hope to hit him at that range.
Kaladin ducked behind an outcrop, then emerged again, zig-zagging wildly. He took hits—Sarus saw an arrow slice across his arm, and another impact his leg. But he kept running. In the bright, early afternoon light, Sarus couldn't see the orange Stormlight knitting his wounds closed, but he knew it must be happening.
Then Sarus saw Kaladin raise his shield towards another volley. It was subtle, but unmistakable to Sarus' eyes, as several arrows curved in mid-flight, striking Kaladin's shield instead of sailing past it and into its bearer.
Kaladin's motions, dancing between the arrows, had slowed him. The bridges soon caught up. Without so much as a word exchanged between crews, they parted around him like a river around a boulder, leaving him to absorb the fire while they placed their bridges. As soon as that was done, the army rushed in behind them. Once the battle joined, the archers had to focus elsewhere, and Kaladin was able to return to the crew.
"You storming idiot!" Moash shouted as he arrived. "What was that? What were you thinking?"
Kaladin smiled tiredly. Then he caught Sarus' eye and gestured to his pouch. Sarus shook his head to confirm that the Stormlight rising from him had not been visible.
"Talenelat's blood-soaked smallclothes," muttered Murk in awe, pawing at the arrow holes in Kaladin's vest. There were two shafts still dangling from it.
Kaladin breathed heavily. Then a thought seemed to occur to him, and he turned to face the direction from which they had come—the direction of the army's rear officers. "Fall into line, men," he ordered.
They did so, quickly forming ranks behind him. Sarus realized why at once. Brightlord Matal was standing beside their bridge, looking very nearly terrified. And towards him was riding a familiar man in blood-red Shardplate.
—smoke slipping through his shaking fingers—
Sarus shook off the memory as Kaladin began to jog over in the direction of the two lighteyes. Sarus reluctantly joined the rest of the crew as they followed him.
They arrived just a moment after Sadeas did. Matal bowed, followed by Kaladin and the bridge crew.
Sarus did not, at least for a moment. He saw Sadeas meet his eyes. Then, just before the highprince could say anything, Sarus forced himself to stoop before him, feeling hate, grief, rage, and old fear roiling within his belly like boiling water in a cauldron.
"Avarak Matal," said Sadeas. Kaladin stood up straight again. Sarus gratefully followed suit with the rest of the crew. Highprince Sadeas was no longer looking at him, focused instead on Kaladin. "This man looks familiar."
"He is the one from several weeks ago, Brightlord," said Matal, voice slightly higher than normal. "The one who…"
"Ah, yes. The 'miracle.' And you sent him forward as a decoy like that? I would think that you would be… hesitant to dare such measures, after what happened to your predecessor when this man took unusual actions."
"I take full responsibility, Brightlord," said Matal, his face screwed up in resignation.
Sadeas looked past the bridge at the battle on the plateau across it. "Well, fortunately for you, it worked. Those savages almost ignored the bridges in favor of firing on one slave. I suppose I'll have to promote you now." He sighed. "All twenty bridges laid, with scarcely a casualty among the crews." He turned his head slightly, and Sarus met his eyes again. "It seems almost a shame."
Sarus gritted his teeth.
"Consider yourself commended," Sadeas said to Matal, then spurred his horse into motion, crossing the bridge and joining the battle.
The moment he was gone, Matal spun to face Kaladin, eyes wide with fury. "You could have gotten me executed!"
"But I got you promoted instead," said Kaladin. "You're welcome."
"You're welcome—" Matal spluttered. "I should see you strung up."
"You're welcome to try," said Kaladin. "It didn't work last time, and do you really want to give me a chance to survive another storm? Besides—from now on, Sadeas is going to expect me to be out there, distracting the archers. Good luck getting anyone else to try that."
Matal flushed in impotent rage. Without another word, he stalked off to another crew.
Kaladin slumped slightly in relief. As the men crowded around him, he turned and caught Sarus' arm.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "I know that must have been hard."
Sarus nodded once.
Kaladin studied him for a moment before turning to face Rock. "We should get the men—" he stopped, eyes widening, staring past Rock at the battle on the next plateau.
Sarus followed his gaze. A crew of Parshendi archers had broken from the battle. Seemingly heedless of the risk from behind, they were aiming directly for the crew. For Kaladin.
"Take cover!" Kaladin shouted, but even as he said it, Sarus knew it would be far too late.
Fortunately, they were not alone on the battlefield. The archers were interrupted in the act of drawing back their bowstrings by a squadron in Kholin blue. A single man in slate-grey Shardplate leapt nearly a dozen feet, bowling over two Parshendi to take a position on the edge of the plateau, between the archers and Bridge Four. He swung in wide arcs with a seven-foot Shardblade, leaving Parshendi corpses falling around him with eyes sputtering out like burning embers.
