And they got it. After just a few hours, the more talented of them-Moash at the forefront-started to change into fighting men. Their stances grew firmer, more confident. When they should have been feeling exhausted and frustrated, they were more determined.
Kaladin stepped back, watching Moash fall into his stance after Teft shoved him. It was a resetting exercise-Moash would let Teft knock him backward, then would scramble back and set his feet. Time and time again. The purpose was to train oneself to revert to the stance without thinking. Kaladin normally wouldn’t have started resetting exercises until the second or third day. Yet here, Moash was drinking it in after only two hours. There were two others-Drehy and Skar-who were nearly as quick to learn.
Kaladin leaned back against the stone wall. Cold water leaked down the rock beside him, and a frillbloom plant hesitantly opened its fanlike fronds beside his head: two wide, orange leaves, with spines on the tips, unfolding like opening fists.
Is it their bridgeman training? Kaladin wondered. Or is it their passion? He had given them a chance to fight back. That kind of opportunity changed a man.
Watching them stand resolute and capable in stances they had only been just been taught, Kaladin realized something. These men-cast off by the army, forced to work themselves near to death, then fed extra food by Kaladin’s careful planning-were the most fit, training-ready recruits he’d ever been given.
By seeking to beat them down, Sadeas had prepared them to excel.
50
Backbreaker Powder
“Flame and char. Skin so terrible. Eyes like pits of blackness.”
— A quote from the Iviad, probably needs no reference notation, but this comes from line 482, should I need to locate it quickly.
Shallan awoke in a small white room.
She sat up, feeling oddly healthy. Bright sunlight illuminated the window’s gossamer white shades, bursting through the cloth and into the room. Shallan frowned, shaking her muddled head. She felt as if she should be burned toes to ears, her skin flaking off. But that was just a memory. She had the cut on her arm, but otherwise she felt perfectly well.
A rustling sound. She turned to see a nurse hurrying away down a white hallway outside; the woman had apparently seen Shallan sit up, and was now taking the news to someone.
I’m in the hospital, Shallan thought. Moved to a private room.
A soldier peeked in, inspecting Shallan. It was apparently a guarded room.
“What happened?” she called to him. “I was poisoned, wasn’t I?” She felt a sudden shock of alarm. “Kabsal! Is he all right?”
The guard just turned back to his post. Shallan began to crawl out of bed, but he looked in again, glaring at her. She yelped despite herself, pulling up the sheet and settling back. She still wore one of the hospital robes, much like a soft bathing robe.
How long had she been unconscious? Why was she-
The Soulcaster! she realized. I gave it back to Jasnah.
The next half hour was one of the most miserable in Shallan’s life. She spent it suffering the periodic glares of the guard and feeling nauseated. What had happened?
Finally, Jasnah appeared at the other end of the hallway. She was wearing a different dress, black with light grey piping. She strode toward the room like an arrow and dismissed the guard with a single word as she passed. The man hurried away, his boots louder on the stone floor than Jasnah’s slippers.
Jasnah came in, and though she made no accusations, her glare was so hostile that Shallan wanted to crawl under her covers and hide. No. She wanted to crawl under the bed, dig down into the floor itself, and put stone between herself and those eyes.
She settled for looking downward in shame.
“You were wise to return the Soulcaster,” Jasnah said, voice like ice. “It saved your life. I saved your life.”
“Thank you,” Shallan whispered.
“Who are you working with? Which devotary bribed you to steal the fabrial?”
“None of them, Brightness. I stole it of my own volition.”
“Protecting them does you no good. Eventually you will tell me the truth.”
“It is the truth,” Shallan said, looking up, feeling a hint of defiance. “It’s why I became your ward in the first place. To steal that Soulcaster.”
“Yes, but for whom?”
“For me,” Shallan said. “Is it so hard to believe that I could act for myself? Am I such a miserable failure that the only rational answer is to assume I was duped or manipulated?”
“You have no grounds to raise your voice to me, child,” Jasnah said evenly. “And you have every reason to remember your place.”
