“What is one more try, then?” Her voice was soft, yet somehow stronger than the storm. “What could it hurt?”
He paused.
“You can’t fail this time, Kaladin. You’ve said it. They’re all going to die anyway.”
He thought of Tien, and his dead eyes staring upward.
“I don’t know what you mean most of the time when you speak,” she said. “My mind is so cloudy. But it seems that if you’re worried about hurting people, you shouldn’t be afraid to help the bridgemen. What more could you do to them?”
“I…”
“One more try, Kaladin,” Syl whispered. “Please.”
One more try….
The men huddled in the barrack with barely a blanket to call their own. Frightened of the storm. Frightened of each other. Frightened of what the next day would bring.
One more try….
He thought of himself, crying at the death of a boy he hadn’t known. A boy he hadn’t even tried to help.
One more try.
Kaladin opened his eyes. He was cold and wet, but he felt a tiny, warm candle flame of determination come alight inside him. He clenched his hand, crushing the blackbane leaf inside, then dropped it over the side of the chasm. He lowered the other hand, which had been holding Syl.
She zipped up into the air, anxious. “Kaladin?”
He stalked away from the chasm, bare feet splashing in puddles and stepping heedlessly on rockbud vines. The incline he’d come down was covered with flat, slatelike plants that had opened like books to the rain, ruffled lacy red and green leaves connecting the two halves. Lifespren—little green blips of light, brighter than Syl but small as spores—danced among the plants, dodging raindrops.
Kaladin strode up, water streaming past him in tiny rivers. At the top, he returned to the bridge yard. It was still empty save for Gaz, who was tying a ripped tarp back into place.
Kaladin had crossed most of the distance to the man before Gaz noticed him. The wiry sergeant scowled. “Too cowardly to go through with it, Your Lordship? Well, if you think I’m giving back—”
He cut off with a gagging noise as Kaladin lunged forward, grabbing Gaz by the neck. Gaz lifted an arm in surprise, but Kaladin batted it away and swept the man’s legs out from under him, slamming him down to the rocky ground, throwing up a splash of water. Gaz’s eyes opened wide with shock and pain, and he began to strangle under the pressure of Kaladin’s grip on his throat.
“The world just changed, Gaz,” Kaladin said, leaning in close. “I died down at that chasm. Now you’ve got my vengeful spirit to deal with.”
Squirming, Gaz looked about frantically for help that wasn’t there. Kaladin didn’t have trouble holding him down. There was one thing about running bridges: If you survived long enough, it built up the muscles.
Kaladin let up slightly on Gaz’s neck, allowing him a gasping breath. Then Kaladin leaned down further. “We’re going to start over new, you and I. Clean. And I want you to understand something from the start. I’m already dead. You can’t hurt me. Understand?”
Gaz nodded slowly and Kaladin gave him another breath of frigid, humid air.
“Bridge Four is mine,” Kaladin said. “You can assign us tasks, but I’m bridgeleader. The other one died today, so you have to pick a new leader anyway. Understand?”
Gaz nodded again.
“You learn quickly,” Kaladin said, letting the man breathe freely. He stepped back, and Gaz hesitantly got to his feet. There was hatred in his eyes, but it was veiled. He seemed worried about something—something more than Kaladin’s threats.
“I want to stop paying down my slave debt,” Kaladin said. “How much do bridgemen make?”
“Two clearmarks a day,” Gaz said, scowling at him and rubbing his neck.
So a slave would make half that. One diamond mark. A pittance, but Kaladin would need it. He’d also need to keep Gaz in line. “I’ll start taking my wages,” Kaladin said, “but you get to keep one mark in five.”
Gaz started, glancing at him in the dim, overcast light.
“For your efforts,” Kaladin said.
“For what efforts?”
Kaladin stepped up to him. “Your efforts in staying the Damnation out of my way. Understood?”
Gaz nodded again. Kaladin walked away. He hated to waste money on a bribe, but Gaz needed a consistent, repetitive reminder of why he should avoid getting Kaladin killed. One mark every five days wasn’t much of a reminder—but for a man who was willing to risk going out in the middle of a highstorm to protect his spheres, it might be enough.
