Lotr starlight archive Chapter 3: 3, a 17776 fanfic

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Of Many Colors [Stormlight Archive/Lord of the Rings]

Thread starter LithosMaitreya Start date Aug 29, 2022 Tags lord of the rings (middle-earth) stormlight archive (cosmere)

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Threadmarks 19: Fragment of a God

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Jan 10, 2023

#666

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading.

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Fragment of a God

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Whatever it was, it was ravenous. I remember that: its intense hunger. Other than that, I can recall only a comparison I made at the time.

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Kaladin dreamed he was the highstorm.

He sailed over the wide waters of the Ocean of Origins. He passed the storm-tossed coast of New Natanan, blowing on a wave of wind and water past the Natan people's slanted homes half buried in the rock.

He crossed the Shattered Plains. He saw in a mere moment the way the chasms grew wider in the east, where the storms had nearly worn away the plateaus entirely, leaving the Unclaimed Hills to smoothly join with the depths, interspersed with tall, spindly pillars.

Despite the difference between east and west, there was a symmetry to the chasms themselves. It was as if some incredible impact had broken the ground in an entirely regular pattern—one which had been slowly eroded over centuries by the billowing storms.

Then he was past the plains, sailing over the inland Sea of Spears where jagged rocks rose from the water's surface. Waves were jostled by his passage, crashing into the irregular stones. He passed over Alethkar in the north, glimpsing for an instant the great cities of Kholinar and Revolar.

Then he turned southward, far from anything he knew. He passed the wide plains until he reached a majestic range of mountains higher than any of the Unclaimed Hills, densely populated around steam vents near their summits. These, he realized, must be the Horneater Peaks, completely enclosed within the kingdom of Jah Keved.

The highest peaks breached above the stormwall itself. He left them behind, rolling with thunder and fury into foreign lands. He passed fields and cities, villages and rivers, hills and valleys. Among it all there were many armies. Dozens of them. They cowered in encampments built against the leeward sides of rock formations all over Roshar. Lighteyes and generals planned their campaigns within wagons and Soulcast forts.

There were so many. How many wars were being fought across Roshar? Was there anywhere at all that wasn't embroiled in it? Anywhere men didn't die in vain?

He passed over cities that looked strange to his eyes. Wonders built both by the hands of men and by the natural forces that had shaped Roshar, long before men had ever built their first houses. The armies grew scarcer as he sailed westward, but still they remained.

He passed into a city laid out in a triangular pattern, with four tall mountains spearing upwards at the corners and center. There were flashes of light coming from a building on the central peak. Kaladin rushed towards it, then burst in through an unlatched window. He billowed down the hallway, passing servants with long skirts and hair like spun gold, calling out in a strange language.

He burst through a door and passed into a hall where a man stood over two corpses. The man wore white. His head was shaved. In his hand he held a long, thin sword. He turned as Kaladin blew past him, revealing wide, Shin eyes. Stormlight was dissipating around him like mist in the morning sun.

Kaladin blew out another window and sailed further. Then, quite suddenly, he was caught. He was plucked out of the storm like a fish on a line. He felt the winds blowing past him as he fell still, turning in the air.

There was an eye looking down at him. It was as if a crystalline moon hung low in the sky, and within the glass sphere was a green eye the size of a nation. Yet—no, it was not that the eye and its sphere were large. It was that, quite suddenly, he was small. The size of a cremling pierced by a pin and affixed to a table.

Well, said a woman's voice, at once soft and warm yet powerful as the storm itself. I thought I felt someone gliding past the Valley. Do you know you smell of Invention?

Smell of invention? What did that mean? How could someone smell like invention? It would be like reeking of creativity. "Who are you?" Kaladin called out.

No one you need to concern yourself with just yet. I am Cultivation, but I doubt that means anything to you.

It didn't. "There are so many wars," Kaladin said. If this was a dream, he wanted to ask the important question before he awoke. "Why are so many men fighting? What are they all fighting about?"

Ah, you aren't much for pleasantries, are you? the voice asked. She sounded amused—and a little sad. I should have expected that of a son of Tanavast. You remind me of him.

"What does that even mean?"

Nothing to you. For now. I could give you a more detailed answer to your question, but you wouldn't understand it. For now, this is all you need to know. Her voice grew quiet. Odium reigns.

"Who?"

Odium. Come and find me when he arrives, Son of Tanavast. I predict that we will be able to help one another before this story ends.

"Find you where?" Kaladin called out, struggling against the hands holding him down. Then he blinked. Hands?

"You have returned to us, I think," said Rock in his ear.

Kaladin was pinned to the floor of the barrack by Rock and Tesh, who were each holding down two of his limbs. Several others were standing nearby, watching nervously. Syl was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn't unusual—she often liked to fly out into the highstorms.

After his dream, he thought he could even see the appeal.

"You tried to walk out into the storm, lad," said Teft quietly.

"I'm—I must have been sleepwalking," said Kaladin, finding his throat unexpectedly hoarse.

