“Well, that last one is going to be difficult.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he replied dryly.
She smiled, though she couldn’t quite decide how to feel. “I kind of killed the moment, didn’t I? Between us?”
“I’m glad you did,” he said, dusting off his hands. “I get carried away, Shallan. At times, I wonder if I’m as bad at being an ardent as you are at being proper. I don’t want to be presumptuous. It’s just that the way you speak, it gets my mind churning, and my tongue starts saying whatever comes to it.”
“And so…”
“And so we should call it a day,” Kabsal said, standing. “I need time to think.”
Shallan stood as well, holding out her freehand for his assistance; standing up in a sleek Vorin dress was difficult. They were in a section of the gardens where the shalebark wasn’t quite so high, so once standing, Shallan could see that the king himself was passing nearby, chatting with a middle-aged ardent who had a long, narrow face.
The king often went strolling through the gardens on his midday walk. She waved to him, but the kindly man didn’t see her. He was deep in conversation with the ardent. Kabsal turned, noticed the king, then ducked down.
“What?” Shallan said.
“The king keeps careful track of his ardents. He and Brother Ixil think I’m on cataloging duty today.”
She found herself smiling. “You’re scrapping your day’s work to go on a picnic with me?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were supposed to spend time with me,” she said, folding her arms. “To protect my soul.”
“I was. But there are those among the ardents who worry that I’m a little too interested in you.”
“They’re right.”
“I’ll come see you tomorrow,” he said, peeking up over the top of the shalebark. “Assuming I’m not stuck in indexing all day as a punishment.” He smiled at her. “If I decide to leave the ardentia, that is my choice, and they cannot forbid it-though they may try to distract me.” He scrambled away as she prepared herself to tell him that he was presuming too much.
She couldn’t get the words out. Perhaps because she was growing less and less certain what she wanted. Shouldn’t she be focused on helping her family?
By now, Jasnah likely had discovered that her Soulcaster didn’t work, but saw no advantage in revealing it. Shallan should leave. She could go to Jasnah and use the terrible experience in the alleyway as an excuse to quit.
And yet, she was terribly reluctant. Kabsal was part of that, but he wasn’t the main reason. The truth was that, despite her occasional complaints, she loved learning to be a scholar. Even after Jasnah’s philosophical training, even after spending days reading book after book. Even with the confusion and the stress, Shallan often felt fulfilled in a way she’d never been before. Yes, Jasnah had been wrong to kill those men, but Shallan wanted to know enough about philosophy to cite the correct reasons why. Yes, digging through historical records could be tedious, but Shallan appreciated the skills and patience she was learning; they were sure to be of value when she got to do her own deep research in the future.
Days spent learning, lunches spent laughing with Kabsal, evenings chatting and debating with Jasnah. That was what she wanted. And those were the parts of her life that were complete lies.
Troubled, she picked up the basket of bread and jam, then made her way back to the Conclave and Jasnah’s suite. An envelope addressed to her sat in the waiting bin. Shallan frowned, breaking the seal to look inside.
Lass, it read. We got your message. The Wind’s Pleasure will soon be at port in Kharbranth again. Of course we’ll give you passage and return to your estates. It would be my pleasure to have you aboard. We are Davar men, we are. Indebted to your family.
We’re making a quick trip over to the mainland, but will hurry to Kharbranth next. Expect us in one week’s time to pick you up.
— Captain Tozbek
The undertext, written by Tozbek’s wife, read even more clearly. We’d happily give you free passage, Brightness, if you’re willing to do some scribing for us during the trip. The ledgers badly need to be rewritten.
Shallan stared at the note for a long time. She’d wanted to know where he was and when he was planning to return, but he’d apparently taken her letter as a request to come and pick her up.
It seemed a fitting deadline. That would put her departure at three weeks after stealing the Soulcaster, as she’d told Nan Balat to expect. If Jasnah hadn’t reacted to the Soulcaster switch by then, Shallan would have to take it to mean that she wasn’t under suspicion.
