“Your stances are unfamiliar to me,” the knight said. “But they were practiced and precise. This level of skill comes only with years of training. I have rarely seen a man—knight or soldier—fight as well as you did.”
Dalinar remained silent.
“No words for me, I see,” the knight said. “Very well. But should you wish to put that mysterious training of yours to use, come to Urithiru.”
“Urithiru?” Dalinar said. He’d heard that name somewhere.
“Yes,” the knight said. “I cannot promise you a position in one of the orders—that decision is not mine—but if your skill with the sword is similar to your skill with hearth-tending implements, then I am confident you will find a place with us.” He turned eastward, toward the village. “Spread the word. Signs like this one are not without import. A Desolation is coming.” He turned to his companion. “I will go. Guard these three and lead them to the village. We cannot leave them alone in the dangers of this night.”
His companion nodded. The blue knight’s armor began to glow faintly, then he launched into the air, as if falling straight up. Dalinar stumbled back, shocked, watching the glowing blue figure rise, then arc downward toward the village.
“Come,” the woman said, voice ringing inside her helm. She began to hurry down the incline.
“Wait,” Dalinar said, hastening after her, Taffa scooping up her daughter and following. Behind them, the oil was burning out.
The female knight slowed to allow Dalinar and Taffa to keep pace with her.
“I must know,” Dalinar said, feeling foolish. “What year is it?”
The knight turned to him. Her helm was gone. He blinked; when had that happened? Unlike her companion, she had light skin—not pale like someone from Shinovar, but a natural light tan, like an Alethi. “It is Eighth Epoch, three thirty-seven.”
Eighth Epoch? Dalinar thought. What does that mean? This vision had been different from the others. They had been more brief, for one thing. And the voice that spoke to him. Where was it?
“Where am I?” Dalinar asked the knight. “What kingdom?”
The knight frowned. “Are you not healed?”
“I am well. I just…I need to know. Which kingdom am I in?”
“This is Natanatan.”
Dalinar released an inhaled breath. Natanatan. The Shattered Plains lay in the land that had once been Natanatan. The kingdom had fallen centuries ago.
“And you fight for Natanatan’s king?” he asked.
She laughed. “The Knights Radiant fight for no king and for all of them.”
“Then where do you live?”
“Urithiru is where our orders are centered, but we live in cities all across Alethela.”
Dalinar froze in place. Alethela. It was the historical name for the place that had become Alethkar. “You cross kingdom borders to fight?”
“Heb,” Taffa said. She seemed very concerned. “You were the one who promised me that the Radiants would come protect us, just before you went out searching for Seeli. Is your mind still muddled? Lady knight, could you heal him again?”
“I should save Regrowth for others who might be wounded,” the woman said, glancing at the village. The fighting seemed to be dying down.
“I’m fine,” Dalinar said. “Alethk…Alethela. You live there?”
“It is our duty and our privilege,” the woman said, “to stay vigilant for the Desolation. One kingdom to study the arts of war so that the others might have peace. We die so that you may live. It has ever been our place.”
Dalinar stood still, sorting through that.
“All who can fight are needed,” the woman said. “And all who have a desire to fight should be compelled to come to Alethela. Fighting, even this fighting against the Ten Deaths, changes a person. We can teach you so that it will not destroy you. Come to us.”
Dalinar found himself nodding.
“Every pasture needs three things,” the woman said, voice changing, as if she were quoting from memory. “Flocks to grow, herdsmen to tend, and watchers at the rim. We of Alethela are those watchers—the warriors who protect and fight. We maintain the terrible arts of killing, then pass them on to others when the Desolation comes.”
“The Desolation,” he said. “That means the Voidbringers, right? Those are what we fought this night?”
The knight sniffed dismissively. “Voidbringers? These? No, this was Midnight Essence, though who released it is still a mystery.” She looked to the side, expression growing distant. “Harkaylain says the Desolation is close, and he is not often wrong. He—”
A sudden screaming sounded in the night. The knight cursed, looking toward it. “Wait here. Call out if the Essence returns. I will hear.” She dashed off into the darkness.
