Smokeform for hiding and slipping ’tween men.
A form of power—like Surges of spren.
Do we dare to wear this form again? It spies.
Crafted of gods, this form we fear.
By Unmade touch its curse to bear,
Formed from shadow—and death is near. It lies.
—From the Listener Song of Secrets, 51st stanza
Kaladin led his troop of sore, tired men up to Bridge Four’s barrack, and—as he’d secretly requested—the men got a round of cheers and welcoming calls. It was early evening, and the familiar scent of stew was one of the most inviting things Kaladin could imagine.
He stepped aside and let the forty men tromp past him. They weren’t members of Bridge Four, but for tonight, they’d be considered such. They held their heads higher, smiles breaking out as men passed them bowls of stew. Rock asked one how the patrolling had gone, and though Kaladin couldn’t hear the soldier’s reply, he could definitely hear the bellowing laughter it prompted from Rock.
Kaladin smiled, leaning back against the barrack wall, folding his arms. Then he found himself checking the sky. The sun hadn’t quite set, but in the darkening sky, stars had begun to appear around Taln’s Scar. The Tear hung just above the horizon, a star much brighter than the others, named for the single tear that Reya was said to have shed. Some of the stars moved—starspren, nothing to be surprised by—but something felt odd about the evening. He breathed in deeply. Was the air stale?
“Sir?”
Kaladin turned. One of the bridgemen, an earnest man with short dark hair and strong features, had not joined the others at the stew cauldron. Kaladin searched for his name . . .
“Pitt, isn’t it?” Kaladin said.
“Yes, sir,” the man replied. “Bridge Seventeen.”
“What did you need?”
“I just . . .” The man glanced at the inviting fire, with members of Bridge Four laughing and chatting with the patrol group. Nearby, someone had hung a few distinctive suits of armor on the barrack walls. They were carapace helms and breastplates, attached to the leathers of common bridgemen. Those had now been replaced with fine steel caps and breastplates. Kaladin wondered who had hung the old suits up. He hadn’t even known that some of the men had fetched them; they were the extra suits that Leyten had crafted for the men and stashed down in the chasms before being freed.
“Sir,” Pitt said, “I just want to say that I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“Back when we were bridgemen.” Pitt raised a hand to his head. “Storms, that seems like a different life. I couldn’t think rightly during those times. It’s all hazy. But I remember being glad when your crew was sent out instead of mine. I remember hoping you’d fail, since you dared to walk with your chin up . . . I—”
“It’s all right, Pitt,” Kaladin said. “It wasn’t your fault. You can blame Sadeas.”
“I suppose.” Pitt got a distant look on his face. “He broke us right good, didn’t he, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Turns out, though, men can be reforged. I wouldn’t have thought that.” Pitt looked over his shoulder. “I’m going to have to go do this for the other lads of Bridge Seventeen, aren’t I?”
“With Teft’s help, yes, but that’s the hope,” Kaladin said. “Do you think you can do it?”
“I’ll just have to pretend to be you, sir,” Pitt said. He smiled, then moved on, taking a bowl of stew and joining the others.
These forty would be ready soon, ready to become sergeants to their own teams of bridgemen. The transformation had happened more quickly than Kaladin had hoped. Teft, you marvelous man, he thought. You did it.
Where was Teft, anyway? He’d gone on the patrol with them, and now he’d vanished. Kaladin glanced over his shoulder but didn’t see him; perhaps he’d gone to check on some of the other bridge crews. He did catch Rock shooing away a lanky man in an ardent’s robe.
“What was that?” Kaladin asked, catching the Horneater as he passed.
“That one,” Rock said. “Keeps loitering here with sketchbook. Wants to draw bridgemen. Ha! Because we are famous, you see.”
Kaladin frowned. Strange actions for an ardent—but, then, all ardents were strange, to an extent. He let Rock return to his stew and stepped away from the fire, enjoying the peace.
Everything was so quiet out there, in the camp. Like it was holding its breath.
“The patrol seems to have worked out,” Sigzil said, strolling up to Kaladin. “Those men are changed.”
“Funny what a couple of days spent marching as a unit can do to soldiers,” Kaladin said. “Have you seen Teft?”
“No, sir,” Sigzil said. He nodded toward the fire. “You’ll want to get some stew. We won’t have much time for chatting tonight.”
“Highstorm,” Kaladin realized. It seemed like too soon since the last one, but they weren’t always regular—not in the way he thought of it. The stormwardens had to do complex mathematics to predict them; Kaladin’s father had made a hobby of it.
