The considerable abilities of the Skybreakers for making such amounted to an almost divine skill, for which no specific Surge or spren grants capacity, but however the order came to such an aptitude, the fact of it was real and acknowledged even by their rivals.
—From Words of Radiance, chapter 28, page 3
“Great. You’re the one guarding me today?”
Kaladin turned as Adolin came out of his room. The prince wore a sharp uniform, as always. Monogrammed buttons, boots that cost more than some houses, side sword. An odd choice for a Shardbearer, but Adolin probably wore it as an ornament. His hair was a mess of blond sprinkled with black.
“I don’t trust her, princeling,” Kaladin said. “Foreign woman, secret betrothal, and the only person who could vouch for her is dead. She could be an assassin, and that means putting you under the watch of the best I have.”
“Humble, aren’t we?” Adolin said, striding down the stone hallway, Kaladin falling into step beside him.
“No.”
“That was a joke, bridgeboy.”
“My mistake. I was under the impression that jokes were supposed to be funny.”
“Only to people with a sense of humor.”
“Ah, of course,” Kaladin said. “I traded in my sense of humor long ago.”
“And what did you get for it?”
“Scars,” Kaladin said softly.
Adolin’s eyes flicked toward the brands on Kaladin’s forehead, though most would be obscured by hair. “This is great,” Adolin said under his breath. “Just great. I’m so happy you’re coming along.”
At the end of the hallway, they stepped into daylight. Not much of it, though. The sky was still overcast from the rains of the last few days.
They emerged into the warcamp. “We collecting any other guards?” Adolin asked. “Usually there’s two of you.”
“Just me today.” Kaladin was short-manned, with the king under his watch and with Teft taking the new recruits out patrolling again. He had two or three men on everyone else, but Adolin he figured he could watch on his own.
A carriage waited, pulled by two mean-looking horses. All horses looked mean, with those too-knowing eyes and sudden movements. Unfortunately, a prince couldn’t arrive in a carriage pulled by chulls. A footman opened the door for Adolin, who settled into the confines. The footman closed the door, then climbed into a place at the back of the carriage. Kaladin prepared to swing up into the seat beside the carriage driver, then stopped.
“You!” he said, pointing at the driver.
“Me!” the King’s Wit replied from where he sat holding the reins. Blue eyes, black hair, black uniform. What was he doing driving the carriage? He wasn’t a servant, was he?
Kaladin clambered cautiously up into his seat, and Wit shook the reins, prodding the horses into motion.
“What are you doing here?” Kaladin asked him.
“Trying to find mischief,” Wit replied cheerfully, as the horses’ hooves rang against the stone. “Have you been practicing with my flute?”
“Uh . . .”
“Don’t tell me you left it in Sadeas’s camp when you moved out.”
“Well—”
“I said not to tell me,” Wit replied. “You don’t need to, since I already know. A shame. If you knew the history of that flute, it would make your brain flip upside-down. And by that, I mean that I would shove you off the carriage for having spied on me.”
“Uh . . .”
“Eloquent today, I see.”
Kaladin had left the flute behind. When he had gathered the bridgemen left in Sadeas’s camp—the wounded from Bridge Four, and the members of the other bridge crews—he’d been focused on people, not things. He hadn’t bothered with his little bundle of possessions, forgetting that the flute was among them.
“I’m a soldier, not a musician,” Kaladin said. “Besides, music is for women.”
“All people are musicians,” Wit countered. “The question is whether or not they share their songs. As for music being feminine, it’s interesting that the woman who wrote that treatise—the one you all practically worship in Alethkar—decided that all of the feminine tasks involve sitting around having fun while all the masculine ones involve finding someone to stick a spear in you. Telling, eh?”
“I guess so.”
“You know, I’m working very hard to come up with engaging, clever, meaningful points of interest to offer you. I can’t help thinking you’re not upholding your side of the conversation. It’s a little like playing music for a deaf man. Which I might try doing, as it sounds fun, if only someone hadn’t lost my flute.”
