The war council broke for a midday meal. Servants brought out baskets of steamed skrip, their shells already cracked. To the side, they served bowls of sour curry and plates of thin salted biscuits. Kaladin watched Pereshal pull the meat out of the skrips shell, dip it in the curry, and eat it with the biscuit. It hardly seemed filling, but Kaladin followed along and was surprised to find that he enjoyed it.

A gray-haired man decanting wine offered him something called a 'Reshi Blue' and Kaladin accepted. As the wine filled a fine bronze goblet, Kaladin realized he'd made a mistake. He rarely drank and never drank to excess, but he recognized the smell of hard alcohol disguised with fruit and nectar nonetheless. Many darkeyed soldiers drank a liquor like this, though uncolored. It accounted for the majority of disciplinary problems day to day and more than a few unnecessary casualties. Some men even drank it before going into battle to dull their nerves.

Kaladin wasn't facing a battle, but his nerves were frayed. He could take the drink but thought better of it. If he wanted this scheme to work out, he'd have to keep his wits about him. He pushed the full cup to the side and ignored it. He was sure it would ruin the taste of the food anyway.

The meal progressed amiably enough. The battalionlords joined in quiet conversations with those seated near them, splitting into two groups of three. On one side, Redelin bantered casually with Pereshal and lightly prodded Restees with occasional barbs. Restees fended him off effortlessly. "If soldiering is disagreeable to you, Redelin," he said, between sips of pale wine, "perhaps you could find more suitable employment at court—as the King's Wit."

On the other side of the table, Zem and Ordinal listened to the elder Melys, who carried on a diatribe against cowardice almost without pause. "Half-trained men could be forgiven, but when the tip of the spear, the finest in the army, break and run, they doom the rest to flight. It is a disease—fear—fatal and contagious. Not all men can make themselves immune, but a soldier must at least try. An officer must succeed. And we plan on promoting these weaklings?"

Zem emptied his crystal goblet and finished half his skrip before he got a word in. "Be reasonable, Father. Someone needs to fill the gap."

The former group seemed decidedly friendlier, while the latter got along with a sort of stiff formality. Kaladin wished to join in, but he was seated so far from them that it would be impossible for them to speak without including the entire table. He resigned himself to his meal, listening passively to their chatter.

After a few minutes, a messenger boy entered the room unannounced. He bowed awkwardly and rushed to Restees's side. The two exchanged a hushed conversation before Restees dismissed the boy.

"Word on Seti's condition," he said, grabbing the entire room's attention. "According to the Chief Surgeon, Seti took some food and water this morning. He was coherent but not strong enough to stay awake long. In the few words he could manage, he entrusted us with the task of safeguarding the army."

"What does 'us' mean?" Ordinal said. "We six, he meant, surely."

"The message didn't specify. I don't know if he was made aware of Stormblessed at all."

"What did he say about Seti's chances?" Pereshal asked.

"He'll live, but recovery will take some time." Restees turned to Melys. "It's as you said, he'll never lead in the field again. But he remains the highest-ranking officer in this army."

"We'd better write to Sadeas then," Pereshal sighed. "We have Seti's blessing and only need the Highprince's approval to move forward with the reorganization."

Restees shook his head. "We should agree on our recommendations as a war council before we contact the Highprince. Better to speak to him with one voice."

Redelin swirled a crystal goblet of amber wine. "Do you really think we'll come to a unanimous decision?"

"A simple majority will do, I think."

"What constitutes a majority in this body?" Redelin mused. "Ordinal had a point—are we a council of six or seven?"

"Of course Stormblessed must be included," Pereshal said earnestly. "By every custom in Alethkar, he is our equal or better."

At that, Ordinal raised his voice. "Seti was clear; we may act on his behalf. This dunnard has nothing to do with it!"

"You're the dunnard if you believe that. If Seti had been informed—"

"This is so typical of you. Always looking for the next boot to kiss to get ahead. If your rockbuds are really that shriveled—"

Melys and Restees frowned as the argument escalated. Redelin threw fire on the debate, supporting Pereshal one moment and Ordinal the next, evidently enjoying the conflict. Zem tried to speak up once but was shouted down. Clearly, the rivalry between Pereshal and Ordinal predated this particular debate.

