Lotr starlight archive

by Dextrode

Posted for tts. Actively updating. https:/forums.spacebattles

2. 2

9

The King You Have

-x-x-x-

You may say this is impossible. Until I saw it for myself, I would have said the same. The word Investiture is, by design, a catch-all term. Yet what I saw on Ashyn breaks all the rules.

-x-x-x-

"Well, hello there, Highprince Sadeas!" The King's Wit spoke with his customary lilting tone, his lips raised into the smirk that was as much a part of his uniform as the black suit and silver sword at his side. "How pleasant to see you here! Are you in the mood to be eating men's food today, rather than men?"

Torol raised a single eyebrow. "Is that a joke about cannibalism, or my preferences?" he asked.

"Can it not be both?" asked Wit, crossing his legs as they dangled from his raised stool. His pale blue eyes glittered with mischief, but Torol noticed dark rings around them.

"Of course it can," Torol said. "But I'd hope His Majesty's Wit would be a bit more decisive than that."

"Oh, come now, Highprince," said Wit. "I know you're familiar with the difference between indecisiveness and multitasking. After all, the sheer number of women you've slept with has no bearing on your devotion to your wife, isn't that right?"

That one… actually stung. More than Torol would have expected. But he didn't show it on his face. "In future, I recommend making one joke well, rather than two badly," he said. "But that is, perhaps, beyond your means. Good day, Wit."

"Have a lovely evening, Brightlord," Wit called after him. "I know that, with you here, none of us will!"

Torol rolled his eyes at the parting shot. Unimaginative, he thought. At best.

King Elhokar's 'feasting basin'—a small hollow below the hill where his Soulcast palace had been raised—had been flooded several months ago by a redirected stream. Five circular islands dotted the water, connected with wooden bridges. Each island bore several tables, but occupancy was limited by design. The flooding had been Torol's own suggestion. By limiting the available space for seating, those seats gained value—which meant that the goodwill King Elhokar bought with each invitation was sharply increased. Twice the flattery among a hundred and fifty invitees was worth far more than half as much among three or even four hundred.

He crossed the first bridge onto the foyer-island. There was no seating here, only a series of ornate fountains and sphere-lit statues, interspersed with low tables bearing light fare. As he passed one, he took a plate bearing a small, palm-sized tart. It was topped with a pale green herbal cream, and when he bit into it he found that the fluffy, buttery dough was stuffed with what was unmistakably Natan fish, spiced to perfection.

To one uneducated in the vagaries of trade in eastern Roshar, it might seem like Natan exports would be easy to find here in southeastern Alethkar. New Natanan, joke of a nation that it was, was nestled just on the other side of the unclaimed hills, built in small cities along the storm-tossed coast. But the highstorms, coupled with the treacherous and underexplored terrain of the Hills, made transportation difficult. Natan spices, dried, were not hard to find in Alethkar. But something as perishable as fresh fish was another matter. It was only possible to transport them in relatively wide gaps between storms, and with the inherent unreliability of the stormwardens, that was always a difficult and dangerous proposition.

Some merchants tried to transport fish and other goods through the highstorms, intending to use the hills for cover. Every so often, one of them even survived.

Torol finished the tart as he crossed the second bridge, making a mental note to compliment King Elhokar's taste. It wasn't even all flattery—it really was a very good tart, and he would have to see if he could poach one of Elhokar's cooks. But more importantly, it was expensive. Even most lighteyes of the third or fourth dahn would only have Natan fish once a year, at most. The king was taking his lessons on the importance of impressions to heart, it seemed.

As Torol crossed the second island, the lesser lighteyes—those of eighth to fifth dahn, generally, as ninth-dahn and tenners were largely unwelcome at the king's feasts—averted their gaze from him. A few tried to catch his eye. When he met their gaze, they typically regretted it, and immediately looked back down at their food.

One comely woman leaned in his direction with a flirtatious fluttering of her eyelashes as he passed by. For a fleeting moment he looked her up and down, noting her beauty, the way her green dress—his colors, was she one of his vassals?—hugged her form and supported her breasts.

She's young enough to be my daughter.

The thought sent a sick thrill through him. He tore his eyes away and swept past, ignoring the single shamespren tumbling through the air beside him like the delicate petal of a Shin flower.

The five islands were arranged in a cross. The bridge from the shore led east to the foyer, and from the foyer, another led east to the tables of the lesser lighteyes. That island connected on its northern side to the men's island, where male lighteyes of fifth and fourth dahn ate, and to the south was the women's island for their female parallels.

But it was the final eastern bridge which Torol crossed. His finger ran along the intricate scrollwork on the railings as he crossed onto the final island. This island was decorated with ornate statues of the Ten Heralds around its edges, facing outward, as if to guard the people drifting among the tables. Here were gathered men and women of second and third dahn, and at the table on the island's far side, flanked by the marble Jezerezeh and Ishi, sat King Elhokar himself.

As Torol stepped onto the island, Elhokar's eyes sought his own. Torol stopped and gave a slight bow—low enough to show deference, but not low enough to draw attention to the exchange. After all, they were still on opposite sides of the islet; it would do Elhokar little good to be seen as too focused on one of his highprinces at this distance. It was forgivable when he paid overly close attention to Dalinar, his uncle, but with Torol he had to maintain a more professional distance. It was something Torol had done his best to drill into the boy.

He was relieved when Elhokar looked away, returning to his conversation with Highprince Aladar. He needed to speak with Elhokar before Dalinar got to him tonight, but he also needed a few minutes first. He cast his eyes over the dining area, looking for—ah, there she was.

Surrounded, as always, by a gaggle of other well-dressed and well-mannered women, Ialai sat watching two of her friends carry on an engaging conversation. He saw the way her entourage looked to her for approval but did not attempt to draw her in. His lips twitched. Not for the first time, he mentally thanked Gavilar for his aid in establishing the match between the two of them. Ialai Sadeas was, in Torol's educated opinion, as close to a perfect wife as a woman could be. She was fiercely loyal, cunning as a knife, and as adept at moving through and controlling the social circles of women as he was those of men. And it helped that she was still, even as she aged, nearly as beautiful as the day they were married.

Tailiah had been blessed with her eyes.

Torol forced himself to keep his smile fixed on his face as he crossed to his wife's table. She saw him coming, and gave him a wide, performative smile. "Ah, husband," she said, waving elegantly in his direction.

He stepped up next to her seat. "Wife," he replied, casting his eye around the table, noting how the other women's conversation had stalled at his approach. A result of Ialai's deliberate call to him. He knew she would tell him anything important later, but it was important that she appear to be merely Sadeas' wife before the other women, rather than his partner and confidante. It would open many doors to both of them. "I'm glad to see you made it here."

"Of course," said Ialai, with an airy disregard meant to signal dismissiveness to anyone listening to their conversation. "Jayla's carriage was very comfortable. We really must see about getting some of those horses from Ruthar, husband. I've never had such a smooth ride across the plains before."

It was probably a true statement. But it was also a clear indication that Ialai had already spoken with Highprince Ruthar's wife about Dalinar's 'decline.' Torol would have to wait until they could discuss in private to learn the details, but this boded well.

The cleft between House Kholin and the other highprincedoms continues to widen, Torol thought. Aloud, however, all he said was, "I will look into it, darling. But I shan't keep you; I'm sure you all have much to discuss, and I really must speak with the king."

"Of course," said Ialai. "Do give him my regards, won't you?"

"I will," Torol promised, and moved on. Behind him, he heard the women's discussion pick up once again—this time, seemingly, comparing the horses of the various highprincedoms with the few remaining Ryshadium bloodlines.

He stepped between the tables. When one particularly drunk lighteyes in Roion's orange and brown colors began flailing a little beyond propriety, Torol deliberately stepped into the path of his arms. When the man glanced up indignantly, Torol shot him a look with one raised eyebrow.

The man quailed, and his friend immediately tugged him away by the arm, apologizing to Torol as he went, leading him off the king's island entirely.

Smiling to himself, Torol walked around the king's long table to where the young man himself was still speaking with Aladar. "Your Majesty," he said. "May I have a word?"

Elhokar glanced up at him with a nod. "Yes, of course, Highprince Sadeas," he said. "Highprince Aladar was just finishing telling me about his latest gemheart capture."

"Ah, yes, Your Majesty," said Aladar, his mouth a stiff line as he stood up. "Well, I hope you will consider my offer if you ever have ambitions to join another hunt."

"I certainly will, Aladar," said Elhokar. "I thank you for the offer."

Aladar bowed stiffly and then turned, leaving the king's side.

Torol took his seat. "You shouldn't have thanked him," he said.

Elhokar blinked. Then he grimaced. "Oh, of course. I would be doing him a favor by joining one of his hunts, not the other way around."

"Precisely," said Torol. "You're learning, Your Majesty, but you haven't yet made these facts into instinct."

"I'm trying," Elhokar whined.

"I know," Torol said soothingly. "And it will come, I promise. You simply must keep trying, and be patient with yourself."

Elhokar sighed. "All right. Thank you, Torol."

It had been Ialai's idea to get Elhokar to start using Torol's given name. It could be framed as a gesture of affection, but it also brought them closer in Elhokar's mind. Just one more of the strokes of political brilliance for which Torol was so thankful of his wife.

"You're quite welcome," said Torol aloud. "Has there been any word on the attempt on your life?"

Elhokar's face fell, and Torol knew he had struck gold. "Uncle Dalinar doesn't believe that my saddle strap was cut," said the young king. "He claims that it just broke. He promised to look into it, but…"

"…But you're not sure he'll treat this with the gravity it deserves," said Torol sympathetically. "I understand. Highprince Dalinar…"

…has a poor track record with protecting his kings from assassins.

"…Can be hard to reason with, at times."

"That's certainly true," grumbled Elhokar. Then he paused, eyeing Torol speculatively. "Actually, given… present circumstances, I wonder if you could give me a second opinion on a suggestion of his?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," said Torol, ignoring the anticipationspren that lanced out of the ground behind Elhokar's chair. Hopefully there wasn't another one where the king could see it. Even if there was, this place was crowded enough that he might assume it was drawn by someone else.

"My uncle said that the Highprinces have grown complacent in their places in the Vengeance Pact," said Elhokar. "He claims that they've let the hunt for gemhearts distract them from the actual goal of the war—vengeance for my father."

For the second time tonight, a shamespren drifted down beside Torol. He saw Elhokar's eyes dart to it, but he ignored it. Hopefully, Elhokar would assume it was someone else's—or that the king had called it himself. "I suppose it's possible," he said, "that some of the highprinces have forgotten what the Parshendi did to us. Particularly those who were not present that night."

Elhokar nodded, tearing his eyes from the shamespren which had settled on the table between them. "Yes," he said. "Uncle Dalinar suggested that they need an authority to focus them. Someone who can approach them more directly than their king can. A Highprince of War."

Torol grimaced. "And he volunteered himself, I assume."

"Yes," said Elhokar. "You don't think it's a good idea?"

"Your uncle and I have had our differences lately," said Torol. It was important that he not appear to be manipulating Elhokar against Dalinar. The boy wasn't stupid—just young, inexperienced, and deeply flawed. The best way to handle this was to draw attention to it, tilting the truth like the shades of a spherelamp, casting his most obvious motivations into the light and allowing his real agendas to lurk outside it. "But even if Dalinar were still the same Blackthorn I fought beside for decades, I would still think this was a bad idea."

"Why?" asked Elhokar. It was spoken with genuine curiosity—the question of a student to his tutor.

Fortunately, Torol had an answer ready. It was even entirely true. "We are Highprinces of Alethkar," he said. "It would gall even the most mild-mannered of us, even Sebarial, to have another man placed above us in war. That is our highest calling. It's what we, as a people, pride ourselves on. It's one thing to be defeated—many of us faced defeat on the battlefield at the hands of your father—but it's another entirely to be subordinated. Not just as a vassal to a king, but as a lesser warrior. Every one of the highprinces would be furious that they were not named Highprince of War."

"That makes sense," said Elhokar, nodding. "I'll tell my uncle that we'll have to find another way, then."

"Well, hold a season," said Torol. "I don't think the idea is entirely meritless."

Elhokar blinked. "But you just told me it was a bad idea?"

"Naming Dalinar Highprince of War is a bad idea," said Torol. "But naming someone to a different specialized office might not be."

Elhokar's eyes widened. "Oh," he said. "Yes, I see."

"I will say," said Torol, "that I don't think your first appointment should be of Dalinar at all. The other Highprinces already whisper that he is too close to you, has too much influence. They worry he is influencing you beyond his right."

Elhokar grimaced. "Sometimes I worry about that, too," he admitted.

Suddenly, all the pieces of the conversation fit together for Torol. "I have an idea," he said. "I think we can make your problems solve one another, Your Majesty."

Elhokar frowned at him. "How so?"

"You may have an assassin on the loose," said Torol, thinking quickly. A logicspren—a very rare spren that he had only seen a few times before—seemed to be coalescing over the table beside him, like a tiny, stationary highstorm. "There is concern that Highprince Dalinar may have too much influence over you. And the Highprinces need to be reminded of your royal authority. What if you appointed Dalinar's most well-known rival—which, I admit, is me—as your Highprince of Information? That office would make me duty-bound to investigate the threat on your life."

Elhokar leaned back thoughtfully. "Huh. That does seem like an elegant solution." Suddenly something dark entered his gaze. He shot Torol a look. "Almost too elegant. Were you planning this, Highprince Sadeas?"

"No," Torol said honestly.

"It strikes me," said Elhokar, "that a man in the position of my Highprince of Information would be very well-placed to—"

"Before you finish that sentence, Your Majesty," said Torol through gritted teeth, as an angerspren began to bubble from the ground at his feet like a pool of boiling blood, "I would ask if you remember just where I was on the night of your father's death."

He remembered that night. His hands shaking as he suggested the exchange. Hurriedly stripping out of his Sadeas colors in exchange for the king's blue while Gavilar disguised himself in his Shardplate. Seeing the man in white out of the corner of his eye as he bustled down the hallway. The certainty—total, terrifying—that he would never see his wife again.

The knowledge that he might see his daughter again soon.

Elhokar paled. A veritable shower of shamespren fell about his shoulders in a drifting rain of red and white. "I… I do remember," he said. "I'm sorry, Torol."

Torol took a deep breath to steady himself. "You have reason to be concerned," he said. "The Assassin in White was not the first attempt on your father's life, only the last. There are many men who would benefit from your death. But you must remember, Your Majesty, that you do have friends. And you must not allow yourself to alienate them."

And you, he told himself, must not allow yourself to be alienated. Remember Gavilar. Remember the dream of a united Alethkar. Remember the Thrill, the glory, of fighting for unity instead of petty skirmishes on tiny borders. Elhokar is not a good king, but he's the one you have.

"You're right, of course," said Elhokar. "I—yes. You're right. And your idea is a good one. In fact…" Quite suddenly, he stood up. "Highprinces and lighteyes!" he called out, and immediately, the feast fell into a hush.

Torol hurried to compose himself, burying his anticipation—and ignoring his anticipationspren—and quickly running through possibilities in case Elhokar called on him to speak.

"I'm sure many of you have heard the rumors regarding the attempt on my life three days ago," said Elhokar. "When my saddle girth was cut during a chasmfiend hunt. Thanks to the vigilance of the King's Guard, and of my uncle, I was never in real danger. However, I consider it wisdom to treat all threats with due seriousness. Therefore, I am appointing Brightlord Torol Sadeas to be my Highprince of Information. It shall be his duty to unearth the truth regarding this—and any future—attempts on my life." He nodded, then sat back down. "There," he said, looking back at Torol. "That's done."

Torol blinked at him. "I—thank you, Your Majesty," he said.

"It isn't a favor to you," Elhokar said. "Your arguments were good. And I do expect you to investigate that strap."

"Of course, Your Majesty," said Torol. He stood and bowed. "I should go," he said. "I suspect your uncle will want to speak with you, and I have people to speak to about this as well. I should begin my investigation at once."

"Of course," said Elhokar, waving a hand. "Go. I'll speak with you later."

Torol turned and left. Almost immediately, he was surrounded by lesser lighteyes, filling his ears with a mixture of congratulations, flattery, and questions. As he planted a smile on his face and began the social dance once more, he examined the tumult of his thoughts.

On the one hand, Elhokar had just given Torol the best opportunity to manipulate both himself and Dalinar he'd had in years. A gemheart of intrigue had practically fallen into his lap, and he had Elhokar to thank.

On the other hand, he hated being taken by surprise. Elhokar was arbitrary, paranoid, and inconsistent; all of which were crippling flaws in a king.

He is the king you have, Torol told himself again.

Somehow, it wasn't as convincing the second time.

136

LithosMaitreya

Oct 31, 2022

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Threadmarks 10: Comfort

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LithosMaitreya

LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

Subscriber

Nov 7, 2022

#483

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

10

Comfort

-x-x-x-

The people of Ashyn are doomed, by the way. More so than they were already. These new powers have them killing one another in droves.

-x-x-x-

Sarus had been treated with knobweed sap once, after an accident in the training grounds had ended with the point of a spear lodged in his hip. The wound had healed surprisingly quickly, according to the physician, but he had still applied sap to the wound daily until the scab had darkened and fallen off on its own.

"Is many of these reeds," Rock observed, looking at the bundle between them.

"Which is why I'm glad I don't have to do this on my own," Kaladin said wryly. "Hopefully Murk will also be up to helping us tomorrow." Murk's head injury needed rest to heal, according to Kaladin, so he had been released from this late-night duty.

Rock chuckled and sat down, his thick calves dangling over the edge of the chasm. Sarus followed suit, already picking up one of the thin reeds. He broke off the fuzzy bulb at the top, then lowered the broken point towards the bottle as Kaladin had and squeezed out the sap. Syl watched them work, hovering a few feet past the ledge, her blue dress pressed against the backs of her legs as if she was seated on an invisible chair.

"Why are you doing these things?" Rock asked suddenly, after several minutes of silent work.

"What things?" Kaladin asked.

"Caring for these men. Saving me. Now, trying to heal the others. Why?"

"They're my men," said Kaladin simply, as if that was answer enough.

"How are they yours?" Rock asked. "They are slaves and servants to Sadeas."

"I'm their bridgeleader," said Kaladin.

"Which means nothing," Rock said. "It means you get to run in back. Only you don't."

"It means whatever we decide it means," Kaladin said. "And I've decided it means I'm responsible for all of you."

"Why?"

There was silence for a moment. "Because it's better," Kaladin said finally, "than the alternative."

"What is this alternative?" Rock asked.

"Death," Kaladin said.

"We will all die anyway, eventually," Rock pointed out. "Unless you can make us stop running bridges."

"I disagree," said Kaladin. "In theory, every soldier has a chance of dying in every battle. That doesn't make their deaths inevitable. The trick is to last enough battles to get out the other side."

Sarus let out a breath. Did Kaladin actually believe that stupid rumor about being set free after a hundred runs? Surely he wasn't that foolish. Surely Sarus wasn't following a man whose only hope he could break with a single word?

"You think we can survive a hundred runs?" Rock asked. "Win our freedom?"

"I don't think they'd set us free even if we did," Kaladin said. "Storms, I wouldn't be surprised if Tesh here had already survived a hundred runs."

Sarus nodded.

Kaladin started. "Wait, really?"

I thought you said you wouldn't be surprised. Sarus nodded again, still staring down at the reed between his fingers. He thought about trying to sign a number, but he'd long since forgotten how many runs he'd done anyway.

"Impossible," Rock said. "No one survives so many runs, least of all in the front row."

Sarus shrugged. Sure, it was impossible. That was the joke, and his life was the punchline.

"Sometimes I wish you could speak," Kaladin said quietly. "You must have a Damnation of a story."

Sarus shrugged once again, tossing his spent knobweed into the chasm and picking up another.

"Were you always silent?" Kaladin asked.

Sarus shook his head.

"Is it temporary, then?"

Sarus froze with his fingers halfway down his reed. Was it temporary? Would he ever speak again? After a long, long moment, he nodded, then continued his work.

"Then I can wait for the story," said Kaladin with a satisfied nod. Then he turned to Rock. "What about you, Rock? What's your story? You're from the Horneater Peaks, right?"

"Yes," said Rock. "I came down with my nuatoma—is like your lighteyes, this thing, only their eyes are not light—to duel for Shards."

"What, did Sadeas insult your nua—what was that word?"

"Nuatoma. And, no, is not like that. We Unkalaki have no Shards, not Blade or Plate. Many nuatoma see this thing as source of great shame. Sometimes, brave nuatoma come down to challenge lowlander Shardbearers for theirs."

"What, without any Shards?"

"Yes," said Rock. "This thing, we know it will not be easy. And in order to entice the lowlanders to the duel, our nuatoma must offer much—often, all their possessions—if they are defeated. But we keep trying, and one day, a nuatoma will win, and then we will have Shards."

"One set of Shards," Kaladin said. "Still not exactly enough to compete with Alethkar or Jah Keved."

"Or even Thaylenah or Selay," Rock said. "But it is as many as are in Herdaz, and more than are now in Iri or the Purelake. One is a beginning. From a beginning, we can grow." He shrugged. "But my nuatoma lost, so now I am a bridgeman."

"You were your nuatoma's slave," Kaladin interpreted, "and as one of his possessions, you were offered to Sadeas as collateral?"

"Not his slave," Rock said. "I was his family."

"Wait." Kaladin leaned back. "That'd make you a Horneater lighteyes, wouldn't it?"

"This is not how the Unkalaki do things," said Rock. "Among the Unkalaki, a nuatoma's family are his servants. His close family, maybe they are like lighteyes, but I was only umarti'a—cousin."