Perhaps that was what he was noticing. Was he suddenly predicting highstorms because the night seemed too . . . something?
You’re imagining things, Kaladin thought. Shrugging off his fatigue from the extended ride and march, he went over to get some stew. He’d have to eat quickly—he’d want to go join the men guarding Dalinar and the king during the storm.
The men from the patrol cheered him as he filled his bowl.
* * *
Shallan sat on the rattling wagon and moved her hand over the sphere on the seat beside her, palming it and dropping another.
Tyn raised an eyebrow. “I heard the replacement hit.”
“Drynets!” Shallan said. “I thought I had it.”
“Drynets?”
“It’s a curse,” Shallan said, blushing. “I heard it from the sailors.”
“Shallan, do you have any idea at all what that means?”
“Like . . . for fishing?” Shallan said. “The nets are dry, maybe? They haven’t been catching any fish, so it’s bad?”
Tyn grinned. “Dear, I’m going to do my very best to corrupt you. Until then, I think you should avoid using sailor curses. Please.”
“All right.” Shallan passed her hand over the sphere again, swapping the spheres. “No clink! Did you hear that? Or, um, did you not hear that? It didn’t make a noise!”
“Nice,” Tyn said, getting out a pinch of some kind of mossy substance. She began rubbing it between her fingers, and Shallan thought she saw smoke rising from the moss. “You are getting better. I also feel like we should figure out some way to use that drawing talent of yours.”
Shallan already had an inkling of how it would come in handy. More of the former deserters had asked her for pictures.
“You’ve been working on your accents?” Tyn asked, eyes glazing as she rubbed the moss.
“I have indeed, my good woman,” Shallan said with a Thaylen accent.
“Good. We’ll get around to costuming once we have more resources. I, for one, am going to be very amused to watch your face when you have to go out in public with that hand of yours uncovered.”
Shallan immediately pulled her safehand up to her breast. “What!”
“I warned you about difficult things,” Tyn said, smiling in a devious way. “West of Marat, almost all women go out with both hands uncovered. If you’re going to go to those places and not stand out, you’ll have to be able to do as they do.”
“It’s immodest!” Shallan said, blushing furiously.
“It’s just a hand, Shallan,” Tyn said. “Storms, you Vorins are so prim. That hand looks exactly like your other hand.”
“A lot of women have breasts that aren’t much more pronounced than male ones,” Shallan snapped. “That doesn’t make it right for them to go out wearing no shirt, like a man would!”
“Actually, in parts of the Reshi Isles and Iri, it’s not uncommon for women to walk about topless. It gets hot up there. Nobody minds. I rather like it, myself.”
Shallan raised both hands to her face—one clothed, one not—hiding her blush. “You’re doing this just to provoke me.”
“Yeah,” Tyn said, chuckling. “I am. This is the girl that scammed an entire troop of deserters and took over our caravan?”
“I didn’t have to go naked to do that.”
“Good thing you didn’t,” Tyn said. “You still think you’re experienced and worldly? You blush at the mere mention of exposing your safehand. Can’t you see how it’s going to be hard for you to run any kind of productive scam?”
Shallan took a deep breath. “I guess.”
“Showing your hand off isn’t going to be the toughest thing you need to do,” Tyn said, looking distant. “Not the toughest by a breeze or a stormwind. I . . .”
“What?” Shallan asked.
Tyn shook her head. “We’ll talk about it later. Can you see those warcamps yet?”
Shallan stood up on her seat, shading her eyes against the setting sun in the west. To the north, she saw a haze. Hundreds of fires—no, thousands—seeping darkness into the sky. Her breath caught in her throat. “We’re there.”
“Call camp for the night,” Tyn said, not moving from her relaxed position.
“It looks like it’s only a few hours away,” Shallan said. “We could push on—”
“And arrive after nightfall, then be forced to camp anyway,” Tyn said. “Better to arrive fresh in the morning. Trust me.”
Shallan settled down, calling for one of the caravan workers, a youth who walked barefoot—his calluses must be frightening—alongside the caravan. Only those senior among them rode.
“Ask Trademaster Macob what he thinks of stopping here for the night,” Shallan said to the young man.
He nodded, then jogged up the line, passing lumbering chulls.
“You don’t trust my assessment?” Tyn asked, sounding amused.
“Trademaster Macob doesn’t like being told what to do,” Shallan said. “If stopping is a good move, perhaps he’ll suggest it. It seems like a better way to lead.”
Tyn closed her eyes, face toward the sky. She still held one hand up, absently rubbing moss between her fingers. “I might have some information for you tonight.”