Just as it seemed the argument might escalate to violence, Melys struck the table three times, hard enough to shake dishes on the other side. Kaladin narrowly saved his undrunk wine from tipping over. Melys didn't take the same care with his own. The goblet shattered on impact, scattering shards of glass and red droplets of wine across the table.

"Silence! Or may the Ten Deaths damn you both!" He bellowed. The room obediently fell silent. "The boy either is a Battalionlord or he isn't. That decision can only be made by the Highprince. So there's nothing to do but write to him and find out."

Ordinal grumbled, but the rest agreed with Melys. Redelin looked disappointed that his fun had been ruined. As servants rushed to clean up the mess of glass and wine, Restees called in a pair of scribes with a spanreed and writing board. They fiddled with the board, paper, and inkwell before setting up the reed and turning the gemstone one notch to the right. The ruby pulsed slowly like a red coal in a dying fire. Kaladin wanted to ask how it worked but feared it would make him seem like a darkeyed rube.

"The first order of business should be the status of the army," Melys said, eyes shifting between Ordinal and Pereshal. "That should be uncontroversial."

"Call in the surgeon," Pereshal said, "he can give information on Seti and the other wounded."

Restees sent a runner, and a few minutes later Ven, the chief surgeon, entered the stormshelter. He eyed Kaladin, and Kaladin returned his gaze. He knew the surgeon better than most officers—he had paid Ven half his wages in bribes to ensure the stretcher bearers would tend to his men. When he first enlisted in the army, he thought he might apply for a position as a surgeon's assistant, but once he saw his first battle, he began to realize why his father never accepted payment for his services. To introduce spheres or status into that profession poisoned it, made it something almost despicable.

Ven bowed deeply to the assembled officers, which they returned with a slight nod. Dark shadows hung under his eyes, and he blinked frequently as if trying to remain awake. "My staff has worked through the night attempting to save the worst cases—" he began, but Restees interrupted him with a raised hand.

"You can give your report to the Highprince himself," Restees said dismissively. "Take a seat."

Awkwardly, Ven sat next to Pereshal. No one offered him any wine or food or thought to explain the situation to him further. The battalionlords all went back to eating, drinking, and conversing among themselves as the spanreed pulsed in its place. Ven glanced at the shardblade on the table, then away. He was the nearest to Kaladin now, only one seat away.

"Many Shardblade wounds at the field hospital last night?" Kaladin asked darkly.

The surgeon looked at him, eyebrows raised. "A few dozen, yes. Dead arms mostly, but a few with more complicated injuries." He looked back at the blade. "I was taught to mend tears in the flesh, but that thing rends the soul apart. I don't know how to sow that back together."

"More complicated, how?"

"Partial cuts through the abdomen, not severing the spine. It leaves only a thin gray line, often without any pain. Many men think the blade missed them until an organ starts to fail. I had a scribe write to a colleague of mine in Kharbranth, and he transcribed everything he had on sharblade wounds for me. It seems that if it's a kidney or lung, they may survive, but the stomach or liver is a death sentence. Organs do not die partially. If they are pierced, they simply fail. The exception is the intestines. For some reason, if there are an even number of slices through the intestines, only the portion between cuts will die. It is possible to cut out the blade-dead sections and reattach the healthy ends, though it's very risky. Necessary, but risky."

"Have you attempted such a surgery yet?" Kaladin asked.

Ven grimaced. "It's hard to tell between a wound that's pierced the guts and one that's only cut the skin and flesh. These 'flesh wounds' are not debilitating, but the surgery can be fatal. I'll wait until one of them shows symptoms. I won't cut a man without cause."

Kaladin didn't envy the man—already swarmed with ordinary patients—now tasked with an operation few surgeons on Roshar have ever successfully performed. "When my rank is confirmed, I can try to secure you some additional spheres, more staff."

Ven looked up in surprise. "Brightlord, you don't have to bribe me; I will prioritize your men in battle if you demand it."