“I’m sorry,” Kaladin said. He’d rather be thinking about the new sword stances that Zahel had taught him, but Wit had shown him kindness before. The least Kaladin could do was chat with him. “So, uh, did you keep your job? As King’s Wit, I mean. When we met before, you implied you were in danger of losing your title.”
“I haven’t checked yet,” Wit said.
“You . . . you haven’t . . . Does the king know you’re back?”
“Nope! I’m trying to think of a properly dramatic way to inform him. Perhaps a hundred chasmfiends marching in unison, singing an ode to my magnificence.”
“That sounds . . . hard.”
“Yeah, the storming things have real trouble tuning their tonic chords and maintaining just intonation.”
“I have no idea what you just said.”
“Yeah, the storming things have real trouble tuning their tonic chords and maintaining just intonation.”
“That didn’t help, Wit.”
“Ah! So you’re going deaf, are you? Let me know when the process is complete. I have something I want to try. If I can just remember—”
“Yes, yes,” Kaladin said, sighing. “You want to play the flute for one.”
“No, that’s not it . . . Ah! Yes. I’ve always wanted to sneak up and poke a deaf man in the back of the head. I think it will be hilarious.”
Kaladin sighed. It would take an hour or so, even moving quickly, to reach Sebarial’s warcamp. A very long hour.
“So you’re just here,” Kaladin said, “to mock me?”
“Well, it’s kind of what I do. But I’ll go easy on you. I wouldn’t want you to go flying off on me.”
Kaladin jolted with a start.
“You know,” Wit said, nonchalant, “flying off in an angry tirade. That kind of thing.”
Kaladin narrowed his eyes at the tall lighteyed man. “What do you know?”
“Almost everything. That almost part can be a real kick in the teeth sometimes.”
“What do you want, then?”
“What I can’t have.” Wit turned to him, eyes solemn. “Same as everyone else, Kaladin Stormblessed.”
Kaladin fidgeted. Wit knew about him and about Surgebinding. Kaladin was sure of it. So, should he expect some kind of demand?
“What do you want,” Kaladin said, trying to speak more precisely, “from me?”
“Ah, so you’re thinking. Good. From you, my friend, I want one thing. A story.”
“What kind of story?”
“That is for you to decide.” Wit smiled at him. “I hope it will be dynamic. If there is one thing I cannot stomach, it is boredom. Kindly avoid being dull. Otherwise I might have to sneak up and poke you in the back of the head.”
“I’m not going deaf.”
“It’s also hilarious on people who aren’t deaf, obviously. What, you think I’d torment someone just because they were deaf? That would be immoral. No, I torment all people equally, thank you very much.”
“Great.” Kaladin settled back, waiting for more. Amazingly, Wit seemed content to let the conversation die.
Kaladin watched the sky, so dull. He hated days like these, which reminded him of the Weeping. Stormfather. Grey skies and miserable weather made him wonder why he’d even bothered to get out of bed. Eventually, the carriage reached Sebarial’s warcamp, a place that looked even more like a city than the other warcamps. Kaladin marveled at the fully constructed tenements, the markets, the—
“Farmers?” he asked as they rolled past a group of men hiking toward the gates, carrying worming reeds and buckets of crem.
“Sebarial has them setting up lavis fields on the southwestern hills,” Wit explained.
“The highstorms out here are too powerful for farming.”
“Tell that to the Natan people. They used to farm this entire area. Requires a strain of plant that doesn’t grow as large as you’re accustomed to.”
“But why?” Kaladin asked. “Why wouldn’t farmers go someplace where it’s easier? Like Alethkar proper.”
“You don’t know a lot about human nature, do you, Stormblessed?”
“I . . . No, I don’t.”
Wit shook his head. “So frank, so blunt. You and Dalinar are alike, certainly. Someone needs to teach the pair of you how to have a good time now and then.”
“I know full well how to have a good time.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. It involves being anywhere you aren’t.”
Wit stared at him, then chuckled, shaking the reins so the horses danced a little. “So you do have some spark of wit in you.”
It came from Kaladin’s mother. She’d often said things like that, though never so insulting. Being around Wit must be corrupting me.