"Huh." Kaladin let out a breath. "Well, that's a new way of doing things."

"Is not new. Is very old." Rock chuckled. "You airsick lowlanders have strange traditions. And you say same about Unkalaki."

"I'd guess everybody says that about everybody else, wouldn't you?"

"This thing is true," said Rock.

"Anyway, if it's any comfort," said Kaladin, "there's no way they'd have let your nautoma walk away with Sadeas' Plate."

"You know this?" Rock asked.

"Lighteyes are only much for tradition when it suits them," Kaladin said. "The story that a darkeyes who kills a Shardbearer becomes a lighteyes is the same as the story that a bridgeman who runs a hundred bridges goes free—a lie to keep us docile."

Sarus grimaced. There were lighteyes who would give up their Shards if they were beaten, and there were lighteyes who would honor the terms of a duel that had lost their Shards to an untrained darkeyes. But Torol Sadeas was not such a man, and nor were the people he surrounded himself with.

"This thing, it is not comforting," Rock said. Then he heaved a sigh. "But I think you are right."

-x-x-x-

The next two days passed by in much the same way. The mornings were spent on drills, running the plank up and down the barracks with Kaladin. The afternoons were spent on duty out gathering stones, and surreptitiously hunting for reeds. In the evenings, late into the night, Kaladin, Rock, and Sarus would all gather on the edge of the Honor Chasm and empty reeds into the bottle.

Each morning, Kaladin applied antiseptic to the wounded. They were already showing improvement. The unconscious one—Teft, Sarus had learned—was no longer crawling with rotspren, and Murk's stutter was growing less pronounced by the day.

On the third night, Murk had actually asked if he could join them. "My headaches are almost gone," he'd said to Kaladin. "I'm feeling m-much better."

Kaladin's lips had twitched. "I'm glad," he'd said, "but take at least one more night to see if that stutter goes away."

By now, Sarus was exhausted after three nights harvesting sap past third moonrise. He was hungry after sharing his food for all that time. And, of course, there had been a bridge run.

It was a good day for the bridge crews. They arrived before the Parshendi, which meant safety. But the Alethi line had eventually buckled against the Parshendi assault, so Sadeas would be winning no gemheart today.

After the run, Kaladin returned to the barrack, then emerged with the bottle of antiseptic. "It's about full, Tesh," he told Sarus in a low voice. "Full enough to sell, I think. There's an apothecary I think I can get some spheres out of in exchange, which we can use to buy food for the wounded."

Sarus cocked his head, giving the bottle a significant look.

"Teft's wounds have closed now," Kaladin said. "If we're lucky, he won't reopen them, at least not before we can gather more sap. And he needs food, too, not just antiseptic."

Sarus nodded.

"I'll be back soon," he said. Something like a weak grin crossed his face. "Keep the men out of trouble?"

Sarus rolled his eyes. Kaladin, chuckling, went on his way, and Sarus returned to the barrack.

Murk looked up from his bunk near the door as Sarus walked in. However, when he saw that Kaladin had not come in with him, he sighed and laid back down.

Sarus crossed the barrack and sat on his bunk, leaning forward onto his knees. Archive leapt, light as a speck of dust, from his shoulder to his arm, a single black fleck against his tanned skin. "One is glaring at you," she observed.

Sarus looked up. She was right—Moash was glowering across the rows of bunks, though he looked away when Sarus met his eyes. Sarus watched him leave the building.

"They see you as an extension of Kaladin," said Archive. "They resent Kaladin, and they resent you by extension."

Sarus nodded.

"Why?" Archive asked.

Sarus' brow twitched downwards. Why what?

Why did they see him as an extension of Kaladin? That part was easy—to most men, for whom speech was the easiest and readiest way to interact with the world and one another, a man who did not speak was little more than an animal. To them, he was little more than Kaladin's pet or beast of burden. Which of those, he suspected, varied from bridgeman to bridgeman.

Why did they resent Kaladin? Sarus could understand it. He had been quick to accept Kaladin's outstretched hand, but that was a consequence of his exhaustion more than his despair. He was, quite literally, bored of hopelessness. These men had not passed through the night storm of forsaken terror into the doldrums of mundanity as he had, and so to them Kaladin's attempts to look to the future only served as a reminder of the inevitability of all of their deaths. They were afraid, and Kaladin served to remind them what they were afraid to lose.

"I hope," said Archive quietly, "that a day for me to hear those thoughts will be."

Sarus grimaced and looked down at the floor between his feet, keeping his eyes firmly away from the speck of darkness on his arm.

The barrack door burst open. "Gaz has changed our rotation," Kaladin said, eyes hooded with quiet anger. "We're on chasm duty. Everyone up."

-x-x-x-

Sarus had been down in the chasms many times in the past five years, but there was still something alien about them.

Following Kaladin down the swaying rope ladder, he watched the light slowly dim as he descended further from the narrow crack high above. The ladder dangled from the chasm's edge, but the walls tapered outward like a narrow bell, so the line of descending bridgemen dangled just far enough into the open air to leave them with no rock to catch if they should slip on the rain-soaked rungs. The chasm was relatively shallow here, as it was at all of the standard entry points—only about fifty feet, from fissure to depth. But that was enough distance to separate worlds.

Kaladin was first to jump off the ladder, a few rungs from the bottom. His sandals hit the ground with an audible splash. Sarus followed, landing in a large puddle about ankle-deep. Murk was next, followed by Rock. Murk cursed as the big Horneater sent water splashing as high as his elbows when he landed. "Careful there," said the smaller man. It was the first time Sarus had worked near Murk since the bridge run three days ago. The man was small and wiry, with arms slightly too long for his torso. The lump on the back of his head had all but disappeared now.

"Sorry," grunted Rock.

As more bridgemen dropped down into the puddle, Sarus watched Kaladin pull his torch from the sling on his back, stick it under his arm, and pull out his flint and steel. It took a few tries to light it, but when it did, the otherworldly depths were dimly revealed.

Scuttling cremlings scattered in the light. Tubular fungi grew in clusters along the walls, their flesh an eerie, jaundiced yellow. Gray-green moss grew in streaks, and fragments of wood, cloth, and bone hung suspended among tendrils of creeping vine and embedded in cracks in the rock. The floor of the chasm was a smooth, almost polished expanse of lumpy crem, deposited and smoothed in layers by thousands of years of highstorms.

A short distance from the wall lay a broken figure, body twisted and mangled by the long fall. It was a bridgeman from one of the other crews. The stink of the corpse was filling the chasm, and Sarus watched Kaladin cover his nose with one hand as he knelt beside the man.

He must have thrown himself down here sometime in the past two days, Sarus realized. If he had been here before the highstorm, it would have washed him away. He sighed, averting his gaze.

"May you find a place of honor in the Tranquiline Halls," Kaladin said quietly. "And may we find better ends than you." He stood and, torch held aloft, led the way deep into the chasms.

"Chasm duty" was glorified grave-robbing, only without any glory and with corpses who had no graves. Parshendi and Alethi alike fell into the chasms in every battle, and the supplies they carried still had some value. The greater value, Sarus knew, was keeping bridgemen busy. They would descend into the dark with empty sacks, and emerge with them laden with bloody spoils, only to have their loot confiscated the moment they reached the surface again.

Sarus had once seen a bridgeman find an amethyst broam down here and try to sneak it past the sentries. He would have managed, if only the bridgeman beside him hadn't informed on him. Both men had died the very next bridge run.

"I heard a whole crew got eaten by a chasmfiend down here, once," said Murk in a hushed voice as they descended further into the dark. The chasm floor sloped downward, and they had to take small steps to avoid slipping on the slick, damp crem.

"If they all disappeared," said Rock, "maybe they just fled. Deserted."

"No way out of these chasms without a ladder," said Murk. "Pretty useless way to desert, I'd think."

Sarus glanced up at the narrow sliver of blue, almost seventy feet above them by now. The story was partially true. A whole bridge crew had disappeared down here. The only inaccuracy was the assumption that it had only happened once.

"Reminds me of a slot canyon," said Murk darkly, shooting a glare skyward. "Always hated them, back home. This is worse, though."

There had been no slot canyons in the central plains of the Sadeas Highprincedom, where Sarus had grown up. They were narrow fissures running beside tall mountains, where water and wind left deep furrows as highstorms were deflected away by the rock face. They mostly appeared in the Roion and Kholin Highprincedoms to the east, and seldom as far west as the Sadeas lands on the border of Herdaz. Murk had most likely come from one of those dominances. Sarus wondered how he had ended up in the Sadeas bridge crews.

"What is this thing, slot canyon?" Rock asked.

"You don't have them in the Peaks?" Murk asked.

"They don't really show up any further west than Danidan," Kaladin said. "So I doubt they have them all the way in the Horneater Peaks."

"Must be nice," grumbled Murk. "It's a slit in the land beside a mountain. They make the Weeping feel like a highstorm if you're in one of them. This is even deeper, and even further east, without the Unclaimed Hills to break the stormwalls. This would be worse."

"Too much water?"

"Way too much water, getting anywhere it can. Including inside you."

"So long as it also gets outside you," Rock said with a grin. "Would give you bath, which you need."

"I'll have you know," sniffed Murk, "that I am the pinnacle of Alethi fragrance. If anyone needs a bath, it's your Horneater hide."

Rock laughed. The sound echoed in the dark. Sarus' heart stuttered, and he was suddenly conscious that he was witnessing something that, maybe, had never happened before since these plains were formed, eons ago. For who would laugh at the bottom of a chasm?

The chatter continued. Sarus saw Kaladin glance back, and then smile to himself. Sarus followed his gaze to see that the rest of the crew seemed to be drawing nearer to their little band at the head of the column, like moths drawn to the flame of their conversation.

"You know, Rock," Kaladin said suddenly, "I think you might be onto something with your talk of airsickness. Certainly smells sickly enough down here. Is it like that for you all over Alethkar?"

"A little bit," said Rock. "Less stink of corpses, more stink of Alethi. Is not quite as bad. Only nearly so."

"I don't think that's all Alethi," said Kaladin. "Only bridgemen who don't get to bathe very often."

"And non-bridgemen who choose not to," said Murk. "I knew a man once who refused to bathe more than once a month—bad for the complexion, he said. Now that was an airsick one. And so were all of us, whenever we had to be within a dozen paces of him."

The conversation continued, but it petered out as they came upon a confluence of multiple chasms, where a combination of the merging channels and a low hollow in the floor seemed to have given bodies a place to collect as they were swept along by the water. Most of the men were dressed in Sadeas green and white, but there were a few in Kholin blue and Ruthar red. There were no Parshendi in the group. Sarus had a sneaking suspicion that the Parshendi sent their own crews down into the chasms to collect their fallen. It would just be the next in a long litany of ways that they were more civilized than his own people.

They began collecting the fallen men's gear. First they pulled the corpses into a line for inspection, then started down that line, taking armor, boots, belts, weapons.

Sarus was just pulling the boots off a lighteyed footsoldier when he heard Moash's voice call out, "What are you hoping to do, lordling?"

Sarus turned. Kaladin stood a few paces apart from the rest of the group, his hands on a long two-handed spear. He leaned against it, stooped over the pile of other weapons, eyes closed. He looked like an old man, wizened and bent by long years and many cares.

"Going to jam that thing into your own gut?" Moash jeered. "Rid us all of you?"

Other men joined in the gibes. They mostly spoke to each other, rather than to Kaladin, but it was the sort of speech that was meant to be heard by the subject being discussed more than the one to whom it was addressed.

"It's his fault we're down here," said one man. "If he hadn't gotten Gaz to send us to stone duty the other day…"

"Running us ragged just so he can feel important," said another. "Who does he think he's fooling?"

"Sent us to gather rocks just to shove us around, now this…"

"I'd bet a skymark he's never held a spear in his life!"

Sarus straightened. Moash's gaze darted in his direction. As Sarus took a step towards him, he saw the man's eyes widen. The men immediately nearest Sarus seemed to shrink from him as he strode forward.

But before he had crossed even half the distance to Moash, Kaladin moved, and suddenly the entire chasm seemed to orbit around him. Sarus stopped and stared.

Kaladin had shifted his weight and whirled the spear around himself in a single, fluid motion. The point was held down and outward, at a careful, guarding angle. Sarus recognized that exact stance—an adapted form of the duelist's Stonestance, commonly used by darkeyed soldiers with the longspear.

And then, his eyes still shut, Kaladin danced. He wove the spear through the air around him with a speed and grace to match any duelist Sarus had ever seen. The point of the spear trailed a thin, glittering thread of water droplets as it passed, like Talenel's tears streaking in the dark. And, weaving in and around the weapon, Syl danced as a ribbon of blue-white light, bright as Nomon on a dark night.

All around Sarus, the men fell silent and stared. Sarus understood them. He, too, felt the same awe. That candle-flame that he had felt in Kaladin several nights ago, the light the bridgeleader had shared with him, seemed suddenly to blaze, illuminating the gloom of the chasm like a second sun.

For an instant, Sarus was no longer looking at a man in the gloom performing a kata, but a girl with flowers in her dark hair, green eyes sparkling as she gazed at him, a silver flute glittering between her fingers.

His heart seized. The old bitterness, the envy, surged in him again, mingled with sorrow and grief.

Kaladin fell still, the spear point perfectly still, suspended in the final stance of the kata. His eyes opened. Then, with seeming reluctance, he fell out of his stance and let the spear fall from his fingers into the weapon pile. Sarus thought he heard the bridgeleader whisper an apology to the weapon as it fell among the rest.

Then Kaladin turned and seemed to notice all of them staring at him. "Back to work!" he ordered. "I don't want to be down here by dusk."

Not a single man complained as they returned to work. Kaladin, meanwhile, turned and saw where Sarus, Rock, and Murk were all standing near one another. He flushed slightly as he approached them. Syl landed on his shoulder.

"Jezrien's left ear, Kaladin," Murk said quietly. "What was that?"

"Just a kata," Kaladin mumbled, seemingly embarrassed. "A soldier's workout. More showy than it is useful."

Not quite true, as Sarus knew. Katas were advanced drills. Once a warrior knew his way around the basics of what he could do with his weapon, a kata was meant to show him the ways in which those moves could be strung together, how they could flow into one another, and allow him to experiment with when one or another might be useful. True, that was more true for duelists' katas than the adapted forms used by spearmen and footsoldiers—some of the moves made far less sense when adapted to the longspear than they had for the Shardbearers who originally conceived them—but the principle remained.

"Never seen a soldier work out like that," Murk said. "And there was some kind of spren around you, too. Like a streak of light."

"You could see that?" Rock asked, startled.

Sarus, too, glanced at Murk in surprise, before shooting Syl a look where she sat on Kaladin's shoulder. She sat primly, avoiding all of their gazes.

"Of course I could see it," Murk said. "Bit hard to miss, wasn't it?"

Kaladin tore his eyes from Syl, shaking his head. "It was nothing."

"This thing is not true," said Rock. "Perhaps you should challenge Shardbearer!"

"No." The sudden vehemence in Kaladin's voice surprised Sarus. The bridgeleader seemed to notice it himself a moment later, averting his eyes from them. "Besides," he muttered, "I tried that once." He ran his eyes over the bridge crew. "Where's Dunny, anyway?"

"Wait," Murk said. "Back up a season. You—"

"Where," said Kaladin, with all the firmness of a cliff face, "is Dunny?"

Sarus pointed to where Dunny had rounded a bend shortly before Kaladin had begun his performance.

"He found some Parshendi," said Murk. "Doubt they have much we can use, though."

"Their weapons, they are nice," said Rock. "And some wear gemstones in their beards."

"Not to mention the armor," said Kaladin.

That brought Sarus up short. Sometimes, he forgot that even though Kaladin had been in the crew so long, there were some things he still, by sheer coincidence, hadn't seen yet.

"Well, yes," said Rock, "but we cannot use this thing."

"Why not?" Kaladin asked.

"Never seen a Parshendi up close, have you?" Murk asked. "Come on, I'll show you."

They rounded the bend to where Dunny was lining up the Parshendi corpses. There were four of them. Sarus hoped that, if the Parshendi did send crews to retrieve their dead, they didn't seek to find these four in the next hour or so.

Murk knelt beside one. "Come here," he said. "See if you can see what's wrong with this picture."

Kaladin knelt beside him. Sarus saw the moment realization crossed his face. "There's no straps," he said wonderingly.

Murk nodded, reached down and trying to pry away a pauldron. The skin of the Parshendi's shoulder moved with it. "They grow their own armor," he said. "It's not something they wear on top, like us."

"But that's ridiculous," protested Kaladin. "People—even parshmen—don't grow armor."

"Don't let the name fool you," Murk warned. "They may be called parshmen who can think, but they're no more like the parshmen we have in Alethkar than they are like you or me."

It wasn't the last realization Kaladin was to have over the Parshendi corpses. He held up one of their knives to his torch, squinting. "Tesh," he said, glancing at Sarus. "Can you read glyphs?"

Sarus nodded.

Kaladin flipped the knife in his hand, so that one side of the flat was facing in Sarus' direction. "You recognize these?"

Sarus squinted. Those… were not modern glyphs. Or, if they were, they were engraved in such an ornate calligraphic style as to be illegible. He shook his head.

Kaladin shrugged. "Me neither," he said. "But look at this." He pointed at a figure engraved on the hilt. "I'd swear this is a Herald. Jezerezeh or Nalan."

Sarus cocked his head, looking closely. He… would have guessed Talenelat, actually, based on the corded hair.

"The Parshendi out here are supposed to be barbarians without culture," Kaladin said. "Where did they get something like this?"

Sarus gave him a look that, he hoped, conveyed his incredulity. Kaladin flushed. "What?"

You've been out here for weeks, Sarus thought. You've been suffering one of the worst things a slave in Alethkar can be made to suffer. You've been watching the Parshendi compete with the Sadeas soldiers for gemhearts all this time. And yet you still buy that they're subhuman barbarians?

For a moment, he toyed with the idea of saying something. But instead he just sighed, stood up, and returned to the rest of the crew. There was more looting to be done.

As he walked away, he heard Murk ask Kaladin, "Do you know how long Tesh has been here?"

"Too long," said Kaladin.

-x-x-x-

That night, Rock served a homemade Horneater stew just outside the Bridge Four barrack. And as the men gathered around the fire, eating good food and joining in a song with Rock and Dunny, Sarus watched the glacier of despair begin, at long last, to melt away.

As he watched them—even some of the complainers and naysayers—talking and even laughing in the twilight, Sarus found a smile spreading across his face. Everyone was eating, which meant that even those who weren't taking part in the community that Kaladin was building had no choice but to be exposed to it. Soon enough they, like Sarus, would realize that despair wasn't really a thing worth fighting to maintain. He suspected many more of the men would join him and Kaladin for drills the following morning.

Then, suddenly, a voice Sarus didn't recognize groaned from inside the barrack. Sarus blinked, turned from the fire, and stepped inside.

The older man, Teft, who had been lying injured in the barrack for three days, was stirring. He seemed to be trying to sit up, grunting in pain and exertion.

Sarus stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. Teft blinked up at him, growing still. "What…?" he mumbled. "Where…?" He blinked again, and his eyes seemed to clear. His face fell. "Oh. Is this Damnation, or am I really back at the barrack?"

Sarus gave him a wry look.

"The barrack, then," sighed Teft. Then he sniffed. "What smells so good?"

Sarus gestured for him to wait, then stepped back outside. Rock gave him a quizzical look as he took another bowl of stew and brought it inside to Teft. He set it on the edge of the bed, then helped the older man to sit up.

"Thanks, lad," said Teft, and began to eat.

"Tesh?" Kaladin stepped inside. "What's—Teft! You're awake!"

Teft stared up at the bridgeleader. "Suppose I am," he said. "And I suppose I have you to thank."

Sarus looked away, and found that he was smiling.

"They have found hope," said Archive from her perch on his shoulder, her voice a bare whisper in his ear, far too soft to be heard by any of the other bridgemen.

But they hadn't, Sarus knew. Every one of these men still knew that they were going to die. They still knew that they were bridgemen, doomed to die pathetic deaths on the plateaus. They had just been persuaded to forget it tonight.

They had not found hope. But they had found comfort. And tonight, that was enough.

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LithosMaitreya

Nov 7, 2022

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Threadmarks 11: Moash

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LithosMaitreya

LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

Subscriber

Nov 14, 2022

#499

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading.

-x-x-x-

11

Moash

-x-x-x-

Ashyn's lingering civilization will not survive the next few decades.

-x-x-x-

Four men sat on the edge of a chasm. It was their ninth night of knobweed milking, and Murk's first. He'd had no symptoms for the past two days, so Kaladin had given him permission to join them starting tonight. He'd be lying if he claimed not to be relieved. Another pair of hands would speed up the process considerably, and though Teft's condition was improving, he still needed regular treatment. He was also unfit for duty, which meant any food he ate needed to be bought or shared. For that, they needed funds, and for that, they needed this antiseptic. His deal with the apothecary didn't yield many spheres, but it was just enough to keep everyone alive. So far.

"Where'd you learn to use a spear like that, anyway?" Murk asked between knobweed reeds, breaking the soft silence of the night. "Like you did a few days ago on chasm duty."

Kaladin paused with his fingers halfway down another reed. He didn't really want to discuss it. But can I really keep my story close while trying so hard to get the rest of the crew to open up?

"I was a soldier," he said finally. "Before…" He paused, then just gestured at the brands on his forehead.

"On the plains?" Murk asked.

"No. Fighting in border skirmishes within the Sadeas Highprincedom."

"How can there be border skirmishes within a Highprincedom?" asked Rock.

