Kavel had followed Kaladin from the gully back to camp, awkwardly suggesting how he should deal with his manifold worries. In his mind, the battalionlords were the greatest threat, even more so than Gylan. Kaladin would be their direct rival, no matter what, and they'd be competing for the missing general titles too. Even when he laid down to rest, it had taken an unsubtle hint from Coreb to get Kavel to leave. The man was loyal, without doubt, but the hero worship grated on Kaladin in a way he found impossible to explain. It was worse than everyone thinking he was lucky or 'Stormblessed"—Kavel saw him as more than a man.

Kaladin was not more than a man. His aching limbs proved that. Vorin tradition states that the Almighty gave Shardblades to humanity to fight the Voidbringers back into Damnation. Kaladin had used his as a walking stick as he hobbled back into camp. As night fell, the camp lit up with small fires and the smell of food, but Kaladin didn't eat. Streams of dust leaped and fell around his ankles, exhaustionspren dancing merrily.

Kaladin tried to rest in his tent. He stabbed his shardblade up to the hilt in the hardened crem of the earth—it was the only way in which he felt safe around the blade—and laid back on his sleeping mat. After most battles, Kaladin could sleep like the dead, regardless of what was going on in camp. There were plenty of sounds out tonight. Drinking songs and unstifled laughter. Moaning wounded and men screaming out in their sleep. None of that bothered Kaladin; he had heard it all before. Instead, his own squad's hushed conversation kept him awake.

"Maybe you need to smash em' to get the light out," Hab said, ripping off a bite of flatbread. "Spheres ain't known to give it up easy."

"Are you a storming idiot?" grumbled Alabet. "Do you think lighteyes smash up a thousand diamond chips every time they need to recharge a spanreed?"

"How am I s'posed to know? If you're such a storming scholar, why don't you figure it out?"

"They leave the gems out in the storm, same as everyone else," Hamel said from under his pillow. Unable to find sleep, he had been trying to resolve the conversation for twenty minutes. "There's nothing we can do until the next storm."

"You know that's not true!" Acis whined. "I've seen the lighteyes with heating fabrials in their tents even in the middle of the weeping." He was one of the youngest in the squad and used to brag about volunteering for duty rather than being drafted. It had taken time for Kaladin to explain to him that volunteering spoke more against his wisdom than for his bravery. "We're the best squad in the army, aren't we? We're not too stupid to use a fabrial!"

"Speak for yourself," Toorim said under his breath. "I think being a dunnard is what got me sent here in the first place."

"And we wouldn't have you any other way, Too'," chuckled Raksha, and the rest of the men joined in laughing and celebrating their collective stupidity.

"It doesn't matter how we recharge the gems." Navar stood at the door, nominally on watch, but spoke through the tent flap. The cold of the night gave his voice a hard edge. "The problem is the gems we're missing."

That was true. The men had helped lug the shardplate back to camp, one man per piece and two men for the backplate and breastplate. They'd tried to conceal them in cloth, but Kaladin doubted anyone in camp had been fooled. Now the plate lay on the floor of their tent in two dozen segments, minus several shattered pieces that seemed to have melted away. Two out of ten gems were unaccounted for. Kaladin did not seriously suspect his men of stealing them. In all likelihood, they were shattered during the fight. But each gem in the plate was a smokestone the size of his thumb.

Kaladin had been calculating their value in his head. A fresh recruit made twenty clearmarks a week, two hundred per month, until he earned his first stripe of veterancy. Two hundred clearmarks were about equal to five middle-weight broams. It was difficult to compare the massive gems in the shardplate to those embedded in spheres, but they were easily twenty times the size of a broam, too big to even fit inside a standard glass sphere. Adding a premium on top of their value in weight, each gem could be worth as much as five months wages.

There's a fortune sitting in this tent, even forgetting the shards. Kaladin couldn't blame someone tempted by that. He'd won a fortune worthy of a king, treasures even Highprinces yearned after. Would it be wrong for his men to steal a scrap of his prize for themselves? Kaladin heard the hollow clinking of glass on metal.

"Reesh, you chull-brain," groaned Raksha. "What in the nine hells are you doing?"

"Ma always said to throw in your dun spheres with some full'ns," Reesh said in his distinctive drawl. "The light rubs off on 'em in your pocket. Maybe the same'll work here."

"That's a myth!" said Raksha, but various other voices mumbled in agreement. Soon there was a cacophony of spilling spheres, and stormlight illuminated the tent's canopy. Kaladin opened one eye to get a look at their antics. Laying out in the center of the tent, the upturned breastplate overflowed with spheres. His men huddled around the white light like a campfire, debating the efficacy of their scheme.