Dalinar raised a hand, torn between following and staying to watch over Taffa and her daughter. Stormfather! he thought, realizing they’d been left in darkness, now that the knight’s glowing armor was gone.
He turned back to Taffa. She stood on the trail beside him, eyes looking oddly distracted.
“Taffa?” he asked.
“I miss these times,” Taffa said.
Dalinar jumped. That voice wasn’t hers. It was a man’s voice, deep and powerful. It was the voice that spoke to him during every vision.
“Who are you?” Dalinar asked.
“They were one, once,” Taffa—or whatever it was—said. “The orders. Men. Not without problems or strife, of course. But focused.”
Dalinar felt a chill. Something about that voice always seemed faintly familiar to him. It had even in the first vision. “Please. You have to tell me what this is, why you are showing me these things. Who are you? Some servant of the Almighty?”
“I wish I could help you,” Taffa said, looking at Dalinar but ignoring his questions. “You have to unite them.”
“As you’ve said before! But I need help. The things the knight said about Alethkar. Are they true? Can we really be that way again?”
“To speak of what might be is forbidden,” the voice said. “To speak of what was depends on perspective. But I will try to help.”
“Then give me more than vague answers!”
Taffa regarded him, somber. Somehow, by starlight alone, he could make out her brown eyes. There was something deep, something daunting, hiding behind them.
“At least tell me this,” Dalinar said, grasping for a specific question to ask. “I have trusted Highprince Sadeas, but my son—Adolin—thinks I am a fool to do so. Should I continue to trust Sadeas?”
“Yes,” the being said. “This is important. Do not let strife consume you. Be strong. Act with honor, and honor will aid you.”
Finally, Dalinar thought. Something concrete.
He heard voices. The dark landscape around Dalinar grew vague. “No!” He reached for the woman. “Don’t send me back yet. What should I do about Elhokar, and the war?”
“I will give you what I can.” The voice was growing indistinct. “I am sorry for not giving more.”
“What kind of answer is that?” Dalinar bellowed. He shook himself, struggling. Hands held him. Where had they come from? He cursed, batting them away, twisting, trying to break free.
Then he froze. He was in the barrack at the Shattered Plains, soft rain rattling on the roof. The bulk of the storm had passed. A group of soldiers held Dalinar down while Renarin watched with concern.
Dalinar grew still, mouth open. He had been yelling. The soldiers looked uncomfortable, glancing at each other, not meeting his gaze. If it was like before, he’d have acted out his role in the vision, speaking in gibberish, flailing around.
“My mind is clear now,” Dalinar said. “It’s all right. You can all let me go.”
Renarin nodded to the others, and they hesitantly released him. Renarin tried to make some stuttering excuses, telling them that his father was simply eager for combat. It didn’t sound very convincing.
Dalinar retreated to the back of the barrack, sitting down on the
floor between two rolled up bedrolls, just breathing in and out and thinking. He trusted the visions, yet his life in the warcamps had been difficult enough lately without people presuming him mad.
Act with honor, and honor will aid you.
The vision had told him to trust Sadeas. But he’d never be able to explain that to Adolin—who not only hated Sadeas, but thought the visions were delusions from Dalinar’s mind. The only thing to do was keep going as he had.
And find a way, somehow, to get the highprinces to work together.
SEVEN YEARS AGO
“I can save her,” Kal said, pulling off his shirt.
The child was only five. She’d fallen far.
“I can save her.” He was mumbling. A crowd had gathered. It had been two months since Brightlord Wistiow’s death; they still didn’t have a replacement citylord. He had barely seen Laral at all in that time.
Kal was only thirteen, but he’d been trained well. The first danger was blood loss; the child’s leg had broken, a compound fracture, and it was spurting red where bone had split the skin. Kal found his hands trembling as he pressed his fingers against the wound. The broken bone was slick, even the jagged end, wetted by blood. Which arteries had been torn?
“What are you doing to my daughter?” Thick-shouldered Harl pushed through the onlookers. “You cremling, you storm’s leavings! Don’t touch Miasal! Don’t—”
Harl broke off as several of the other men pulled him back. They knew that Kal—who had been passing by chance—was the girl’s best hope. Alim had already been sent to fetch Kal’s father.