"It's not a bribe," Kaladin sighed. "This army is facing some hard fighting. We need more surgeons and medics." Ven still looked doubtful. "I also want those men with shardblade wounds cared for," Kaladin said. "I intend to find a place for them myself."

That seemed to make even less sense to the surgeon, but he nodded his thanks. As they turned back to the others, the spanreed's gem went solid red. The scribe placed the reed just above a point in the top left sheet of paper, holding it still for a moment. When the gem flashed again, she looked up at the assembled battalionlords.

"Highprince Sadeas," Redelin began without consulting the others, "we wish you glory and triumph in the name of the Almighty."

Dutifully, the scribe copied the greeting as it was said before returning the tip of the reed to the left of the page. "Indeed, and may we all find our places high in the Tranquiline Halls," the scribe read. "This is Brightlady Ialai Sadeas speaking—the Highprince has only just been called away on a plateau run. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"Assembled are—" Redelin began, but Melys suddenly grabbed the scribe's wrist before she could write. "Oh, be easy on the girl," Redelin said, clearly pleased to have gotten a reaction. "I am only dictating the ordinary pleasantries."

"Do not transmit anything until the whole body gives its assent," Melys said, the scribe's arm still clenched in his fist. She nodded anxiously, and he released her.

With a sigh, Redelin began again. "Assembled are the senior surviving officers of the Army of Absidier Highmarshal Meridas Amaram—Phubar Pereshal, Kallem Restees, Havar Ordinal, Zem Melys, Elash Melys, and Varik Redelin." He looked around the table, hands open, looking for approval.

"Chief Surgeon Ven and Shardbearer Kaladin Stormblessed are present as well," Restees added. They all nodded, and the scribe transcribed.

"What is the state of Seti? What are his chances of recovery?" the scribe read. The rest of the table turned to Ven.

Standing stiffly, he began his report. "Seti awoke briefly this morning long enough to give over command to this council, but only remained awake a few minutes. He suffered a deep wound in his right thigh from a thrust spear and a concussion from a shield. He lost a great deal of blood, but the greatest danger is over. I suspect he will regain consciousness again soon."

"And the state of the army?"

Restees enumerated the same casualty estimates he had mentioned earlier, emphasizing the need for replacement officers, before Ven began his report on the wounded. "There were eighteen hundred and twenty two total wounded reported in camp last night, of whom one hundred and twenty have since succumbed to their wounds. Approximately twelve hundred suffer from minor injuries and may be ready for combat within a few weeks. The remaining suffer from more serious wounds, unlikely to recover within the month. Many of these will never be fit soldiers again, I'm afraid."

Those numbers were grim, but better than Kaladin had thought. He had been wounded on several occasions, as had many of his men. They had been counted by the surgeons, but Kaladin was often left to look after the cuts himself. He knew in his heart that half of those reported as simply dead in battle could have been saved if there were more stretcher bearers and surgeons dedicated to saving darkeyes.

"The Highprince left orders for the reorganization of the army," the scribe read, nearing the end of the page. She hastily replaced the paper and reset the spanreed in the top left corner. Kaladin fidgeted in his seat. This was the moment of truth, the moment in which his plans either bore fruit or turned to crem in his mouth.

"Brightlords Restees and Melys are hereby promoted to the rank of Division General and the third Dahn. Brightlord Seti is granted the temporary title of Absidier Highmarshal and overall command of all forces in the Sadeas Princedom." Kaladin smiled. It was just as he had suggested to the ardent. Promoted alone, either Melys or Restees would dominate the army. Promoted together, and each would balance the influence of the other.

"Kaladin Stormblessed is granted the rank of Battalionlord upon the conditions outlined in our most recent correspondence. Do you accept these honors as they are given?"

Restees rose to attention with a swift salute. "I accept this honor and pledge my eternal loyalty to Highprince Sadeas and his House, in the name of the Almighty."

Slowly Melys stood, his knees cracking. He gave his oath in much the same way as Restees, though with the tired expression of one who had given his oath a thousand times. He spoke in a flat tone closer to contempt than gratitude. When he was done, all eyes turned on Kaladin.