Highprince Dalinar Kholin, armed with the legendary sword Oathbringer, had come to the rescue of a crew of thirty-one slaves and unfortunates. The Parshendi scattered before him, directly into the blades and spears of his men.
As the Parshendi squadron routed, Dalinar turned to face the bridge crew. He raised Oathbringer in an unmistakable salute, then turned to rejoin the battle.
"Storms!" said Drehy. "That was him, wasn't it? Dalinar Kholin?"
Sarus nodded, but no one was watching him.
"Aye," said Teft, sounding awed. "The king's own uncle."
"He saved us!" Lopen crowed.
"Bah," said Moash. "He saw an opportunity to take out some undefended archers, and took it. Lighteyes don't care about us. Right, Kaladin?"
Sarus looked over at Kaladin. The man's face was vaguely confused. Then he turned, not towards the crew, but looking down the line of bridges.
"Who will care?" he whispered to himself, inaudible to the rest of the crew. Then he blinked and seemed to return to himself. "You're probably right, Moash," he said, "but even if it was just an opportunity taken, I'm not about to be outdone by a storming highprince." He turned to them, gesturing down the line of bridges before them. "There are still plenty of bridgemen from the other crews injured," he said. "Let's see what we can do for them."
I hope that is not the course that Sanderson goes. Partly because it would be the 'should have expected that in hindsight based on Mistborn 3' and partly because he has done a lot of subverting so far in the series. Making humans the invading Orcs of the setting and what happened between Navani and the Sibling of Urithiru come to mind.
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
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21
The March of Progress
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Whatever this thing is, it is a threat to the whole cosmere. I see no indication that it intends to remain confined to Ashyn.
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"With every passing assault, he trusts me more," Torol said.
He and Ialai reclined together in the sitting room of their war palace. It was far humbler than Sadaras, back home—and far humbler than Torol could afford, in theory—but he couldn't be seen to have a grander palace than Elhokar, or even to be attempting to compete with him.
Still, despite the relatively small size—Torol couldn't justify more than half a dozen guest rooms and two extra halls—he was able to furnish it to a suitable level of comfort. He himself sat in a plush armchair, a small map of the Shattered Plains on a table by his left arm. Ialai lounged on a sofa on the other side of the room. The doors were closed, and though there were guards outside, Torol had made certain long ago that any room where he discussed business with Ialai was properly soundproofed. No one would hear anything short of a shout.
"Then do you think our window of opportunity has opened?" Ialai asked, brows furrowed thoughtfully over her shrewd eyes. "Will Dalinar question you if you suggest something that will leave him exposed?"
Torol hesitated, resting his head back against the cushion of his seat. "I'm not certain," he admitted. "Dalinar is… difficult to predict. He always was, but especially these days. Those blasted Codes have entirely rotted away any good Alethi sensibilities that remained to him, Ialai."
"Ironic," she mused, "that the ancient Alethi Codes of War should so heavily undermine modern Alethi customs."
"Culture, like every other measure of human achievement, is a march of progress," Torol said. "I don't think it's at all odd that the so-called 'wisdom' of the ancients should be more an impediment than an aid to us now."
"Hm." Ialai seemed unconvinced. Rather than argue, she returned to the topic at hand. "Do you think there will ever come a point where you can expect him to expose himself to a planned betrayal?" she asked. "If he's so unpredictable these days, we may have to trust at least something to luck, though we can mitigate the risks."
"I don't think I can afford to trust any part of this to luck," said Torol darkly. "If I don't remove Dalinar completely—if I even let one man escape whatever trap I set—I lose my grip on Elhokar entirely. There can be suspicion that I may have betrayed Dalinar, but there can never be proof. Proof would shatter Alethkar irrevocably."
"Not if we could rally the other highprinces behind us," Ialai pointed out. "We both know Elhokar is incompetent. Perhaps Gavilar did the hard work of unification, not for his son, but for us?"
"No. A kingdom founded by a dynasty that lasted only two generations, both of which were killed or deposed before their time? It's a foundation that can't stand, Ialai. It's like building a house on the windward side of a mountain—it'll crumble at the first storm."
Ialai let out a noise of derision. "Elhokar's rule is scarcely better. Even if we had to reconquer half the highprincedoms, it would be better than this."
"I don't believe that." I can't believe that. Not yet. "Elhokar has something going for him that we don't, after all."
Ialai shot him a questioning glance.
Torol smiled sadly. "A living heir."
Ialai's face fell. She looked away from him with a sigh. "I suppose that's true."
Torol's official heir, nowadays, was the son of Ialai's sister. Even if the boy were more than three years old, it was an incredibly tenuous link on which to hang a highprincedom; to dangle the hopes of an entire kingdom on such a thread would doom that kingdom to instability and failure.