"Between Highprince Sadeas' vassals," Murk told him. "It was common in the days before the unification, and in some Highprincedoms it's still not rare."

Kaladin glanced at Murk. With the absence of his headaches and stutter, a personality was starting to shine through like the sun breaking through summer clouds. "You know a lot about lighteyed politics?"

Murk paused in the act of picking up another reed. "I… studied it, for a while."

"An Alethi man, studying history?" Rock said. "This thing seems unusual. In my experience, the only study your people engage in is learning new and more imaginative ways to impale your enemies."

Kaladin thought of his surgeon father. "Not all of us," he said.

"No," said Murk. "In Alethi society, war is the highest Calling; that doesn't make it the only Calling."

"You're an ardent," Kaladin realized.

Murk looked down, his face shrouded from the moonlight. "Not anymore."

Kaladin stared at the wiry man, reed forgotten between his fingertips. "How did an ardent end up here?"

"Same as you, I imagine." A ribbon of grey, billowing in the wind, drifted down around Murk's shoulders before vanishing. Kaladin recognized it as a gloomspren. "I made my lighteyes angry."

There was a soft exhalation on Kaladin's other side. He glanced over. Tesh's eyes were a dark grey the color of a highstorm.

Kaladin was certain, by now—the man's eyes changed color. They ranged from a moderate grey on the lighter end of dark eyes, to pitch black with no color to speak of. He had no idea how that was possible, but there was also no particular reason he would have learned. His abbreviated education had focused on more practical knowledge than more theoretical concepts about the body.

"Tesh, I've been wondering," said Murk, leaning forward and following Kaladin's gaze. "I've heard of slaves who said something to offend their masters, and were punished with… well. I was just wondering if there's a physical reason you don't speak."

Tesh looked over at them, his brow very faintly furrowed. His expressions, Kaladin had noticed, tended to be largely flat, as if the sustained horror of his situation had deadened his ability to feel. Kaladin couldn't relate, but he could sympathize. He had seen it before. The silent man opened his mouth and stretched his tongue out momentarily, before closing it again and turning back to his reeds.

"I guess that's a relief," said Murk. He looked at Kaladin. "You ever hear him say anything, Kaladin?"

"Not a word."

"Is this thing common?" Rock asked. "A special kind of lowlander airsickness?"

"No," said Kaladin. "I've heard of it before, and I've seen men who didn't speak much, but never someone who was so completely silent for so long." He studied Tesh, who seemed content to continue emptying knobweed into the bottle with an air of aloof serenity, as if completely unbothered by their conversation. "Do you mind us discussing you, Tesh?"

Tesh shook his head.

"This thing feels strange, though," said Rock. "It is as if you are not here."

Kaladin didn't know how he expected Tesh to respond, but it wasn't for Tesh's mouth to twist into a tiny, wry smile, and for his head to bow in a small nod.

-x-x-x-

In the thirteen days since Kaladin's first run as bridgeleader, Bridge Four had seen its numbers replenished with four new recruits: Lesk, Brils, Evenk, and Foran. This was less than any of the other bridge crews, but they hadn't had another lethal run since that day.

That streak changed the day after Murk joined in on knobweed duty. It wasn't an awful run, by bridgeman standards, but it was more than bad enough by Kaladin's. One death—Rens—and three injuries.

Drehy had caught an arrow in the arm, but the wound had been clean and with just a few days rest, and so long as he didn't have to bear the weight of the bridge on that arm, Kaladin was confident he'd make a full recovery. The other two injuries had been the two men in the front row with Kaladin, Tesh, and poor Rens.

Treff had come out fairly well. He'd been on Kaladin's immediate left, and a few arrows had grazed his arms and torso. He'd lost a fair amount of blood on the battlefield, but the wounds themselves weren't too severe. Once they bore him back atop the bridge and got some food and water into him, and once Kaladin had changed his bandages and applied a fresh layer of antiseptic, he improved rapidly. He was even on his feet before sundown.

The most severe injury of the run, however, had been Moash. He had been on the outside of the front row, to the right of Tesh, when a Parshendi arrow had hit him directly in the gut. It was a stroke of incredible fortune that the man was alive at all. The arrow had punctured the man's stomach, but only very, very slightly. Kaladin had been forced to stitch the organ shut first before he could close the wound itself, and Moash had bled the entire time.

Yet somehow, the man had still been breathing when they returned to the camp. He even woke up just three days later.

Kaladin marched up to the door of the barracks, a jug in his hand, preparing to force the unconscious man to drink again, but he was brought up short by the sound of voices speaking quietly just on the other side of the wall.

"I just don't understand," Moash was saying quietly.

"Me neither, lad," said Teft. "But—well, I can't say I'm not grateful."

"You don't get it," said Moash. "After that first run—I refused to share my food. I told him I'd rather he left me out there than that I starve back here. So why…?"

Kaladin pushed the door open. The two men looked at him, Teft sitting up while Moash remained prone. "Well," said Kaladin, "if nothing else, no one has to go hungry anymore to feed you." He stepped up to Moash's bedside. "How's your pain?" he asked.

"Bad," said Moash, "but manageable."

"Good. Try not to move any part of your torso today, and we'll see if you're doing better tomorrow. For now, I can feed you."

Moash winced. "Must you?"

"I thought you didn't want to die a slow death back here."

"I can feed him, Kaladin," said Teft. "I'm doing well enough for it."

"Sure," said Kaladin, handing him the jug. "Tesh'll be along with a tray from the mess. Only liquids for Moash, for now."

Teft thanked him, and Kaladin turned to leave.

"You want an apology?"

Kaladin looked back, frowning at Moash. The man wouldn't meet his gaze, and it wasn't just because his position made the angle difficult.

Moash wasn't charismatic in the traditional sense. Kaladin had met charismatic men—Amaram was a charismatic man. But Moash had a surly self-confidence that, to his fellow desperate wretches, had been infectious. He hadn't led the malcontents, nothing so organized as that, but he had always been the first to grumble, protest, or jeer at every decision Kaladin made. And when he did, other men followed suit.

"Moash," said Kaladin. "I don't need you to share your food. I don't need you to like me, and I definitely don't need your apology. I have just one thing I'd like from you."

"…What is it?"

"Stop making this harder for me," said Kaladin. "There are thirty-two people in this crew. If you want me to leave you behind next time, that's your affair. But stop making it more difficult for me to protect the others."

"Why does it matter so much to you?" Moash asked. "Aren't you just delaying the inevitable? We're all still bridgemen. We're doomed, Kaladin."

"Do you know how I became bridgeleader, Moash?"

"I assume Gaz came by and gave you the job?"

"Do Gaz and I seem friendly to you?"

Moash didn't answer.

"The night before I asked your name," Kaladin said. "The night before I asked all of your names, I went out into the last drizzle of the highstorm. Guess where I was going."

"The Honor Chasm."

"I looked down into that chasm, and…" Kaladin stopped. His eyes caught on Syl where she sat, invisible to the two injured men, suspended in the air above Moash's head. She smiled at him. "I realized," he said, "that I wasn't ready to give up. Not yet." He looked down at Moash. "And I think that if you were actually as certain as you pretend to be that we're all doomed, you'd have thrown yourself down there already."

"Maybe so," said Moash after a long pause. And that was all he said.

"Kaladin," Rock ducked his head in the door. "The crew is assembling by the bridge, and Tesh is returning with the food."

Kaladin nodded at him. "I'll be out in a minute," he said. As Rock shut the door again, Kaladin turned back to Moash. "You've been unconscious for three days," he said. "In that time, I've managed to get every member of this crew to start drilling with me and Tesh. I'm not asking you to join us, even once you're able. But I am asking you not to be the reason any of the men stop drilling. Can you do that?"

"Or you'll stop feeding me?"

"No," Kaladin said. "No, I'll keep feeding you even if you make things more difficult for me."

"That's what I don't understand," said Moash. "Why?"

"Because I decided not to give up on Bridge Four," said Kaladin. "And you're part of Bridge Four, Moash, whether either of us likes it or not. Teft, don't let him move around."

"Aye, Kaladin."

Kaladin turned just in time to see Tesh walking in with a tray. He placed it on Moash's lap, then handed a bowl of broth to Teft. He pointed at the bowl, then at Moash—all without once looking at Moash's face.

"Sure," said Teft, "I can feed him."

"Remember, no solids yet," Kaladin said. "Water and broth only."

"Understood, sir."

Tesh walked past Kaladin and left the barrack. He didn't meet Kaladin's gaze on his way out, but Kaladin saw that his eyes were barely a shade lighter than black.

"Call if you need me," said Kaladin. "Not you, Moash—no shouting. We'll be drilling near the barracks."

Then he turned and stepped outside. Twenty-nine men stood beside their bridge, watching him and Tesh as they rejoined the group. "All right," said Kaladin. "There's something I want to try today."

It had occurred to him the previous night while he'd been applying antiseptic to Moash's wounds. He could talk all he wanted about how he hadn't given up on Bridge Four, but all the determination in the world wasn't going to stop a Parshendi arrow. Bridge Four might be losing fewer men than any of the other bridges with each run, but the past two bad runs had both cost them at least one. He had already failed seven men. Rens, Adis, Corl, Koorm, Skar, Jaks, Dabbid. If he didn't want to fail the rest, he needed something actionable.

Bridgemen were not allowed armor or shields. But they carried a massive wooden construct on their backs—a construct that had taken more arrows than any bridgeman without leaving more than a mark. And Kaladin could use that.

"I call it," Kaladin said, "side carry."

-x-x-x-

After nearly a week of drilling, Kaladin could honestly say that the crew was better at carrying the bridge on its side.

In the same way that a one-legged axehound is faster than one with no legs, he thought grimly.

Gaz had given his blessing for Bridge Four to use side carry on a run. Kaladin suspected he thought the maneuver would slow them down and might get Kaladin killed. He might even be right.

He called a halt to the drill and let his men go towards the water barrels. As he watched them, Syl darted out in front of him. "They don't understand why you want them to carry the bridge like that," she said.

"I know."

"I heard Sigzil and Malop talking about it."

"Were they complaining?"

"Yes. Wait, no, not really." She looked momentarily confused, then hesitant. "No, I guess not. They sounded more like they were questioning it out of habit than really complaining."

Kaladin nodded. "Still dangerous, but not as much so. That kind of talk can feed itself; the men can push each other further towards mutiny than any one of them would reach alone. But if they're not seriously complaining, then we still have time."

"Why are you having them carry the bridge like this?" Syl asked. "They're right that it's slower."

"Yes," said Kaladin. He glanced around, just in case Gaz was watching. He wasn't. Instead, he was standing on the other side of the yard, talking to Lamaril as the lighteyes led a troop of men into the camp. New bridgemen.

More hands would be a great help. Side carry was harder, and even though his men were much better trained than the rest of the bridge crews, it was much easier to drop the bridge when they were holding it awkwardly alongside themselves. Bridge Four was already moderately undermanned, since neither Teft nor Moash was fit for runs yet. But the last time new recruits had come through, Gaz hadn't sent a single one his way.

He couldn't let that happen again.

"I'll tell you later," he told Syl, then jogged in Gaz's direction.

The overseer was separating the men into groups. "You three, you're in Bridge Nine. You four, Bridge Twelve. You and… you, Bridge Two.

Kaladin watched as Gaz sorted all twenty-two new recruits. Not a single one was assigned to Bridge Four. Not this time. "Gaz."

Gaz jumped and whirled to face him. Kaladin realized he'd been standing on the man's blind side. "Storming—what, Lordling?"

"Bridge Four is down to thirty fighting members," he said.

"Thirty-two, if you count the invalids you're smuggling food to," countered Gaz.

"They can't carry the bridge," Kaladin said. "Where they sleep is my affair. Making sure the bridge crews can run is yours."

Gaz grumbled something mutinous under his breath. "Bridge Three is down to twenty-six."

"Yes, and you just gave them eight new members. Along with the other fourteen you gave to bridges that aren't as understaffed as mine."

"You only lost one man on the last run, and—"

"Do you think Lamaril will thank you if my bridge doesn't make it to the chasm?" Kaladin demanded.

"That's Brightlord Lamaril to you." But Gaz had a pensive, downward curve to his lips now. "…Fine. You can have one man."

"One man of my choice."

"Fine. They're all equally worthless."

Kaladin turned to the group, which was already clustering based on their new assignments. A taller man would be especially helpful for side carrying, he mused, and for slaves, most of these men were well fed. That one might even have soldier's training—

"Hey, gancho!" a voice called. "Hey! I think you want me, sure!"

Kaladin turned. The man who had spoken was short and spindly, in spite of a hint of a paunch around his stomach. His accent was Herdazian, and he was waving at Kaladin—with his only arm. What had this poor fool done to get assigned to the bridge crews with only one arm? Whatever crew got him would put him in the deathpoint and be rid of him on his first run.

"You can use me, gon," said the man, pronouncing the final word like gone. "We Herdazians are great fighters. One time three men came at me, and sure, they were drunk, but I did beat them."

Kaladin looked the man in the eye. He was smiling. He clearly had no idea what awaited him in the bridge crews, any more than Kaladin had when he first arrived. No one would be smiling if they did.

But even taking that into account… this one-armed man with years-old slave brands was somehow managing to smile in the face of an uncertain fate which, he had to realize, would not be good.

I was just thinking that the men could easily push each other to mutiny if their complaining discouraged one another, he thought. This man's optimism might be just what I need to counteract that.

That was the rational part of him. The tactician, the soldier, the squadleader.

The elder brother in him just thought, Tien.

"Very well," he said aloud. "I'll take the Herdazian in the back."

"You're joking," said Gaz.

The one-armed man strolled up to Kaladin, his grin somehow even wider. "Thanks, gancho! You'll be glad you got me."

Kaladin gestured for him to follow, then turned to leave. As he passed Gaz, the bridge sergeant called after him, "You pushed me that hard so that you could pick that?"

Kaladin ignored him, instead turning to his new recruit as they walked. "Why did you want to come with me?" he asked. "You don't know anything about the different crews."

"You were only picking one," said the man. "That means the one man gets to be special, sure. Besides, I've got a good feeling about you. It's in your eyes. A man's eyes never lie, I've always said. What's a bridge crew?"

Kaladin noticed that he had started smiling without even realizing it. After weeks of forcing smiles onto his face for the benefit of the crew, it was startling. "You'll see," he said, already dreading having to watch this man slowly learn what he had been condemned to. "What's your name?"

"Lopen," said the man. "Some of my cousins call me the Lopen, because none of them has ever heard of another Lopen. I've asked around a lot, too. Hundreds. Not a one has ever heard of another Lopen." The man spoke so quickly and brightly that Kaladin had to wonder if he ever stopped to breathe.

As they reached the crew, already starting to assemble at the bridge again, Rock looked Lopen up and down. "Is new member?" he asked. At Kaladin's affirmation, he sighed. "The only kind Gaz would give us, I assume. This thing, it is to be expected. He will give us only the most useless of bridgemen from now on."

Kaladin almost said something in agreement, but hesitated—both because Syl would probably not be happy with the lie, and because he doubted Lopen would either.

Before he could find something to say, Rock continued. "This new way of carrying the bridge. I do not think it is very—"

A horn call sounded. The entire crew fell as silent as Tesh, conversations dying at once. Bridge Four was on duty. A second horn rang out.

Then the third.

"Line up!" Kaladin ordered. "Let's move!" As his men quickly moved themselves into position, he turned to Lopen. "You see that rain barrel?" he asked, pointing. "Get some waterskins from the carpenters' assistants—tell them you're from Bridge Four, they told me I could borrow some—and fill up as many as you can. Catch up to us down the hill."

"Sure, gancho," said the Lopen, saluting and dashing off.

He returned before the other bridges were in position—and, to Kaladin's surprise and displeasure, Teft was with him. "Did I say you were cleared for duty?" he demanded.

Teft grinned at him. "You just got us a one-armed bridgeman, sir," he said. "Least I've got all four limbs."

"You said to get as many as I could carry," said Lopen, gesturing with a small pallet he and Teft were carrying between them, laden high with bulging waterskins. "Well, I got this from the carpenters. Couldn't carry it by myself, sure, but the old man saw me and offered to help."

"I figured, if you were letting one kind of cripple out for light duty, why not another?" said Teft wryly.

Kaladin gritted his teeth. "If your wounds reopen," he growled, "you are going to sit down and stay on whatever plateau we're on right then until we come back to fetch you, understand?"

"Perfectly clear, sir."

The other bridges were catching up with them now. Kaladin took a deep breath. "Fine. Let's move!"

152

LithosMaitreya

Nov 14, 2022

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Threadmarks 12: Execution

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LithosMaitreya

LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Nov 21, 2022

#520

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

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12

Execution

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The thing giving them their power does not show itself directly. Even the most private of Shards, such as Endowment, are at least willing to allow themselves to be discovered.

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Torol stood perfectly still in the center of his forward command tent. Servants bustled around him, bearing fragments of his red shardplate and attaching them to his harness. Outside, he heard the army mobilizing.

The tent flap billowed inward as General Latharil pushed his way inside. He was commander of the third of Torol's ten battalions, and it was his patrol that had sounded the horn.

"Brightlord," said Latharil, stopping one step inside the tent and bowing. He was a large man, a few inches taller than Torol himself—at least, when Torol wasn't wearing the thick boots of his Plate. His face was sharply angled, with high cheekbones over thin cheeks, and his eyes were a pale, washed-out blue.

Sadeas nodded shortly as a servant affixed one of his pauldrons over his shoulder. "Where is the chrysalis this time, General?"

"Far," said the man grimly. "Brightness Pelah is charting a course now, but her initial estimate was that we would need to make nearly forty crossings using the portable bridges."

Forty crossings. That was madness. Most incursions required fewer than fifteen crossings over the portable bridges, once the army had cleared the network of permanent bridges near the camp. Every crossing was a delay, both because getting the men across the narrow bridge was slow, and because even once they had done so, the smaller plateaus were often not wide enough for the bridge crews to catch up with the army before they reached the next chasm. "How much of that is pushing inward? If the chrysalis is closer to another Highprince's camp, there's no point in even trying to make this run."

"My watchmen know that, Brightlord," said Latharil, with just the tiniest hint of reproach in his voice. "We would not have called the muster if it was closer to one of the other camps than ours, not at that distance. It's almost directly inward. The only force we'll be competing with is the Parshendi."

"And they will provide significant competition," mused Torol, "assuming we're right that their headquarters are at the center of the Plains." He had made only one incursion of this length before, and that one had been more south than east, and thus had ended far closer to the warcamps. He had been competing primarily against Roion, that day, and that had been before Roion had adopted Sadeas' more efficient bridge crews.

"It will be difficult, if not impossible, to beat them to the chrysalis, Highprince," said Latharil. "We will have to make a crossing under fire."

"Of course. But if gemhearts weren't worth running into Parshendi archers, they wouldn't be worth the rest of this trouble, either. Which battalions are on duty today?"

"The First, Third, Fourth, Ninth, and Tenth, Brightlord."

Torol frowned, then pointed his newly gauntleted hand at Balar, his steward, who stood on the side of the tent overseeing the servants. "Is that imbecile Matal still in command of the Ninth?"

"No, Highprince. He has been replaced with Brightlord Latalar, per your orders."

Torol's steward was a lighteyes of the seventh dahn, with deep violet eyes and a moderately corpulent frame. Torol preferred the servants who waited on him when he was out of his armor not to be in peak condition.

Some might call it paranoia. He might have called it the same, six years ago.

"Avarak Matal," continued Balar, "is still awaiting reassignment. His wife has already sent a missive on his behalf, which I have forwarded to Brightness Ialai."

"Good," Torol said. "We'll come up with something suitably humbling." Matal had embarrassed himself—and, by extension, Sadeas—at the king's most recent feast, and more importantly in front of several Kholin officers. His rank was sufficient that Torol couldn't turn him out of the warcamp completely without scandal, but there were plenty of positions in the army which had enough of a veneer of decency to fool outsiders while still humiliating the man before his peers.

A servant affixed the last plate of Torol's armor, and they all stepped back to allow him to pass. He swept past Latharil out of the tent.

His horse was already saddled and waiting just a few paces from the tent. It wasn't a Ryshadium—and the fact that half the Kholins had one of the beasts while he didn't still burned—but for an ordinary horse, Nomar was exceedingly large. A powerful warhorse of excellent breeding, he had never once faltered under the weight of Torol's Plate. Torol dreaded the day when the stallion would inevitably grow too old to carry him into battle. He didn't know where he'd find another of Nomar's caliber, unless he managed to find the time to breed it before that day came.

He climbed onto the stallion's back and nodded to Latharil. "Join your men, General," he said. "I'll see you on the battlefield."

"Yes, Brightlord." Latharil saluted and dashed off.

Torol turned to Balar, standing at the entrance to the tent. "I likely won't return until after dinnertime," he said. "Tell Ialai that she needn't wait for me, but I'd appreciate her company on my return."

"Of course, Highprince."

Torol turned and spurred his horse on.

His officers and guard regiment formed around him as he took his position near the center of the army column, slowing Nomar to a gentle trot. Torol always pushed his infantry, and the army moved faster than many of the others—especially the Kholin army, with their chull-pulled bridges—but an infantry column moving at a dead run was still no faster than a light canter for the cavalry, and that would have left his army exhausted by the time they met the Parshendi.

Especially on a march like this one. He doubted any of the other highprinces would have even tried to make an assault on a chrysalis forty chasms beyond the innermost permanent bridges. Which was exactly why the very idea had him so eager—the Thrill was already thrumming in his veins, like an axehound barely held back from its quarry by the discipline of its master. The Parshendi would be ready for him. The battle would be fierce.