"I accept this honor," he began, "and pledge my service to the Sadeas Princedom in the army of Brightlord Seti. I swear by my honor as a soldier to defend this army against all enemies and to obey the orders of my superiors." Restees eyed him skeptically, but Melys sat without comment.

"In the name of the Highprince, I accept your pledges," the scribe read. "What advice does this council give to their Highprince on the matter of the reorganization?"

Restees was the first to speak, holding off the scribe for the moment. "The ten attrited battalions should be consolidated into seven full strength, with two more raised from new recruits. That would suppose four new Battalionlords, not counting Stormblessed."

Melys nodded his agreement. "The two newly raised battalions should be under Seti along with Stormblessed," he said. "The Shardbearer must be under the overall commander."

"Gylan is senior most among the Companylords," Restees said cautiously, anticipating Melys's displeasure. "Sheler also has a claim, being Amaram's heir."

Melys grunted. "Fine. Put them in the reserve, set them to recruiting. At least it'll keep them out of our hair for a few weeks. Then each of us can choose one more."

Each newly minted general paused a moment, thinking of their preferred subordinate to promote. "Norby," Restees said without explanation, but Kaladin understood. Norby had been his companylord, the best lighteyed source of information on him, and now immune from being drafted into his battalion.

"Gresh," Melys added, "Commander of my heavy infantry. He doesn't shy away from a fight."

Restees looked for the assent of the others gathered around the table. Pereshal nodded, while Ordinal frowned without a word.

"So did we argue about voting for no reason?" Redelin asked with a sly grin. Just as Restees was about to respond, he waved him off. "No matter, General. I think you both made fine selections."

Kaladin reluctantly nodded his agreement. He didn't want either Sheler or Gylan as his fellow battalionlords, but if they were sent off, they'd at least be out of camp for a few weeks. With Zem's shrug, the scribe transmitted the message.

"Promotions to the fifth dahn may be recommended by individual commanders at need. For now, let us move on to more important topics—the progress of the war."

This was what Kaladin had been so eager to discuss when he arrived this morning. Why has this border conflict gone on for so many years? Why does it seem like the armies come to blows and break apart to no long-term strategic effect? What even brought the Sadeas and Vamah Princedoms to war in the first place?

"Vamah has been adamantly denying our allegations that he brought foreign shards into a conflict between Princedoms, but court opinion has turned against him. Everyone believes that he lost a treasonous gamble and now is simply trying to obfuscate his shame. Now is the perfect time to seize all the lands up to the Zephyr and secure our claims later."

It was no more than Kaladin suspected—the war had no pretext other than claiming land. He wanted to be angry, but all he felt was bleak disappointment. He already knew that lighteyes only sought wealth, power, and prestige, but as an enlisted man, he could ignore the big picture. Only his squad mattered before, during, and after battle. The war served only as a backdrop for their day-to-day problems.

"What's the point of securing claims if you're going to take the land first anyway?" Kaladin muttered under his breath. Ven and Pereshal turned towards him, but the other continued on as before.

"Hallaw will withdraw in order to recoup his losses," Melys said. "Scouts have him marching south toward Michim's Crossing. He'll join up with the garrison there and send for reinforcements."

"If we could beat him to the river—" Ordinal began, but Restees held up a hand.

"With his advantage in light cavalry, we'll never get close to his army. We'll be held up by the rear guard actions and never catch the main force."

"Michim's Crossing is well fortified," Melys grumbled. "An assault is not advisable, and neither is a siege. Damnation! We're back in the same position as last year. We are left in possession of the field, free to march through the entire territory except the one town worth holding."

"But the situation is not the same as last year," Redelin said, twirling his empty cup on the table. "We have a shardbearer now."

All eyes turned toward Kaladin, and this time they waited for him to speak. The scribe copied the conversation down, her eyes flicking between the assembled officers.

"I don't know much about shards," Kaladin admitted honestly. "It seems to me that no place is truly fortified against plate and blade. I could breach the walls at will or sever the trusses of the bridge and cut off their supplies."

