Oathbringer: Book Three of the Stormlight Archive

Adolin immediately started joking with Skar and Drehy. Dalinar wouldn’t have liked to hear they’d gone out drinking. Not because of any specific prejudice, but there was a command structure to an army. Generals weren’t supposed to fraternize with the rank and file; it threw wrinkles into how armies worked.

Adolin could get away with things like that. As he listened, Kaladin found himself feeling ashamed of his earlier attitude. The truth was, he was feeling pretty good these days. Yes, there was a war, and yes, the city was seriously stressed—but ever since he’d found his parents alive and well, he’d been feeling better.

That wasn’t so uncommon a feeling for him. He felt good lots of days. Trouble was, on the bad days, that was hard to remember. At those times, for some reason, he felt like he had always been in darkness, and always would be.

Why was it so hard to remember? Did he have to keep slipping back down? Why couldn’t he stay up here in the sunlight, where everyone else lived?

It was nearing evening, maybe two hours from sunset. They passed several plazas like the one where they’d tested his Surgebinding. Most had been turned into living space, with people crowding in. Just sitting and waiting for whatever would happen next.

Kaladin trailed a little behind the others, and when Adolin noticed, he excused himself from the conversation and dropped back. “Hey,” he said. “You all right?”

“I’m worried that summoning a Shardblade would make me stand out too much,” Kaladin said. “I should have brought a spear tonight.”

“Maybe you should let me teach you how to use a side sword. You’re pretending to be head of our bodyguards tonight, and you’re lighteyed today. It looks strange for you to walk around without a side sword.”

“Maybe I’m one of those punchy guys.”

Adolin stopped in place and grinned at Kaladin. “Did you just say ‘punchy guys’?”

“You know, ardents who train to fight unarmed.”

“Hand to hand?”

“Hand to hand.”

“Right,” Adolin said. “Or ‘punchy guys,’ as everyone calls them.”

Kaladin met his eyes, then found himself grinning back. “It’s the academic term.”

“Sure. Like swordy fellows. Or spearish chaps.”

“I once knew a real axalacious bloke,” Kaladin said. “He was great at psychological fights.”

“Psychological fights?”

“He could really get inside someone’s head.”

Adolin frowned as they walked. “Get inside … Oh!” Adolin chuckled, slapping Kaladin on the back. “You talk like a girl sometimes. Um … I mean that as a compliment.”

“Thanks?”

“But you do need to practice the sword more,” Adolin said, growing excited. “I know you like the spear, and you’re good with it. Great! But you’re not simply a spearman anymore; you’re going to be an irregular. You won’t be fighting in a line, holding a shield for your buddies. Who knows what you’ll be facing?”

“I trained a little with Zahel,” Kaladin said. “I’m not completely useless with a sword. But … part of me doesn’t see the point.”

“You’ll be better if you practice with a sword, trust me. Being a good duelist is about knowing one weapon, and being a good foot soldier—that’s probably more about training than it is about any single weapon. But you want to be a great warrior? For that you need to be able to use the best tool for the job. Even if you’re never going to use a sword, you’ll fight people who do. The best way to learn how to defeat someone wielding a weapon is to practice with it yourself.”

Kaladin nodded. He was right. It was strange to look at Adolin in that bright outfit, stylish and glittering with golden thread, and hear him speak real battle sense.

When I was imprisoned for daring to accuse Amaram, he was the only lighteyes who stood up for me.

Adolin Kholin was simply a good person. Powder-blue clothing and all. You couldn’t hate a man like him; storms, you kind of had to like him.

Their destination was a modest home, by lighteyed standard. Tall and narrow, at four stories high it could have housed a dozen darkeyed families.

“All right,” Elhokar said as they drew near. “Adolin and I will feel out the lighteyes for potential allies. Bridgemen, chat with those in the darkeyed guard tent, and see if you can discover anything about the Cult of Moments, or other oddities in the city.”

“Got it, Your Majesty,” Drehy said.

“Captain,” he said to Kaladin, “you’ll go to the lighteyed guard tent. See if you can—”

“—find out anything about this Highmarshal Azure person,” Kaladin said. “From the Wall Guard.”

“Yes. We will plan to stay relatively late, as intoxicated party guests might share more than sober ones.”

They broke, Adolin and Elhokar presenting invitations to the doorman, who let them in—then gestured Drehy and Skar toward the darkeyed guards’ feast, happening in a tent set up on the grounds.

There was a separate tent for people who were lighteyed but not landowners. Privileged, but not good enough to get in the doors to the actual party. In his role as a lighteyed bodyguard, that would be the place for Kaladin—but for some reason the thought of going in there made him feel sick.

Instead he whispered to Skar and Drehy—promising to be back soon—and borrowed Skar’s spear, just in case. Then Kaladin left, walking the block. He’d return to do as told by Elhokar. But while there was enough light, he thought he’d maybe survey the wall and see if he could get an idea of the Wall Guard’s numbers.

More, he wanted to walk a little longer. He strolled to the foot of the nearby city wall, counting guard posts on top, looking at the large lower portion that was a natural part of the local rock. He rested his hand on the smooth, strata-lined formation of stone.

“Hey!” a voice called. “Hey, you!”

Kaladin sighed. A squad of soldiers from the Wall Guard was patrolling here. They considered this road around the city—next to the foot of the wall—to be their jurisdiction, but they didn’t patrol any farther inward.

What did they want? He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Well, running would only stir up a ruckus, so he dropped his spear and turned around, extending his arms out to the sides. In a city full of refugees, certainly they wouldn’t harass one man too much.

A squad of five tromped over to him, led by a man with a wispy dark beard and bright, light blue eyes. The man took in Kaladin’s uniform, with no insignia, and glanced at the fallen spear. Then he looked at Kaladin’s forehead and frowned.

Kaladin raised his hands to the brands there, which he could feel. But Shallan had put an illusion over those. Hadn’t she?

Damnation. He’s going to assume I’m a deserter.

“Deserter, I assume?” the soldier asked sharply.

Should have just gone to the storming party.

“Look,” Kaladin said. “I don’t want trouble. I just—”

“Do you want a meal?”

“A … meal?”

“Free food for deserters.”

That’s unexpected.

Reluctantly, he lifted the hair from his forehead, testing to see that the brands were still visible. Mostly, the hair prevented one from seeing the details.