But, paradoxically, that meant the risks were lower. Sure, there was always a chance that he might die, but the Parshendi were clearly running out of Shardbearers—only one battle in a dozen saw an enemy Shard on the field—and without an enemy with Shardblades, the risk to a commander in Plate was negligible. The real risk in a plateau assault was the risk of shame—of an embarrassing defeat and a humiliating march back to the warcamp, visible to the sentries of all the other highprinces. But on a run to a plateau this distant, the shame of a defeat would be moderate at worst.

And the glory of a victory would be enormous.

He could see his own anticipation mirrored in the officers around him, and embodied in the anticipationspren bursting up around the hooves of their horses in streaks of red. None of them had the benefit of Shardplate to protect them, but that didn't matter to most—like any good Alethi men, they were hungry for the glory to be won, as thirsty for the Thrill to fill them up as a drunkard was for wine.

Latharil joined him as they crossed the second plateau, still well within the network of permanent bridges. "The sentries have identified the location of the chrysalis, Brightlord," he said. "It's the Tower."

Torol's heart leapt. The Tower was a famous plateau. It wasn't quite forty plateaus away—only thirty-two from the permanent bridge network—but its reputation preceded it. The Tower was taller than any of its immediate neighbors and sloped away from the warcamps. More than twenty battles had been fought on that plateau, at least one by every single highprince, and every single one of them had ended in a Parshendi victory.

If Torol won today, the glory would be more than enormous. It would be groundbreaking. House Sadeas would become the unquestioned military leader among all ten highprincedoms, cleanly supplanting Kholin's already crumbling reputation.

"Good," he said to Latharil, unable either to hide his smile or to banish the single gloryspren that was already bursting into golden light beside Nomar's ear. "Very good."

After several minutes, the column slowed as the mobile bridges were placed across the first chasm. The army split into twenty lines, each moving to cross one of the bridges.

Torol spurred Nomar to the column crossing Bridge Four.

He kept his face neutral as the horse's hooves echoed resoundingly against the wood of the bridge. He ignored the black eyes glaring at him with an emotion he could not have named even if he cared.

Bridge Four had changed. He could not help but notice, even as he kept his eyes forward and his face impassive. Where once the wretches had all cast themselves down like the barely-formed lumps of men they were, now they stood in something like formation, drinking from waterskins.

It was Bridge Four, he remembered, that had apparently retrieved its wounded from their recent bridge run. He had ordered that the wounded be denied food—partly to conserve resources that were better allocated to more valuable men, and partly out of a hope that one particular bridgeman might be among the injured who would be condemned to slow starvation. However, this seemed only to have hardened the men somehow.

Perhaps there was something special about their current bridgeleader, he mused, Nomar's hooves thumping hollowly against the wood of the bridge. Whoever the man was, he had somehow managed to turn a gaggle of thirty or so creatures unworthy to be called men into something that bore a vague resemblance to an organized group. He would have to see who that bridgeleader was. Torol prided himself on his efficiency. If the man was as talented a leader as he appeared, he was wasted on slave's work in the bridge crews.

As he left the bridge behind, Torol finally allowed a grim smile to bloom across his lips. The sight of those black eyes in his peripheral vision, burning with impotent fire, always left him feeling darkly satisfied.

You left me helpless to act, boy, he thought. Now I do the same to you. It was better than he deserved, but even as angry as Torol still was, he was still a pragmatist. Better the boy die a slow death being useful than an equally slow death keeping a trained torturer busy.

It wasn't joy that he felt whenever he crossed Bridge Four and felt those jet-dark eyes following him, far from the almost pale grey that had once looked up at him in the half-light. Indeed, if anything, it brought him back to one of the most joyless moments of his life. But it did bring satisfaction—to know that the man responsible for the awful night that had left him in worse pain than a hundred battle wounds was suffering for his crime.

That satisfaction came to him again and again on the long march. The sun drifted lazily overhead, wheeling along the aquamarine bowl of the sky in its long, early-autumn arc. It never passed directly overhead, this far south, instead staying always a little north of the center of the sky. He hadn't ever noticed something like that before, but after five years on the same front, the difference between this southern sky and the northern one of his home made him nostalgic. He wasn't homesick, but he did long for the days before he had come down here.

Before things had all gone wrong. Before the Rift. Before Dalinar had collapsed like a crumbling pillar. Before Gavilar had been assassinated and succeeded by an inept boy-king.

Before his daughter had died, not to the blade of an assassin, but to the hand of someone who should have been protecting her from them.

At long last, they reached the penultimate chasm. From here, he could see the chrysalis with his own eyes, tightly bound to the stone of the Tower. The Parshendi were busily hacking away at its shell, struggling to break it open. They had not reached the gemheart yet.

He smiled, watching his cavalry begin forming their ranks, watching the infantry marshal behind them, lowering spears and raising shields. The Parshendi might still manage to get it before he broke their line, but he hadn't missed the contest. For the Thrill—which now rose up in him joyfully—that was enough.

The bridge crews began their final run. His eyes found Bridge Four.

He frowned. What on Roshar were they doing? The crew seemed to be carrying their bridge on one side, perpendicular to themselves. The position slowed them visibly—despite having run ahead of most of the other crews across all the other plateaus, now they were lagging behind, and exposing themselves to more Parshendi fire. What on earth would possess them to hold the bridge like a…

He realized what was about to happen an instant before it did. The crew of bridge four swung about like a door being shut. The wood of the bridge interposed between the bridgemen and the archers. And the Parshendi weren't stupid enough to waste arrows on what amounted to a tower shield the width of a regiment.

His smile slid off his face as he stared at the massacre unfolding before his eyes. It was almost comical. A man less well-educated in warfare wouldn't have expected the change from twenty targets to nineteen to make such a radical difference. But someone like that would have missed a few key factors.

First, on an assault where the Parshendi had already formed their firing line, often only a dozen or so bridges made it to the chasm. The Parshendi only needed to kill between five and fifteen bridgemen to bring down a bridge, after all.

Second, even those bridges that did make it to the chasm typically lost the majority of the men they could afford to lose without falling anyway.

Third, with the loss of one target, the Parshendi did not evenly distribute their newly available arrows evenly among the other crews. No—the Parshendi were better-trained than that. Their archers always fired at the nearest available crew. That meant that, instead of nineteen bridges each facing about five percent more fire, he had seventeen facing roughly the same amount, and two which each faced half again as many arrows as before.

Of course, those two bridges fell. And then the archers redirected their fire to the next two bridges. And the next. And the next. Twice as many archers were freed by the fall of every successive bridge, so each time a bridge fell, the fire the next bridges were facing grew exponentially worse.

Even that might not have been crippling. But when the other bridge crews saw what Bridge Four had done, they tried to emulate it. But Bridge Four had clearly trained in what must be a difficult maneuver. The rest had not. They stumbled. They dropped bridges. Even those that kept them in their hands slowed to a crawl.

Normally, a Parshendi firing line could only bring down between four and eight bridges before the crew pushed it across the chasm and allowed his army to attack. Today, they felled fourteen.

His heavy cavalry charged across the bridges once they were in place, but there simply wasn't enough space for his men to cross in the necessary numbers. His men fought bravely, but a cavalry charge needed an unbroken line. Two horsemen could cross a bridge side by side, but with only six bridges—bridges which had been placed erratically, over more than ninety seconds when all twenty crews normally took less than a third of that—that was only twelve chargers trying to break the Parshendi line. Brave men died, their bodies, and those of their steeds, falling into the chasm to become fodder for fiends and cremlings. This far into the Plains, he would never be able to retrieve their gear, either.

Bridge Four had lost him this battle. All he could do now was minimize his losses.

He turned to his generals, all of whom sat in stunned silence astride their own horses, staring in horror at the carnage. "Order the remaining cavalry to fall back!" he barked. "Send the spearmen and shock infantry to hold the bridges and give the cavalry an avenue of retreat! Sound the withdrawal! Now, Damnation take you!"

The men jumped to obey. Torol caught Latharil's arm as he spurred his horse. "Find me Lamaril," he said through gritted teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bridge collapse into the chasm.

"Alive or dead, Brightlord?"

"Preferably alive." The punishment should always outstrip the severity of the crime. He remembered saying that to a shaking boy, staring up at him in terror. One man had lost him his daughter, and he had been condemned to slavery in the bridge crews. Lamaril had cost him a battle. "A quick death at the end of a spear is too good for him."

As Latharil nodded and cantered away, he stared at the inanimate wood of Bridge Four stretching across the chasm. At the men in rags, huddled in a hollow beside it. He couldn't make out individuals, but he saw a few men—including one lighteyes, perhaps Lamaril—approaching the crew. As they converged upon one of the bridgemen, most likely the bridgeleader, another bridge fell into the chasm, stranding even more of his men on the Tower.

Torol felt his fists, white-knuckled, shaking on Nomar's reins. He forced them to still by pressing them into the saddle. Not ten minutes ago, Torol had been contemplating the promotion of Bridge Four's bridgeleader. Now, the man had cemented his position as Torol's second-least favorite bridgeman. He would not survive the experience.

It was too much to expect a darkeyed slave to be a tactical genius, to know anything about military strategy. That was supposed to be Lamaril's job—to make sure the thugs on the crews did nothing to jeopardize Torol's efforts. But knowingly or not, that bridgeleader had cost Torol a battle. He would need to be punished. More than punished—made an example of.

What was a suitably spectacular method of execution? He had inspired his men. He had nearly managed to turn the wretches of Bridge Four into something resembling Alethi.

Let them feel his death, he thought. Let them hear him begging. Let them stew in the certainty that his fate is what awaits any of them who try to follow his example.

A highstorm was slated to come a little after nightfall. Torol would have the man strung up on his own barrack's outer wall and left to its mercy. It was a form of execution as traditional as it was brutal. The following morning, his men would step outside and see the ruined meat the storm had left behind, and every one of those men would know better than to try and carry on its legacy.

As the army withdrew, and the bridges were pulled back across the chasm, he turned his horse away and began the long ride back to camp.

148

LithosMaitreya

Nov 21, 2022

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Threadmarks 13: Always

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LithosMaitreya

LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

Subscriber

Nov 28, 2022

#547

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

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13

Always

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Whereas this creature seems to have countermeasures in place to actively prevent it from being noticed or observed by the humans it empowers.

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Fifteen Years Ago

"Don't run, Sarus," chided his mother gently.

Sarus forced himself to slow, falling back into step just a few paces ahead of her. "Well, hurry up then!" he demanded, looking back at her.

"The fair will still be there when we arrive, even if we take our time and don't get there sweaty and mussed."

"Fine…" He fell into step beside her, reaching up and taking her hand in his. She squeezed his fingers.

"That's a good boy," she said. "If you behave, we can stay for the duel."

Sarus brightened. There were duels a few times a year in the arenas outside the castle, but he usually wasn't allowed to go see them. They weren't true Shardbearer duels—Sarus had never even seen a Shardblade, they were simply too rare and important to use on simple entertainment—but lighteyed soldiers would sometimes approximate with their side-swords. "Really?"

"I promise. But only if you behave. Will you be good?"

"I'll be good!"

His mother smiled down at him. "I know you will."

It was easy to say he'd behave in the moment. It was harder to stay at pace with her leisurely stroll for the whole mile-long walk down the lane to the city. The castle was built into the west side of a mountain, high enough on the foothills that it still looked over the city in the valley below. The road zig-zagged down the slope. If Sarus had been alone, running freely without regard for the path, he could have made the journey in just a few short minutes. But his mother always insisted on taking the paths. "We are direct servants of Brightlord Sadeas," she would tell him. "We must behave the part."

Still, despite feeling like his body might burst with excitement, he managed to stay at pace with his mother. He did let go of her hand and dart away once or twice to check the vinebud clusters that grew alongside the cobblestone road. The variety that grew here in northwestern Alethkar produced succulent, violet berries in the autumn. Unfortunately, it seemed he was too early. The vinebuds had lost most of their conical, yellow flowers, but what few fruits had taken their places were still hard and gray, more like pebbles than berries.

"No vineberries yet?" his mother asked as she caught up with him.

"No. When will they grow, Mother?"

"Within a month, most likely. You're getting too old for sweets, you know."

Sarus frowned. "I don't want to stop eating vineberries. I don't care if they're sweet."

"I didn't say you have to stop eating them," she said. "I learned a recipe for a men's pie that uses vineberries last winter, but you were too young to start eating men's food then. I'll make it for you this Weeping."

"Will it be spicy?"

"Of course," she said. "It's men's food."

"I don't like spicy," he complained.

"You've hardly had spicy food yet," she pointed out. "You only started eating men's food three weeks ago. It will grow on you."

"What if I don't want it to grow on me?"

"Then I suppose you had best join the ardentia," she said dryly. "Where instead of learning to use the spear you can learn to read and write and eat sweets like a woman."

He stuck out his tongue. "Ew."

She laughed.

Truthfully, it didn't sound so terrible. His mother sometimes read him stories from the books in the castle library. She'd read him the history of Sunmaker's siege of Vedenar and his duel with King Renchilo of Herdaz. She'd read him the fable of Ishi'Elin on the Shore of Origins, how the cleverest of the Heralds had fooled a hundred Voidbringers into being crushed on the rocks by a newborn highstorm. She'd read him the tale of Pathas, a thief who had pilfered treasures from a hundred kings only to fall at the hands of the Highprince of Sadeas.

Some of the stories weren't true, he knew that. But even those that weren't had the seed of truth in them, or so his mother said. The Sunmaker really had united Alethkar, had really conquered all of Herdaz and even ridden as far as Azir. Pathas really had been a legendary thief who had been captured by a prince who had lived in the same castle where Sarus now lived with his mother.

And Ishi'Elin really had been a Herald who fought the Voidbringers long ago. According to the ardents, at least.

Sarus knew that, as a boy, he would one day have to put away those stories. He might be second nahn, but once he grew old enough to work, he would have to dedicate himself to his Calling. He didn't know what that Calling would be, but it wouldn't be history or fiction. Those were feminine arts. Perhaps when he was old enough to marry, his wife would read to him as his mother did now, but that was so far in the distant future as to be meaningless.

After an interminably long time, they did finally reach the gates of the city. Sadear was a blur of color, resplendent in flapping banners of green, red, and gold. Shopkeepers had flung the doors of their stores wide, and those who had dedicated assistants or apprentices had turned them outside to attract the attention of anyone who might have money to spend. In front of the stores were stalls for those who did not do business in the city year-round or who had come in with the fair's traveling performers.

Many tried to call out to his mother, but one called out to him. "Ho there, little one!" called a man at one stall, gesturing to a table of small wooden figurines painted in vibrant colors. "Wouldn't you like a new toy? A Sadeas officer, or a Kholin Shardbearer? I have a whole army for you to browse like a general surveying the troops!"

"Oh, Mother, may I?" he asked, looking up at her. "Just one?"

She glanced over at the display. "Do you think you'll play with it?" she asked. "Or will you forget it after only a few days?"

"I'll play with it! Please, Mother, may I have some spheres?"

"Now, now," she chided, glancing down at him. "You know you're not to carry spheres around. But I'll come and buy you one, so long as they're not too expensive." His mother never let him carry his own spheres. She always said there was no need for a child of barely five years to have his own purse.

A few minutes later, Sarus happily followed his mother away from the stall, a wooden soldier in green and silver armor clutched in his fingers. Golden captain's knots were intricately carved on his shoulder. "Thank you!"

"You're welcome, Sarus," said his mother. "Now, don't lose that toy before we return home."

"I won't!"

They stopped for lunch at an outdoor pavilion serving foods he had never heard of. His mother ordered from the serving man who bustled between the circular tables. "Thaylen sweetfish for me," she said. "And the Azish flatbread for the little one. Moderately spiced, please."

As the man bustled away, Sarus grimaced at his mother. "Does it have to be moderately spiced?"

"You must grow used to spicier foods, little one," she said. "It would be a shame to join the ardentia just because you never got used to men's food."

That was fair, he supposed. If he did join the ardentia, it should at least be because he wanted to, not because he was a picky eater.

And when the food arrived, it was surprisingly good. Spicy, but maybe he really was getting used to that. "When is the duel?" he asked between bites.

"A few hours before sunset," said his mother. "We have just long enough for me to go to the produce market before then. I want to see if they have anything from Thaylenah."

"Why?"

"I tried a Thaylen cake a few weeks ago when I was waiting on Brightness Ialai. They were good, and I'd like to see if I can make them." Sarus' mother often did that. It was why they had stopped at this pavilion for lunch, rather than packing something from home. She frequently sought out foods from elsewhere on Roshar, places neither of them would ever go.

As it turned out, the market didn't have Thaylen cakes. But they did have some Thaylen bread—an odd, puffy loaf which yielded to the merchant's fingers, then bounced back as if he hadn't even touched it. His mother bought it along with a jar of Azish truthberry jam. She slipped both into her purse, then offered to put Sarus' toy soldier in with them.

"No," he said, clutching the wooden captain in both hands. "I want him out when I see the duel. To compare."

As if his words had been a cue, a trumpet rang out from the fields outside the city. He jumped in excitement. "Mother, is that—"

"That will be the duel," she said, smiling at him. "And you have been very good, so we'll stay to see it."

They weren't the only ones moving in that direction. Sarus' mother kept a tight grip on his hand as they followed the crowd walking down the thoroughfare in the direction of the city's western gate.

The arena was marked by a rope, suspended by metal stakes which had been driven into the rock. It was surrounded by wooden stands for the lighteyed spectators to sit in, but darkeyes like Sarus and his mother had to stand further back, behind a second rope barrier.

Still, they had been fairly close to the arena when the trumpets rang out, so they managed to find a good place. It was fairly near to the gate where lighteyes entered the arena and stands, and gave a good view of the arena itself. Sarus clutched the rope in front of him with one hand, the other holding his toy captain, eagerly waiting for the show to start. It couldn't start yet, of course. The best spectator's box wasn't yet filled. No one would start before the Highprince arrived.

Suddenly, Sarus' mother breathed in sharply. Sensing the change in her mood, Sarus looked up, then followed her gaze towards the path leading to the lighteyes' gate.

Three familiar people walked up the lane. Highprince Sadeas wore a dark green uniform, with silver buttons in two columns running up the sides of his breast. Beside him, Brightness Ialai wore a glittering silvery dress with green trim, perfectly complementing his outfit.

Between them was a girl Sarus knew. Tailiah's hair was done in a braid, and she wore a frilly dress in a pale green. She was young enough that her safehand was not yet covered by the sleeve of a havah, but she carried it daintily behind her back, already practicing for the day when she would have to begin hiding it in public.

Her eyes found Sarus'. Her face brightened. She started moving, passing her parents and coming in his direction.

Sarus' mother grabbed for his hand. He dropped his officer as she tugged him, back into the crowd and away from the duel. He tried to reach down with his free hand, but by the time he knew what was happening, they had left the toy far behind. He glanced up, catching Tailiah's confused, hurt eyes until she vanished behind a man's broad back.

Sarus resisted the urge to throw a tantrum. He was better than that—and he understood why they had left so suddenly. Tailiah should have known, too. But it was probably much easier to forget these things as the highprince's daughter than as the son of one of his maids. He swallowed that bitterness down.

Instead of complaining, he turned and jogged a little to keep up with his mother, so that she wasn't pulling him along like a cart behind a chull. "We're out of sight," he told her.

She slowed. "Are you sure?" She glanced back. "Oh, good, so we are."

He swallowed. "I lost my officer."

"Oh, darling, I'm so sorry," she said, looking down at him with sad eyes. "I'll buy you a new one, if you'd like."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, it's okay. But can we go back to see the duel, once Brightlord Sadeas and his family have sat down?"

There was an odd expression on his mother's face. "I told you we could see the duel if you were good," she said. "And you have been very, very good. Yes, we can go back. In just a few minutes."

The view wasn't as good anymore. But Sarus could still see the warriors clashing, blades flashing in the sunlight. It was good enough.

That night, after they had returned home, Sarus' mother spread the Azish jam over the Thaylen bread. It was very sweet. "You were very good today, Sarus," she said, smiling at him over their small table. "You've earned a meal without having to worry about eating proper men's food."

"Thank you," he said, looking down at the green jam spread over the puffy, almost cakey bread. Then he looked up and met her eyes. "Should I not be friends with Tailiah?" he asked.

Her face fell. "Oh, darling… it's not that simple."

"I know." And he did. "She's second dahn. We're second nahn."

"Yes. But that's—it's Tailiah's choice, and her family's choice, if she wants to interact with you. But her parents don't want her to interact with you out in public, especially not in front of other lighteyes. It's not that you can't be friends, dear one. It's just that, right now, you probably shouldn't be friends out in the city."

He nodded. "I'll be careful."

His mother didn't really understand what he'd been asking. He understood why they'd had to leave the duel, abandoning their prime view of the arena, just to avoid being seen as familiar with the highprince's daughter. His question, rather, was a strategic one. Is it too dangerous for me to remain friends with Tailiah? Do I need to tell her we mustn't be seen together anymore, even within the castle?

But though his mother hadn't given him the question, he understood the answer well enough. Yes. It was too dangerous. The wise thing to do was to break away from Tailiah now, when she was still too young to enact vengeance for hurt feelings and while she still had parents to help her understand the situation.

But it also wasn't Sarus' choice. It was Tailiah's. Because she was the lighteyes, and he was the darkeyes, and that was simply the way of the world.

Soon after, his mother sent him to bed. The only light in his small bedroom was the moonlight which streamed in through the window out into the courtyard. His mother always took the spherelamp out of his room when it was time for him to sleep.

He lay awake, staring up at the stone ceiling, thinking. It was just another part of growing up, really. He had to start eating men's food. He had to stop demanding stories from his mother. And, yes, he had to stop playing with Tailiah. He understood why.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt.