"Cover that up," Coreb ordered, himself groggy from sleep. One of the men threw a spare blanket over the breastplate. In that moment, Kaladin saw the goblet of spheres in his father's hands, masked men at a door, banished by light. The people of Hearthstone used to give their spare spheres to support his family, but one jealous lighteyes turned them against his father. Now hundreds of powerful, grasping hands threatened him, and yet he knew his squad would never forsake him. Hope and fear, shame and pride, knotted themselves around his heart, warm and tender. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. He turned away from the center of the tent to hide his face.

The weight of emotion he had put off during the day was raining down upon him now, as it always did after a battle. Only unconsciousness ever gave him relief, and even that was broken up by episodes of panic and grief in his dreams. Some men drank to calm their minds, but it had never worked for Kaladin. That only made him lose control. Instead, he let the exhaustion of his body and soul carry him off. His departing thought was that he would do anything to protect the men in this tent.

.

.

.

"Sir. Sir!" Toorim shook Kaladin by the shoulder. The sun hadn't yet risen, and the only light in the tent leaked from under the blanket covering the breastplate. Kaladin realized he had fallen asleep with the shardblade's hilt in his hand. The bond felt stronger in the back of his head, like a headache without the pain.

"What?" he said, his voice gruff and mumbling.

"Someone from Amaram's staff," Toorim whispered, "calls himself Thybon. He's waiting for you." He looked anxiously over his shoulder, as if being watched.

"What does he want?"

"A meeting, he says. And..." Toorim trailed off for a moment, looking sheepish. "I think there's going to be another meeting later between the Battalionlords. You've got to be there."

"Fine," Kaladin grumbled. Normally, he followed a strict routine each morning, cleaning himself, his clothes, and his sleeping area. Now, he simply stuffed his sleeping mat and blanket into a corner. He dressed in his uniform, stained and dusty as it was, while considering what a lighteyed meeting might entail. As he pulled on his boots, an idea occurred to him.

Kaladin retrieved the shardblade and began making deep cuts in the cremstone underfoot. Toorim watched, silently confused. He traced the shape of where his sleeping mat had been and then made two angled cuts at the head and foot of his sleeping area. He was surprised at how quietly and effortlessly the blade slashed through several feet of stone. He finished it off with several horizontal cuts. Then he whispered his orders in Toorim's ear.

"Once I'm gone, wake up a few men and haul up those slabs of crem. Store the plate in the cavity underneath, then cover it back up with wetcrem. If it's not convincing, throw my mat back over it." Toorim looked bewildered, but nodded.

"Yes, sir." He whispered. "Be careful, sir. We... I mean, you need to protect yourself at all times."

Kaladin patted him on the shoulder as he ducked through the tent flaps. A stiff wind met him outside as the faintest signs of dawn crested the horizon. Navar stood guard, a tired frown on his face. In the lane between tents, a squat, bearded man waited, one hand in his waistcoat pocket, the other holding a lantern filled with spheres.

"Where are we going, Brightlord?" Kaladin said, shardblade stabbed point down in the crem.

"Brightlord Stormblessed, it would be my honor to host you this morning," Thybon said with a conceited bow. "I believe you and I have much to discuss."

"You're not an officer," Kaladin observed aloud. He had no uniform, no knots on his shoulder, not even a sword at his waist.

"No," he said, a hint of displeasure in his voice. "I was Highmarshal Amaram's Chief Stormwarden and a close friend and advisor as well. I think it is only right for me to offer my thanks to you for avenging his death."

Kaladin bowed slightly, unsure of his rank relative to this man. "Revenge is cold comfort. I'm sorry I couldn't save the Highmarshal. His death is a great loss to the army."

"Indeed, but still, there is much business that must be tended to today."

Undeniably, that was true. Yesterday's fight in the gully had felt like the decisive moment of his life, but today he would see what owning a shardblade truly meant for him. There were probably plots already in motion—hushed conversations held the night before. It was stupid of him to let himself fall asleep so early, even in his state of exhaustion.

"I wish to break my fast with you as well," said Thybon with a grin, "if that is to your pleasure."

Kaladin waved away several gnatlike hungerspren and signed. "Navar," he said, and the groggy spearman jumped to attention. "The squad's only orders today are to guard this tent. You and Coreb are in charge. Ignore anything from any officer other than Restees. If he personally gives you an order, delay and send a runner to me. Until I return, I want no fewer than two guards on the door and ten men inside. If Kavel, Yeshal, or anyone else comes by, tell them I'm at the warcenter. Understood?" Navar responded in the affirmative, and ducked inside to retrieve another guard.

