However, it seems to me that all things have been set up for a purpose, and if we—as infants—stumble through the workshop, we risk exacerbating, not preventing, a problem.
The Shattered Plains.
Kaladin did not claim these lands as he did the chasms, where his men had found safety. Kaladin remembered all too well the pain of bloodied feet on his first run, battered by this broken stone wasteland. Barely anything grew out here, only the occasional patch of rockbuds or set of enterprising vines draping down into a chasm on the leeward side of a plateau. The bottoms of the cracks were clogged with life, but up here it was barren.
The aching feet and burning shoulders from running a bridge had been nothing compared to the slaughter that had awaited his men at the end of a bridge run. Storms . . . even looking across the Plains made Kaladin flinch. He could hear the hiss of arrows in the air, the screams of terrified bridgemen, the song of the Parshendi.
I should have been able to save more of Bridge Four, Kaladin thought. If I’d been faster to accept my powers, could I have done so?
He breathed in Stormlight to reassure himself. Only it didn’t come. He stood, dumbfounded, while soldiers marched across one of Dalinar’s enormous mechanical bridges. He tried again. Nothing.
He fished a sphere from his pouch. The firemark glowed with its customary light, tinting his fingers red. Something was wrong. Kaladin couldn’t feel the Stormlight inside as he once had.
Syl flitted across the chasm high in the air with a group of windspren. Her giggling laughter rained down upon him, and he looked up. “Syl?” he asked quietly. Storms. He didn’t want to look like an idiot, but something deep within him was panicking like a rat caught by its tail. “Syl!”
Several marching soldiers glanced at Kaladin, then up toward the air. Kaladin ignored them as Syl zipped down in the form of a ribbon of light. She swirled around him, still giggling.
The Stormlight returned to him. He could feel it again, and he greedily sucked it from the sphere—though he did have the presence of mind to clutch the sphere in a fist and hold it to his chest to make the process less obvious. The Light of one mark wasn’t enough to expose him, but he felt far, far better with that Stormlight raging inside of him.
“What happened?” Kaladin whispered to Syl. “Is something wrong with our bond? Is it because I haven’t found the Words soon enough?”
She landed on his wrist and took the form of a young woman. She peered at his hand, cocking her head. “What’s inside?” she asked with a conspiratorial whisper.
“You know what this is, Syl,” Kaladin said, feeling chilled, as if he’d been hit by a wave of stormwater. “A sphere. Didn’t you see it just now?”
She looked at him, face innocent. “You are making bad choices. Naughty.” Her features mimicked his for a moment and she jumped forward, as if to startle him. She laughed and zipped away.
Bad choices. Naughty. So, this was because of his promise to Moash that he’d help assassinate the king. Kaladin sighed, continuing forward.
Syl couldn’t see why his decision was the right one. She was a spren, and had a stupid, simplistic morality. To be human was often to be forced to choose between distasteful options. Life wasn’t clean and neat like she wanted it to be. It was messy, coated with crem. No man walked through life without getting covered in it, not even Dalinar.
“You want too much of me,” he snapped at her as he reached the other side of the chasm. “I’m not some glorious knight of ancient days. I’m a broken man. Do you hear me, Syl? I’m broken.”
She zipped up to him and whispered, “That’s what they all were, silly.” She streaked away.
Kaladin watched as the soldiers filed across the bridge. They weren’t doing a plateau run, but Dalinar had brought plenty of soldiers anyway. Going out onto the Shattered Plains was entering a war zone, and the Parshendi were ever a threat.
Bridge Four tromped across the mechanical bridge, carrying their smaller one. Kaladin wasn’t about to leave the camps without that. These mechanisms Dalinar employed—the massive, chull-pulled bridges that could be ratcheted down into place—were amazing, but Kaladin didn’t trust them. Not nearly as much as he did a good bridge on his shoulders.
Syl flitted by again. Did she really expect him to live according to her perception of what was right and wrong? Was she going to yank his powers away every time he did something that risked offending her?