There was a sudden tapping on his window. He blinked and sat up.

There was a small figure outside in the courtyard. Her head barely cleared the windowsill. Her eyes caught Mishim's light and sparkled green.

He couldn't help but smile wryly as he stood and opened the window. "You shouldn't be here," he said.

"Don't care," said Tailiah in a whisper. She reached up, holding something out to him. In the moonlight he could see that its paint was a little chipped, but it was unmistakably his little Sadeas solider. "I think I made you drop this."

His mouth quivered. Bizarrely, he suddenly felt like crying. "Thanks," he said, taking the figurine.

"It was my fault you lost it in the first place," she said. "I'm sorry you didn't get to see the duel."

"I did, actually. We came back once you'd sat down."

"Oh, that's good." She smiled at him. The greenish moonlight glistened in her hair, no longer in its tight braid, and shimmered on the shoulders of her pale nightgown. "Mom was mad that I went over to you. I know I shouldn't have. I just forgot. You don't usually go out to the city."

"I convinced Mother to take me to the fair this year. It was nice."

"I imagine it was different for you than for me," said Tailiah, grimacing. "I had the privilege of joining Brightness Palinal for tea. She's the only person I know who can be boring after two whole glasses of sapphire wine."

Sarus laughed quietly. "Is she still boring after three?"

"After two, Mom usually decides she's been enough of a bad influence on me for one day," Tailiah said. She glanced over her shoulder. "I should get back to my rooms before someone notices I'm gone."

"Yes, you should."

She looked up at him. "I'll be more careful, I promise," she said. "But we'll still be friends, Sarus. We'll always be friends."

Sarus' hand shook on his wooden captain. "Always," he promised.

Tailiah smiled at him again, then turned and darted back into the night.

Last edited: Nov 29, 2022

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Nov 28, 2022

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Threadmarks 14: A Thousand Weapons

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LithosMaitreya

LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Dec 5, 2022

#567

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

14

A Thousand Weapons

-x-x-x-

I only managed to see it because it allowed itself to be seen. I also appear to have had all but the vaguest impressions of that meeting wiped from my memory.

-x-x-x-

Sarus looked up as Syl darted inside the barrack window, taking the form of a leaf blown in by the chill breeze. She changed back into her usual girlish form. "He's awake," she said, looking at Sarus, Rock, and Murk seated side by side on a bunk near the door.

Sarus stood up, the other two only a beat behind him. He ignored the confusion of the wounded men by the door as he strode out of the barrack into the chill wind.

A highstorm started with a cold front.The air would grow thin—at high altitudes, it was enough to set more sensitive men groaning in their bunks. The wind would slowly rise, as though the land itself was inhaling deeply to brace itself for what was coming. The lull, it was called.

For five years now, Sarus had hated that term. The lull was the last opportunity anyone had to find shelter before the stormwall hit. If they failed, they died.

And if they succeeded, and had ill intentions, someone else might.

He circled the barrack until he reached the easterly wall, and there he was. Kaladin had been brutalized. He wasn't as injured as Moash or Teft, but blood still leaked from his split lip and torn ear, even hours later. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and dried blood still caked much of his face and clothes. He dangled by his ankles from the roof of the barrack where he had been strung up.

"Kaladin," Murk murmured behind Sarus.

"Murk," Kaladin responded, his voice barely a croak. "Tesh. Rock. Everyone get back from the battle all right?"

"Yes," Murk said. "All of us, at least. But the battle was…" He trailed off.

"A disaster," their bridgeleader said. His eyes were on Sarus, who nodded.

Over two hundred bridgemen had died. Not a single one was from Bridge Four. The survivors were only able to carry eleven of the bridges back from the plateau, and the rest had been abandoned—normally, soldiers might have retrieved them, but by the time the retreat had been sounded the Parshendi were still assembled in their firing line, and attempting to retrieve the other fallen bridges would have meant taking more fire. Bridgemen were expendable to Torol Sadeas. More than expendable—they were condemned. Soldiers, however, were valuable.

Kaladin sighed, let his eyes drift towards the ground below where he hung upside-down. "Storms," he said. "I'm an idiot."

No, Sarus thought. An idiot wouldn't have immediately realized that in trying to protect his men, he had doomed the battle. He knew Kaladin must have been a squadleader before being sent to the bridge crews—anyone with any training at all could see that he had experience with command—but a squadleader was trained to oversee a squad. To figure out how to use them effectively within a larger strategy. He was not expected to even understand, let alone plan, that strategy.

Kaladin had been doing as he had been trained. But bridgemen were not supposed to be trained. Bridgemen were not supposed to survive. And that dichotomy, that misunderstanding, had lost Sadeas yet another battle for the Tower.

"We wanted to say something," Rock said, his deep voice quiet in his chest. "Is from all the men, but most wouldn't come out. With highstorm so close—"

"It's all right," Kaladin murmured, still looking down at the rock. "I understand."

Rock fell momentarily silent. Sarus saw his jaw work for a moment before he found the strength to continue. "Well, is this. We will remember you. Bridge Four. We won't go back to how we were before you came. Maybe we all die, but we will show the newcomers first. Laughter around the fire. Food. Life. We will make it a tradition. In your memory."

"They say that Talenelat'Elin once held back an entire army of Voidbringers," whispered Murk. "First, he batted aside their weapons with his blade. When they disarmed him, he held his shield before him to block their weapons. When his shield broke, he defended the pass with his body. A thousand weapons pierced him, but he did not stand aside. He suffered and died, was sent back to Damnation to hold back the Enemy, so that the other Heralds could continue the fight. Today, Kaladin, you are Talenelat'Elin."

A strange smile touched Kaladin's lips. "There are worse people to be compared to," he murmured.

"If you ask us," said Rock, "we will cut you down."

"That would just earn you a similar punishment, and I'd just be strung up again for the next storm."

"Perhaps," said Rock. "But that would be a little time."

Kaladin shook his head. "No. I'm not letting my last act on Roshar be to get you all killed. Not after I tried so hard to save you."

Sarus felt something touch his beard. A drop of water. For a moment, he feared that the storm had come—but no, there had been no stormwall. Then he realized that he was crying. His tears were dripping into the salt-and-pepper tangle below his chin.

"Who sentenced me?" Kaladin asked.

"Highpr—no. Sadeas himself." Murk's voice was hard. "He said he was letting the Stormfather judge you. He said that if you deserved to live, you would."

Sadeas had been smiling as he said those words. It was the same smile he had worn as he held the branding iron to Sarus' skin.

"I want you three to do something for me," Kaladin said.

"Anything," Rock vowed.

"I want you to go back into the barrack and tell the men to come out after the storm passes. Tell them to come and look at me. And tell them that I'll open my eyes and look back, and they'll know that I survived. I chose not to take my own life, and I'm not letting Sadeas take it now."

Rock smiled. It was not a joyful expression. "I almost believe you will do it."

Sarus didn't. As Kaladin met his eyes, he saw there the same certainty that consumed every bridgeman eventually.

Kaladin was going to die. He knew it. And yet, even in the face of that certainty, he wanted to leave them not with despair, but with hope. Even when they came out later and found his corpse, he was leaving them that last gift, if they could only keep it.

Even as he died, Kaladin wanted to help Bridge Four. Even as he died for the crime of protecting them, he wanted to give them one last shield of warmth against the void.

Sarus hid his face behind an unsteady hand.

Then, hesitantly, a whisper came from his shoulder, soft enough that the rising wind hid it from the other men's ears. "I might be able to help him."

Sarus' eyes widened. His gaze snapped to the tiny black speck on his vest.

"You've probably heard the saying," Murk said. "Carry a sphere with you into the storm…"

"...And at least you'll have a light by which to see," Kaladin finished.

Sarus wasn't listening to either of them.

"I do not think the honorspren remembers the words," murmured Archive. The words left her almost as if ripped from her chest by the rising wind. "I could tell Kaladin. It might give him a chance."

Do it, then! Sarus had no idea what she was talking about, or what was making her hesitate.

"A risk is," she warned, clearly interpreting his expression. "One I do not fully understand. Honorspren do not like my kind, and I do not remember why. But if you ask it of me, I will tell him the words."

For a single, awful moment, Sarus found himself hesitating. But it wasn't fear of the nebulous animosity between honorspren and whatever Archive was that held him back.

I am here for you, Archive had said. Now she, like every man in the crew barrack, wanted to help Kaladin. Sarus could no more prevent the ugly surge of envy in him than he could have held back the storm itself.

But he could decide whether to heed it. Jerkily, he nodded at Archive.

"I will follow you inside shortly," she said, and leapt from his shoulder to be lost in the gloom.

Sarus looked up to see that Murk and Rock were both already walking away, Murk glancing back to see if he would follow.

"Go, Tesh," Kaladin said.

My name, Sarus thought, is Sarus.

His mother had named him for two virtues. She had named him for courage, and he was too afraid of failing to make a difference to even speak words into the air. She had named him for generosity, and the serpent of envy even now curled around his gut. He did not envy Kaladin's fate. But he envied in Kaladin the strength to meet that fate with clear eyes, a proud heart, and an unbent back.

His name was Sarus, and if he didn't say it now, Kaladin might well die without ever knowing it. Whatever words Archive intended to tell him, she clearly didn't think they would assure Kaladin's survival.

But it wasn't as though Sarus was worthy of his own name anyway.

Sarus turned and, without looking again at the man who had almost managed to convince him that the world was worth living in, walked back around and into the barrack.

He strode past Sigzil and Lesk as they closed the door behind him. He passed Moash and Teft where they lay in their bunks, then passed Murk and Rock where they sat without looking at each other near the entrance. He walked down the length of the barrack, west to east, until he reached the inner side of the wall where Kaladin now hung unprotected.

Then he sat with his back to it and put his face in his hands.

-x-x-x-

Kaladin could see the stormwall in the distance. It was far enough away, over the plains, that it still seemed to be moving slowly. He knew better. By the time it reached the edge of the warcamp, it would be mere seconds from him.

"Speak again the ancient oaths," said a soft voice beside him.

He turned his head sharply. There was a figure standing beside the wall, her back against the stone. She was tall—nearly as tall as Kaladin—and her skin and clothes were black and iridescent, as though she was composed entirely of tar.

She had to be a spren, but she didn't look like any spren Kaladin had ever heard of.

"What—who are you?" Syl said, suddenly between Kaladin and the strange spren. She seemed to be glowing brighter than normal, as if she was bristling.

The spren ignored her. She turned, and her jet-black eyes fixed on Kaladin. "Life before death," she said. "Strength before weakness. Journey before destination."

"What?" Kaladin asked.

"Say the words," said the spren. "Intend them. They are your only hope." Then she stepped past him and rounded the corner of the barrack, passing out of his sight.

Syl darted after her, but stopped before she rounded the corner, returning to Kaladin. "I'd forgotten them," she said.

"Forgotten what?"

"The words," Syl said, staring up at him. There was an odd, almost ashamed look on her face. "How could I have forgotten the words?"

"What words—"

-x-x-x-

The stormwall hit.

As close to the wall as he was, Sarus heard the deluge of water striking the barracks in a thundering patter, interspersed with thuds and crashes as rocks and branches were carried alongside the rain.

Then he heard the scraping. Kaladin was being blown along the barrack wall, his back dashed against the rough stone. Then it stopped as Kaladin sailed upward. Sarus could see it in his mind's eye—the man flapping in the wind like a macabre sailcloth, like laundry left mistakenly out into the maelstrom.

Sarus felt the tiniest pressure on his shoulder as Archive alighted back upon her perch. "I have told him the words," she whispered in his ear. "The rest is up to him."

Sarus was about to try and come up with a way to ask any one of a dozen questions, but the awful sounds resumed and drove all of them from his mind. There was a terrible crack as the breeze let up and Kaladin fell onto the sloping roof. The impact had audibly broken something in the man's body, and around him, Sarus saw multiple men wince.

But the impact did not repeat. Not at once, at least. Had Kaladin been torn free of the rope, or was he still alive enough to grab hold of the roof?

Sarus rested his head back against the wall, at once hating himself for not being out there beside Kaladin, and feeling as though some part of him was.

-x-x-x-

Kaladin blinked in the sudden blackness. He still felt his bruises, still felt the cold steel of the ring from which he had been hung. He had caught it in one hand, trying to minimize the impacts against the roof. The cold rainwater still streamed down his back and face. But the wind had stopped.

He looked up and his breath caught in his chest. There was a face in the dark. Its skin was as black as its surroundings, but the lines of its features were faintly traced in light. It was as wide as the whole breadth of the storm, yet somehow Kaladin could still see it entirely. It smiled at him.

Suddenly the sphere in his left hand blossomed with sapphire light. It illuminated the roof, the tattered rags he wore, the lacerations across his body. He glanced down, and when he looked back up, the face was gone.

Then lightning flashed, and the storm returned. He gasped, nearly losing his grip on his handhold under the onslaught. Syl burst with light before him, arms spread wide as if she could will the storm to part around her like a stream around a stone.

"Say the words!" she screamed. "I'm not losing you just because I'm too stupid to remember them!"

The words? He felt as if he had been in this storm for years. Had it really been mere minutes ago that the strange spren had come and told him… told him—

"Life before death," he said, the words lost in the gale. The words meant something. There was a profundity to them, as though he were reciting an ardent's prayer. He didn't know exactly what they meant—but, somehow, he knew exactly what he meant by them. His mind flashed to that moment after another highstorm, staring down into the Honor Chasm, when he had decided not to give up.

"Strength before weakness." He remembered the spear in his hands as he moved through his kata, down in the chasms.

"Journey before destination." He remembered nights spent surrounded by laughing men encircling Rock's cookfire.

The sphere in his hand blazed with blue fire. The storm rumbled around him, and suddenly he felt frozen, as if pinned to the rooftop by the gaze of the Almighty.

These words, said the Stormfather, in the voice of the highstorm itself, are accepted.

Kaladin's grip slipped from the metal ring. The wind carried him into the air, then threw him into the roof. The sphere in his other hand shone brighter than the sun, and the sight of it was the last thing he remembered for a while.

-x-x-x-

There was a momentary lull in the barrage, and then it came back. And, soon enough, the rhythmic thudding resumed on the roof. Kaladin had been holding onto the roof, and no longer was. Unconscious, if not already dead. Sarus supposed there wasn't much of a difference.

"Perhaps it was too little," Archive said. "Perhaps it was too late."

It was the longest highstorm Sarus had ever weathered. It lasted centuries, a millennium of that cracking thud, beating against the roof of the barrack like a Voidbringer's drum. Somehow, the worst part was that he had no idea when Kaladin slipped away—when unconsciousness gave way to death.

At least when Tailiah and his mother had died, it had been immediately obvious. He had known when horror should give way to grief, instead of holding both in this awful limbo.

But at long last, the winds died down. The body on the roof thudded one last time, then rolled audibly down the wall. The rain still pattered against the barrack, but it was the drizzle that always followed a storm.

Sarus stood up on shaking legs. As he crossed the barrack, he heard men standing to follow him. He pushed open the door, heedless of the cold wind and water, and walked out into the night. It was illuminated faintly by rainspren flickering like blue candles over puddles in the rock, and by windspren drifting on the last breezes left behind by the storm as it marched westward.

Rock fell into step beside Sarus. "I almost believe he lives," said the big Horneater quietly. "I almost think that it will be as he said. That he will open his eyes and all will be well. That there is justice in the world, and mercy in the storm."

Sarus just sighed.

They rounded the final corner. Kaladin looked like butchered meat. He bled from a hundred wounds, so many that there seemed to be more skin missing than remained on his corpse. The rainwater ran red down the side of the building, forming a dark pool beneath him.

Sarus glanced over at a sound and saw a few soldiers approaching from their own barrack, clad in thick raincloaks. They were looking over at the bridgemen, assembled like worshipers before the altar of their martyr. Sadeas must have sent them to assure that Kaladin had not been cut down early.

Well, he hadn't. Sarus looked back at the body. Beside him, Rock bowed his head.

As a result, Sarus was the only one who saw a ribbon of blue light sail down from over the barrack. Syl stopped beside Kaladin's face, looking down past his lacerated cheeks at his closed eyes. Her expression was one of worry, not of grief.

Kaladin opened his eyes. The movement was so sudden, so startling, that some of the other bridgemen actually slipped in the rainwater and fell. Sarus, however, did not. He just stared at Syl as she smiled. Then she turned, and her eyes found Sarus' own. Her smile didn't fade, but there was something odd in the way her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Something like suspicion.

Kaladin took in a wheezing breath, gazing unseeingly into the dark. His hand, which had been dangling below him in a tightly clenched fist, fell open, and something dropped into the puddle of blood and water below.

Sarus knelt. It was the sphere that Murk had given Kaladin. And, despite the highstorm that had passed not five minutes ago, the storm which should have infused it with Stormlight, it was as dun as if it had sat through an entire Weeping.

"He spoke the words," said Archive. She sounded satisfied.

Sarus looked down at his shoulder, demanding explanation. The speck there was silent for a moment before seeming to notice his gaze.

"Cut him down," Archive ordered, "and bring him Stormlight. As much as you can find. He will need that and more."

Stormlight? What could Stormlight do? But, well, tonight was apparently a night for miracles. Sarus straightened as Rock called for a ladder and knife.

There were not many spheres in a bridgeman's barrack, and those they had were never hung outside to be infused. Finding Stormlight would not be easy. But Sarus was determined.

This was one friend he would not allow to die.

He pocketed the sphere and helped Rock and Murk carry Kaladin into the barrack. They laid him down on a bunk near the back, where his blood immediately began to seep into the cot. Sarus did his best to follow Kaladin's example in suturing and bandaging the wounds, but he wasn't nearly as effective as Kaladin himself would have been.

Murk and Rock stayed nearby, helping by looking through Kaladin's things for his medical supplies. A little over half an hour of work passed before Sarus stood up, rolling his stiff shoulders, confident that he had done as much as he could.

"Do you think he'll survive the night?" Murk asked quietly.

Sarus nodded. And he believed it. Kaladin had survived the storm itself. He would not slip away in the dark hours of the morning.

"Thank you," said Syl quietly, hovering above Kaladin. She didn't look at Sarus, instead focused on the man lying below her.

Sarus took out the sphere Kaladin had dropped and set in on the man's pillow. For a moment, he thought he saw it glowing faintly–not blue, like an infused sphere, but orange. But the glimmer faded as Rock walked away. It must have been his hair reflected in the glass.

Archive made a quiet sound on his shoulder. He glanced at the speck where she sat.

"He will survive," she said. "But you should bring him Stormlight as soon as possible."

Payday was in two days. Sarus' pay had never gone to his slave debt, less because he actually wanted to spend it in other ways, and more because he refused to let any sphere pass into the Sadeas coffers that didn't need to. Generally, he used it to buy wine, as fine as he could get, like that he'd just started to drink before everything went wrong five years ago. This time, however, he had a better use for the spheres—so long as they were infused.

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Threadmarks 15: Windows

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LithosMaitreya

LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Dec 12, 2022

#595

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

15

Windows

-x-x-x-

The most disturbing facet of this is that I believe I wiped the recollection away myself in order to preserve my sanity.

-x-x-x-

"I should have known he'd do this," said Adolin quietly.

Renarin glanced over at him. His brother was looking across the room at their father. Dalinar was, once again, tied to a heavy chair as a highstorm raged outside.

A week ago, he had told them that he intended to abdicate the Kholin Highprincedom in favor of Adolin. He had promised to consider it when Adolin had protested. Even then, Renarin had known that he would only be considering how to brush aside Adolin's protests. Once Dalinar Kholin made a decision, neither army nor highstorm could turn him aside.

"You're disappointed?" Renarin asked.

"Of course I'm disappointed! I just wanted him to be a bit more circumspect about these visions! I didn't want him to abdicate over that one issue!"

"Why is it so bad?" Renarin asked. "He'll still be here to ask for advice."

Adolin shot him a look that Renarin couldn't read. "I'm not ready to be highprince."

"Will you ever be?"

Adolin's face twisted. "I don't know," he admitted.

"Then isn't this better? If you'll never feel ready, then better to become highprince while you still have Father to ask for advice."

"I don't… I suppose so, maybe. But is now really the time? In the middle of the war, when none of us have even been home in five years?"

"We're Alethi, Brother," said Renarin softly. "The only time we think we're healthy is at war."

"But there's a difference between this and border skirmishes," Adolin protested. "It would be one thing if we were just clashing with the other highprinces, or even if we were fighting Herdaz or Jah Keved on the frontier. This is a different kind of war. It requires experienced leaders."

"Experience isn't helping the other highprinces any," said Glys dryly where he hovered over Renarin's shoulder. "In fact, that might be the problem. They're all approaching the assaults on the plateaus the same as any other contest when they're supposed to be trying to avenge the old king."

"Ten experienced highprinces aren't making any headway against the Parshendi," said Renarin. "Maybe they need a new way of looking at it?"

Adolin sighed, looking back at Dalinar. "I don't want this," he said quietly.

Part of Renarin was bitter. But the rest of him… "I understand," he murmured.

"I thought things were finally getting back to normal," Adolin said. "When Father returned home after Uncle Gavilar died, he was different. He was better."

That was true. Renarin remembered holding his father as he sobbed, shaking and clutching the tiny wine bottle as though it was the one upright stone in a highstorm. Renarin had brought it to him in a desperate bid for Dalinar to just feel better. There were very few things he regretted more.