Torol and Ialai had, of course, been trying to produce a new heir for years. Even before the rebellion, before Torol's world had come crashing about his ears, they had been trying to produce a male child so that they wouldn't have to trust the highprincedom to an unknown man who had the good fortune to marry their daughter.
They were now most of a dozen stillbirths and miscarriages deep, with Tailiah as their only success. It was looking increasingly like the unbroken line of Sadeas was doomed to end with Torol. Within the next few years, Ialai would cease being fertile entirely, and that would be that.
Certainly, Torol could take mistresses. It was even possible that one of the mistresses he'd had in his youth had actually borne him a child of which he had no knowledge. But such a thing had little appeal to him now. Young women could be beautiful, certainly, but the one time he had tried to lay with one in the past several years he had been unable to stop seeing what his daughter might have looked like, had she only had the time to grow a little older.
Besides, he loved Ialai. More than he would have thought possible, thirty years ago. And the idea of seeking to replace both her and their daughter made him want to retch. No—his legacy would not be in his children, or the continuation of his house. He would leave his immortal mark on the world in the kingdom he kept standing, even as its first king's family tried their very best to bungle it all away.
"Do you think you could manipulate Dalinar into suggesting something himself?" Ialai asked suddenly.
Torol raised an eyebrow, welcoming the change of topic. He had grieved his daughter many times. Right now, he had work to do. "How would you suggest I do that?"
Ialai tapped her lips with a finger, deep in thought. "He wants to change the course of the war. Eliminate a large force of Parshendi at once."
"Yes." Dalinar had expressed the need to do that several times since they had begun collaborating.
"What about the Tower?" Ialai suggested. "It's a very remote plateau, so to reach it in time for a battle would require Dalinar to use your bridges. His chull-pulled ones would never arrive in time. It's only accessible from two other plateaus, as I recall, even for the Parshendi's leaps, which would make it far easier to box them in. And the chasmfiends have planted their chrysalises on it many times already."
A slow smile crossed Torol's face. "You should have been born a man," he said. "But I am grateful every day that you were not, love. It's brilliant."
"A lesser woman might take offense to that," Ialai said.
"You," Torol said, grinning at her, "are not a lesser woman. There may not be another opportunity to assault the Tower for months, but there's no great rush. I'll keep an eye out for any other opportunities, but if an opportunity to assault the Tower appears, that will be our opening."
-x-x-x-
The opportunity came far sooner than Torol had expected. Less than a month later, his sentries sounded the horns, and the runner gave the report he had waited for.
"A chasmfiend has surfaced on the Tower, Brightlord," reported a man in armor. Darkeyed, but relatively respectable. Third nahn, at the lowest.
"Excellent," said Torol, springing to his feet from the chair at his dining table. Anticipationspren sprung up around his feet like red ribbons spiraling in the faint breeze. "Have my horse readied as quickly as possible. I must go to the Kholin warcamp."
The runner saluted, then dashed off again.
Torol walked quickly to his armory, where his servants were already preparing his Plate. They helped him remove his fine outerwear, then slipped his arms into his padded doublet and clipped the red Plate to the arming points. He felt it the moment the suit of Shardplate closed around him—a surge of sudden strength, immediately noticeable, as the Stormlight in the gems powering the armor activated. The Plate transformed in an instant from a weight on his body into a source of strength.
As soon as it was done, he sped from the armory, barely holding himself back from breaking into a dead run. His horse was waiting for him outside the stable. It was not a Ryshadium, so he couldn't leap onto its back without risking injury to it. Instead, he carefully mounted, trying not to resent the delay too much.
The moment he was astride the beast, he spurred it onward, out of the warcamp and towards the one visible on the horizon where Dalinar would be mobilizing his forces.
A single shamespren danced on the wind beside him as he galloped along the plain. He forcibly tamped down on that traitorous part of his mind. It would be devastating if Dalinar or one of his advisors saw a shamespren flitting about now, with success so close Torol could practically taste it.
This is necessary, he told himself again. Your friend died years ago, and if he could see the man who has taken his place, he would give you his blessing. Dalinar knew that sacrifices would be necessary to preserve Alethkar.
He would forgive you. He will forgive you when you meet again in the Tranquiline Halls.
The shamespren faded away. For a moment, Torol thought he saw another spren, like a shadowy shape creeping along the rock face beside his horse, keeping pace with it. But when he turned his head, all he saw was the faint irregularities in the texture and color of the rock itself.
He reached the Kholin warcamp in under ten minutes. The sentries let him pass without so much as a hail—just further evidence that his gambit with Dalinar was paying off. The man, after more than a dozen joint assaults, trusted him implicitly. He had practically bared his back in preparation for Torol's knife.