Kaladin walked back to Bridge Four’s small barrack, pulling open the thick wooden door. The men huddled inside, just as he’d left them. But something had changed. Had they always looked that pathetic?
Yes. They had. Kaladin was the one who had changed, not they. He felt a strange dislocation, as if he’d allowed himself to forget—if only in part—the last nine months. He reached back across time, studying the man he had been. The man who’d still fought, and fought well.
He couldn’t be that man again—he couldn’t erase the scars—but he could learn from that man, as a new squadleader learned from the victorious generals of the past. Kaladin Stormblessed was dead, but Kaladin Bridgeman was of the same blood. A descendant with potential.
Kaladin walked to the first huddled figure. The man wasn’t sleeping—who could sleep through a highstorm? The man cringed as Kaladin knelt beside him.
“What’s your name?” Kaladin asked, Syl flitting down and studying the man’s face. He wouldn’t be able to see her.
The man was older, with drooping cheeks, brown eyes, and close-cropped, white-salted hair. His beard was short and he didn’t have a slave mark.
“Your name?” Kaladin repeated firmly.
“Storm off,” the man said, rolling over.
Kaladin hesitated, then leaned in, speaking in a low voice. “Look, friend. You can either tell me your name, or I’ll keep pestering you. Continue refusing, and I’ll tow you out into that storm and hang you over the chasm by one leg until you tell me.”
The man glanced back over his shoulder. Kaladin nodded slowly, holding the man’s gaze.
“Teft,” the man finally said. “My name’s Teft.”
“That wasn’t so hard,” Kaladin said, holding out his hand. “I’m Kaladin. Your bridgeleader.”
The man hesitated, then took Kaladin’s hand, wrinkling his brow in confusion. Kaladin vaguely remembered the man. He’d been in the crew for a while, a few weeks at least. Before that, he’d been on another bridge crew. One of the punishments for bridgemen who committed camp infractions was a transfer to Bridge Four.
“Get some rest,” Kaladin said, releasing Teft’s hand. “We’re going to have a hard day tomorrow.”
“How do you know?” Teft asked, rubbing his bearded chin.
“Because we’re bridgemen,” Kaladin said, standing. “Every day is hard.”
Teft hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Kelek knows that’s true.”
Kaladin left him, moving down the line of huddled figures. He visited each man, prodding or threatening until the man gave his name. They each resisted. It was as if their names were the last things they owned, and wouldn’t be given up cheaply, though they seemed surprised—perhaps even encouraged—that someone cared to ask.
He clutched to these names, repeating each one in his head, holding them like precious gemstones. The names mattered. The men mattered. Perhaps Kaladin would die in the next bridge run, or perhaps he would break under the strain, and give Amaram one final victory. But as he settled down on the ground to plan, he felt that tiny warmth burning steadily within him.
It was the warmth of decisions made and purpose seized. It was responsibility.
Syl alighted on his leg as he sat, whispering the names of the men to himself. She looked encouraged. Bright. Happy. He didn’t feel any of that. He felt grim, tired, and wet. But he wrapped himself in the responsibility he had taken,
the responsibility for these men. He held to it like a climber clung to his last handhold as he dangled from a cliffside.
He would find a way to protect them.
THE END OF
Part One
Ishikk splashed toward the meeting with the strange foreigners, whistling softly to himself, his pole with buckets on each end resting on his shoulders. He wore lake sandals on his submerged feet and a pair of knee-length breeches. No shirt. Nu Ralik forbid! A good Purelaker never covered his shoulders when the sun was shining. A man could get sick that way, not getting enough sunlight.
He whistled, but not because he was having a pleasant day. In point of fact, the day Nu Ralik had provided was close to horrible. Only five fish swam in Ishikk’s buckets, and four were of the dullest, most common variety. The tides had been irregular, as if the Purelake itself was in a foul mood. Bad days were coming; sure as the sun and the tide, they were.