Then, two years later, King Gavilar had died. Dalinar had left Kholinar scarcely a week later, and had not returned for months after the assassination—long enough that he and Adolin had worried terribly. But then, at long last, he had arrived. And he had been changed. He no longer reached for wine. His eyes were clear, his back straight. And he had marshaled the armies of House Kholin and marched them south to their new King's muster.

"He still is better," Renarin said. "Even with these visions, he's better than he was."

"And yet he remained highprince for years after Mother died," said Adolin. "Why can't he see that?"

"You were a child then," Renarin pointed out. "You're a man now. You can be highprince, which wasn't true before."

Adolin grunted. "I still feel like a child sometimes."

Renarin didn't know how to answer that. So he remained silent.

"Do you really think this is right?" Adolin asked suddenly, turning to face him. "Do you really think Father should abdicate?"

"I…" Renarin hesitated. The truth was, he didn't know. He was just so used to rationalizing the actions of more powerful men that it came naturally to defend Dalinar's decision. "I'm not sure."

"Well, I am," said Adolin. "And I know that no matter how much of a problem Father's visions are, I would be worse."

"You're not—"

"I'm not ready, Renarin. I spend my days fumbling courtships and looking for duels. I've learned how to lead in theory, but I don't have any experience putting it into practice. I should be taking things over gradually—command of a small force, administration of a small territory, learning how to rule before I have to be responsible for the whole highprincedom. It shouldn't be like this."

"So says every son whose father dies before his time," said Glys, audible only to Renarin. "At least Dalinar's still breathing."

Renarin said nothing.

Adolin crossed to the window. The two layers of glass rattled quietly where they were set in the soulcast stone. He raised the shutters momentarily to look at the gale outside. "It's dying down," he said.

It was. Only a few more minutes passed before Dalinar's eyes cleared. "I've returned," he said hoarsely, at last speaking Alethi again instead of babbling in strange tongues.

"I'll get you a cup of wine," said Renarin as his brother moved to untie the older man. His father no longer drank heavily, but a glass of soothing orange was scarcely alcoholic at all and would help settle Dalinar's nerves. He knew from experience how helpful that was after a fit.

Glys darted ahead of him as he left the room. "I wonder what he sees in those visions," he said.

"He thinks the Almighty speaks to him," Renarin said. He entered the nearby sitting room and found a bottle of orange on the table.

"Sure, but what does he see? If the Almighty just wanted to have a quick chat, it wouldn't take the entire highstorm every time."

One of Renarin's eyebrows rose as he started back down the hall towards his family. "Does the Almighty have a usual way of speaking to people?"

"Fair point," Glys said. "If He does, I'm not—" He stopped with a sudden grunt.

Renarin suddenly had a feeling he knew what that grunt meant. "Is that…?"

"Another vision."

"Oh, no."

"I'm sorry," Glys said. "Do you want me to try and hold it?"

"No," Renarin sighed. "Let's get it out of the way."

"I'm sorry," said Glys as the vision overcame them.

It was different this time. Not a series of discrete moments, temporal and sequential, but half a dozen simultaneous instants. They lined the walls of the corridor like panes of stained glass.

He saw his cousin Jasnah, a silver shardblade in one hand. Its point was speared through Renarin's own chest. He saw his eyes burning out.

He saw a creature of stone tearing itself from a rocky shoreline.

He saw a single Parshendi with her hand on a pillar of white crystal. From her palm a violet corruption spread through the column.

He saw Kholinar aflame.

He saw his father kneeling before a figure wearing a crown adorned with three hollows, as if for absent jewels. Dalinar's eyes glowed red.

He saw dozens of Parshendi, their eyes alight with red flame, raising their hands upward to a gathering storm. Upon this final image, symbols flickered in golden lines, as if torn through the air between himself and the window. He thought he recognized them as the women's script, but he couldn't read whatever they said.

He had just long enough to take in all the visions before they vanished, melting back into the stone walls. He blinked. Suddenly he noticed that his hand was wet. It was shaking, he saw, and several drops of the orange wine had dribbled onto his fingers.

He staggered back down the corridor and returned to his family. He pushed the glass of orange wine, still mostly full, into his father's hands. Then he sank into a chair and put his head in his hands.

Glys, he said on the surface of his mind. What in Damnation was that?

"A vision," said Glys. But he sounded uncertain.

It was different from last time, said Renarin.

"I saw," said Glys. "I really don't know why, Renarin. Maybe it'll be different every time? I'm sorry I don't have more answers for you. There was text, too. We need to learn to read, Renarin."

You can't?

"Not Alethi women's script," Glys said. "I know a few languages, but not that one. Sorry."

We'll figure that out later. Renarin swallowed, then forced his head up.

"—I believed they were from the Almighty," Dalinar was saying. "You've convinced me that I may have jumped to that conclusion too readily. I don't yet know enough to trust them. I could be mad. Or they could be supernatural, but not of the Almighty."

"How could that be?" Adolin asked.

"The Old Magic," Renarin said hoarsely. Suddenly things were coming together in his head.

"What?" Adolin blinked at him. "The Old Magic is a myth."

"Unfortunately not," said their father, sipping from the wine. "I know this for a fact."

"You went to see her, didn't you?" Renarin asked. "The Nightwatcher." Cultivation, he added silently, thinking of a giant creature with armor of green scales. Glys had told him of the ancient, godlike being who, according to some spren, still lived in those western glades. It had been her death he had seen in his first vision.

Dalinar looked down, as if ashamed. "I did."

"The Nightwatcher could cause visions like these…" said Glys. "But he would know if they were either his boon or his curse."

"Unless these visions are either your boon or your curse," Renarin said, echoing the spren neither of the others could hear, "then I don't think these visions are from her."

"They aren't," said Dalinar firmly. "My boon and my curse are my own, but neither of them relate to these visions."

"Then I doubt this is the Old Magic," Renarin said.

"I agree."

"Then why bring it up at all?" Adolin asked, exasperated.

"Because, son, I don't know what's happening to me. These visions seem too detailed to be products of my mind. But your arguments are compelling. I could be wrong, and I am going mad. Or you could be wrong, and they are from the Almighty. Or they could be something entirely different. We simply don't know, and unless we do, it's too dangerous for me to be left in command."

"I still think we can contain it," said Adolin stubbornly.

"I had an episode in front of dozens of our soldiers two weeks ago, Adolin," said Dalinar. "Clearly we cannot. And I cannot simply ignore them, either. I cannot lead while second-guessing my every decision, and that is exactly what I would have to do if I tried to disregard these visions. They are changing me, son. Either I must trust myself, or I must step down. And unless we can trust these visions, I cannot trust myself."

"So what do we do?" Adolin asked helplessly.

"We experiment," Renarin suggested.

They both blinked at him. "What?" Dalinar asked.

"What if we tried to verify whether the visions were true?" Renarin asked. "You say they're detailed. What do you see, exactly?"

Dalinar hesitated. "I often see the Knights Radiant," he said, almost reluctantly. "At the end of each episode, someone—one of the Heralds, I suspect—comes to me and commands me to unite the highprinces."

"Huh," Glys said. "That's either a much more optimistic vision of the future than we've been getting, or he's seeing the past."

Or neither, Renarin said.

"Or neither," Glys acknowledged.

"Today," Dalinar continued, "I saw the Day of Recreance."

"The past, then," said Glys. "That's much easier to test."

"The Radiants abandoned their Shards and walked away. The Plate and Blades seemed to… fade as they were left behind. It's not something I feel I would have imagined. If the visions are products of my own mind, then my imagination is far more active than I knew."

"Damnation," said Glys. "Well, they're definitely true."

Renarin blinked, but forced himself to stay in the moment. "Do you remember any specifics?" he asked. "Names? Dates? Events or locations? Anything we could trace in history might be helpful."

"This last was at a place called Feverstone Keep," Dalinar remembered.

"I've never heard of it," Adolin said.

"Feverstone Keep," said Dalinar again. "There was a war going on near there. The Radiants had been fighting on the front lines before they withdrew and abandoned their Shards."

"Perhaps we could find something in history," said Renarin. "Proof either that this keep existed, or that the Radiants didn't abandon their duty there. Then we'd know."

Dalinar nodded slowly.

"I don't know," said Adolin slowly. "There aren't many histories going that far back. That's centuries before the Hierocracy."

"But not no histories," said Renarin. "Jasnah might know something. We could contact her."

"Even if Feverstone Keep does turn out to exist," said Adolin. "That's not necessarily proof. Father may have heard of it somewhere, then forgotten it until now."

"It's possible," said Renarin. "But the more details we can find that the dreams don't contradict, the more likely it is that they're legitimate. Some aspect of a delusion would have to be pure fancy, especially if he's seeing historical events that he never studied in detail."

"It's a good idea, son," said Dalinar. "We need to get a scribe to record the vision I just had, while it's still fresh."

Renarin stood. He felt much steadier on his feet now. "I'll go fetch one."

As he left the room again, he glanced at Glys. "So," he said. "Shards?"

"Swear the Third Ideal," Glys said. "Then we'll talk about Shards. For now, what he described is a detail that I doubt any humans at the time thought to record." He sighed, sounding sad. "I just wish I knew why."

"Why the Radiants betrayed their calling?"

"Why they betrayed their oaths. They killed thousands of us, Renarin. In one day, they wiped out generations of every type of thinking spren. And none of us know why. Or if any do, they aren't telling."

Renarin stopped. Somehow, he had never made the connection before. "If I go back on my oaths, you die."

"Yes," said Glys.

Renarin's hands shook. "Why did you come to me?" he asked. "How could you risk that? Why would you risk that?"

"Those are three very different questions, Renarin," said Glys gently. "How could I risk that? It wasn't easy. It's hard to come into the Physical Realm, and there's a toll to pay. Why would I risk it? Well, someone has to. Not all of us have given up on humanity and Roshar. But also because I wanted to. I'm a mistspren, Renarin, and we're curious by nature. I think I wanted to come to the Physical Realm for years before I actually did it. Maybe decades, or even centuries. That curiosity, more than duty, is what drove me to cross over, what drove me to become enlightened, and what eventually led me here. Why did I come to you? That's the easiest one to answer. Because you, Renarin Kholin, are worthy."

"I'm not," whispered Renarin.

"You are," Glys said. "And you prove it to me every single day."

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Dec 12, 2022

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Threadmarks 16: Forgelight

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LithosMaitreya

LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Dec 19, 2022

#606

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

16

Forgelight

-x-x-x-

I suspect that, had I not done so, this letter would be mere gibberish. Or, more likely, I would be dead.

-x-x-x-

"Back," mumbled Kaladin, his glazed eyes half-open and staring at nothing. "Stay back. I won't… No… I can't…"

Sarus sighed, keeping his hand on Kaladin's shoulder. The man had thrashed in a frenzy the last time he had mumbled about the dark shapes, and it wouldn't do for him to reopen the wounds that had only barely closed.

Syl hovered over Kaladin's chest. Her translucent, blue-white hands held a translucent, blue-white sword. She turned slowly, her steps careful upon a floor of open air. She cast her eyes around, brandishing her weapon as if to ward off an enemy force that surrounded her and Kaladin. Periodically, she leapt forward, slashing or thrusting with her blade, before withdrawing to her post.

She was warding off deathspren. Sarus could just barely see their outlines—many-legged, twisted shadows in the gloom of the barrack. It was not the first time he had seen them. Every so often he caught a glimpse of one descending on a dying bridgeman or soldier, though they were barely visible in the daylight.

Two days had passed. Two days during which there was a man as badly injured as Teft or Moash had been, but without a surgeon to watch him. Sarus had tried to make do with what little he had gleaned from watching Kaladin, but it was no substitute for whatever training Kaladin had. Two days of constant worry, constant fear that any moment, Kaladin might breathe out—and never in again.

As long as Syl stands guard, he told himself, Kaladin is still alive.

He looked up as Murk sat down beside him. "Gaz wouldn't give me your pay," he said, holding out five spheres. "But here's mine, if it'll help."

It was payday today. Normally, Sarus would have been outside to take his five diamond marks from Gaz. Before Kaladin had come, he had always spent those spheres immediately, and had passed the evening of payday pleasantly buzzed. There was no point in saving, but he refused to let even his tiny contribution pass into the Sadeas coffers.

Last payday had been the first exception. Sarus had given his pay to Kaladin to buy food and supplies for the injured men. He had intended to continue doing so. If Kaladin lived—which seemed increasingly likely—he likely would. But he'd have to track Gaz down tomorrow and get the spheres first.

One of Murk's spheres was dun, but the other four were still mostly infused. They were diamond marks, and while a mark would never hold as much Stormlight as a broam, they were far better than chips, which would often go entirely dun within two or three days after a highstorm.

Sarus took one of the infused spheres and held it out to Kaladin. He had no idea what he was expecting to happen, but still he was disappointed when nothing did.

"Hold it towards his face," Archive whispered in his ear. "It is easier to breathe in, or so I have heard."

Sarus moved the sphere towards Kaladin's face. A moment passed. Then, the man inhaled—sudden, sharp, a far cry from the shallow gasps that were becoming all too familiar. Murk gasped audibly as the pale Stormlight flowed, almost liquid, out of his sphere and into the man. Then, as he breathed out, the light rose from his lips like a wisp of steam, and his eyes glowed faintly blue, like embers giving up a final thread of smoke. The gaseous Stormlight billowed around Kaladin's wounds, and Sarus saw one gash visibly slim, as if he was watching a week of healing pass in a moment

It wasn't much, but it was something. Archive was right—Kaladin could absorb Stormlight. It might heal him entirely, if it was provided in sufficient quantities.

The trouble would be finding those quantities.

He passed the dun sphere back to Murk and took the three remaining infused ones. Then he pointed towards Rock. The large Horneater had just reentered the barrack, his week's pay glowing as he dropped it into his pocket.

Murk was still staring, open-mouthed, at Kaladin. Sarus snapped his fingers under Murk's nose to get his attention, then pointed more insistently at Rock.

"What?" Murk asked, blinking at him.

Sarus sighed, then gestured with the sphere in his hand, before pointing at Rock again.

"Oh! Right, I'll—yes. Be right back." He jumped to his feet and fled.

Sarus turned back to Kaladin and held out the remaining three spheres. Kaladin breathed in the Stormlight, and when he breathed out again—as the steam knitted his wounds together—the air left his lungs more easily.

He was still terribly injured. But, by the time Sarus had given him three more infused spheres from Rock's pay, he seemed to be healthy enough to be out of immediate danger. Sarus glanced around, but he could not see any deathspren congregating around the cot anymore.

The notion was confirmed when Syl sighed in relief and, slowly, left her combat stance. Rather than sheathing her sword, it seemed to shrink down into herself. She turned and gave Sarus and Rock a tired smile. "Thank you," she said quietly. "Both of you."

Rock bowed his head, touching his shoulders and then his brow in a strange, respectful gesture. "Of course, mafah'liki. If only all healing was so cheap."

"If only," Syl echoed.

-x-x-x-

Kaladin woke that night.

"Tesh? Rock? Murk?" The voice was quiet enough that none of the other men in the barrack seemed to hear it. Sarus glanced over, then stood up from his bunk and passed between the beds until he reached Kaladin's.

Syl was seated on air beside Kaladin's head, high enough that Sarus guessed she was probably just inside his peripheral vision. They both looked up as Sarus approached. "Tesh," Kaladin rasped. "Did you—how am I… what happened?"

Sarus raised an eyebrow.

"Guess you can't tell me," Kaladin said.

"They healed you, Kaladin," Syl told him. "It's been two days."

"Healed me? How?"

"They gave you Stormlight."

Kaladin blinked slowly. "What?"

Sarus nodded.

"That doesn't—what do you mean, they gave me Stormlight?"

"I don't know what to tell you," Syl said. "They held infused spheres up to you, and then they went dun, and you were a little healthier."

Kaladin stared at Sarus. "That doesn't make any sense."

Sarus shrugged. It wasn't as though he knew what was going on, either.

Kaladin stared at nothing, mouth moving slightly as though he was working through a problem in his head. Then, with no apparent cause, he stopped. Something seemed to dull in his eyes as he lay back against his pillow. "Thanks," he said.

Sarus frowned.

"Kaladin?" Syl asked.

The man said nothing for a long moment. When he did speak, it was in a whisper. "Bridgemen aren't supposed to survive."

Ah. Lamaril's words had left an impression, it appeared. Which… Kaladin, did you really not know this?

Suddenly, Sarus realized what it was Kaladin had missed. Not the tactical effects of side carry—neither of them had seen the massacre coming—but the fundamental role of the bridge crews. Kaladin must have been so confused to see a military force which never drilled, a force whose highprince was willing to let them be idle for most of the day. He must have been flabbergasted by their repeated deployment with no armor to protect them from the rain of arrows. He must have assumed that Sadeas was being foolish, and squandering resources in senseless cruelty.

The notion was laughable. Sarus knew Torol Sadeas. The man was cruel, certainly, but never foolish, and never wasteful. Sarus hadn't immediately understood why men were being sent to run headlong at the firing line. At first, he had assumed it was a question of speed. But with run after run of arrows sailing towards him, he eventually came to understand that every arrow which was fired at a bridgeman was one that wasn't striking a soldier.

Blood was cheap. It was a lesson Sarus had not truly learned until it was his blood being spent. From the perspective of a Highprince of Alethkar, there were always more darkeyes. Training, however, was valuable. Equipment was valuable. Spheres and status were valuable. Seen through that lens, the bridge crews were an entirely economic idea. They were an exchange of low-value darkeyed lives for currencies of higher value—the time spent training soldiers, the cost of the equipment they wore, the value and status won by claiming a chasmfiend's gemheart.

It was cruel. It was even monstrous. But it was also brutally pragmatic. It was, in short, exactly what Sarus had come to expect from Highprince Sadeas. The man rarely killed without gaining something in exchange…

—blood running over the flagstones—

…even if all he gained was vengeful satisfaction.

"Syl," Kaladin whispered. "What am I supposed to do now?"

Neither Sarus nor Syl had any answer to offer him.

-x-x-x-

The next day, Sarus pulled Murk aside while Rock led the men through drills. "You need something, Tesh?" the former ardent asked.

Sarus tapped his palm with a finger, then pointed at Gaz, who was sitting in the shadow of the Bridge Nine barrack.

"Oh," said Murk. "Sure, let's get your pay."

Gaz looked up as they approached. "What do you want, Dullard?"

"Don't call him that," said Murk shortly.

"What should I call him, then? Told you his name, has he?"

Murk hesitated. Sarus touched his shoulder, then turned to Gaz and held out a hand expectantly.

"He wants his pay," said Murk.

"Oh, does he," said Gaz, sneering. "And why should I believe you? It's not payday. He wants his pay off schedule, he can ask for them like anyone else."

Sarus lowered his hand, eyes fixed on Gaz. Beside him, he heard Murk breathe in sharply.

Gaz paled as Sarus stepped forward. He seemed to shrink against the side of the barrack. He looked small, even pathetic, like a cremling trapped beneath an axehound's paw, waiting for the predator to reach down and snap it up. "Storming—how the Damnation do you do that?" he wheezed, grabbing for his coinpurse. "Fine. Have your damn spheres."

Sarus stepped back, holding out his hand expectantly. Five diamond marks fell into his palm. Two were still weakly infused—the rest were dun.

"There," Gaz growled. "Now get back to your crew, storm you both."

Sarus turned without another look at Gaz and started back towards Bridge Four. He slipped the spheres into his pocket as he went.

Murk caught up with him. "How do you do that?" he asked.

Sarus glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.

"You know," said Murk. "That thing where you step forward and—it's like you grow bigger. Without actually growing. You just sort of loom."

Sarus shrugged. He wasn't sure how he did it. He just did.

Before they could return to their places in the line, however, the horns rang out. Murk cursed. "Shalash's moonblood," he said. "I thought we'd have at least another day before we had to run again."

But they didn't. Rock took up the role of interim bridgeleader, and the crew formed up in their positions. Sarus saw two unfortunates in the back row, who would be in front with him for the final sprint: Maps and Hobber.

He shot a glance at the barracks. He imagined Kaladin lying in his bed, staring at the closed door. How did he feel as the crew took up the bridge without him? Did he feel guilty for not joining them? Relieved? Both?

As Sarus hefted the bridge onto his shoulders, he shook the thought off. For now, at least, it didn't matter.

Once again, Torol Sadeas crossed Sarus' bridge. But this time, Sarus didn't look at him. For nineteen crossings, Sadeas passed him by, the both of them keenly aware of one another, both pretending otherwise.

Nineteen crossings wasn't nearly so long a run as the disaster of three days ago. But it was still long enough that they didn't beat the Parshendi to the plateau. They arrived no more than a minute behind, however.

There was no attempt at side carry this time. Even when they saw the Parshendi scrambling for their bows, they only put their heads down and sprinted for the chasm. They hadn't beaten the enemy to the plateau, but the firing line had not been fully prepared by the time they arrived.

The Parshendi didn't have long enough to fire more than a single volley. But that was enough to bring down both Maps and Hobber.

Sarus, the rest of the crew behind him, dropped the bridge, thrust it across, then ducked aside to let the cavalry pass. Then, as Rock led the men to a safe hollow, Sarus turned back to find the fallen men.

He was too late for Maps. Hobber, however, was still alive, gasping in pain and clutching at an arrow in his lower leg. Sarus picked him up and sprinted for cover, then took Kaladin's medical equipment from Rock and got to work. He still wasn't Kaladin—not even close—but he learned quickly. Hobber would not die on this run.

They returned to the warcamp tired, but mostly relieved. Only one death and one injury placed them far, far better than any of the other bridge crews. The army celebrated a successful assault, but Bridge Four was just happy to be alive.

They returned to the barracks. Rock carried Hobber into a bunk, while Sarus crossed to the back of the barracks where Kaladin lay in the gloom.