"Risky," Melys said, shaking his head.

"I agree," Kaladin said. "Regardless of how we breach their defenses, there are going to be thousands of soldiers waiting in that city, expecting me. I know better than anyone—a shardbearer is not invincible. Taking the city by storm is not an option, not with their numbers."

"Putting it to siege is no more likely to succeed," Ordinal said. "Even without the bridge, they can resupply via boat or soulcaster. And the army will be vulnerable, camped on the Michim Flats."

"This last campaign won't be repeated," Melys grumbled. "Even if we march through every town and village in the region, they won't seek battle. Not with a shardbearer in the field. They'll send out their cavalry like whitespines to pick us apart in detail."

The table went quiet. Even Redelin seemed sobered by their predicament. Kaladin gingerly lifted his shardblade off the table and examined it thoughtfully. This weapon made him powerful, but it also made him a target. It was cursed, Kaladin thought; all such weapons must be cursed. A spear would never betray its master like this.

"I must leave," he said suddenly. "I was given two choices earlier today. Stay with the army or travel to the Shattered Plains. I insisted on the former, but the latter is no less believable—more even. Everyone knows there is more glory there than here." Glory didn't matter, only survival and victory. "They will not leave the safety of their fortress until they believe I have quit the field, so that is what we will make them believe. I am going to the Shattered Plains."

.

.

.

.

The scraping of chairs signaled the end of the meeting, and a coterie of servants entered the room. They began taking away the dishes, books, and loose papers left out as the officers rose. Kaladin snatched his scribbled notes off the table. They were only the names of a few lighteyes, but he didn't want them falling into anyone else's hands. The gray-haired servant whisked away his dishes, eyeing his full glass of Reshi blue enviously.

The ardent appeared at his side, a self-satisfied look on her face. "I should've taken that merchant's apprenticeship like my mother wanted," she said, "because I can barter with the best of them."

"I heard," Kaladin said under his breath. "Did the Highprince seem pleased?"

"Hardly. That deal will only last you a few months at most. But I did convince him of the wisdom of your advice."

"Why?" Kaladin couldn't figure this woman out—was she loyal to Sadeas or not?

"Because there was wisdom in your advice," she said. "Don't think I'll give up my Devotary for your sake."

"I wouldn't expect you to." Kaladin hefted his Shardblade and began maneuvering around the crowded room. He passed into the servants corridor to avoid the throng by the main entrance. "By the way, now that you are my Ardent, I ought to know your name. What should I call you?"

"Rtama, if you wish," she said, following close behind. "'Your Holiness' would work as well, Brightlord."

"I'd give you any title you want if you'd forget mine," Kaladin said as he ducked under a low threshold. "I'm no Brightlord, just a soldier." He looked back to see her reaction. She wore an affable smile, half way between sly and sweet.

"Unfortunately, it'd be highly impious of me to forgo your honors in order to attain honors for myself."

Kaladin shook his head. Impious, he thought. Lighteyes really did think highly of themselves. They were the 'Chosen of Almighty' according to the Ardentia. Perhaps that was why things had gone more easily in the meeting than he had expected. They really thought he had been chosen, or at least they were waiting to see his eyes change.

"Do you really believe—" Kaladin began but was cut off by the din of falling dishes.

Ahead were the kitchens, and from them a girl screamed at the top of her lungs.

Forgetting the conversation, Kaladin rushed ahead and muscled his way through the door. Inside, an older serving man lay sprawled across the kitchen floor in a heap of smashed glass and ceramic, a puddle of blue liquid soaking into his tunic. A scullery maid knelt nearby, reaching her hand out to the man. His body seized violently, and she withdrew in shock.

"Don't touch him!" Kaladin shouted as he kneeled down. He buried the shardblade into the earthen floor and touched the man's neck carefully. "He's alive, but his pulse is—" his heart beat faster than Kaladin could count. Unconscious, he took rapid, shallow breaths.

"Brightlord! Help him, please!" the maid cried.

"It might be apoplexy," he said, years of training rushing through his head. "He needs Saleksbark extract. You!" He pointed to a servant crowding the door with Rtama. "Get the surgeon; he should still be in the stormshelter."