“I can save her,” Kal said. Her face was pale, and she didn’t move. That head wound, maybe it…
Can’t think about that. One of the lower leg arteries was severed. He used his shirt to tie a tourniquet to stop the blood, but it kept slipping. Fingers still pressed against the cut, he called, “Fire! I need fire! Hurry! And someone give me your shirt!”
Several men rushed off as Kal elevated the leg. One of the men hurriedly handed over his shirt. Kal knew where to pinch to cut off the artery; the tourniquet slipped, but his fingers did not. He held that artery closed, pressing the shirt on the rest of the wound until Valama came back with a candle’s flame.
They’d already begun heating a knife. Good. Kal took the knife, burning it into the wound, releasing the sharply pungent smell of scorched flesh. A cool wind blew across them, carrying it away.
Kal’s hands stopped shaking. He knew what to do. He moved with skill that surprised even him, perfectly cauterizing, as his training took control. He still needed to tie off the artery—a cauterization might not hold on an artery this large—but the two together should work.
When he was done, the bleeding had stopped. He sat back, smiling. And then he noticed that Miasal’s head wound wasn’t bleeding either. Her chest wasn’t moving.
“No!” Harl fell to his knees. “No! Do something!”
“I…” Kal said. He’d stopped the bleeding. He’d…
He’d lost her.
He didn’t know what to say, how to respond. A deep, terrible, sickness washed over him. Harl shoved him aside, wailing, Kal fell backward. He found himself shaking again as Harl clutched the corpse.
Around them, the crowd was silent.
An hour later, Kal sat on the steps in front of the surgery room, crying. It was a soft thing, his grief. A shake here. A few persistent tears, slipping down his cheeks.
He sat with knees up, arms wrapped around his legs, trying to figure out how to stop hurting. Was there a salve to take away this pain? A bandage to stop the flow from his eyes? He should have been able to save her.
Footsteps approached, and a shadow fell on him. Lirin knelt down beside him. “I inspected your work, son. You did well. I’m proud.”
“I failed,” Kal whispered. His clothing was stained red. Before he’d washed the blood free of his hands, it had been scarlet. But soaked into his clothing, it was a duller reddish brown.
“I’ve known men who practiced for hours and hours, yet still froze when confronted by a wounded person. It’s harder when it takes you by surprise. You didn’t freeze, you went to her, administered help. And you did it well.”
“I don’t want to be a surgeon,” Kal said. “I’m terrible at it.”
Lirin sighed, rounding the steps, sitting down beside his son. “Kal, this happens. It’s unfortunate, but you couldn’t have done more. That little body lost blood too quickly.”
Kal didn’t reply.
“You have to learn when to care, son,” Lirin said softly. “And when to let go. You’ll see. I had similar problems when I was younger. You’ll grow calluses.”
And this is a good thing? Kal thought, another tear trickling down his cheek. You have to learn when to care…and when to let go….
In the distance, Harl continued to wail.
One need only look at the aftermath of his brief visit to Sel to see proof of what I say.
Kaladin didn’t want to open his eyes. If he opened his eyes, he’d be awake. And if he were awake, that pain—the burning in his side, the aching of his legs, the dull throb in his arms and shoulders—wouldn’t be just a nightmare. It would be real. And it would be his.
He stifled a groan, rolling onto his side. It all ached. Every length of muscle, every inch of skin. His head pounded. It seemed that his very bones were sore. He wanted to lie motionless and throbbing until Gaz was forced to come and tow him out by his ankles. That would be easy. Didn’t he deserve to do what was easy, for once?
But he couldn’t. To stop moving, to give up, would be the same as dying, and he could not let that happen. He’d made his decision already. He would help the bridgemen.
Curse you, Hav, he thought. You can boot me out of my bunk even now. Kaladin threw off his blanket, forcing himself to stand. The door to the barrack was cracked open to let in fresh air.