"How did it go?" Kaladin asked, his eyes on Hobber as Rock laid him down near the door.

Sarus held up one finger.

"One death?"

Sarus nodded.

Kaladin sighed. "I should have been there."

None of us should be there, Sarus thought. But rather than give any response, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his pay from Gaz. Light glimmered in the dusk.

"What on Roshar?" Kaladin said, blinking at the spheres. On Sarus' shoulder, Archive let out a wordless exclamation. All of them stared down at the spheres in Sarus' hand.

Two spheres were infused with pale blue Stormlight. The other three, however, were no longer dun. Instead, they glowed a dim orange. It was as though Sarus was holding three tiny candle flames in his hand.

"What are those?" Syl asked, darting forward to examine the strange spheres.

Sarus shook his head slowly, staring down at his hand. Then he held out the spheres to Kaladin.

"I don't think that'll work," said Syl. "Whatever's in those gems, it's not Stormlight. I doubt Kaladin can—"

Kaladin breathed in sharply. Twin streams of light flowed into him—one pale blue, the other orange as flame. On Sarus' shoulder, Archive suddenly grunted—loudly enough that he saw Murk blink and look around for the source of the sound. Sarus' eyes darted to the spren.

"Something strange is," Archive murmured, leaping up to rest inside his ear, the size of a speck of dust. The sensation tickled slightly, but was not particularly unpleasant. "I felt… Something."

"That," said Syl, "doesn't make any sense."

Sarus looked back at the five now-dun spheres. She was right. It made no sense at all.

"I think it worked, though," Kaladin said, sounding stronger. And Sarus couldn't deny it. His wounds were knitting closed before Sarus' eyes. "I feel better already."

"Rgh." Syl let out a frustrated grunt. "I hate how little I remember! I know that, whatever Light was in those spheres, you shouldn't have been able to use it. But I can't remember why!"

"Does it matter?" Kaladin asked.

"Yes!" Syl exclaimed. "Because that Light came from somewhere! And where it came from matters!"

Kaladin looked at Sarus. "Were they like that when you got them?"

Sarus shook his head.

"Then they must have gotten infused on the run," Kaladin said. "Anything unusual happen?"

Again, Sarus shook his head.

Kaladin considered the dun spheres. "Keep them on you," he said slowly. "I wonder if something similar will happen again."

The next morning, Kaladin joined the crew for drills. And, when Sarus checked the spheres that he had kept under his pillow, all five were glowing bright orange, as if they had been left out in a strange highstorm all night.

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Dec 19, 2022

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Threadmarks 17: Hope

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LithosMaitreya

LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Dec 26, 2022

#632

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

17

Hope

-x-x-x-

I can report only impressions of what I saw. I remember being awed and terrified by the sheer scale of the thing.

-x-x-x-

All around Sarus, men laughed and joked with one another. The firelight illuminated a ring in the dark night, contrasting with the violet glow of Salas shining luminous overhead.

Sarus held his sphere pouch in one hand. He kept it closed, but he knew that if he opened it, he would see ten spheres glowing the same orange as the campfire beneath Rock's pot.

A little more than a week had passed since Kaladin had risen. Since then, Bridge Four had been on two runs. The Parshendi only had a firing line waiting for them on the first, and they had been lucky enough to escape with no deaths and only three injuries, all of which had healed now. Even Moash and Teft were finally on their feet again, though both were still too weak to do more than help Lopen with the waterskins. For the first time in months, Bridge Four was fighting fit. No bunks were occupied by the invalid.

But that didn't seem to help Kaladin now. In the flickering firelight, his eyes seemed unnaturally dark, like twin voids in his head.

I guess you aren't perfect. I guess you are still human, just like me. Sarus thought this, eyes on Kaladin, and hated himself for the grim satisfaction that stirred in the darkest corners of his heart.

"Oy, Rock!" called Gadol. He tossed a package to the big Horneater, who caught it in midair. "Now we're all being fed again, the men chipped in for you."

Rock opened the package. Then he stilled, looking down at its contents. It was a straight razor and makeshift mirror.

"You complained about not being able to shave a few times," Murk said, grinning at Rock. "Thought we'd fix it."

Rock blinked hard. He glanced down at his pot. "Stew is ready," he said thickly, then fled the campfire.

Murk frowned. "You don't think we did wrong?" he asked Sarus quietly.

Sarus shook his head. Those tears had been of joy and gratitude. Then he reached to the side and nudged Kaladin.

The bridgeleader looked up from the rock between his feet. "What is it, Tesh?"

Sarus nodded in the direction of Teft, who was pulling another package from behind a rock. "We got you something too," Teft said, passing it over to Kaladin.

Kaladin sat with the paper-wrapped package in his hands for a moment without opening it. His expression hung suspended over some indeterminate emotion. "Thank you," he said at last, as he began to unwrap the parcel.

Within was a small leather wallet. In the wallet were several small needles, each a different length and girth, each polished to mirror brightness and sharp as a spearpoint. Strapped to the side of the wallet was a scalpel.

"Wanted to get you a spear, lad," said Teft quietly. "But getting that scalpel was hard enough for bridgemen."

"It feels a bit self-serving," said Murk with some embarrassment. "To get you something that you'll use to take care of us. We just didn't know what else to get you."

"It isn't self-serving," said Kaladin. His voice was slightly hoarse.

Sarus had contributed two spare spheres—the ten he had already was as many as his pouch could hold without risk of bursting—from his most recent wages to help purchase those needles. As he watched Kaladin's lips tremble, the envy that so often burned in his gut faded away, and he was unreservedly glad of his own contribution.

Kaladin looked up from his gift, the campfire reflected in his eyes. "I don't know what to do," he said quietly.

The mood around the campfire changed quite suddenly.

"I thought that, if I could just show the lighteyes the value of the men whose lives they were throwing away, I could make things better." The words poured from Kaladin like water loosed at last from behind a dam. "But they don't want bridgemen to be men of value. They don't keep us from being trained and equipped just because they don't want to pay for our training and gear. They keep us untrained and dressed in rags because it makes us easier targets. Because it makes us tempting to the Parshendi archers, and every arrow that hits an easily-replaced bridgeman is one that isn't fired at a soldier who's gone through expensive training and wearing hundreds of spheres' worth of gear. And I don't know how I can change that."

"Are you giving up, then?" Moash asked. Sarus glanced at him. His expression was conflicted. He had spent weeks holding out against the comfort Kaladin offered, and now that he was finally here around the fire with the rest of them, now Kaladin was buckling beneath the weight.

Kaladin didn't answer for a long moment. "No," he said finally. "I just don't know what to do. I still…" he looked up at where Syl hovered, invisible to all but a few, above the flames. "I refuse to give up on doing something. I just don't know what to try next."

The hearth lapsed into silence. It was broken when Rock emerged from the barrack, laughing. He had shaved his chin clean of stubble, but had left rich red sideburns running down his cheeks. "Ah, I feel like myself again!" Then he took in the change that had come over the crew. "What is wrong?"

"My fault, Rock," said Kaladin.

"Ah," said Rock, returning to his seat. "Is very bad situation we are in."

"Understatement of the decade," muttered Teft.

Rock ignored him. "The way I see it is this," he said. "We were dead men the moment we joined the bridge crew. But these past weeks, you have given us hope. Is it false hope? Maybe. But is the thing about hope: you never know whether it is false until afterward. This does not mean we should not bother with hoping. It means just the opposite. These past weeks that we have had hope, we have had fewest deaths of any bridge crew. Most who are injured recover. If we ever do find a way out, most of us will only see it because these weeks were good, and these weeks were only good because we had hope. You see?"

"You're saying false hope is better than no hope," Moash said.

Rock shook his head. "I am saying that hope is better than no hope, because by hoping we make it less false. We will never arrive at the summit if we do not begin walking uphill. Even lowlanders know this."

"Journey before destination," whispered Teft.

Kaladin's head shot up. "What did you say?"

Teft started, blinking at him. "Journey before destination," he said. "It's part of the… well, it's something I heard when I was a lad. It was part of the first oath the Knights Radiant swore, before the Recreance."

Kaladin blinked at him.

"Where'd you hear that?" Murk asked. "Not much is known about the Radiants. Most of the records from that far back were lost when the Hierocracy—"

"Life before death," Kaladin said softly.

Teft froze. He stared at Kaladin. Kaladin stared back. "That's how you survived the storm," Teft whispered.

Slowly, Kaladin nodded.

"Wait a moment," Murk said. "Are you saying that—Kaladin, are you saying you're a Knight Radiant?"

"I think I must be," said Kaladin quietly. "But I don't know what that means. I don't know what I should be able to do. I know I can heal with Stormlight, which is why I'm already walking after my injuries. But I don't know how that can help us in the long term."

"Well, healing with Stormlight probably can't get the rest of us out of here," said Teft. "But Surgebinding just might."

"Surgebinding?"

"The powers of the Radiants." Teft stood. "I don't know as much as I wish I did, but I might know enough to get us started."

"Before that, though," said Murk, following Teft to his feet. He looked around at the men around the fire. "I probably don't need to tell you all this," he said, "but it would make trouble if word got back to the lighteyes about this."

"You don't say," said Sigzil.

Murk ignored him. "I'm probably the most devout Vorin here," he said. "And I'm not going to tell anyone about this. So, I'm hoping none of you will, either. Can you all promise that?"

There were nods all around the fire. Sarus scanned each face and found no sign of a lie.

"Good!" said Rock, clapping his hands together in a sudden burst of sound. "We have no plan yet, but we have an idea. Is nearly as good. Enough to keep hoping, I think."

"For now," muttered Moash.

"It is hope," Rock said. "'For now' is all that matters. Now, anyone who wishes, I will shave!"

There was a pause. Then Kaladin smiled slightly. "I think I'll take you up on that."

The crew trickled in after him. Sarus, however, remained outside. He didn't think he could stand to be inside the cool spherelight of the barracks right now. Not surrounded by the rest of the encouraged crew. Kaladin had strained, had nearly broken, and then more than two dozen men who should have tumbled around him as he fell had somehow pulled him back up.

It should have been impossible. Kaladin was the pillar that supported them. How could the roof keep the walls upright? Yet it had happened.

Sarus was glad that it had happened. It had been painful to watch Kaladin curl inward on himself. But now the envy was back. Even when he stumbled, Kaladin stood taller than Sarus could dream to match.

"You never seem happy," Archive observed quietly from his shoulder. "Whether the men around you are hopeful or despairing, some discontent is. Why?"

Sarus shook his head. Even if he had been able to convince himself to speak in this moment, he didn't think he could bear to breathe life into his feelings. To speak them was to acknowledge them, and to acknowledge them was to admit to his shame.

Archive was silent for a time. When she spoke again, it was on a different topic. "You do not need to say them," she said. "But I must believe you mean them. I cannot force that belief any more than you can force the power."

The words. Life before death, Sarus thought. Journey before destination. There was another part to it, he suspected. Something about the rhythm of the words, the way the sounds flowed together in a musical phrase, suggested that there should be a third clause between the other two.

He had guessed it when Teft had spoken of the Radiants. Archive had known those words, and had known that Kaladin could benefit from them. Only two men in the crew had spren who followed them around, whispering in their ears. And Sarus suspected that the both of them were nascent Knights Radiant.

But only one of them seemed to deserve it. The other just burned with envy that he did not.

Archive sighed. "You have not let go of your despair," she said. "You cling to it like a child with a favorite blanket. You must grow past it."

Easy for you to say, thought Sarus.

"Your fear is. You are like Moash. You fear hope. You fear the comforting lie. But wise words are this night. Heed them."

Was that part of it? Sarus had originally taken up Kaladin's drills out of sheer boredom. Had he not truly bought into the dream of hope that the other men had been drawn into?

…Admittedly, no, he hadn't. But that wasn't the heart of the problem. It was a symptom, not a cause.

"I have misread something," said Archive quietly. "It is in your expression. This is well, so long as you know what must change. Because this cannot continue. He who remains at the same height while the water rises around him is doomed to drown."

The water rises…

The thought came quite suddenly, in a burst of inspiration. The water, Sarus thought. Where does the water go?

The chasms flooded during every highstorm. Torrential rain sent rushing rivers through those crevasses, water enough to widen the bases of the chasms through the long work of erosion, and to deposit hardening crem on every surface nearly thirty feet from the chasm's bases. Yet when Sarus and the crew climbed down after every storm, the only water they found was in small puddles localized to particular depressions in the floor.

Where does the water go? It was said that there was no other way out of the chasms save the ladder the bridgemen used to climb in and out for their scavenging duties, but if that were true the chasms would have overflowed centuries ago, or been long since filled in entirely by layers upon layers of sedimentary crem.

The water has to flow somewhere. Somewhere the armies haven't mapped. Somewhere to the east.

"You have realized something," Archive said.

He had. But how was he going to convey the idea to Kaladin, who so desperately wanted a way to protect his men? The very idea of speaking made beads of cold sweat rise up on Sarus' skin. It would be one thing to speak once, just a few words, to convey this one seed of a plan. But if he did so, he knew it would be just the beginning. The others would try to draw him out. They would try to get him to speak again. They would try to learn his name, unsuited as he was to it.

He entered the barrack, still thinking. The men were smiling with renewed hope as Rock shaved away the bristles on Sigzil's cheeks.

"You want a shave, Tesh?" Kaladin asked from where he sat on a bunk near the door.

Sarus shook his head. Truly, what he wanted was a trim—he had only just begun to grow his first bristles when he had been sent to the Plains, and he found he liked the idea of wearing a beard. It was just that his current one was wildly unkempt. But he was already thinking how to convey one complex idea without words—he didn't have the thought to spare on how to convey the length he wanted to wear his beard.

He went to bed that night still uncertain.

Inspiration came the next morning in the form of a lighteyed woman, borne to the barracks on a palanquin. ""I am Brightness Hashal," she said to the assembled Bridge Four. "My husband, Brightlord Matal, has been assigned as your new overseer."

He must have angered Sadeas somehow, thought Sarus dryly.

"I am told that this crew has caused significant trouble in the past," she said. "Well, my husband does not intend to run these crews with the lax attitude of his predecessor. There will be more order in these crews now. Every man will know his place and his duties. From now on, each crew will be assigned only one type of work duty. Gaz!"

The bridge sergeant ambled over, looking wary. "Yes, Brightness?"

"My husband wishes that Bridge Four be assigned permanently to chasm duty. Whenever they are not needed for bridge duty, they are to be working those chasms. This way, they shall know which areas have been recently scoured. It will be far more efficient. They will start at once."

Sarus heard a growl building in Kaladin's throat. He put a hand on his bridgeleader's shoulder. Kaladin subsided, glancing at him. Sarus raised a finger to his lips, then raised it further to tap the side of his head.

Kaladin's eyes widened. Then he turned back to Hashal and Gaz. "Understood, Brightness," he said. "We'll get down to the chasms, then."

The lighteyed woman glared at him for a moment, as though looking for sarcasm or duplicity. Finding none, she waved imperiously for her porters to bear her palanquin away.

"Not going to complain, Lordling?" asked Gaz.

"Not to you," said Kaladin, turning to Sarus. "You have an idea, Tesh?"

Sarus nodded, then jerked his head in the direction of the chasms.

"Sure," said Kaladin. "Come on, let's get down there."

The crew followed them to the edge of the chasm, then down the ladder. There was, once again, a puddle right at its base, splashing around their boots as they landed.

As man after man landed in the ankle-deep water, Sarus nudged Kaladin. He pointed at the puddle. Then at the crem lining the walls.

Kaladin frowned. "What are you getting at, Tesh?"

Sarus sighed. Then he knelt down, resting his palm on the surface of the water, just inches above the chasm floor. Then he raised it above his head. He made a gesture, miming waves rushing from east to west.

Kaladin's eyes suddenly widened in comprehension. "Where does all the water go," he whispered.

Sarus nodded.

"Wait, what?" Murk asked.

"The water," Kaladin said. "Every highstorm, these chasms fill with whole rivers worth of water. But they empty after the storm. Where does all that water go? It has to flow somewhere."

"And if we can find where it flows…" Teft said slowly, his eyes widening.

"We might be able to follow it out," Kaladin finished.

"It'd have to be a long way," said Murk slowly. "A long way. There are a couple warcamps east of us, and several to the south. Someone would have found a way out if there was one anywhere near any of the camps."

"True," said Kaladin. "You ever learn to draw maps before you ended up down here, Murk?"

"Not my specialty, I'm afraid," Murk said. "But I could give it a try, if we had something to write with."

"I can find something in the next few days," said Kaladin. "Buy it from somewhere. And it's not as though we won't have time to go looking for an exit. We're about to spend an awful lot of time down here. We might as well get something for it."

The men were smiling now, teeth pale in the gloom. Sarus felt their hope stirring around him. For the first time, he felt it stirring inside him, too. This might actually be a functional plan. If he was honest with himself, it probably wasn't. There were certainly ways that water might exit these chasms that would be impassable to bridgemen, and it was entirely possible that any exit would be too far for them to reach on foot without running afoul of a chasmfiend.

But it was a plan that didn't rely on the mercy of Torol Sadeas, which made it significantly more likely to succeed than what they had been trying for the past several weeks.

"And," said Kaladin slowly, "just in case we can't find another way out… I think it's time I start training you all with the spear. If we can't find a way out down here, well, we'll have to find a way out up there."

An uprising? Sarus found the idea didn't sound as hopeless as it once might have. If Kaladin could train these men, and perhaps outfit them with gear they scavenged down here… they would have thirty trained fighters. Not enough to fight an army, and incapable of outrunning cavalry… but probably enough to overwhelm a single guard post.

Kaladin seemed to be thinking much the same. "If we get through the perimeter and make it far enough before Sadeas realizes we're gone, we might be able to avoid his search parties," he said. "He'll send them, if only so the other bridge crews don't think they can escape that easily. But if we can avoid them, we can make our way west. Get out of Alethkar entirely, into Jah Keved or even further."

"And we'll be free," said Moash.

"And we'll be free," agreed Kaladin. "There's a lot of things that could go wrong. But it's better than nothing."

150

LithosMaitreya

Dec 26, 2022

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Threadmarks 18: Temperamental Kholins

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LithosMaitreya

LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

Subscriber

Jan 2, 2023

#646

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

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18

Temperamental Kholins

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I can only remember experiencing that feeling once before. You know where.

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The King's Wit was absent from the evening's feast. It wasn't especially surprising that he would be gone from his customary pedestal—the current Wit had an unhealthy fascination with appearing unpredictable—but to be absent entirely was unusual. Yet as Torol scanned the five islands, he saw no sign of the man among the relatively sparse dinner guests. It was possible he was hidden among the thicker crowds on the king's island.

The autumn was growing colder, and this night was particularly brisk. Torol pulled his thick cloak close around him as he crossed the bridge to the central islet of the feasting basin.

"Ah, Brightlord Sadeas!" Torol turned to see Highprince Aladar approaching him. "Could I have a word?"

"Of course," said Torol smoothly, mind already racing. Aladar must be off of the king's island for a reason. Why? The only guess Torol could field immediately was that Aladar was waiting for him in the thinner crowds of the outer isles, where it would be harder to miss when Torol arrived. Why would Aladar want so badly to speak with him that he would hold back from joining the king and the other highprinces?

It has to be about Dalinar. What's the old fool done this time?

"I haven't spoken with you since you were named Highprince of Information," Aladar said, falling into step beside Torol as they crossed the isle. "How goes the investigation?"

"It is nearly complete," said Torol. And it was true.

On a chasmfiend hunt several weeks ago, King Elhokar had fallen from his horse when an essential strap of his saddle had snapped. Torol had originally assumed it to be nothing more than random chance—though he had, of course, intimated otherwise to the paranoid young king. However, the more he had his trusted servants investigate the matter, the more unsettling things became.

Elhokar's Shardplate had cracked upon being thrown from his mount. At the time, that hadn't seemed unusual. But Torol had since experimented with his own Plate, and found that a fall from that height shouldn't have been enough to do nearly so much damage. Elhokar's horse was a powerful beast, but it was several hands shorter than a Ryshadium, and he had slipped from the side and fallen cleanly where a Ryshadium might have been able to buck him and send him falling still further.

He had sent men to check with the king's stable, and they had confirmed that the strap had been cut, although it might well have been by the buckle on the saddle itself rather than a deliberate action. Still, in combination with damaged Plate…

The infused gems which had powered Elhokar's Shardplate had been cracked when Elhokar had doffed it after the hunt. It was possible that the fall had overloaded them, drawn too much Stormlight too quickly, but Shardplate often lasted the entire length of a battle without breaking and an entire campaign without cracking its gems. It seemed far more likely that the armor had been deliberately fitted with flawed gemstones, perhaps stones which had already shown signs of weakness in a previous battle.

Torol did not believe someone had attempted to assassinate Elhokar. If someone was capable of interfering unnoticed with both the king's saddle and the infused gems which powered his Plate, they could certainly have found a more reliable way to facilitate his death. Torol could think of three off the top of his head. The truth he suspected instead was far, far worse.

The only person who could have gained private access to both the king's horse and his Plate without raising any suspicion at all was the king himself. Torol could practically hear the young man rationalizing it: Uncle Dalinar isn't taking my safety seriously enough! A real assassination attempt would shake him.

"And have you identified any particular suspects?" Aladar asked.

"I intend to announce my preliminary findings tonight," Torol said.

Aladar hesitated, then lowered his voice. "May I speak freely with you, Sadeas?"

They were on the bridge between the islands. No one was within earshot if they kept their voices down. Torol turned, leaning back against the delicate filigree of the railing. "Speak."