"You have taken to command quite naturally," Thybon said as they began to walk. "One would think you were born to it."

"I was already in command when I claimed the shards."

"Ah, yes, I remember," he laughed. "Amaram remarked on your speedy rise to me once, the youngest man ever named squadleader, in his own recollection. But that is all the more to my point: command does call to you, and the Almighty provides. Was it an honor to be raised to the fifth Nahn?"

"I was born to the second Nahn; my father was—" Kaladin cut himself off. This man did not need to know who his father was or what he did that made him second Nahn. "He was always insistent that I reach my potential. To... fulfill my calling."

"Think of how proud he'll be now, then!" Thybon seemed to be putting on an act of joviality, patting Kaladin on the back and praising him. "Forth Dahn is an eternity away from the second Nahn. But I doubt you have reached the end of your destiny yet. There is—"

"My hope," Kaladin continued, expressing himself honestly, "was to one day be transferred to the Shattered Plains and be allowed to help avenge the death of the King."

"Indeed, every shardbearer in the kingdom has congregated on the plains. I'm sure you'll get your wish soon, now."

"Quite soon," Kaladin said as they neared the warcenter. "My enlistment is due to end in a matter of weeks. I intend to depart for the Shattered Plains immediately and pledge myself to the King himself."

The stormwarden's hand clenched at the handle of the warcenter door for a beat too long, then he proceeded forward. Kaladin carried the shardblade delicately through the doorway. The warcenter wasn't really a building; just a dozen chull wagons lined up next to one another, but the inside was well appointed with all the amenities of a lighteyed mansion, short of running water. Thybon led Kaladin to a small spherelit table and called in a servant to bring them tea.

Sitting with the blade was a feat of its own. It couldn't be set down tip-first without cutting a hole in the wooden floors. And Kaladin didn't feel at all safe with it resting on his shoulder or, almighty forbid, his lap. He opted to lay it flat on the table. Too late, he realized this might be interpreted as a veiled threat. Thybon sat across from him, tapping his rings on the table as they waited for refreshments, his eyes flicking down to the sword every few seconds.

The servant returned, a girl no older than Kaladin himself. She looked down at the table where the shardblade was resting, her eyes wide. Kaladin nudged the blade out of the way, pointing it a little more towards Thybon.

"Pardon me," Kaladin said with a nod. The serving girl deposited a plate with several lavis scones piled up and a saucer of jam-like gravy. She poured each cup of tea from the same pot and garnished them with what looked like a dry, woody stem.

"Ingo tea with curlbark," he said, taking an eager sip, "imported from Rira. It warms you up like a Veden red, but without the headache afterwards." Kaladin drank hesitantly, the unfamiliar drink intriguing him. The garnish gave the tea a subtle heat and sweetness, and the aroma was wonderful. "Curlbark is one of those spices the Ardents of old overlooked when assigning men and women's foods. Meridas and I used to debate its place according to Vorin theology. In many ways, he was a staunch traditionalist, but on this matter, he vacillated. One day it was too harsh for a woman, the next too delicate for a man. What do you think, Brightlord?"

"It's good," Kaladin said, "but I really couldn't say. My mother never made separate meals for the family. She just served what she could get her hands on—sweet, spicy, savory, or sour. It didn't matter much to us." For some reason, that intrigued the Stormwarden. Kaladin realized he had shifted Thybon's perception of him somehow. He was being too honest, too careless. It didn't matter if something seemed irrelevant; the lighteyes would read into any scrap of information about him.

"The Almighty has endless mercy for a mother doing her best," Thybon said between bites of scone, "but Meridas thought men of his rank were held to a higher standard. He took his responsibilities, his role in society, very seriously."

"I only spoke to him once, but from that conversation, I got the same view of the man." Kaladin saw the honor in Amaram for doing his duty, even if that duty was neither glamorous nor especially virtuous. The border conflict had been going on for years without result. A proper war, Kaladin thought, would not be prolonged unnecessarily.

"I think you are a man cut from the same cloth." Thybon steepled his fingers before him. "I believe he would trust you to look out for this army. In fact, I think you might even be the best choice to lead this army."

"What?" Kaladin pulled back from the table. The statement was absurd to even contemplate. "General Seti should be in command. He is the highest-ranking officer left in the army."