"Sleep-screaming, too," said Murk, looking shaken. "You all right now?"

"I think so," said Kaladin as Rock and Tesh let him sit up. Tesh reached down and pulled him to his feet. His head ached, and he breathed in, trying to clear it.

The pain faded. Tesh's face twitched, and Kaladin realized he must have drawn in some of that strange, orange light from the man's sphere pouch.

"Sorry," he said.

Tesh shook his head, as if to say, No harm done.

"What is it you dreamed?" asked Rock

Kaladin hesitated, but these men knew he was apparently a Knight Radiant and so far had told no one. He could trust them with a strange dream. "I dreamed that I was the highstorm," he said. "I saw all of Roshar, going east to west. I saw cities like nothing I've ever seen before. I think I might have even seen the Assassin in White."

"What cities did you see?" Sigzil asked from a nearby bunk.

"Probably nothing real," said Teft.

"Which is why it's worth checking," Sigzil said dryly.

"I saw…" Kaladin thought back. "There was a city built into troughs in the ground, concentric rings with spiraling cuts connecting them."

Sigzil's face visibly tensed. "Sesemalex Dar," he said. "What else?"

Kaladin swallowed. "There was a city in the far west built around four peaks. It was laid out like a triangle, with one peak at each corner and one at the center."

"Rall Elorim, the City of Shadows."

"That's where the Assassin in White was," Kaladin remembered. "He had just killed two people in a building on the central peak. A palace, maybe."

"Wait," Teft said. "You've never heard those places described before?"

"Never," Kaladin confirmed. "Not that I recall, anyway."

"It is possible that you have consciously forgotten something you once heard," Sigzil said. "My master taught me to be wary of memory. It is so often inaccurate. But this seems… too much to be coincidence."

"There was a voice, too," said Kaladin. "At the end of the dream, it plucked me out of the storm. It called me a 'son of Tanavast,' and said that I smelled of invention."

Sigzil frowned. "Invention…" he mused. "I think I have heard that word before. Used as a specific name, not the generic term. But I can't recall where."

"In one of your travels, maybe?" Rock asked. "Your kind travel far."

"My kind?" Sigzil asked. "The Azish?"

"Not your race, your trade," Rock laughed. "The Worldsingers."

Sigzil's expression froze. Then, stiffly, he stood and walked out of the barrack.

Rock blinked after him. "Now why is he so upset?" he asked. "I am not ashamed of being cook. Why is he ashamed of being Worldsinger?"

"Worldsinger?" Kaladin asked.

Rock shrugged. "Is strange people. They travel to each kingdom and tell the people there of other kingdoms. They think this thing is important, but I do not know why."

"Hey, what'd you do to Sigzil?" Dunny asked, joining them. He was probably the youngest of the bridgeman, with an infectious cheer that always lifted the spirits of the rest of the crew. "He promised to tell me about my homeland after the storm, but now he's all grumpy."

"Your homeland?" Murk asked. "I thought you told me you were from the Roion highprincedom."

"Sigzil said my violet eyes aren't native to Alethkar," said Dunny. "He said I must have Veden blood in me."

"Your eyes aren't violet," said Moash from his bunk.

"Sure they are," said Dunny. "You can see it in direct sunlight. They're just really dark. Sort of like how Tesh's eyes look almost pale in the right lighting."

Tesh glanced at him, and Kaladin noticed that today was apparently not 'the right lighting.' Tesh's eyes were a dark slate-grey in the gloom of the barrack. The man must be in a dour mood, possibly because he'd been woken in the early morning and forced to hold down his bridgeleader for who knew how long.

"Ha! If you are from Vedenar, we are like cousins!" Rock laughed. "The Peaks are near Vedenar. Sometimes the people there have our hair!"

"Could be worse, Dunny," said Kaladin. "Someone could have mistaken your eyes for red and called you a Voidbringer. Rock, Murk, Teft, Moash, get your subsquads together. I want the men oiling their vests and sandals."

The men nearest him sighed, but all got to work. In the after-storm damp, oiling the leather gear was the only way to prevent the hogshide from rotting after a few months, and the metal buckles would rust far faster. Most bridgemen typically did not live that long, but their leathers were reused. The army provided the oil so that new, expensive leather wouldn't need to be bought.

About an hour into the morning chores, Kaladin saw a line of wretches being herded into the lumberyard. It was Chachel, the third day of the week, and the day in which new wares were displayed in the slave markets. It was thus also the day that the bridge crews had their numbers replenished.

Kaladin beckoned to Tesh, and together the two of them crossed the yard to meet Gaz.

The bridge sergeant saw them approaching. "Now, I know you'll probably yell at me anyway," Gaz said, "but I really can't change anything here."

"You're bridge sergeant," said Kaladin dryly.

"Yeah, but I don't make assignments anymore. Brighness Hashal does it herself. In her husband's name, of course."

"So we get nothing."

"Didn't say that," Gaz said. "She gave you one."