Shallan looked down again.
Jasnah was silent for a time. Finally, she sighed. “What were you thinking, child?”
“My father is dead.”
“So?”
“He was not well liked, Brightness. Actually, he was hated, and our family is bankrupt. My brothers are trying to put up a strong front by pretending he still lives. But…” Dared she tell Jasnah that her father had possessed a Soulcaster? Doing so wouldn’t help excuse what Shallan had done, and might get her family more deeply into trouble. “We needed something. An edge. A way to earn money quickly, or create money.”
Jasnah was silent again. When she finally spoke, she sounded faintly amused. “You thought your salvation lay in enraging not only all the entire ardentia, but Alethkar? Do you realize what my brother would have done if he’d learned of this?”
Shallan looked away, feeling both foolish and ashamed.
Jasnah sighed. “Sometimes I forget how young you are. I can see how the theft might have looked tempting to you. It was stupid nonetheless. I’ve arranged passage back to Jah Keved. You will leave in the morning.”
“I-” It was more than she deserved. “Thank you.”
“Your friend, the ardent, is dead.”
Shallan looked up, dismayed. “What happened?”
“The bread was poisoned. Backbreaker powder. Very lethal, dusted over the bread to look like flour. I suspect the bread was similarly treated every time he visited. His goal was to get me to eat a piece.”
“But I ate a lot of that bread!”
“The jam had the antidote,” Jasnah said. “We found it in several empty jars he’d used.”
“It can’t be!”
“I’ve begun investigating,” Jasnah said. “I should have done so immediately. Nobody quite remembers where this ‘Kabsal’ came from. Though he spoke familiarly of the other ardents to you and me, they knew him only vaguely.”
“Then he…”
“He was playing you, child. The whole time, he was using you to get to me. To spy on what I was doing, to kill me if he could.” She spoke of it so evenly, so emotionlessly. “I believe he used much more of the powder during this last attempt, more than he’d ever used before, perhaps hoping to get me to breathe it in. He realized this would be his last opportunity. It turned against him, however, working more quickly than he’d anticipated.”
Someone had almost killed her. Not someone, Kabsal. No wonder he’d been so eager to get her to taste the jam!
“I’m very disappointed in you, Shallan,” Jasnah said. “I can see now why you tried to end your own life. It was the guilt.”
She hadn’t tried to kill herself. But what good would it do to admit that? Jasnah was taking pity on her; best not to give her reason not to. But what of the strange things Shallan had seen and experienced? Might Jasnah have an explanation for them?
Looking at Jasnah, seeing the cold rage hidden behind her calm exterior, frightened Shallan enough that her questions about the symbolheads and the strange place she’d visited died on her lips. How had Shallan ever thought of herself as brave? She wasn’t brave. She was a fool. She remembered the times her father’s rage had echoed through the house. Jasnah’s quieter, move justified anger was no less daunting.
“Well, you will need to learn to live with your guilt,” Jasnah said. “You migh
t not have escaped with my fabrial, but you have thrown away a very promising career. This foolish scheme will stain your life for decades. No woman will take you as a ward now. You threw it away.” She shook her head in distaste. “I hate being wrong.”
With that, she turned to leave.
Shallan raised a hand. I have to apologize. I have to say something. “Jasnah?”
The woman did not look back, and the guard did not return.
Shallan curled up under the sheet, stomach in knots, feeling so sick that-for a moment-she wished that she’d actually dug that shard of glass in a little deeper. Or maybe that Jasnah hadn’t been quick enough with the Soulcaster to save her.
She’d lost it all. No fabrial to protect her family, no wardship to continue her studies. No Kabsal. She’d never actually had him in the first place.
Her tears dampened the sheets as the sunlight outside faded, then vanished. Nobody came to check on her.
Nobody cared.