That would be like living with a noose around his neck.
Determined to not let his worries ruin the day, he went to check on Bridge Four. Look at the open sky, he told himself. Breathe the wind. Enjoy the freedom. After so much time in captivity, these things were wonders.
He found Bridge Four beside their bridge at parade rest. It was odd to see them with their old padded-shoulder leather vests on over their new uniforms. It transformed them into a weird mix of what they had been and what they were now. They saluted him together, and he saluted back.
“At ease,” he told them, and they broke formation, laughing and joking with one another as Lopen and his assistants distributed waterskins.
“Ha!” Rock said, settling down on the side of the bridge to drink. “This thing, it is not so hard as I remember it being.”
“It’s because we’re going slower,” Kaladin said, pointing at Dalinar’s mechanical bridge. “And because you’re remembering the early days of bridge carries, not the later ones when we were well-fed and well-trained. It got easier then.”
“No,” Rock said. “The bridge is light because we have defeated Sadeas. Is the proper way of things.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Ha! Perfect sense.” He took a drink. “Airsick lowlander.”
Kaladin shook his head, but let himself find a smile at Rock’s familiar voice. After slaking his own thirst, he jogged across the plateau toward where Dalinar had just finished crossing. Nearby, a tall rock formation surmounted the plateau, and atop it was a wooden structure like a small fort. Sunlight glinted off one of the spyglasses fitted there.
No permanent bridge led to this plateau, which was just outside the secure area closest to the warcamp. These scouts positioned here were vaulters, who leaped chasms at narrow points with the use of long poles. It seemed like a job that would require a special brand of craziness—and because of that, Kaladin had always felt respect for these men.
One of the vaulters was speaking with Dalinar. Kaladin would have expected the man to be tall and limber, but he was short and compact, with thick forearms. He wore a Kholin uniform with white stripes edging the coat.
“We did see something out here, Brightlord,” the vaulter said to Dalinar. “I saw it with my own two eyes, and recorded the date and time in glyphs on my ledger. It was a man, a glowing one, who flew around in the sky back and forth over the Plains.”
Dalinar grunted.
“I’m not crazy, sir,” the vaulter said, shuffling from one foot to the other. “The other lads saw it too, once I—”
“I believe you, soldier,” Dalinar said. “It was the Assassin in White. He looked like that when he came for the king.”
The man relaxed. “Brightlord, sir, that’s what I thought. Some of the men back at camp told me I was just seeing what I wanted.”
“Nobody wants to see that one,” Dalinar said. “But why would he spend his time out here? Why hasn’t he come back to attack, if he’s this close?”
Kaladin cleared his throat, uncomfortable, and pointed at the watchman’s post. “That fort up there, is it wood?”
“Yes,” the vaulter said, then noticed the knots on Kaladin’s shoulders. “Uh, sir.”
“That can’t possibly withstand a highstorm,” Kaladin said.
“We break it down, sir.”
“And carry it back to camp?” Kaladin asked, frowning. “Or do you leave it out here for the storm?”
“Leave it, sir?” the short man said. “We stay here with it.” He pointed toward a burrowed-out section of rock, cut with hammers or a Shardblade, at the base of the stone formation. It didn’t look very large—just a cubby, really. It looked like they took the wooden floor of the platform up above, then locked it into place with clasps at the side of the cubby to form a kind of door.
A special kind of crazy indeed.
“Brightlord, sir,” the vaulter said to Dalinar, “the one in white might be out here somewhere. Waiting.”
“Thank you, soldier,” Dalinar said, nodding his dismissal. “Keep an eye out for us while we travel. We’ve had reports of a chasmfiend moving in close to the camps.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, saluting and then jogging back toward the rope ladder leading up to his post.
“What if the assassin does come for you?” Kaladin asked softly.