"Which?" Kaladin asked, looking over the men. There had to be nearly a hundred. "He'd better not be an invalid, or too short to carry the bridge."

"Oh, he's plenty tall," Gaz said. "Good worker, too, by all accounts." He gestured at the other slaves, who parted to reveal…

"A parshman?" Kaladin asked incredulously.

The parshman had been looking eastward towards the horizon, but at the exclamation, he turned and met Kaladin's eyes. His were black, and his round, hairless head was marbled in symmetric red and black. His face was completely expressionless.

"Why not?" Gaz scoffed. "They're the perfect slaves. Never complain, never talk back. He's domesticated, or so I was told."

"I thought parshmen were too valuable to use in bridge runs," Kaladin said. And I assumed that Sadeas wasn't sure they'd be tempting enough targets for the Parshendi archers.

"Just an experiment, lordling," Gaz said. "Brightness Hashal wants to know her options. Finding enough bridgemen has been difficult lately. Parshmen could help fill in holes."

"Right," said Kaladin, rolling his eyes. "How long you think until she manages to grind Bridge Four into the ground?"

"I give you a few weeks," Gaz said. "Maybe even a couple months. You are good at keeping your crew alive, lordling, I have to give you that."

It was perhaps the most sincere thing Gaz had ever said to him. Kaladin sighed. "We'll see if I'm good enough," he said. "You, parshman—come with me."

The parshman followed him and Tesh back towards the Bridge Four barrack. They were greeted by Kaladin's four subsquad-leaders—Murk, Rock, Moash, and Teft.

"What on Roshar?" Teft asked, staring past Kaladin at their newest crewmate. "What are they playing at?"

"An experiment, according to Gaz, and I believe him," said Kaladin. "Either we find out parshmen can be trusted to run bridges, or he snaps and tries to kill us. Either way, Hashal gets what she wants."

"Pailiah's safehand fingernails," Murk cursed—although, with how imaginative his curses could be, the word blasphemed might be more accurate. "That woman will see us all dead, Kaladin."

"That's her goal," said Kaladin. "But we're not quite doomed yet."

"No," Moash agreed, looking speculatively at the parshman. "We could get him to run out in front of the bridge, take an arrow for one of us. Turn things to our advantage.

Turn a liability into an advantage whenever you can. Kaladin had first heard those words spoken by the man who had sent his brother out to die. As they echoed in his head, Syl alighted on his shoulder, finally returning from her jaunt on the winds. She was looking at the parshman, a strange grief on her face.

Storm it. "No, Moash," Kaladin said. "He's one of us now. I don't care what he was before. I don't care what any of you were. We're Bridge Four, and so is he."

"But he's a parshman," Moash protested.

"And you're a darkeyes!" Kaladin snapped back. "You think the lighteyes don't talk about us the same way? You think it's right for you to do it to him, but it's wrong when they do it to us?"

Moash grimaced, but gave no further argument. Kaladin turned to the parshman. "You have a name?"

The parshman shook his head.

That's two members of the crew I've had to come up with names for, Kaladin thought wryly. "Well, we'll have to call you something. How about Shen?"

The newly-named Shen shrugged, which was about the same response Tesh had given on that first evening.

"All right," Kaladin said, turning back to the others. "This is Shen. He's one of us now."

"I don't like it, Kaladin," Teft said. "I've never liked the parshmen. They make me uncomfortable. Especially down here."

"If we rejected people from the bridge crews because they made the rest of us uncomfortable, Teft, we'd have had to kick you out long ago."

Teft snorted in laughter, suddenly smiling. "Fair enough. But I'll be keeping an eye on our friend 'Shen.'"

"Feel free," said Kaladin. "Rock, find him a vest and sandals. He's in your subsquad."

Rock nodded, beckoning to Shen. The parshman followed him into the barrack.

"The rest of you," Kaladin said, looking at the other four men. "Make sure the men take care of their equipment."

"What will you be doing?" Moash asked.

"I'm going to take a walk," said Kaladin. "I'll be back in an hour or so. I need to think."

"Hold a moment, Kaladin," said Teft, nudging Tesh. The silent man nodded, holding out his sphere pouch to Kaladin.

By now, all four of Kaladin's subsquad leaders had seen Tesh's strange orange spheres. Other than them, however, no one was told. Kaladin didn't mind the rest of the crew knowing about his apparently being a Knight Radiant, but Tesh's strange orange Stormlight was his secret, not Kaladin's. For as long as he seemed to want it kept secret, Kaladin was happy to oblige him.

Teft had taken a keener interest in the matter than the others. He had suggested that Kaladin and Tesh rotate their spheres between each other, so that Kaladin would always have infused spheres, and Tesh would have dun.

It was a good suggestion. So, with a sigh, Kaladin took Tesh's pouch and handed his own over. "I doubt I'll get into any fights in the warcamp," he told Teft. "I'm not that stupid."

"You never know for sure," Teft warned. "Always be ready, lad. It may not matter today, but one day, carrying those spheres may well save your life."