51
Sas Nahn
ONE YEAR AGO
Kaladin sat quietly in the waiting room of Amaram’s wooden warcenter. It was constructed of a dozen study sections that could be disconnected and pulled by chulls. Kaladin sat beside a window, looking out at the camp. There was a hole where Kaladin’s squad had been housed. He could make it out from where he sat. Their tents had been broken down and given to other squads.
Four of his men remained. Four, out of twenty-six. And men called him lucky. Men called him Stormblessed. He’d begun to believe that.
I killed a Shardbearer today, he thought, mind numb. Like Lanacin the Surefooted, or Evod Markmaker. Me. I killed one.
And he didn’t care.
He crossed his arms on the wooden windowsill. There was no glass in the window and he could feel the breeze. A windspren flitted from one tent to another. Behind Kaladin, the room had a thick red rug and shields on the walls. There were a number of padded wooden chairs, like the one Kaladin sat in. This was the “small” waiting chamber of the warcenter-small, yet larger than his entire house back in Hearthstone, the surgery included.
I killed a Shardbearer, he thought again. And then I gave away the Blade and Plate.
That single event had to be the most monumentally stupid thing anyone, in any kingdom, in any era, had ever done. As a Shardbearer, Kaladin would have been more important than Roshone-more important than Amaram. He’d have been able to go to the Shattered Plains and fight in a real war.
No more squabbling over borders. No more petty lighteyed captains belonging to unimportant families, bitter because they’d been left behind. He would never again have had to worry about blisters from boots that didn’t fit, dinner slop that tasted of crem, or other soldiers who wanted to pick a fight.
He could have been rich. He’d given it all away, just like that.
And still, the mere thought of touching that Blade turned his stomach. He didn’t want wealth, titles, armies, or even a good meal. He wanted to be able to go back and protect the men who had trusted him. Why had he chased after the Shardbearer? He should have run. But no, he’d insisted on charging at a storming Shardbearer.
You protected your highmarshal, he told himself. You’re a hero.
But why was Amaram’s life worth more than those of his men? Kaladin served Amaram because of the honor he had shown. He let spearmen share his comfort in the warcenter during highstorms, a different squad each storm. He insisted that his men be well fed and well paid. He didn’t treat them like slime.
He did let his subordinates do so, though. And he’d broken his promise to shelter Tien.
So did I. So did I….
Kaladin’s insides were a twisted mess of guilt and sorrow. One thing remained clear, like a bright spot of light on the wall of a dark room. He wanted nothing to do with those Shards. He didn’t even want to touch them.
The door thumped open, and Kaladin turned in his chair. Amaram entered. Tall, lean, with a square face and long martial coat of deep green. He walked on a crutch. Kaladin eyed the wrappings and splint with a critical eye. I could have done better. He’d also have insisted that the patient remain in bed.
Amaram was talking to one of his stormwardens, a middle-aged man with a square beard and robes of deep black.
“…why Thaidakar would risk this?” Amaram was saying, speaking in a soft voice. “But who else would it be? The Ghostbloods grow more bold. We’ll need to find out who he was. Do we know anything about him?”
“He was Veden, Brightlord,” the stormwarden said. “Nobody I recognize. But I will investigate.”
Amaram nodded, falling silent. Behind the two, a group of lighteyed officers entered, one of them carrying the Shardblade, holding it on a pure white cloth. Behind this group came the four surviving members of Kaladin’s squad: Hab, Reesh, Alabet, and Coreb.
Kaladin stood up, feeling exhausted. Amaram remained by the door, arms folded, as two final men entered and closed the door. These last two were also lighteyes, but lesser ones-officers in Amaram’s personal guard. Had these been among those who had fled?
It was the smart thing to do, Kaladin thought. Smarter than what I did.
Amaram leaned on his walking staff, inspecting Kaladin with bright tan eyes. He’d been in conference with his counselors for several hours now, trying to discover who the Shardbearer had been. “You did a brave thing today, soldier,” Amaram said to Kaladin.
“I…” What did you say to that? I wish I’d left you to die, sir. “Thank you.”
“Everyone else fled, including my honor guard.” The two men closest to the door looked down, ashamed. “But you charged in for the attack. Why?”