The servant rushed away, and Kaladin turned back to the dying man as he began seizing again. He held the man's neck steady so his head wouldn't slam on the floor as his limbs and back flexed. For the first time, Kaladin recognized the man—it was the servant who had taken his dishes away. Kaladin could smell it—that deceptively sweet odor he hadn't trusted, the wine he hadn't drunk.

As the seizure abated, he lifted the man into a crouched position and violently shoved two fingers down the man's throat. He vomited into his lap. It wasn't much, but Kaladin could see the tinge of blue. A small crowd of onlookers covered their noses and averted their eyes as Kaladin shoved his fingers back down his throat. More vomit. Kaladin laid the servant down on his side in case there was any more that might come up.

"What are you doing?" Rtama said, kneeling at his side.

"Girl!" Kaladin shouted, ignoring her. "This kitchen has charcoal for the stove?" She nodded through tears. "Get me a handful with a mortar and pestle. Then fetch me a mug of water."

The maid did as she was told, running about the kitchen quickly. She returned with the mortar, pestle, and pure black charcoal, and another servant brought the water. "Take his pulse and watch his breathing. Tell me if either falter," Kaladin ordered Rtama. Still shocked, she obeyed, and Kaladin went to work.

It was the simplest cure for poisoning, and it only took a spoonful. Kaladin crushed the charcoal into a fine powder and dumped it into the glass of water. He couldn't give it to the man unless he awoke, but he was glad to have it on hand. The servant's breathing calmed, save for a few sporadic coughs, and his body relaxed.

Turning his attention to the mess of sick and wine all over the man, Kaladin began to cut off his clothes with a knife. He was careful not to touch anything remotely blue. He called for a blanket to cover the man and a sack to dispose of the soiled clothes.

Ven appeared in the doorway, his weary expression replaced with alertness. "What happened? A fall?" he wondered aloud.

Kaladin rose. "Sudden fainting and seizure with a loss of breath and rapid heart rate," he said, watching the surgeon carefully. "What do you suppose caused it?"

Ven went to his knees and took the man's pulse, felt his breath, then rose again. "Apoplexy... but with seizure... Is he epileptic?" The maid shook her head dejectedly, her eyes focused on the undrunk charcoal mixture. Ven followed her gaze, then looked to Kaladin in sudden recognition. "You suspect that?"

"Would it surprise you? It was my wine." With a gasp, Rtama realized what was going on, looking up at Kaladin in shock. He silenced her with an upheld hand. "Is there any other possibility?"

Ven frowned down upon the man. "No. That is the most likely explanation."

Kaladin turned towards him conspiratorially. "What kind do you think?" he muttered. "Blackbane?"

"Scionsmate," Ven said with a grimace. "Blackbane causes paralysis, not seizures."

Neither of them dared say the word—poison—but it was on both of their tongues. Rtama followed the conversation, but Kaladin doubted anyone else could hear them. A pair of chefs were clearing out the kitchen of onlookers, and the maid still wept quietly. Evidently she was close to this serving man—a daughter perhaps. Suddenly her eyes widened, and she leaned towards the man. "Brightlord, he is waking up!"

The man hacked and coughed as Kaladin helped him sit. The man tried to thank him, but Kaladin pressed the cup of sooty water to his lips and made him drink. "What was that?" he asked between coughs.

"Something for your stomach," Kaladin said. "Lay down."

"It wasn't my stomach. I couldn't breathe..." Stretcher bearers arrived, and Kaladin helped lift the servant up.

"Tell Azael to brew him a pot of Saleksbark tea," Ven said, "and watch him carefully." The maid followed a step behind the stretcher as it departed, confusion and relief on her face.

Kaladin cleaned himself off with a dishrag and basin of water meant for the now shattered dishware. Rtama stood by his side. For the first time, she looked as serious as an ardent ought to be. As the room cleared, Ven remained seemingly lost in thought. Kaladin retrieved his shardblade buried in the ground by the surgeon's feet. Ven stepped back awkwardly but didn't leave.