The Purelake extended in all directions, hundreds of miles wide, its glassy surface perfectly transparent. At its deepest, it was never more than six feet from shimmering surface to the bottom—and in most places, the warm, slow-moving water came up only to about mid calf. It was filled with tiny fish, colorful cremlings, and eel-like riverspren.
The Purelake was life itself. Once, this land had been claimed by a king. Sela Tales, the nation had been called, one of the Epoch Kingdoms. Well, they could name it what they wanted, but Nu Ralik knew that the boundaries of nature were far more important than the boundaries of nations. Ishikk was a Purelaker. First and foremost. By tide and sun he was.
He walked confidently through the water, though the footing could sometimes be precarious. The pleasantly warm water lapped at his legs just below the knees, and he made very few splashes. He knew to move slowly, careful not to put his weight down before he was sure he wasn’t stepping on a spikemane or a sharp lip of rock.
Ahead, the village of Fu Abra broke the glassy perfection, a cluster of buildings perched on blocks beneath the water. Their domed roofs made them look like the rockbuds that sprouted from the ground, and they were the only things for miles around that broke the surface of the Purelake.
Other people walked about here, moving with the same slow gait. It was possible to run through the water, but there was rarely a reason. What could be so important that you had to go and make a splash and ruckus getting to it?
Ishikk shook his head at that. Only foreigners were so hasty. He nodded to Thaspic, a dark-skinned man who passed him pulling a small raft. It was stacked with a few piles of cloth; he’d probably taken them out for washing.
“Ho, Ishikk,” the scrawny man said. “How’s fishing?”
“Terrible,” he called. “Vun Makak has blighted me right good today. And you?”
“Lost a shirt while washing,” Thaspic replied, his voice pleasant.
“Ah, that’s the way of things. Are my foreigners here?”
“Sure are. Over at Maib’s place.”
“Vun Makak send they don’t eat her out of home,” Ishikk said, continuing on his way. “Or infect her with their constant worries.”
“Sun and tides send it!” Thaspic said with a chuckle, continuing on.
Maib’s house was near the center of the village. Ishikk wasn’t sure what made her want to live inside the building. Most nights he did just fine sleeping on his raft. It never got cold in the Purelake, except during highstorms, and you could last through those right well, Nu Ralik send the way.
The Purelake drained into pits and holes when the storms came, and so you just shoved your raft into a crevice between two ridges of stone and huddled up next to it, using it to break the fury of the tempest. The storms weren’t so bad out here as they were in the East, where they flung boulders and blew down buildings. Oh, he’d heard stories about that sort of life. Nu Ralik send he never had to go to such a terrible place.
Besides, it was probably cold there. Ishikk pitied those who had to live in the cold. Why didn’t they just come to the Purelake?
Nu Ralik send that they don’t, he thought, walking up to Maib’s place. If everyone knew how nice the Purelake was, surely they’d all want to live here, and there wouldn’t be a place to walk without stumbling over some foreigner!
He stepped up into the building, exposing his calves to the air. The floor was low enough that a few inches of water still covered it; Purelakers liked it that way. It was natural, though if the tide dropped, sometimes buildings would drain.
Minnows shot out around his toes. Common types, not worth anything. Maib stood inside, fixing a pot of fish soup, and she nodded to him. She was a stout woman and had been chasing Ishikk for years, trying to bait him to wed her on account of her fine cooking. He just might let her catch him someday.
His foreigners were in the corner, at a table only they would choose—the one that was raised up an extra bit, with footrests so that the outsiders wouldn’t have to get their toes wet. Nu Ralik, what fools! he thought with amusement. Inside out of the sun, wearing shirts against its warmth, feet out of the tide. No wonder their thoughts are so odd.
He set his buckets down, nodding to Maib.
She eyed him. “Good fishing?”
“Terrible.”
“Ah well, your soup is free today, Ishikk. To make up for Vun Makak’s cursing.”
“Thanks much kindly,” he said, taking a steaming bowl from her. She smiled. Now he owed her. Enough bowls, and he’d be forced to wed her.
“There’s a kolgril in the bucket for you,” he noted. “Caught it early this morning.”