“I didn’t really think about it, sir.”
Amaram seemed displeased by the answer. “Your name is Kaladin, is it?”
“Yes, Brightlord. From Hearthstone? Remember?”
Amaram frowned, looking confused.
“Your cousin, Roshone, is citylord there. He sent my brother into the army when you came recruiting. I…I joined with my brother.”
“Ah yes,” Amaram said. “I believe I remember you.” He didn’t ask after Tien. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why attack? It wasn’t for the Shardblade. You rejected that.”
“Yes, sir.”
To the side, the stormwarden raised his eyebrows, as if he hadn’t believed that Kaladin had turned down the Shards. The soldier holding the Shardblade kept glancing at it in awe.
“Why?” Amaram said. “Why did you reject it? I have to know.”
“I don’t want it, sir.”
“Yes, but why?”
Because it would make me one of you. Because I can’t look at that weapon and not see the faces of the men its wielder slaughtered so offhandedly.
Because…because…
“I can’t really answer that, sir,” Kaladin said, sighing.
The stormwarden walked over to the room’s brazier, shaking his head. He began warming his hands.
“Look,” Kaladin said. “Those Shards are mine. Well, I said to give them to Coreb. He’s the highest ranked of my soldiers, and the best fighter among them.” The other three would understand. Besides, Coreb would take care of them, once he was a lighteyes.
Amaram looked at Coreb, then nodded to his attendants. One closed the window shutters. The others pulled out swords, then began moving toward the four remaining members of Kaladin’s squad.
Kaladin yelled, leaping forward, but two of the officers had positioned themselves close to him. One slammed a punch into Kaladin’s gut as soon as he started moving. He was so surprised that it connected directly, and he gasped.
No.
He fought off the pain, turning to swing at the man. The man’s eyes opened wide as Kaladin’s fist connected, throwing him backward. Several other men piled on him. He had no weapons, and he was so tired from the battle that he could barely stay upright. They knocked him to the ground with punches to his side and back. He collapsed to the floor, pained, but still able to watch as the so
ldiers came at his men.
Reesh was cut down first. Kaladin gasped, stretching out a hand, struggling to his knees.
This can’t happen. Please, no!
Hab and Alabet had their knives out, but fell quickly, one soldier gutting Hab as two others hacked down Alabet. Alabet’s knife thumped as it hit the ground, followed by his arm, then finally his corpse.
Coreb lasted the longest, backing away, hands held forward. He didn’t scream. He seemed to understand. Kaladin’s eyes were watering, and soldiers grabbed him from behind, stopping him from helping.
Coreb’s fell to his knees and began to beg. One of Amaram’s men took him at the neck, neatly severing his head. It was over in seconds.
“You bastard!” Kaladin said, gasping against his pain. “You storming bastard!” Kaladin found himself weeping, struggling uselessly at the four men holding him. The blood of the fallen spearmen soaked the boards.
They were dead. All of them were dead. Stormfather! All of them!
Amaram stepped forward, expression grim. He went down on one knee before Kaladin. “I’m sorry.”
“Bastard!” Kaladin screamed as loud as he could.
“I couldn’t risk them telling what they saw. This is what must be, soldier. It’s for the good of the army. They’re going to be told that your squad helped the Shardbearer. You see, the men must believe that I killed him.”
“You’re taking the Shards for yourself!”
“I am trained in the sword,” Amaram said, “and am accustomed to plate. It will serve Alethkar best if I bear the Shards.”
“You could have asked me for them! Storm you!”
“And when news got around camp?” Amaram said grimly. “That you’d killed the Shardbearer but I had the Shards? Nobody would believe that you’d given them up of your own free choice. Besides, son. You wouldn’t have let me keep them.” Amaram shook his head. “You’d have changed your mind. In a day or two, you’d have wanted the wealth and prestige-others would convince you of it. You’d have demanded that I return them to you. It took hours to decide, but Restares is right-this is what must be done. For the good of Alethkar.”
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