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About an hour later, Kaladin had still not returned to his crew. He strolled through the warcamp, deep in thought.

He had promised to try and train the bridgemen, and he intended to do so. But that would take time they did not have. Shen's arrival showed that Hashal was not content to wait for the natural course of the bridge runs to kill him and his men—which, given that her predecessor had apparently been killed for Kaladin's mistake, made a fair amount of sense.

But he had seen the plains in his vision. The east side had chasms so wide that they eventually melted directly into the Unclaimed Hills. It was an awful, inhospitable part of Roshar—but, if Kaladin's vision was to be believed, it might be their best option.

"You seem troubled, Kaladin," Syl said, coming to a stop directly in front of him. She had spent much of the walk darting hither and thither in front of him, dancing between market stalls, making faces invisibly at passing soldiers.

"I am," Kaladin said.

"What about?"

"Getting the bridgemen free is going to be more difficult than any of my previous escape attempts as a slave. And I failed in all of those."

"It will be different this time," Syl said confidently. "I can feel it. You've said the Words now."

The Words. "You said you didn't remember those," he said. "The—the other spren woman, she knew them. What was she?"

"An inkspren," said Syl. "I don't think her kind like mine very much."

"What, windspren?"

"No," said Syl. "Honorspren. I remembered it after you said the First Ideal. It's… hard, Kaladin, sometimes. My head feels fuzzy a lot of the time, like I'm trying to think through water. That doesn't make any sense, does it?"

"No," Kaladin admitted.

"Well, it's true. It's like my thoughts are heavy, and I keep dropping them. But saying the Words was like opening a gate, or like lifting off a weight. Everything's a little clearer now. And I remember a little more. Not much, but a little. I remember noticing you from a long way off, and sneaking off to find you even when everyone else thought I was crazy to do it. But I don't remember where that was or why they thought that."

Kaladin considered that. "There are more of those ideals," he said.

"There are," Syl confirmed. "I don't remember what they were, but I think that's less because I'm still too dumb to remember them and more because they're different for everyone. Your Second Ideal is going to be a little different from someone else's. I think." She paused. "Or maybe the Second Ideal is specific to the Order? Either way, I don't think I'm supposed to remember the other Ideals. Only you can figure out what the oaths are."

"Oaths?"

"Speak again the ancient oaths," Syl recited, and Kaladin remembered the strange woman—the inkspren—intoning the very same words into the rising wind. "The oaths deepen the bond between a Radiant and their spren. They let me give you power, and they make it easier for me to think."

Kaladin frowned. "But—if you need Radiants to be able to think, how were you able to come and find me? And how are there more honorspren out there if there haven't been any Radiants in two thousand years? Are they all just acting like windspren?"

"No…" Syl said slowly. "No, we can think fine. We just can't think fine here."

"In Alethkar?"

"On Roshar. I think I'm from… somewhere else."

Kaladin glanced at her. "The Tranquiline Halls?"

"I don't think so. But I can't remember."

That was frustrating. But as he looked at her face, her downcast eyes, he realized it must be even more frustrating for her.

Still, if her memories were starting to return…

"Syl," he began, struck by an impulse, but before he could ask his question Syl cut him off.

"Kaladin, I'm worried about Tesh." Then she blinked. "Oh, sorry, what were you saying?"

"It's nothing," Kaladin said. "What worries you? I think he's improving. Still not speaking, but he seems happier."

"I… that's true. And I'm happy for him. Really!" She looked reluctant. "I'm not worried for him. I'm… worried about him. I know it's Tesh, and I appreciate everything he's done for you. I don't like being suspicious. But that inkspren came from somewhere."

"You think she's tied to him?" Kaladin asked. "Like you are to me?"

"I think she has to be connected to someone. And I can't think of anyone else it might be. But even an inkspren shouldn't give him the abilities he apparently has. That orange Light he makes… Kaladin, no human should be able to make Light. Even spren can't make Light, besides the Stormfather."

Kaladin frowned. That felt somewhat dogmatic—Tesh was odd, yes, but so was Kaladin. If having strange abilities were cause for concern, then Kaladin himself should have been right at the top of the watchlist. "Is it dangerous?"

"I… don't think so. You can use it, and it should work the same as Stormlight does when you do. But it's a bad sign. Even if the Light itself isn't dangerous, the fact that a man is creating it probably is."

"He seemed just as surprised as we were," Kaladin pointed out.

"That's true…" She didn't seem convinced.

"We'll keep our eyes open," Kaladin promised. "If I start feeling any odd effects from that orange Stormlight, I'll let you know. You keep an eye on Tesh and let me know if you see him doing anything concerning. But remember, he's our friend. He's one of my men. We can be careful, but we shouldn't be paranoid."

"Okay. Yes, we can be careful. Whatever this is, we'll get to the bottom of it." She looked encouraged. "Oh, you were going to say something, right?"

"Right, I had a question. There were three names I heard in my dream. Four, if invention counts. I wonder if you've heard any of them before."