“I don’t see how it would be any different out here,” Dalinar said. “He’ll be back eventually. On the Plains or in the palace, we’ll have to fight him.”
Kaladin grunted. “I wish you’d accept one of those Shardblades that Adolin has been winning, sir. I’d feel more comfortable if you could defend yourself.”
“I think you’d be surprised,” Dalinar said, shading his eyes, turning toward the warcamp. “I do feel wrong leaving Elhokar alone back there, though.”
“The assassin said he wanted you, sir,” Kaladin said. “If you’re apart from the king, that will only serve to protect him.”
“I suppose,” Dalinar said. “Unless the assassin’s comments were misdirection.” He shook his head. “I might order you to stay with him next time. I can’t help but feel I’m missing something important, something right in front of me.”
Kaladin set his jaw, trying to ignore the chill he felt. Order you to stay with him next time. . . . It was almost like fate itself was pushing Kaladin to be in a position to betray the king.
“About your imprisonment,” the highprince said.
“Already forgotten, sir,” Kaladin said. Dalinar’s part in it, at least. “I appreciate not being demoted.”
“You’re a good soldier,” Dalinar said. “Most of the time.” His eyes flicked toward Bridge Four, picking up their bridge. One of the men at the side drew his attention in particular: Renarin, wearing his Bridge Four uniform, hefting the bridge into place. Nearby, Leyten laughed and gave him pointers on how to hold the thing.
“He’s actually starting to fit in, sir,” Kaladin said. “The men like him. I never thought I’d see the day.”
Dalinar nodded.
“How was he?” Kaladin asked softly. “After what happened in the arena?”
“He refused to go practice with Zahel,” Dalinar said. “So far as I know, he hasn’t summoned his Shardblade in weeks.” He watched for a moment longer. “I can’t decide if his time with your men is good for him—helping him think like a soldier—or if it’s just encouraging him to avoid his greater responsibilities.”
“Sir,” Kaladin said. “If I may say so, your son seems like kind of a misfit. Out of place. Awkward, alone.”
Dalinar nodded.
“Then, I can say with confidence that Bridge Four is probably the best place he could find himself.” It felt odd to be saying it of a lighteyes, but it was true.
Dalinar grunted. “I’ll trust your judgment. Go. Make sure those men of yours are on the watch for the assassin, in case he does come today.”
Kaladin nodded, leaving the highprince behind. He’d heard about Dalinar’s visions before—and had had an inkling of their contents. He didn’t know what he thought, but he intended to get a copy of the vision records in their entirety so he could have Ka read it to him.
Perhaps these visions were why Syl was always so determined to trust Dalinar.
As the day passed, the army moved across the Plains like the flow of some viscous liquid—mud dribbling down a shallow incline. All of this so Shallan could see a chasmfiend chrysalis. Kaladin shook his head, crossing a plateau. Adolin was certainly smitten; he’d managed to roll out an entire strike force, his father included, just to sate the girl’s whims.
“Walking, Kaladin?” Adolin said, trotting up. The prince rode that white beast of a horse, the thing with the hooves like hammers. Adolin wore his full suit of blue Shardplate, helm tied to a knob on the back of the saddle. “I thought you had full requisition right from my father’s stables.”
“I have full requisition right from the quartermasters too,” Kaladin said, “but you don’t see me hiking out here with a cauldron on my back just because I can.”
Adolin chuckled. “You should try riding more. You have to admit that there are advantages. The speed of the gallop, the height of attack.” He patted his horse on the neck.
“I guess I just trust my own feet too much.”
Adolin nodded, as if that had been the wisest thing a man had ever said, before riding back to check on Shallan in her palanquin. Feeling a little fatigued, Kaladin fished in his pocket for another sphere, just a diamond chip this time, and held it to his chest. He breathed in.
Again, nothing happened. Storm it! He looked about for Syl, but couldn’t find her. She’d been so playful lately, he was starting to wonder if this was all some kind of trick. He actually hoped it was that, and not something more. Despite his inward grousing and complaints, he desperately wanted this power. He had claimed the sky, the winds themselves. Giving them up would be like giving up his own hands.