He felt worse standing up, but the life of a bridgeman wouldn’t wait for him to recover. You either kept up or you got crushed. Kaladin steadied himself, hand against the unnaturally smooth, Soulcast rock of the barrack wall. Then he took a deep breath and crossed the room. Oddly, more than a few of the men were awake and sitting up. They watched Kaladin in silence.
They were waiting, Kaladin realized. They wanted to see if I’d get up.
He found the three wounded where he’d left them at the front of the barrack. He held his breath as he checked on Leyten. Amazingly, he was still alive. His breathing was still shallow, his pulse weak and his wounds dire, but he was alive.
He wouldn’t stay that way long without antiseptic. None of the wounds looked infected with rotspren yet, but it would only be a matter of time in these dirty confines. He needed some of the apothecary’s salves. But how?
He checked the other two. Hobber was smiling openly. He was round-faced and lean, with a gap between his teeth and short, black hair. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for saving me.”
Kaladin grunted, inspecting the man’s leg. “You’ll be fine, but you won’t be able to walk for a few weeks. I’ll bring food from the mess hall for you.”
“Thank you,” Hobber whispered, taking Kaladin’s hand, clutching it. He actually seemed to be tearing up.
That smile forced back the gloom, made the aches and soreness fade. Kaladin’s father had described that kind of smile. Those smiles weren’t why Lirin had become a surgeon, but they were why he’d remained one.
“Rest,” Kaladin said, “and keep that wound clean. We don’t want to attract any rotspren. Let me know if you see any. They are small and red, like tiny insects.”
Hobber nodded eagerly and Kaladin moved to Dabbid. The youthful bridgeman looked just as he had the day before, staring forward, eyes unfocused.
“He was sitting like that when I fell asleep too, sir,” Hobber said. “It’s like he hasn’t moved all night. Gives me the chills, it does.”
Kaladin snapped his fingers in front of Dabbid’s eyes. The man jumped at the sound, focusing on
the fingers, following them as Kaladin moved his hand.
“He’s been hit in the head, I think,” Hobber said.
“No,” Kaladin said. “It’s battle shock. It will wear off.” I hope.
“If you say so, sir,” Hobber said, scratching at the side of his head.
Kaladin stood and pushed the door open all the way, lighting the room. It was a clear day, the sun just barely over the horizon. Already, sounds drifted from the warcamp, a blacksmith working early, hammer on metal. Chulls trumpeting in the stables. The air was cool, chilly, clinging to the vestiges of night. It smelled clean and fresh. Spring weather.
You got up, Kaladin told himself. Might as well get on with it. He forced himself to go out and do his stretches, body complaining at each motion. Then he checked his own wound. It wasn’t too bad, though infection could make it worse.
Stormwinds take that apothecary! he thought, fetching a ladle full of water from the bridgeman barrel, using it to wash his wound.
He immediately regretted the bitter thought against the elderly apothecary. What was the man to do? Give Kaladin the antiseptic for free? It was Highprince Sadeas he should be cursing. Sadeas was responsible for the wound, and was also the one who had forbidden the surgeon’s hall to give supplies to bridgemen, slaves, and servants of the lesser nahns.
By the time he finished stretching, a handful of bridgemen had risen to get something to drink. They stood around the barrel, regarding Kaladin.
There was only one thing to do. Setting his jaw, Kaladin crossed the lumber grounds and located the plank he’d carried the day before. The carpenters hadn’t yet added it to their bridge, so Kaladin picked it up and walked back to the barracks. Then he began practicing the same way he had yesterday.
He couldn’t go as fast. In fact, much of the time, he could only walk. But as he worked, his aches soothed. His headache faded. His feet and shoulders still hurt, and he had a deep, latent exhaustion. But he didn’t embarrass himself by falling over.
In his practice, he passed the other bridgeman barracks. The men in front of them were barely distinguishable from those in Bridge Four. The same dark, sweat-stained leather vests over bare chests or loosely tied shirts. There was the occasional foreigner, Thaylens or Vedens most often. But they were unified in their scraggly appearances, unshaven faces, and haunted eyes. Several groups watched Kaladin with outright hostility. Were they worried that his practice would encourage their own bridgeleaders to work them?
The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The) Page 38