"We can see if they jog any memories," Syl said. "Invention doesn't, unfortunately."

"That's fine. I'm not sure it was even a name." Kaladin thought back, remembering the woman's voice. "The first one is Tanavast."

Syl breathed in sharply. Her eyes widened. "I know that name," she whispered. "Where do I know that name from?" For a long moment, her face remained screwed up in concentration. Then, slowly, she said, "...I don't think that's the name I knew them by. I think I heard it once or twice, but I think whoever Tanavast is, I knew them by a different name. I can't… remember anything else. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. That's something, at least."

She didn't look like that was especially comforting. "You said there were three names?"

"The second was Cultivation."

Syl sighed happily. "I think she might be my mother," she said speculatively. "That's what it feels like, anyway." Then she frowned. "I also get the feeling that the other honorspren wouldn't like me putting it that way."

"Your mother?" Kaladin asked. "Spren have parents?"

"Not like humans do," Syl said. "Spren are little splinters of gods. I think Cultivation is one of the gods that spren are little bits of. But I don't think there's much of Cultivation in honorspren."

Gods? That sounded… "Not very good Vorin orthodoxy," Kaladin commented. "Teaching about gods other than the Almighty."

"Oh, I think the Almighty might be the other one," Syl said. "Or one of the other ones. I think there are only two, but there are also more."

"That makes even less sense than anything else you've said."

"I know," she complained, hanging her head. "I really can't remember much, Kaladin. Just impressions. I remember that I'm a little tiny piece of a god. I remember that Cultivation is that kind of god. I remember that there was one other. But I also remember that there were a lot more than one other. I realize that's a contradiction, but I don't know how it fits together. I'm sorry."

"Well, I'll have to figure out the next oath and we can see if you remember then," Kaladin said.

Syl smiled. "Yes, that might work," she said. "I don't think I ever had a Radiant before who swore past the Fourth Ideal at the latest, and I remember being a lot less… muzzy than I am now. I think my head was clearer most of the time, in the old days." She looked at Kaladin. "You said there were three names?"

"The last was Odium," said Kaladin.

Syl froze, her whole transparent body tensing. She hissed out a breath through her teeth. "I know that name," she said. "I don't think you should say it out loud, Kaladin. Not if you can avoid it."

"Why?"

"Because he might be able to hear," Syl said. "He probably can't, but you never know. He's the enemy, Kaladin. The god behind the Desolations."

Kaladin's footsteps stuttered to a stop. "The what?"

Syl nodded. "He's why we exist," she said. "Why spren started to make Radiants in the first place. It's all so that humanity would have a way to fight him. I remember that much."

Kaladin swallowed. "Cultivation said that—that he reigns."

"That's probably why I decided to come, then," Syl said. "I figured there had to be a reason. A reason why I'd decide to make a new bond now after two thousand years without Radiants. It's probably because of whatever Cultivation was talking about."

Kaladin swallowed. "Does that mean…" he whispered, suddenly keenly aware of how many people were walking down the streets around him. None were in earshot, but he was still unsettled. "Does that mean that a Desolation is coming?"

"I think it might," Syl said quietly.

149

LithosMaitreya

Jan 10, 2023

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Threadmarks 20: Desecration

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

Subscriber

Jan 16, 2023

#675

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

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Desecration

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It reminded me of an immense, terrible spider.

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Sarus turned over a corpse dressed in a Kholin blue officer's uniform. The man's pale green eyes stared sightlessly up, his red officer's knots hardened by congealed blood from the arrow wound in his neck. Quickly, Sarus rifled through the man's pockets for spheres and valuables. Finding little, he picked up the man's side-sword and then returned to the pile of weapons the crew was accumulating.

Many of the men were drilling in spear forms with Teft in a nearby hollow. He could hear the commands to 'hold,' 'strike,' and 'parry' echoing through the chasm. Most of the remaining crew—Rock and Murk's subsquads, mostly—were searching for as many supplies as they could gather. They didn't need to gather as much plunder as the whole crew together could—they just needed enough to fool Hashal and Gaz. Since neither was particularly adept or at all familiar with the situation in the chasms, that was easier than it might have been.

Kaladin and Syl were scouting eastward. The armies had tried that, in the past, as a few questions to soldiers and merchants had revealed. But those men hadn't had an honorspren capable of flight, or a Knight Radiant who could use Stormlight to keep from tiring, to speed up their expeditions. It was still all too likely that any path eastward out of the chasms might be too long for them to manage without running afoul of highstorm or chasmfiend. But with Kaladin and Syl scouting, they would at least be able to make a guess as to how likely.

But with every passing rotation of chasm duty, the odds of escaping through the depths seemed to grow thinner. There was still no sign of an eastward exit. Even if they found one, it would almost certainly be too far to reach while carrying supplies, gear, and their injured companions, especially with chasmfiends on the hunt. It was looking increasingly likely that any attempt to flee the bridge crews would need to be made on the surface, through the Sadeas army's sentries.