He eventually reached the edge of their current plateau, where Dalinar’s mechanical bridge was setting up. Here, blessedly, he found Syl inspecting a cremling crawling across the rocks toward the safety of a nearby crack.
Kaladin sat down on a rock beside her. “So you’re punishing me,” he said. “For agreeing to help Moash. That’s why I’m having trouble with the Stormlight.”
Syl followed along behind the cremling, which was a kind of beetle with a round, iridescent shell.
“Syl?” Kaladin asked. “Are you all right? You seem . . .”
Like you were before. When we first met. It made a feeling of dread rise within him to acknowledge it. If his powers were withdrawing, was it because the bond itself was weakening?
She looked up at him, and her eyes became more focused, her expression like that of her normal self. “You have to decide what you want, Kaladin,” she said.
“You don’t like Moash’s plan,” Kaladin said. “Are you trying to force me to change my mind regarding him?”
She scrunched up her face. “I don’t want to force you to do anything. You have to do what you think is right.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do!”
“No. I don’t think you are.”
“Fine. I’ll tell Moash and his friends that I’m out, that I’m not going to help them.”
“But you gave Moash your word!”
“I gave my word to Dalinar too. . . .”
She drew her lips to a line, meeting his eyes.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it,” Kaladin whispered. “I’ve made two promises, and I can’t keep my word to both.” Oh, storms. Was this the sort of thing that had destroyed the Knights Radiant?
What happened to your honorspren when you confronted them with a choice like this? A broken vow either way.
Idiot, Kaladin thought at himself. It seemed he couldn’t make any right choices these days.
“What do I do, Syl?” he whispered.
She flitted up until she was standing in the air just before him, eyes meeting his. “You must speak the Words.”
“I don’t know them.”
“Find them.” She looked toward the sky. “Find them soon, Kaladin. And no, simply telling Moash you won’t help isn’t going to work. We’ve gone too far for that. You need to do what your heart needs to do.” She rose upward toward the sky.
“Stay with me, Syl,” he whispered after her, standing. “I’ll figure this out. Just . . . don’t lose yourself. Please. I need you.”
Nearby, gears on Dalinar’s bridge mechanism turned as soldiers twisted levers, and the entire thing started to unfold.
“Stop, stop, stop!” Shallan Davar jogged up, a flurry of red hair and blue silk, a large floppy hat on her head to keep off the sun. Two of her guards jogged after her, but neither was Gaz.
Kaladin spun about, alarmed at her tone, searching for signs of the Assassin in White.
Shallan, puffing, raised her safehand to her chest. “Storms, what is wrong with palanquin porters? They absolutely refuse to move quickly. ‘It’s not stately,’ they say. Well, I don’t really do stately. All right, give me a minute, then you can continue.”
She settled down on a rock near the bridge. The baffled soldiers regarded her as she dug out her drawing pad, then started sketching. “All right,” she said. “Continue. I’ve been trying all day to get a progressive sketch of that bridge as it unfolds. Storming porters.”
What a bizarre woman.
The soldiers hesitantly continued positioning the bridge, unfolding it beneath the watchful eyes of three of Dalinar’s engineers—widowed wives of his fallen officers. Several carpenters were also on hand to work at their orders if the bridge got stuck or a piece snapped.
Kaladin gripped his spear, trying to sort through his emotions regarding Syl, and the promises he’d made. Surely he could work this out somehow. Couldn’t he?
Seeing this bridge intruded on his mind with thoughts of bridge runs, and he found that a welcome distraction. He could see why Sadeas had preferred the simple, if brutal, method of the bridge crews. Those bridges were faster, cheaper, and less prone to problems. These massive things were ponderous, like big ships trying to maneuver in a bay.