"Brightlord... I want you to know... I-I would never—" he began, but Kaladin cut him off.

"I don't suspect you, Ven." Of course, it had to be one of the officers, and they wouldn't have trusted a darkeyes with the plot. "How do you know it was Scionsmate?"

"Scionsmate is meant to replicate a natural death for an older man," Ven said. "It's used most often to... accelerate one's inheritance. When attacking a weak constitution, Scionsmate will stop a heart dead. Against a hale one, well, it is as you saw."

"They didn't need me dead, only incapacitated. Long enough to take the blade." Kaladin scoffed, angry at himself as much as his would-be assassin. The poison could've easily been in the food rather than the wine. "They moved quickly and silently. I wasn't meant to be at the meeting and not one of us left that room all morning."

"You believe it to be someone at the war council?" Rtama asked.

"How could it be anyone else?"

"These servants don't belong to anyone in the army," Rtama insisted. "They are the citylords, appropriated while the army is nearby."

"Evidently the servant didn't know what he was doing," Kaladin said, kneeling to retrieve the bronze goblet he'd been served with, "or else he wouldn't have drank my wine himself."

"Did the wine belong to the citylord or someone in the army?" Ven asked.

Rtama took the goblet and examined it on all sides. "The wine would've come from the army's supply train," she answered distractedly. "Brightlord Amaram was not above requisitioning supplies, but he made it army policy never to accept a drink freely offered by an enemy lighteyes. I always thought he was paranoid."

"His paranoia didn't save anyone today," Kaladin said. "Mine did. I wouldn't let myself get drunk sitting in this whitespines den."

"Supposing you're right," Ven said with evident discomfort, "what are you going to do?"

Kaladin gripped his shardblade tightly. A dark thought occurred to him, but he dismissed it. Violence wouldn't end the threats against him, nor would a public accusation. He had suspects, but no proof. "Nothing, for now," he said. "I'm leaving anyway." Rtama turned toward him in surprise but said nothing. "They only have a few days to finish me off. For now, ignorance is the best disguise."

Ven considered for a moment. "Then I will ascribe the symptoms to apoplexy of the chest. Scionsmate is meant to mimic such a condition, and the man is old enough for it to be believed."

"I'd appreciate it," Kaladin said, "but why help me?"

"Men of our profession must work together." A sad smile appeared briefly on his face. "There are so many who kill and so few who heal. Who did you study under?"

Kaladin hesitated. "I never got to study formally; I apprenticed some time before joining the army." He was ashamed to conceal himself, but outside of his squad few men knew anything about his family, and he wanted to keep it that way.

"You learned well; you should've applied to my—ah, but then you would not be a Shardbearer." Ven shook his head as if he still couldn't believe it. Kaladin remembered that expression back from when he had first bribed Ven for the attention of his stretcher bearers. He took every bribe almost as an annoyance, the last only two days ago. Perhaps he was trying to make up for that now. Or perhaps he was just polishing his spheres like the Stormwarden.

Kaladin stopped Ven just as he turned towards the door. "I could use a pair of eyes in camp once I leave. Do you have access to a spanreed and a trustworthy scribe?"

"I-I uh..." Ven faltered, slowly realizing what was being asked. "Yes, my wife has a reed connected to a hub in Tashikk."

Kaladin looked to Rtama. "I have one connected there as well," she said without needing to be asked.

"Then I will rely on you, Ven." Kaladin patted him on the shoulder with a forced friendliness.

The gesture snapped Ven out of a daze. "M-may the winds treat you well on your travels, Brightlord." The surgeon bowed as he left, closing the door on Kaladin and Rtama, alone together for the first time.

"Leaving..." Rtama muttered. "Leaving! Just as I negotiated for you to stay, you decide to leave?!"

Kaladin grinned. "That is the plan. I am to gather my battalion and march with haste. When can we depart?"

The Ardent groaned. "There's a highstorm due tomorrow night."

"Then the day after tomorrow we'll be gone."

Rtama threw up her hands. "Gone where?!"

"Did you not hear? We're heading to the Shattered Plains."