Luckily, things were changing in the warcamp. A few short weeks ago, Kaladin had reported seeing Adolin Kholin in the Sadeas camp. Shortly afterward, the Kholin army had begun joining Sadeas on plateau assaults. Since that day, Kholin soldiers had been increasingly present throughout Sadeas' territory. Sarus hadn't yet figured out how to use that, but he suspected it would be possible. If he could distract a guard post by making them focus on the Kholins…

"Tesh," called a voice.

Sarus looked up. Kaladin had returned, and was beckoning him.

"I need a hand," said Kaladin in a low voice as Sarus approached. "And I can't risk Shen hearing."

Sarus cocked his head. Why?

"I've had an idea for how I can make the Parshendi archers focus on me instead of the others," Kaladin said. Two more men had died in the past two weeks—Idolir and Brils. Kaladin had taken each as a personal failure.

Sarus followed Kaladin towards a cluster of fallen Parshendi corpses. Then Kaladin picked up a shortspear and tossed another to Sarus.

"We're going to peel off their armor," he said. "Cut it away from them, then use it to make a suit for me."

Sarus blinked. Why would Kaladin want to armor himself? Then he realized, and his eyes widened.

Kaladin nodded. "You get it. I got the idea from how Shen reacted when we scavenged that bow from the Parshendi archers last week. I know the Parshendi are different from parshmen, but that's the one situation that makes even parshmen react strongly—interfering with their dead. I'm hoping the Parshendi will react similarly."

Focusing their fire on you and leaving the bridge crew alone. Sarus nodded appreciatively, kneeling beside the body. Clever.

"I've asked Lopen to gather any leather straps he can salvage from the soldiers' gear," Kaladin continued as they worked. "Then I'm hoping to piece together a suit for myself. It won't be much real protection, I expect, but it will be clearly visible. Hopefully, that'll be enough."

Sarus began to nod, already working to sever the carapace from a corpse. Then he froze, spear tip half wedged beneath the Parshendi's armor. With a quick motion, he reached out and seized Kaladin's forearm, stopping his efforts to pry the carapace free.

"What--?" Kaladin began, before looking at Sarus' expression. Then he heard it too.

There was a terrible grinding, scraping noise coming from down a nearby chasm. Sarus slowly turned his head. He could just barely see, down a long, straight chasm, a distant shape creeping along on the rock. It was larger than the chrysalises Sarus had seen on bridge runs—much larger. The size of a building, nearly as big as the forty-bed barracks where all of Bridge Four slept.

But it didn't come in their direction. Sarus saw it turn down another chasm. Painfully slowly, the echoes of its passage grew quieter, more distant.

Kaladin let out a breath. "I heard another one while I was scouting," he said. "That's why I came back. We'll never make it out this way, Tesh. Even if we held out for a break in the storms that lasted two or more weeks, there are too many chasmfiends down here. We'd never make it that far."

Sarus nodded grimly. He'd suspected as much.

"So our best chance," Kaladin said, returning to his work, "is to get the men trained with the spear, then break through one of the guard posts under cover of night. Head south, away from Alethkar. But the men need time to train, and that means I have to find a way to give them that time."

Sarus let out a breath, then continued peeling back the Parshendi's carapace. Kaladin was right.

"I'm going to need Stormlight," Kaladin said. "Your spheres are still getting infused?"

Sarus nodded.

"Good. That's going to be a necessary part of this. I can't pull the Parshendi fire if I get killed the first time I try."

"Hey, gon!" Lopen's voice came from nearby. The Herdazian rounded a corner, laden with strips of leather under his remaining arm and a coil of rope over his shoulder. "Found what you were looking for."

"Keep your voice down," ordered Kaladin, taking both leather and rope from him. "There's a chasmfiend just a few plateaus over. We heard it."

Lopen paled. "Sure, I'll keep it down," he said, a little shrill. "Quiet as a flamespren in a blizzard, that's me."

They soon scavenged enough carapace to construct a workable suit of armor. Workable in the loosest sense, at least—it was little more than pauldrons, a breastplate, and a makeshift shield. It would provide far less protection than anything made by a professional, but it was recognizable as Parshendi plate, and that was all they needed.

"But gancho, how are we going to get this out of the chasm, anyway? I doubt the guards will let you keep it, even assuming Shen does." Lopen gestured upward, pointing at a permanent bridge which cast a shadow over the chasm floor. "Sure, we could tie it to an arrow and have Rock shoot it at the bridge, but I'm pretty sure it's a bit heavier than the sphere we found last time."

A little over a week ago, they had found an incredibly valuable emerald broam in the chasms. In order to get it out, they had tied it to an arrow and Rock had demonstrated skill with a bow in firing it into a bridge above. But that wouldn't work with something as bulky as this carapace.

"That definitely won't work," Kaladin agreed as he piled the armor into a sack. "But I have an idea. Help me find rocks, both of you—about the size of a fist."