Armored bridge runners is the natural solution, Kaladin thought. Men with shields, with full support from the army to get them into position. You could have fast, mobile bridges, but also not leave men to be slaughtered.
Of course, Sadeas had wanted the bridgemen killed, as bait to keep arrows away from his soldiers.
One of the carpenters helping with the bridge—examining one of the wooden steadying pins and talking about carving a new one—was familiar to Kaladin. The stout man had a birthmark across his forehead, shaded by the carpenter’s cap he wore.
Kaladin knew that face. Had the man been one of Dalinar’s soldiers, one of those who had lost the will to fight following the slaughter on the Tower? Some of those had switched to other duties in camp.
He was distracted as Moash walked over, raising a hand toward Bridge Four, who cheered him. Moash’s brilliant Shardplate—which he’d had repainted blue with red accents at the points—looked surprisingly natural on him. It hadn’t even been a week yet, but Moash walked in the armor easily.
He stepped up to Kaladin, then knelt down on one knee, Plate clinking. He saluted, arm across chest.
His eyes . . . they were lighter in color; tan instead of deep brown as they’d once been. He wore his Shardblade strapped across his back in a guarded sheath. Only one more day until he had it bonded.
“You don’t need to salute me, Moash,” Kaladin said. “You’re lighteyed now. You outrank me by a mile or two.”
“I’ll never outrank you, Kal,” Moash said, faceplate of his helm up. “You’re my captain. Forever.” He grinned. “But I can’t tell you how much storming fun it is to watch the lighteyes try to figure out how to deal with me.”
“Your eyes are really changing.”
“Yeah,” Moash said. “But I’m not one of them, you hear me? I’m one of us. Bridge Four. I’m our . . . secret weapon.”
“Secret?” Kaladin asked, raising an eyebrow. “They’ve probably heard about you all the way in Iri by now, Moash. You’re the first darkeyed man to be given a Blade and Plate in over a lifetime.”
Dalinar had even granted Moash lands and a stipend from them, a lavish sum, and not just by bridgeman standards. Moash still stopped by for stew some nights, but not all. He was too busy arranging his new quarters.
There was nothing wrong with that. It was natural. It was also part of why Kaladin had turned down the Blade himself—and perhaps why he’d always been worried about showing his powers to the lighteyes. Even if they didn’t find a way to take the abilities from him—he knew that fear was irrational, though he felt it all the same—they might find a way to take Bridge Four from him. His men . . . his very self.
They might not be the ones who take it from you, Kaladin thought. You might be doing it to yourself, better than any lighteyes could.
The thought nauseated him.
“We’re getting close,” Moash said softly as Kaladin took out his waterskin.
“Close?” Kaladin asked. He lowered the waterskin and looked over his shoulder across the plateaus. “I thought we still had a few hours to go before we reached the dead chrysalis.”
It was far out, almost as far out as the armies went on bridge runs. Bethab and Thanadal had claimed it yesterday.
“Not that,” Moash said, looking to the side. “Other things.”
“Oh. Moash, are you . . . I mean . . .”
“Kal,” Moash said. “You’re with us, right? You said it.”
Two promises. Syl told him to follow his heart.
“Kaladin,” Moash said, more solemnly. “You gave me these Shards, even after you were angry with me for disobeying you. There’s a reason. You know, deep down, that what I’m doing is right. It’s the only solution.”
Kaladin nodded.
Moash glanced around, then stood up, Plate clinking. He leaned in to whisper. “Don’t worry. Graves says you aren’t going to have to do much. We just need an opening.”
Kaladin felt sick. “We can’t do it when Dalinar is in the warcamp,” he whispered. “I won’t risk him being hurt.”
“No problem,” Moash said. “We feel the same way. We’ll wait for the right moment. The newest plan is to hit the king with an arrow, so there’s no risk of implicating you or anyone else. You lead him to the right spot, and Graves will fell the king with his own bow. He’s an excellent shot.”
An arrow. It felt so cowardly.