One week. She would be on that ship. It made her break inside to realize it, but it had to be done. She lowered the paper and left the guest hallway, her steps taking her through the twisting corridors into the Veil.
Shortly, she stood outside Jasnah’s alcove. The princess sat at her desk, reed scratching at a notebook. She glanced up. “I thought I told you that you could do whatever you want today.”
“You did,” Shallan said. “And I realized that what I want to do is study.”
Jasnah smiled in a sly, understanding way. Almost a self-satisfied way. If she only knew. “Well, I’m not going to chide you for that,” Jasnah said, turning back to her research.
Shallan sat, offering the bread and jam to Jasnah, who shook her head and continued researching. Shallan cut herself another slice and topped it with jam. Then she opened a book and sighed in satisfaction.
In one week, she’d have to leave. But in the meantime, she would let herself pretend a little while longer.
43
The Wretch
“They lived out in the wilds, always awaiting the Desolation-or sometimes, a foolish child who took no heed of the night’s darkness.”
— A child’s tale, yes, but this quote from Shadows Remembered seems to hint at the truth I seek. See page 82, the fourth tale.
Kaladin awoke to a familiar feeling of dread.
He’d spent much of the night lying awake on the hard floor, staring up into the dark, thinking. Why try? Why care? There is no hope for these men.
He felt like a wanderer seeking desperately for a pathway into the city to escape wild beasts. But the city was atop a steep mountain, and no matter how he approached, the climb was always the same. Impossible. A hundred different paths. The same result.
Surviving his punishment would not save his men. Training them to run faster would not save them. They were bait. The efficiency of the bait did not change its purpose or its fate.
Kaladin forced himself to his feet. He felt ground down, like a millstone used far too long. He still didn’t understand how he’d survived. Did you preserve me, Almighty? Save me so that I could watch them die?
You were supposed to burn prayers to send them to the Almighty, who waited for his Heralds to recapture the Tranquiline Halls. That had never made sense to Kaladin. The Almighty was supposed to be able to see all and know all. So why did he need a prayer burned before he would do anything? Why did he need people to fight for him in the first place?
Kaladin left the barrack, stepping into the light. Then he froze.
The men were lined up, waiting. A ragged bunch of bridgemen, wearing brown leather vests and short trousers that only reached their knees. Dirty shirts, sleeves rolled to the elbows, lacing down the front. Dusty skin, mops of ragged hair. And yet now, because of Rock’s gift, they all had neatly trimmed beards or clean-shaven faces. Everything else about them was worn. But their faces were clean.
Kaladin raised a hesitant hand to his face, touching his unkempt black beard. The men seemed to be waiting for something. “What?” he asked.
The men shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the lumberyard. They were waiting for him to lead them in practice, of course. But practice was futile. He opened his mouth to tell them that, but hesitated as he saw something approaching. Four men, carrying a palanquin. A tall, thin man in a violet lighteyes’s coat walked beside it.
<
br /> The men turned to look. “What’s this?” Hobber asked, scratching at his thick neck.
“It will be Lamaril’s replacement,” Kaladin said, gently pushing his way through the line of bridgemen. Syl flitted down and landed on his shoulder as the palanquin bearers stopped before Kaladin and turned to the side, revealing a dark-haired woman wearing a sleek violet dress decorated with golden glyphs. She lounged on her side, resting on a cushioned couch, her eyes a pale blue.
“I am Brightness Hashal,” she said, voice lightly touched by a Kholinar accent. “My husband, Brightlord Matal, is your new captain.”
Kaladin held his tongue, biting back a remark. He had some experience with lighteyes who got “promoted” to positions like this one. Matal himself said nothing, simply standing with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He was tall-nearly as tall as Kaladin-but spindly. Delicate hands. That sword hadn’t seen much practice.
“We have been advised,” Hashal said, “that this crew has been troublesome.” Her eyes narrowed, focusing on Kaladin. “It seems that you have survived the Almighty’s judgment. I bear a message for you from your betters. The Almighty has given you another chance to prove yourself as a bridgeman. That is all. Many are trying to read too much into what happened, so Highprince Sadeas has forbidden gawkers to come see you.