What are you planning? Sarus wondered, even as he started searching. It wasn't hard to find stones of roughly the right size, and soon they had gathered a small pile in the middle of the chasm floor. Kaladin scooped them into a sack, then tied it to his belt. He took a long rope from Lopen and wound one end of it around his arm.

Then he took a deep breath. On Sarus' shoulder, too small to be seen, Archive breathed in sharply—a sure sign that the man was breathing in Sarus' orange Stormlight. Even if he hadn't heard her, it would be obvious from the way orange light began wafting from Kaladin's skin.

Kaladin ran his hand along one side of a stone. Where his fingers passed, the light seemed to adhere to the surface. Then he held it up and pressed it against the wall. He let go, and it hung there, stuck fast to the side of the chasm.

Kaladin grinned in satisfaction. He took out another stone, then affixed it a little higher up. One after another, he created handholds for himself as he climbed up the chasm wall. By the time he was about halfway up, the lower handholds were falling to the ground behind him, but he reached the bridge before he ran out of places to grip.

Kaladin tied the rope around his arm to one of the bridge's supports, a wooden strut connected to the side of the chasm. He caught hold of the short end of the rope past the knot, then looked back down and called out. "Tesh, pull this tight."

Sarus nodded, understanding. He grabbed the trailing rope and pulled hard. The knot held against him.

It also held Kaladin's weight when he leapt from his perch, swinging free. He paused there a moment, still streaming Stormlight in a cold mist all around him. "Okay," he said. "Now tie the armor to the other end of the rope.

"He is resourceful," Archive commented. Sarus tied a knot around the sack, pulling it tight so that it would remain closed when Kaladin pulled it up.

He did just that, gripping the rope with his legs and pulling the length below him up towards the bridge. He tied it to the underside of the bridge, near the railing, where a man could stretch out over the side and grab it from above. He looked down, then back up at the knot holding him. Sarus heard him speaking quietly to Syl, too softly to be audible from the chasm floor. He was still for a moment, then moved sharply, as if afraid of losing his nerve. Sarus' eyes widened as he slashed at the rope above him with his knife. It snapped, and he fell. Sarus moved to catch him, but then stopped as he saw Kaladin twisting in midair. Orange light poured from him, streaking behind him like the tail of a comet in the night sky. Kaladin set his feet facing the ground just before he struck the chasm floor. A burst of mist escaped him, and frost crept along the floor beneath his sandals.

Kaladin let out a grunt at the impact, his knees bending to absorb the shock. Then he stood up as easily as if he had fallen no more than five or six feet.

"Storms! Teft said you could do strange things with Stormlight, gon," said Lopen faintly. "But seeing it…"

Kaladin smiled. "I'm still learning how it works, but I think it might come in useful. Still—keep it quiet. The men can know, but no one outside Bridge Four." He pointed up at the sack, now suspended high above them. "You think you can get that on our next run, Lopen?"

"Sure," Lopen said. "Nobody will see. I'm easy to ignore."

"Good. Let's see how the men are doing in their drills."

-x-x-x-

They had an opportunity to make use of Kaladin's new carapace armor just a few short days later. When the horns rang out to call the crew to another bridge run, Kaladin pointed to Lopen. "Bring a bigger sack than usual for the waterskins," he ordered. "Something that'll hold the water and the… gear we prepared."

Lopen nodded and dashed into the barrack. The rest of the crew formed up by the bridge. Kaladin took his place beside Sarus. The two of them didn't bother to rotate when the rest of the crew did. No one complained—if they were going to run at and immediately beside the deathpoint on every single run, they earned the right to see where they were going on the long march.

"Here's hoping this works," Kaladin muttered.

Sarus nodded.

"It will," said Syl, flitting about their heads. "It's a good idea, Kaladin. I didn't like it when you came up with it, but it does make sense. And it'll help you protect the crew."

"I hope so."

They raised the bridge and began to run. Sarus knew the moment they crossed the bridge with the armor tied beneath it—not because the sack dangling below was visible, but simply because his mental map of the chasms and bridges near the warcamps was extremely well-developed after so long.

It had the added benefit of being one of the bridges closest to the warcamp, which meant they were nearly guaranteed to cross it. Unfortunately, that meant Lopen would have a great distance to run to catch up with them, laden with both armor and water.

Lopen alone could not carry water enough for the entire crew, so another man always went with him. That role, like every position beneath the bridge itself, was on the rotation for the crew. It was the most coveted position by far, because it meant the lucky man didn't need to carry the bridge or expose himself to the Parshendi arrows on that run. Today, it was Treff.

Lopen and Treff caught up with them a few minutes after they pushed the bridge across the first chasm. They distributed the water, and Kaladin took the opportunity to reach inside the sack and verify that the armor was still in one piece. By the look of dark satisfaction on his face, Sarus guessed that it was.

As the bridgeleader pulled back from the sack, Sarus saw Shen looking down at it. There was a complicated expression on his face—subtle, difficult to distinguish from his usual blankness, but Sarus could see it clearly. His eyes were sad and horrified as he gazed on the defiled carapace. Sarus even saw his hands shaking slightly.