"Seti has not regained consciousness. Even if he does, I doubt he will be in any condition to lead, at least not in the field. I heard tell of your exploits in the field. No, not just killing the shardbearer. That took guts and skill. But rallying a unit behind you. One hundred and fifty men. As a darkeyes!" Thybon rubbed his hands together. "That blade was destined for your hands; the fourth dahn is only the beginning for you, if you play your hand carefully."

Kaladin frowned. The man was flattering him, leading him on, but to what end? Maybe he did think he could ride Kaladin's coattails now that his former patron had died. Or perhaps he was part of some other conspiracy. Kaladin chewed a scone to buy time and washed it down with the tea.

"What does Highprince Sadeas think of all this?" Kaladin asked abruptly.

"Sadeas?" Thybon was taken off guard. "I wrote to him by spanreed last night. He... wishes to reward your service in battle. Lands near Tomat, I believe, and a considerable bonus in spheres. A stipend for the maintenance of your plate as well. He sees your potential just as I do."

"I meant about the army. The war. What does Sadeas think about that?" Kaladin stuffed another scone into his mouth. The stormwarden seemed to have lost his train of thought.

"He... knows of its condition generally and wants Hallaw's forces dispersed at once. He hasn't decided on a replacement for Amaram, and his choices are quite narrow. That is why you should—"

"I don't care about land." Kaladin found that he was actually repulsed by the idea of ruling over darkeyed farmers in some village he'd never seen before. "Does he want me here or on the Shattered Plains?"

"He hasn't said yet... but I suggested to him that with our forces greatly depleted, a shardbearer could be decisive. You are the most important man in the army at this moment."

Kaladin ignored the flattery. He had caught Thybon in a minor lie. Sadeas didn't necessarily see anything in him other than a shardbearer. It was Thybon who wanted him here. He wanted Kaladin to take command. He wanted to help.

"He has me until the end of my enlistment, about five weeks from now. After that, I will be free to swear myself to any Highprince in Alethkar." Kaladin paused and read the panic on Thybon's face. Why does he care so much about this war? Kaladin wondered.

"If I am to serve beyond my original enlistment, I want my position in camp secured. An honor guard of my choosing. An equal seat among the other Battalionlords. Further rewards can come when the conflict is finished."

"What do you mean finished?" Thybon said, startled by Kaladin's flurry of demands.

"Hallaw, of course. I want him defeated once and for all; his army disbanded; whatever trifling issue started this, settled. After that, I will go to the Shattered Plains."

A grin broke out on Thybon's face as he began to expound on what could be achieved both in the army and on the plains. Kaladin paid little attention. The stormwarden thought he had inspired him to seek command, but Kaladin always intended to assert himself. Thybon only gave him a legitimate pretext.

He followed the squat man into the study. He reached for the spanreed on the desk, hesitated, then hastily called for a female scribe. The man can write, Kaladin thought, I bet he was writing to Sadeas himself last night. Whoever this man was, he was not merely a friend of Amaram's or an agent of Sadeas. He had his own agenda, which, for some reason, involved Kaladin now.

Whatever his game, at least it wasn't openly hostile. Kaladin needed some kind of ally, even one with ulterior motives, and he was unlikely to find any other kind in camp. More importantly, he needed a way to communicate directly with Sadeas; in fact, he'd like to have multiple. If ardents and stormwardens could be spies, any scribe could be passing information to someone. Lighteyes never tired of scheming; it was the art they all sought to perfect, and Kaladin was only a novice. He needed to start practicing immediately if he wanted to keep ahead of their plots.

Thybon had just begun to dictate a message to Sadeas when there was a knock at the warcenter door. Kaladin reached it just after a servant answered, "Stormblessed," Yeshal said, ignoring the servant's protest, "They're assembling the Battalionlords. Redelin's been called, Restees too. They're meeting somewhere in town. I don't know where."

Kaladin said a hasty goodbye to Thybon, who seemed to be oblivious to the urgency of the moment. Sadeas might make any number of promises, but the Highprince was thousands of miles away. Kaladin's nominal position in camp would mean nothing if the other officers didn't acknowledge it. Kaladin swiped the remaining scones off his plate as he followed Yeshal out of the warcenter and up the main lane of the camp towards town.

"What were you doing with the stormwarden?" Yeshal asked. Twisting black anxietyspren framed his face.

"Letting him flatter me," Kaladin said with a mouthful of scone.

"Thybon's more dangerous than he looks. Amaram trusted him above even his generals and gave him many of the more unsavory tasks in camp."

"Like what?"

"Spying. Slave trading. Discreet affairs, you know."

Kaladin grinned and hefted his shardblade. "I'm lucky I got out alive."