“My husband does not intend to run the bridge crews with his predecessor’s laxness. My husband is a well-respected and honored associate of Highprince Sadeas himself, not some near-darkeyed mongrel like Lamaril.”
“Is that so?” Kaladin said. “Then how did he end up in this latrine pit of a job?”
Hashal didn’t display a hint of anger at the comment. She flicked her fingers to the side, and one of the soldiers stepped forward and rammed the butt of his spear toward Kaladin’s stomach.
Kaladin caught it, old reflexes still too keen. Possibilities flashed through his mind, and he could see the fight before it took place.
Yank on the spear, throw the soldier off guard.
Step forward and ram an elbow into his forearm, making him drop the weapon.
Take control, spin the spear up and slam the soldier on the side of the head.
Spin into a sweep to drop the two who came to help their companion.
Raise the spear for the-
No. That would only get Kaladin killed.
Kaladin released the butt of the spear. The soldier blinked in surprise that a mere bridgeman had blocked his blow. Scowling, the soldier jerked the butt up and slammed it into the side of Kaladin’s head.
Kaladin let it hit him, rolling with it, allowing it to toss him to the ground. His head rang from the shock, but his eyesight stopped spinning after a moment. He’d have a headache, but probably no concussion.
He took in a few deep breaths, lying on the ground, hands forming fists. His fingers seemed to burn where he had touched the spear. The soldier stepped back into position beside the palanquin.
“No laxness,” Hashal said calmly. “If you must know, my husband requested this assignment. The bridge crews are essential to Brightlord Sadeas’s advantage in the War of Reckoning. Their mismanagement under Lamaril was disgraceful.”
Rock knelt down, helping Kaladin to his feet while scowling at the lighteyes and their soldiers. Kaladin stumbled up, holding his hand to the side of his head. His fingers felt slick and wet, and a trickle of warm blood ran down his neck to his shoulder.
“From now on,” Hashal said, “aside from doing normal bridge duty, each crew will be assigned only one type of work duty. Gaz!”
The short bridge sergeant poked out from behind the palanquin. Kaladin hadn’t noticed him there, behind the porters and the soldiers. “Yes, Brightness?” Gaz bowed several times.
“My husband wishes Bridge Four to be assigned chasm duty permanently. Whenever they are not needed for bridge duty, I want them working in those chasms. This will be far more efficient. They will know which sections have been scoured recently, and will not cover the same ground. You see? Efficiency. They will start immediately.”
She rapped on the side of her palanquin, and the porters turned, bearing her away. Her husband continued to walk alongside her without saying a word, and Gaz hurried to keep up. Kaladin stared after them, holding his hand to his head. Dunny ran and fetched him a bandage.
“Chasm duty,” Moash grumbled. “Great job, lordling. She’d see us dead from a chasmfiend if the Parshendi arrows don’t take us.”
“What are we going to do?” asked lean, balding Peet, his voice edged with worry.
“We get to work,” Kaladin said, taking the bandage from Dunny.
He walked away, leaving them in a frightened clump.
A short time later, Kaladin stood at the edge of the chasm, looking down. The hot light of the noon sun burned the back of his neck and cast his shadow downward into the rift, to join with those below. I could fly, he thought. Step off and fall, wind blowing against me. Fly for a few moments. A few, beautiful moments.
He knelt and grabbed the rope ladder, then climbed down into the darkness. The other bridgemen followed in a silent group. They’d been infected by his mood.
Kaladin knew what was happening to him. Step by step, he was turning back into the wretch he had been. He’d always known it was a danger. He’d clung to the bridgemen as a lifeline. But he was letting go now.
As he stepped down the rungs, a faint translucent figure of blue and white dropped beside him, sitting on a swinglike seat. Its ropes disappeared a few inches above Syl’s head.
“What is wrong with you?” she asked softly.
Kaladin just kept climbing down.
“You should be happy. You survived the storms. The other bridgemen were so excited.”
“I itched to fight that soldier,” Kaladin whispered.
Syl cocked her head.