"Dalinar asked to form an alliance with me a few weeks ago."

"An alliance?"

"Yes. He wanted our two armies to perform joint hunts, splitting the spoils between us. He claimed that by combining our strengths, we could attempt entirely new tactics."

Torol considered the man. "Why do you tell me this?"

"Because I believe Dalinar is growing impatient with the state of the war. I believe he wants us to focus more heavily on seeking vengeance for his brother than gemheart contests. And I believe that his loyalty to the king is beyond question." Aladar looked Torol in the eye. "I do not believe Dalinar is still entirely competent. But I do believe that his honor is, as it always has been, beyond question."

This was a threat, Torol realized. Aladar was telling him that if Torol used his position as Highprince of Information to accuse Dalinar of attempted assassination, Aladar would rally behind House Kholin.

Torol considered his next words carefully. "I assure you, Highprince Aladar," he said finally, "I remain as committed to the unity of Alethkar as I ever was while I campaigned with Gavilar. I have no desire to see it descend into civil war."

Aladar looked slightly mollified. "I am glad to hear it. If you have evidence to contradict anything I have said, I would be willing to hear it."

"I think," Torol said, "that my announcement will clarify things entirely for you."

Aladar's face fell. "I hope you are right. Have a pleasant evening, Brightlord Sadeas."

"The same to you, Brightlord Aladar."

Aladar nodded and turned, crossing back to the central island. Torol watched him go for a moment. He must be going to speak with an advisor.

"The rest of the kingdom waits with bated breath for this mysterious announcement."

Torol turned. The King's Wit had somehow snuck up behind him, making scarcely a sound as he traversed the bridge. "Wit," he said.

"Highprince," said Wit with a nod. The dark rings Torol had seen around his eyes at the previous feast had faded somewhat, but they were replaced with an unexpectedly grim expression on the man's angular face. "I'm afraid I can't stay for your speech—I must be going at once. Would you mind satisfying my curiosity before I do?"

"Yes," said Torol. "I would. Where are you going?"

"Away," said Wit vaguely. "The cosmere waits for no one, I'm afraid. There is work to be done, and I appear, tragically, to be the only one willing and able to do it."

"Well, I'm sure whomever you must go so urgently to insult will be very glad of your presence."

Wit sighed dramatically. "I am unfortunately cursed to be underappreciated everywhere I go, no matter how vital the service I may perform there." His light blue eyes fixed on Torol with a sudden intensity. "In case I do not return, I will share something with you. A morsel of knowledge that I've acquired which might be of interest to you. I may be wrong—but I seldom am."

"Enough dodging," Torol said flatly. "What is it, Wit?"

"Your blame," said Wit, "is not only misplaced—it need not be placed at all."

Torol frowned. "What?"

Wit smiled suddenly. "Ah, you should see your face! I'm afraid that being cryptic is one of the great joys of my life. So, for now, that's all you get. If we both survive, I'll tell you more one day."

Torol rolled his eyes, already putting the man's words out of his mind. "I'm sure. Perhaps the king will be able to find a slightly more competent Wit with your absence."

"Perhaps," said Wit. Then his expression went solemn again. "The winds are changing, Brightlord Sadeas. I ask that you survive them. It would be a terrible shame if you were to die before the truth becomes clear."

"I am not in the habit of dying," said Sadeas.

"No?" asked Wit. "You might be surprised. I would tell you to keep your eyes peeled, but that would perhaps be in poor taste." He passed Torol and crossed the bridge. "Good evening, Brightlord," he called behind him. "Farewell."

Torol sighed, filing the man's parting words away in his mind's rubbish-bin. Then he turned and crossed to the king's island at last.

The crowd of lighteyes parted for him, allowing him easy access to the king's table between the stone Jezerezeh and Ishi. "Your Majesty," he greeted as he arrived.

"Ah, Highprince Sadeas," Elhokar said. He gestured vaguely, and a lesser lighteyes—third or fourth dahn, most likely—vacated the seat at his immediate right.

Torol took it, then called for a plate from a servant. The meal today was more traditionally Alethi than the past few feasts. On Torol's plate was a steamed stagm tuber in a peppery gravy thickened with tallew flour. It was hearty in a way few nations of Roshar could match, like all good Alethi food. Torol cut himself a bite.

He sat patiently eating as Elhokar quickly finished exchanging pleasantries across the table with Highprince Bethab. As soon as it was polite to do so, however, the king turned to him. "Highprince Sadeas," he said. "Welcome. I was worried you wouldn't make it to the feast."

"I would not miss it, Your Majesty," said Torol. "It is an excellent feast. My compliments to your kitchen staff."

"They shall hear of it, I'm sure," said Elhokar. "How go the gemheart hunts?"

"Well enough, Your Majesty," said Torol, though he couldn't help the flicker of rage that suddenly ignited in his heart. Even now, more than two weeks later, he still remembered watching Bridge Four rotate on the field, dooming his assault to disaster. "There was a discipline problem among the bridge crews, but it has been resolved."

"I heard you had a slave strung up in a highstorm," Elhokar said. "Rumors say he survived the ordeal."

"Rumors always spring up around such things," said Torol lightly. "I do not put much stock in them, myself."

Those two sentences were not lies. However, Torol knew that the bridgeleader had miraculously survived the highstorm to which he had been condemned. Torol wasn't willing to break the appearance of honor just to punish one slave, but he had found another solution.

Matal was a fool and a drunkard, but he was a fool and a drunkard with an ambitious, absolutely vicious wife. Brightness Hashal would see Bridge Four brought to heel, and in exchange her husband's past indiscretions would be forgiven. That was the accord.

"I see." Elhokar looked slightly disappointed. Torol supposed that was understandable—if it hadn't been his slave, one who had ruined his battle, he would also have been entertained by the story of a darkeyed man surviving a highstorm. Still, Elhokar willingly changed the subject. "I wonder how many more Shards the Parshendi have out on the Plains. There is at least one more Blade, isn't there?"

"At least one," Torol confirmed, relishing the envy that ignited at the thought. So far, three Blades and two sets of Plate had been won in the war. Torol had not gotten lucky enough to win any of them, but there was at least one more Blade out on the battlefields. Hopefully, that one would be his. "They do not deploy their Shardbearers to every fight—or even to most fights. That suggests that if they have more than one Shardblade left, it is not much more than one."

"I agree," said Elhokar. "And I think—" he cut off suddenly, glancing across the table. "Yes, Uncle?"

Torol turned. Dalinar was standing on the other side of the table, glowering in his direction. For a fleeting moment, Torol could see the shadow of the Blackthorn on his face, a remnant of the terrifying, glorious warrior Dalinar had once been. But then the moment was gone, and Torol was left looking at the shadow of his former friend. "Sadeas," Dalinar said. "What is the status of your investigation into His Majesty's cut girth strap?"

Torol blinked, his mind quickly racing through questions. Had Aladar told Dalinar of their conversation? What did Dalinar think Torol was going to say? If he was challenging Torol like this, did that mean he was ready for a fight to break out in the middle of the feast? Surely he wouldn't risk an open conflict, not here in the middle of the king's court, would he? "Dalinar," he began, "are you—"

"Your investigation, Sadeas," Dalinar interrupted.

Torol sighed and looked at Elhokar. "Your Majesty, I was planning to make an announcement regarding my investigation tonight. I intended to wait until later and speak with you first. But if Dalinar is going to be so insistent…"

"Go ahead, Sadeas," said Elhokar with a wave of his hand. "I'm curious now." He waved to a servant who rushed to quiet the flutist while another rang the chimes for silence.

Torol gave Dalinar an annoyed look. "Your Majesty, I wasn't planning to have such an audience," he said. "This was mostly planned for your ears only."

Dalinar rolled his eyes, and Elhokar scoffed. "Don't weary me with your sense of drama, Sadeas. I'm listening, they're listening. Dalinar looks ready to burst a vein. Speak."

Well. Now Torol absolutely could not talk to Elhokar about his private suspicions. Maybe he could talk to Elhokar in private later… but probably not. Not without raising some questions. No, he would have to provide the sanitized version of his findings, and improvise as necessary. Damn these Kholins. Stop taking me by surprise!

"Very well," Torol said aloud. "My very first task as Highprince of Information was to identify the source of the attempt on His Majesty's life during the greatshell hunt some weeks ago." He snapped his fingers at one of his servants. The man handed him the cut strip of leather while another went to fetch the groom from Elhokar's stable. He'd been planning on confronting Elhokar with the evidence, but he had also been prepared to offer much of it in public afterward. He would have to make do with having things out of order. "I took this strap to three leatherworkers in three different warcamps. All agreed—this leather is too new, and too well cared for, for this to have occurred naturally. Someone slit it." Albeit that 'someone' might have just been the buckle.

"For what purpose—" Dalinar interrupted.

Torol held up a hand, forcibly keeping his glare down. Dalinar was worried that Torol was about to accuse him of attempted assassination on his own nephew. It made sense that he would try to control events the only way he knew how—by riding roughshod over everyone in his path. That didn't mean it wasn't incredibly annoying in this moment. "Please, Highprince," he said stiffly. "First you insist I report publicly, then you interrupt me?"

Dalinar fell perfectly still, his eyes fixed on Torol in a mixture of dread and anger. The crowd around them was growing thicker. Torol would have to choose his words carefully; the slightest misstep could lead to potentially devastating rumors.

"But when was it cut?" Torol asked rhetorically. "That is the essential question. I interviewed several men on that hunt. None reported anything specific, save one odd event. There was a moment when Highprince Dalinar and His Majesty raced to a rock formation. For that brief moment, a few short minutes, His Majesty and Highprince Dalinar were completely alone.

Dalinar paled a shade. Beside Torol, so did Elhokar.

Damnation, thought Torol. Elhokar's face wasn't that of a man learning his uncle might have made an attempt on his life. It was the face of a man who was realizing he might have accidentally condemned his uncle to be accused of a crime he had not committed.

But there would be time to deal with that revelation later. "There was a problem, however," Torol said. "One Dalinar himself raised. Why cut the strap on a Shardbearer's saddle? It would be useless. The Plate would easily protect His Majesty from such a fall." He held out his hand, and a second servant handed him a pouch of gemstones. Torol produced a large sapphire—one of the cracked ones he had found in Elhokar's Plate. "That question," Torol continued, "led me to examine the king's Shardplate. Eight of the ten sapphires used to infuse it were cracked following the battle."

"It happens," said Dalinar's elder son, Adolin, stepping up beside his father. "You lose a few in every battle."

Torol rolled his eyes. Would you idiots just let me finish? "But eight?" he asked. "One or two is normal. Even three. Have you ever lost eight in a single short battle, young Kholin? Let alone to a single fall from a horse?"

Adolin shot him a venomous look but gave no other reply.

Torol tucked the gemstone away before turning to the groom who had just arrived. "This is one of the grooms in the king's employ." The darkeyed boy looked on the edge of fainting. Torol took pity on him. "Fin, isn't it?"

"Y—yes, Brightlord," stammered the boy. He was so young. Younger than Tailiah had been.

Torol swallowed down the grief. "Tell me again what it is you told me earlier, Fin," he said. "Speak loudly enough for all to hear, please."

The darkeyed boy looked sick. He must have feared reprisal, even though he had done nothing wrong. "Well, sir, it was just this: Everyone spoke of the saddle being checked over in Brightlord Dalinar's camp. And I suppose it must have been. But I'm the one as prepared His Majesty's horse before it was sent over to Brightlord Dalinar's men. And I did. Put on his favorite saddle and everything. But when it…"

He trailed off, looking positively terrified of Dalinar, who seemed to be on the verge of summoning his Blade. Stop looking at the boy like you're going to do to him what you did to Rathalas, thought Torol crossly. We both know you won't. "When it returned?" Torol prompted.

"When the king's head grooms took the horse past the stable on the way to Highprince Dalinar's camp, it was wearing a different saddle. I swear it's true!"

Dalinar's face froze in confusion. Torol almost couldn't hold back his amusement at the comical expression on his face.

"But that happened in the king's palace complex!" said Adolin triumphantly.

"Yes," Torol said dryly. "How very astute of you. This discovery, in combination with the cracked gemstones, leads me to an inescapable conclusion. Whoever attempted to kill His Majesty must have planted flawed gemstones which would break when strained, then placed a careful slit in his saddle. As His Majesty suspected, they must have intended him to fall to an accident while hunting. However—these things all happened within the palace complex. My current suspicion is that whoever attempted to kill His Majesty likely intended to cast suspicion upon Dalinar." Or just to force Dalinar to take the threats seriously, because my king is a paranoid child. "It may not have even been intended to kill His Majesty—only to cast suspicion upon his uncle."

Adolin Kholin broke the silence. "What?"

"All evidence," said Torol, speaking slowly, as if the boy was slow of wit rather than merely dumbstruck, "points to your father's innocence." Then, in a burst of pettiness, he added, "You find this surprising?"

"No, but…" Adolin trailed off.

Torol turned away from him, handing the strap and gemstones back to his men before sending them away with the king's groom. Then he gave Elhokar a stiff nod before moving away towards the trays of food along one side of the islet.

Damnation, he thought. Damnation!

He had hoped that he was wrong. That was not an experience he was familiar with. But he really didn't want to have to deal with a king who was so paranoid that he was willing to attempt assassination on himself just to throw a tantrum and get his uncle's attention. Being arbitrary and mercurial was bad enough. This was so, so much worse.

Torol took a small plate of peppered tallew biscuits from a tray and looked out over the low waters of the artificial lake. The light of Mishim reflected viridian in the water.

Gavilar, what would you want me to do? He's your son. He's our king. He represents the unity of Alethkar. But how long can we stay united when he seems determined to give us reasons to crumble?

Suddenly, Torol felt a hand on his arm. He turned. Dalinar stood beside him, an odd look on his face. "Thank you," said Torol's former friend. "For not going through with it."

Torol took a moment to think through his options. Dalinar assumed that Torol had taken the office of Highprince of Information in order to cast suspicion on Dalinar. It wasn't completely inaccurate. The primary goal had been the same as Dalinar's reasons for seeking the office of Highprince of War—to give the other highprinces someone to rally behind, and to make Elhokar seem a little more objective than he really was. But Torol wouldn't have shed a tear if it had turned out Dalinar was guilty. He had even considered fabricating the evidence before deciding that doing so would only cause Alethkar to shatter completely.

But telling Dalinar that would open no doors. It would confirm Dalinar's suspicions and make him grow only more wary of Torol in future. Whereas convincing Dalinar that Torol was not his enemy had a great deal of potential.

"For not going through with what?" Torol asked, tugging his arm out of Dalinar's grip. "I had hoped to make this presentation with more evidence—enough to fully exonerate you. There will still be rumors."

Once again, every sentence was true. He had hoped to collect more evidence, because he hadn't wanted to believe that Elhokar was the monumental disaster he appeared to be. He had wanted to exonerate Dalinar, because accusing him would fracture Alethkar. And there would still be rumors, even if Torol had to fuel them himself.

The best lies were always completely true.

"Wait," said Dalinar. "You wanted to prove me innocent?"

Torol scowled at him. This isn't about you, senile old fool. "Do you know what your problem is, Dalinar?" he snapped. "Why everyone has begun to find you so very tiresome? The self-righteousness. Yes, I asked Elhokar for this position intending to prove you innocent. Is it so difficult for you to believe anyone else in this army might do something honest?"

"I…"

"Of course it storming is. You've been looking down on every other man in this court like a man standing on a single sheet of paper and thinking he can see for miles." Torol turned away with disgust that wasn't even feigned. "That book you hold onto like it's the last memory you have of Gavilar," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, it's little more than crem, and the same for those Codes of War you cling to. I would understand if you wanted to keep to them because Gavilar did—but you seem to believe in them. They're nothing more than lies people in antiquity pretended to follow to soothe their wounded consciences. But Codes or no Codes, book or no book, I didn't want to see you maligned for this attempt to kill Elhokar. We both know that if you'd actually wanted him dead, you'd have just burned out his storming eyes and been done with it."

He turned back to Dalinar, taking a sip of his violet wine. It burned pleasantly going down. "The problem was that Elhokar kept going on and on about that blasted strap," he said. And that was true—it was a problem. A paranoid king was a king who felt insecure, and a king who felt insecure was a king who was insecure. "And people started talking because he was under your protection. Stormfather knows how they thought you would try to have him assassinated—you can barely bring yourself to kill the Parshendi these days. But the rumors were problems all the same, and I sought to correct them." Torol shook his head and picked his plate back up, turning to walk away.

Dalinar caught his arm again. "I owe you a debt," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have treated you as I have these six years."

Torol rolled his eyes, swallowing a bite of his pepper cake. "It wasn't for you. It was for Alethkar. If everyone suspected you, no one would look for the truth. And if there really was an assassin"—I should have said 'is,' but Dalinar isn't likely to catch that—"then they would have been entirely free to try again. And someone did try to kill him. The strap might be a coincidence, but eight gemstones cracking after one fall from a horse? That's absurd. The strap alone would have been a ridiculous way to attempt assassination, but with weakened Plate?"

Torol stopped, a thought suddenly occurring to him. What if Elhokar only cut his own strap? he thought with rising dread. Even without the strap, the gemstones would have worked alone as a sincere attempt on his life. Is there a real assassin out there? We can't survive losing another king so soon.

"And the talk of me being framed?" Dalinar asked.

"Entirely possible," Torol said. "But also something for the others to gossip about while I investigate the reality." He looked down at Dalinar's hand, still clutching his sleeve. "Would you let go?"

Dalinar did.

Torol looked into his face. The man was off-balance, but there was hope in his expression. Almost vulnerability. He wanted to believe the best of Torol.

Torol could use that.

"I haven't given up on you yet," he told Dalinar. "Alethkar will need you before this is through. But I have to admit I don't know what to make of you lately. There are rumors of you wanting to abandon the Vengeance Pact. Is there any truth to that?"

"I mentioned it in confidence to Elhokar," Dalinar said. "So yes, there's truth to it. I don't want to abandon the Vengeance Pact, but I'm tired of the state of this war. We've been out here for five years, killing Parshendi by the handful, making no real progress to avenging Gavilar. Retreat would be better than this—Alethkar needs its king and highprinces to be in Alethkar. But I've given up on that idea—instead, I want to win. But the others won't listen." He sighed. "They assume I'm trying to outplay them with some trick."

"You'd sooner punch a man in the face than stab him in the back," Torol said.

"Ally with me."

Torol froze. He had expected something less overt than that—and he had expected it to take far longer than a single evening.

"You know I'm not going to betray you, Sadeas," Dalinar said. "You trust me in a way the others don't. Even if you don't like me, you know I'm forthright. Jointly assault plateaus with me."

"It won't work," Torol said. "I can't even get my whole army to the assaults in time. There would be no point in doubling that force."

"Together, we can try new tactics. Think, Sadeas! Your bridge crews are fast, but my shock troops are the best in the kingdom. What if you pushed to a plateau quickly to harry the Parshendi, buying time for my slower troops to arrive as reinforcement."

That… might actually work. Dalinar wasn't wrong. It wouldn't exactly be traditionally virtuous—the Alethi way was contest, in all things. But it would give them better odds. And if he could convince Dalinar to expose himself…

"It could mean a Shardblade, Sadeas," Dalinar coaxed.

Torol didn't even try to hide the greed and envy those words spurred in him.

"I know you've fought Parshendi Shardbearers," said Dalinar, "but you've lost. Without a Blade, you're at a disadvantage. I've slain two, but I don't often reach the plateaus in time. Together we can win more often, and I can get you a Blade. It will be like the old days."

Torol smiled, almost nostalgic. "Like the old days," he said. "I'd like to see the Blackthorn in battle again."

But that was the problem, wasn't it? Dalinar still had a tactical mind, but the Blackthorn was gone. He had died in the ashes of Rathalas, and his remains had spent years pickling in wine. Whoever stood before Torol now was a different man.

"How would we split the gemhearts?" he asked.

"Two thirds to you," Dalinar said immediately. "You have twice the success rate as I do on assaults alone."

"And the Shards?"

"The first Blade to you. The first Plate to me, to give to my son, Renarin."

"The invalid?"

"What do you care?" Dalinar asked. "You already have Plate. Sadeas, this could mean winning the war. Winning, and finally going home."

Torol's heart sank. Ialai was here on the plains with him. What did he have to go home to? An empty castle and memories. But he kept the grief inside, shrugging. "Fine," he said. "Send me the details by messenger later. But for now, I've missed enough of this feast."

Dalinar smiled and left him to his food.

Torol turned back to the water. He wasn't yet sure how he was going to use this… but he could already see more than a dozen ways he could. The essential question was where he wanted Dalinar to end up.

The man had his uses. He was straightforward, honest, and had a fearsome reputation. But that reputation was decaying more and more rapidly with every passing month. Soon, there would be nothing left but an embarrassment. The punchline of the joke that was the Kholin name.

Adolin was young. Hotheaded. He might yet become a good highprince in time, but with every passing month, Dalinar left more of an impression on him.

I need to keep this kingdom standing, Torol thought. Can I do that with Dalinar preaching about his Codes and sneering at everyone who behaves properly Alethi?

…No. I can't. Not if Elhokar is also going to be throwing tantrums on a yearly basis. I can only deal with one temperamental Kholin at a time.

Torol sighed. He didn't want to see Dalinar die. But he was the last of Gavilar's allies left who hadn't died, gone mad, or changed completely. This kingdom was on his shoulders, and he would keep it standing.

Even if it meant driving the knife into his oldest friend's back.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shape scuttle across the surface of the table, like a cremling darting from one crack to another. But when he glanced back, it was gone.

132

LithosMaitreya

Jan 2, 2023

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