Eventually, Wit pulled the carriage up to a nice manor home, the likes of which Kaladin would have expected in some fine lait, not here in a warcamp. With those pillars and beautiful glass windows, it was even finer than the citylord’s manor back in Hearthstone.
In the carriageway, Wit asked the footman to fetch Adolin’s causal betrothed. Adolin climbed out to await her, straightening his jacket, polishing the buttons on one sleeve. He glanced up toward the driver’s seat, then started.
“You!” Adolin exclaimed.
“Me!” Wit replied. He swung down from the top of the carriage and performed a flowery bow. “Ever at your service, Brightlord Kholin.”
“What did you do with my usual carriage driver?”
“Nothing.”
“Wit—”
“What, you’re implying that I hurt the poor fellow? Does that sound like me, Adolin?”
“Well, no,” Adolin said.
“Exactly. Besides, I’m certain he’s gotten the ropes undone by now. Ah, and here’s your lovely almost-but-not-quite bride.”
Shallan Davar had emerged from the house. She bobbed down the steps, not gliding down them as most lighteyed ladies would have. She’s certainly an enthusiastic one, Kaladin thought idly, holding the reins, which he’d picked up after Wit had dropped them.
Something just felt off about this Shallan Davar. What was she hiding behind that eager attitude and ready smile? That buttoned sleeve on the safehand of a lighteyed woman’s dress, that could hide any number of deadly implements. A simple poisoned needle, stuck through the fabric, would be enough to end Adolin’s life.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t watch her every moment she was with Adolin. He had to show more initiative than that; could he instead confirm that she was who she said she was? Decide from her past if she was a threat or not?
Kaladin stood up, planning to jump down onto the ground to keep an eye on her as she approached Adolin. She suddenly started, eyes widening. She pointed at Wit with her freehand.
“You!” Shallan exclaimed.
“Yes, yes. People certainly are good at identifying me today. Perhaps I need to wear—”
Wit cut off as Shallan lunged at him. Kaladin dropped to the ground, reaching for his side knife, then hesitated as Shallan grabbed Wit in an embrace, her head against his chest, her eyes squeezed shut.
Kaladin took his hand off his knife, raising an eyebrow at Wit, who looked completely flabbergasted. He stood with his arms at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them.
“I always wanted to say thank you,” Shallan whispered. “I never had a chance.”
Adolin cleared his throat. Finally, Shallan released Wit and looked at the prince.
“You hugged Wit,” Adolin said.
“Is that his name?” Shallan asked.
“One of them,” Wit said, apparently still unsettled. “There are too many to count, really. Granted, most of them are related to one form of curse or another. . . .”
“You hugged Wit,” Adolin said.
Shallan blushed. “Was that improper?”
“It’s not about propriety,” Adolin said. “It’s about common sense. Hugging him is like hugging a whitespine or, or a pile of nails or something. I mean it’s Wit. You’re not supposed to like him.”
“We need to talk,” Shallan said, looking up at Wit. “I don’t remember everything we talked about, but some of it—”
“I’ll try to squeeze it into my schedule,” Wit said. “I’m fairly busy, though. I mean, insulting Adolin alone is going to take until sometime next week.”
Adolin shook his head, waving away the footman and helping Shallan into the carriage himself. After he did so, he leaned in to Wit. “Hands off.”
“She’s far too young for me, child,” Wit said.
“That’s right,” Adolin said with a nod. “Stick to women your own age.”
Wit grinned. “Well, that might be a little harder. I think there’s only one of those around these parts, and she and I never did get along.”
“You are so bizarre,” Adolin said, climbing into the carriage.
Kaladin sighed, then moved to follow them in.
“You intend to ride in there?” Wit asked, grin widening.
“Yeah,” Kaladin said. He wanted to watch Shallan. She wasn’t likely to try something in the open, while riding in the carriage with Adolin. But Kaladin might learn something by watching her, and he couldn’t be absolutely certain she wouldn’t try to harm him.