“I could have beaten him,” Kaladin continued. “I probably could have beaten all four of them. I’ve always been good with the spear. No, not good. Durk called me amazing. A natural born soldier, an artist with the spear.”
“Maybe you should have fought them, then.”
“I thought you didn’t like killing.”
“I hate it,” she said, growing more translucent. “But I’ve helped men kill before.”
Kaladin froze on the ladder. “What?”
“It’s true,” she said. “I can remember it, just faintly.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.” She grew paler. “I don’t want to talk about it. But it was right to do. I feel it.”
Kaladin hung for a moment longer. Teft called down, asking if something was wrong. He started to descend again.
“I didn’t fight the soldiers today,” Kaladin said, eyes toward the chasm wall, “because it wouldn’t work. My father told me that it is impossible to protect by killing. Well, he was wrong.”
“But-”
“He was wrong,” Kaladin said, “because he implied that you could protect people in other ways. You can’t. This world wants them dead, and trying to save them is pointless.” He reached the bottom of the chasm, stepping into darkness. Teft reached the bottom next and lit his torch, bathing the moss-covered stone walls in flickering orange light.
“Is that why you didn’t accept it?” Syl whispered, flitting over and landing on Kaladin’s shoulder. “The glory. All those months ago?”
Kaladin shook his head. “No. That was something else.”
“What did you say, Kaladin?” Teft raised the torch. The aging bridgeman’s face looked older than usual in the flickering light, the shadows it created emphasizing the furrows in his skin.
“Nothing, Teft,” Kaladin said. “Nothing important.”
Syl sniffed at that. Kaladin ignored her, lighting his torch from Teft’s as the other bridgemen arrived. When they were all down, Kaladin led the way out into the dark rift. The pale sky seemed distant here, like a far-off scream. This place was a tomb, with rotting wood and stagnant pools of water, good only for growing creml
ing larvae.
The bridgemen clustered together unconsciously as they always did in this fell place. Kaladin walked in front, and Syl fell silent. He gave Teft the chalk to mark directions, and didn’t pause to pick up salvage. But neither did he walk too quickly. The other bridgemen were hushed behind them, speaking in occasional whispers too low to echo. As if their words were strangled by the gloom.
Rock eventually moved up to walk beside Kaladin. “Is difficult job, we have been given. But we are bridgemen! Life, it is difficult, eh? Is nothing new. We must have plan. How do we fight next?”
“There is no next fight, Rock.”
“But we have won grand victory! Look, not days ago, you were delirious. You should have died. I know this thing. But instead, you walk, strong as any other man. Ha! Stronger. Is miracle. The Uli’tekanaki guide you.”
“It’s not a miracle, Rock,” Kaladin said. “It’s more of a curse.”
“How is that a curse, my friend?” Rock asked, chuckling. He jumped up and into a puddle and laughed louder as it splashed Teft, who was walking just behind. The large Horneater could be remarkably childlike at times. “Living, this thing is no curse!”
“It is if it brings me back to watch you all die,” Kaladin said. “Better I shouldn’t have survived that storm. I’m just going to end up dead from a Parshendi arrow. We all are.”
Rock looked troubled. When Kaladin offered nothing more, he withdrew. They continued, uncomfortably passing sections of scarred wall where chasmfiends had left their marks. Eventually they stumbled across a heap of bodies deposited by the highstorms. Kaladin stopped, holding up his torch, the other bridgemen peeking around him. Some fifty people had been washed into a recess in the rock, a small dead-end side passage in the stone.
The bodies were piled there, a wall of the dead, arms hanging out, reeds and flotsam stuck between them. Kaladin saw at a glance that the corpses were old enough to begin bloating and rotting. Behind him, one of the men retched, which caused a few of the others to do so as well. The scent was terrible, the corpses slashed and ripped into by cremlings and larger carrion beasts, many of which scuttled away from the light. A disembodied hand lay nearby, and a trail of blood led away. There were also fresh scrapes in the lichen as high as fifteen feet up the wall. A chasmfiend had ripped one of the bodies loose to devour. It might come back for the others.
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