"You should be with your forces, Sadeas." Dalinar greeted him, already clad in his unadorned Plate. Beside him, young Adolin was just finishing the final components of his own Kholin-blue armor. "The Tower is a distant plateau. Speed will be of the essence."
"Agreed," said Torol. "But we need to confer first, my friend."
"What about?"
"The Tower is more than just a distant plateau, Dalinar! You were the one who said we needed to find a way to trap a large force of Parshendi on a plateau." Dalinar had said that, much to Torol's delight. The moment he'd heard his former friend thinking aloud, he had known that if an assault on the Tower became an option, Dalinar would slide easily into his place. "The Tower is ideal. They always bring a large force there, and two sides are inaccessible even to them. We would only need to box them in on the north and west sides."
Torol didn't bother to hold in his delight when he saw Adolin nodding. "He's right, Father," said the young man. "If we can trap them there, hit them from both sides, it could mean a turning point in the war."
"My scribes estimate they can't have more than twenty or thirty thousand troops left in total," Torol said. That was also true, although their estimates were vague and unreliable at best. The expeditions into the Unclaimed Hills in the years before Gavilar's assassination had not given particularly exact estimates as to the Parshendi population. "The Parshendi will commit ten thousand to the Tower—they always do. If we can entrap and kill that entire force, it will cripple their ability to wage war on the Plains."
"This will work!" Adolin said, seeming to join in with Torol's excitement—albeit for a different reason. "It could be what you've been waiting for—a chance to deal enough damage to the Parshendi that they can't afford to keep fighting!"
"We need troops, Dalinar," Torol coaxed. "How many can you field, at maximum?"
"Eight thousand, perhaps, on such short notice." Dalinar seemed less excited at the prospect than Adolin, but not out of any hesitance. He seemed instead to be considering how to achieve the goal, not considering that Torol might have a different goal entirely.
Good. "I can deploy about seven thousand," said Torol. That was a decent ratio. He had hoped that his army would number about the same as Dalinar's on this final assault, just in case it came down to actual combat. But seven thousand wasn't much less than eight thousand, and if he could wipe out eight thousand Kholin soldiers in one move, it would cripple the rival highprincedom irrevocably.
The logic was the same as that for trapping the Parshendi. But Torol's gaze was longer than Dalinar's. Where Dalinar wanted to win a war in vengeance for the fallen king, Torol wanted to eliminate one of the largest threats to the stability of Alethkar. The Parshendi couldn't threaten the kingdom. Dalinar Kholin could.
"The Parshendi will reach the Tower first," Torol continued. "That's inevitable with a plateau that far out. But if we take all forty of my bridge crews, we can get both of our armies to them faster than ever before."
"I won't risk lives on your bridge crews, Sadeas," Dalinar said firmly. "I don't know that I can agree to a completely joint assault."
Thank the Almighty for that damn bridgeman and his tenacity, Torol thought. Never thought I'd be glad he failed to die. "I have a new way of using the bridgemen," he said aloud, keeping his tone dismissive. "Their casualties have dropped to nearly nothing."
"Really?" Dalinar sounded surprised—and intrigued. "Is it because of the armored bridgemen? What made you change?"
"Perhaps you've gotten through to me," Torol said. Or perhaps I've just been turning the liabilities that appear in my path into advantages. "Regardless, we can't afford to wait for your heavy bridges. Your army will never arrive in time. I can't risk engaging without you, not with the numbers they'll have. This is the best chance we'll get."
There was a moment's pause as Dalinar considered. Torol tried not to let his anxiety boil over, though he couldn't completely avoid drawing a few anticipationspren.
Then Dalinar nodded sharply. "Very well. Let's finish this. Adolin, send word to mobilize the Fourth through Eighth Divisions."
Torol smiled. "I'll go rejoin my men," he said. "This will work, Dalinar."
"I know," said Dalinar, determination writ in every line of his face. "We'll join you soon."
As Torol galloped back to his own warcamp, he finally released the iron grip on his emotions. Triumph flared, drawing a wave of passionspren like crystalline snowflakes. Blending with them were the white petals of shamespren.
I will miss you, Dalinar, Torol finally admitted to himself. I already do. But I swore to keep this kingdom together, and I can't do that with you. This is the march of progress, old friend, and today you will be trampled beneath it.
Wowza. You really are moving the story along with great speed.
I hope Kaladin and his men arrived to the Tower in time to save some portion of those eight thousand men trap on that plateau along with Dalinar.
Wowza. You really are moving the story along with great speed.
I hope Kaladin and his men arrived to the Tower in time to save some portion of those eight thousand men trap on that plateau along with Dalinar.
Right, sorry.
I went back and doubled checked the chapter and realized that it occurs prior to the assault on the Tower.
Thank you for pointing out my mistake.