“Try not to flirt with the girl,” Wit whispered. “Young Adolin seems to be growing possessive. Or . . . what am I saying? Flirt with the girl, Kaladin. It might make the prince’s eyes bulge.”
Kaladin snorted. “She’s lighteyed.”
“So?” Wit asked. “You people are too fixated on that.”
“No offense,” Kaladin whispered, “but I’d sooner flirt with a chasmfiend.” He left Wit to drive the carriage, hauling himself into it.
Inside, Adolin looked toward the heavens. “You’re kidding.”
“It’s my job,” Kaladin said, seating himself next to Adolin.
“Surely I’m safe in here,” Adolin said through gritted teeth, “with my betrothed.”
“Well, maybe I just want a comfortable seat, then,” Kaladin said, nodding to Shallan Davar.
She ignored him, smiling at Adolin as the carriage started rolling. “Where are we going today?”
“Well, you said something about a dinner,” Adolin said. “I know of a new winehouse in the Outer Market, and it actually serves food.”
“You always know the best places,” Shallan said, her smile widening.
Could you be any more obvious with your flattery, woman? Kaladin thought.
Adolin smiled back. “I just listen.”
“Now if you only paid more attention to what wines were good . . .”
“I don’t because it’s easy!” He grinned. “They’re all good.”
She giggled.
Storms, lighteyes were annoying. Particularly when they fawned over one another. Their conversation continued, and Kaladin found it blatantly obvious how badly this woman wanted a relationship with Adolin. Well, that wasn’t surprising. Lighteyes were always looking for chances to get ahead—or to stab one another in the back, if they were in that mood instead. His job wasn’t to figure out if this woman was an opportunist. Every lighteyes was an opportunist. He just had to find out if she was an opportunistic fortune hunter or an opportunistic assassin.
They continued talking, and Shallan circled the conversation back toward the day’s activity.
“Now, I’m not saying I mind another winehouse,” Shallan said. “But I do wonder if those are becoming a tad too obvious a choice.”
“I know,” Adolin replied. “But there’s storming little to do out here otherwise. No concerts, no art shows, no sculpture contests.”
Is that really what you people spend your time on? Kaladin wondered. Almighty save you if you don’t have sculpture contests to watch.
“There’s a menagerie,” Shallan said, eager. “In the Outer Market.”
“A menagerie,” Adolin said. “Isn’t that a little . . . low?”
“Oh, come on. We could look at all of the animals, and you could tell me which ones you’ve bravely slaughtered while hunting. It’ll be very diverting.” She hesitated, and Kaladin thought he saw something in her eyes. A flash of something deeper. Pain? Worry? “And I could use some distraction,” Shallan added more softly.
“I actually despise hunting,” Adolin said, as if he hadn’t noticed. “No real contest to it.” He looked to Shallan, who pasted on a smile and nodded eagerly. “Well, something different could be a pleasant change. All right, I’ll tell Wit to take us there instead. Hopefully he’ll do it, instead of driving us into a chasm to laugh at our screams of horror.”
Adolin turned to open the small sliding shutter up to the driver’s perch and gave the order. Kaladin watched Shallan, who sat back, a self-satisfied smile on her face. She had an ulterior motive for going to the menagerie. What was it?
Adolin turned back around and asked after her day. Kaladin listened with half an ear, studying Shallan, trying to pick out any knives hidden on her person. She blushed at something Adolin said, then laughed. Kaladin didn’t really like Adolin, but at least the prince was honest. He had his father’s earnest temperament, and had always been straight with Kaladin. Dismissive and spoiled, but straight.
This woman was different. Her movements were calculated. The way she laughed, the way she chose her words. She would giggle and blush, but her eyes were always discerning, always watching. She exemplified what made him sick about lighteyed culture.
You’re just in an irritable mood, part of him acknowledged. It happened sometimes, more often when the sky was cloudy. But did they have to act nauseatingly cheery?
He kept an eye on Shallan as the ride continued, and eventually decided he was being too suspicious of her. She wasn’t an immediate threat to Adolin. He found his mind drifting back toward the night in the chasms. Riding the winds, Light churning inside of him. Freedom.