Her stout face grew uncertain. A kolgril was a very lucky fish. Cured aching joints for a good month after you ate it, and sometimes let you see when friends were going to visit by letting you read the shapes of the clouds. Maib had quite a fondness for them, on account of the finger aches Nu Ralik had sent her. One kolgril would be two weeks of soup, and would put her in debt to him.
“Vun Makak eye you,” she muttered in annoyance walking over to check. “That’s one all right. How am I ever going to catch you, man?”
“I’m a fisher, Maib,” he said, taking a slurp of his soup—the bowl was shaped for easy slurping. “Hard to catch a fisher. You know that.” He chuckled to himself, walking up to his foreigners as she plucked out the kolgril.
There were three of them. Two were dark-skinned Makabaki, though they were the strangest Makabaki he’d ever seen. One was thick limbed where most of his kind were small and fine-boned, and he had a completely bald head. The other was taller, with short dark hair, lean muscles, and broad shoulders. In his head, Ishikk called them Grump and Blunt, on account of their personalities.
The third man had light tan skin, like an Alethi. He didn’t seem quite right either, though. The eyes were the wrong shape, and his accent was certainly not Alethi. He spoke the Selay language worse than the other two, and usually stayed quiet. He seemed thoughtful, though. Ishikk called him Thinker.
Wonder how he earned that scar across his scalp, Ishikk thought. Life outside the Purelake was very dangerous. Lots of wars, particularly to the east.
“You are late, traveler,” said tall, stiff Blunt. He had the build and air of a soldier, though none of the three carried weapons.
Ishikk frowned, sitting and reluctantly pulling his feet out of the water. “Isn’t it warli-day?”
“The day is right, friend,” Grump said. “But we were to meet at noon. Understand?” He generally did most of the talking.
“We’re close to that,” Ishikk said. Honestly. Who paid attention to what hour it was? Foreigners. Always so busy.
Grump just shook his head as Maib brought them some soup. Her place was the closest thing the village had to an inn. She left Ishikk a soft cloth napkin and nice cup of sweet wine, trying to balance that fish as quickly as possible.
“Very well,” Grump said. “Let us have your report, friend.”
“I’ve been by Fu Ralis, Fu Namir, Fu Albast, and Fu Moorin this month,” Ishikk said, taking a slurp of soup.
“Nobody has seen this man you search for.”
“You asked right questions?” Blunt said. “You are certain?”
“Of course I’m certain,” Ishikk said. “I have been doing this for ages now.”
“Five months,” Blunt corrected. “And no results.”
Ishikk shrugged. “You wish me to make up stories? Vun Makak would like me to do that.”
“No, no stories, friend,” Grump said. “We want only the truth.”
“Well, I’ve given it to you.”
“You swear it by Nu Ralik, that god of yours?”
“Hush!” Ishikk said. “Don’t say his name. Are you idiots?”
Grump frowned. “But he is your god. Understand? Is his name holy? Not to be spoken?”
Foreigners were so stupid. Of course Nu Ralik was their god, but you always pretended that he wasn’t. Vun Makak—his younger, spiteful brother—had to be tricked into thinking you worshipped him, otherwise he’d get jealous. It was only safe to speak of these things in a holy grotto.
“I swear it by Vun Makak,” Ishikk said pointedly. “May he watch over me and curse me as he pleases. I have looked diligently. No foreigner like this one you mention—with his white hair, clever tongue, and arrowlike face—has been seen.”
“He dyes his hair sometimes,” Grump said. “And wears disguises.”
“I’ve asked, using the names you gave me,” Ishikk said. “Nobody has seen him. Now, perhaps I could find you a fish that could locate him.” Ishikk rubbed his stubbly chin. “I’ll bet a stumpy cort could do it. Might take me a while to find one, though.”
The three looked at him. “There may be something to these fish, you know,” Blunt said.
“Superstition,” Grump replied. “You always look for superstition, Vao.”
Vao wasn’t the man’s real name; Ishikk was sure they used fake names. That was why he used his own names for them. If they were going to give him fake names, he’d give them fake names back.
“And you, Temoo?” Blunt snapped. “We can’t pontificate our way to—”
The Wheel of Time Page 1341