Sarus suddenly imagined the Parshendi wearing human skin and bones into battle. He imagined a helmet made of half a ribcage on the head of an archer aiming at him as he ran across the final plateau. Was that how it felt to Shen to see them using the carapace of the Parshendi this way?

On an impulse, Sarus reached out and caught Shen's shoulder. The parshman looked up and met his eyes. They stood there for a moment, perfectly silent while the men chatted around them, a half-full waterskin in each of their hands.

Then Shen nodded once. It was not the slow, ponderous movement that Sarus had grown accustomed to. It was sharp. Almost military.

And, quite suddenly, Sarus understood.

You shouldn't be here, he thought, studying the man. His red brow was marbled with patterns of black creeping up from his cheeks, and his black eyes seemed suddenly deep and alien in the sunlight. You should be the servant of some highly-placed lighteyes. You were, weren't you? But somewhere you slipped up, you unsettled someone, and they sent you here to die. You're not a parshman at all, are you?

The Alethi had assumed that the Parshendi looked different from the parshmen they kept as slaves because they always had. Sarus still remembered those first days after the expedition had encountered them in the deep south. They had been described as having strange, alien forms, often as radically different from one another as from the humans. He remembered the chatter in the warcamp during the first year of the war, as men wondered where the strange carapace armor had come from—armor which they had never seen on the Parshendi until they were in battle. Armor which the Parshendi could apparently grow from their bodies.

If the Parshendi could grow armor some of the time, could take different shapes when they were called for… who was to say they could not take the shape of a parshman?

Shen's eyes narrowed. Sarus had been staring at him for a while. He must be making the man—the Parshendi infiltrator—nervous. But there was no need for Shen to worry.

Sarus grinned, baring teeth. Shen blinked. Now he knew what to look for, Sarus saw him cycling through a dozen different expressions. Then he smiled back—a small, hesitant expression, but there nonetheless.

What loyalty did Sarus owe Alethkar anymore, after all?

The final soldiers crossed the bridge. Sarus and Shen joined the rest of the crew as they dashed across, pulled it behind them, and continued the run.

At the penultimate crossing before the assault, Kaladin reached into the sack, using the rest of the crew to hide him from the army. He pulled out the armor and put it on. Sarus saw Shen wince and turn his eyes away.

"I'll run alongside the bridge," Kaladin said quietly to Sarus. "You mind taking my spot in the deathpoint?"

Sarus shook his head.

"I appreciate it," Kaladin said. "With luck, they won't be shooting at you anyway."

They crossed, lifted the bridge, and began the final run. The Parshendi had already prepared a firing line, and as they drew nearer, Sarus saw them drawing back bowstrings. Then, just before they fired, Kaladin ducked, taking his hands from the bridge and sprinting ahead. Sarus heard Brightlord Matal, Hashal's husband and the official overseer of the bridge crews, screaming in shock and panic.

But he could do nothing to stop Kaladin now.

Sarus saw the Parshendi within sighting distance of Bridge Four lower their bows. It was too far to see their expressions, but he could imagine their fury. He had seen a pale echo of it on Shen's face less than an hour ago. Then, nearly every archer in the Parshendi line—all those, at least, within range—turned and fired on Kaladin instead of the bridges.

From her perch among the handholds of the bridge, Archive gasped. Sarus couldn't see it in the bright daylight, but he knew Kaladin must have started streaming orange light. The man moved, sharp and erratic, dodging between arrows and ducking beneath the rain of death. Not a single arrow was fired on Bridge Four. Few were fired at any of the nearby bridges. Sarus saw that the bridges most distant from Kaladin were still taking fire, whether because the archers there had not noticed Kaladin or because they could not hope to hit him at that range.

Kaladin ducked behind an outcrop, then emerged again, zig-zagging wildly. He took hits—Sarus saw an arrow slice across his arm, and another impact his leg. But he kept running. In the bright, early afternoon light, Sarus couldn't see the orange Stormlight knitting his wounds closed, but he knew it must be happening.

Then Sarus saw Kaladin raise his shield towards another volley. It was subtle, but unmistakable to Sarus' eyes, as several arrows curved in mid-flight, striking Kaladin's shield instead of sailing past it and into its bearer.

Kaladin's motions, dancing between the arrows, had slowed him. The bridges soon caught up. Without so much as a word exchanged between crews, they parted around him like a river around a boulder, leaving him to absorb the fire while they placed their bridges. As soon as that was done, the army rushed in behind them. Once the battle joined, the archers had to focus elsewhere, and Kaladin was able to return to the crew.

"You storming idiot!" Moash shouted as he arrived. "What was that? What were you thinking?"

Kaladin smiled tiredly. Then he caught Sarus' eye and gestured to his pouch. Sarus shook his head to confirm that the Stormlight rising from him had not been visible.

"Talenelat's blood-soaked smallclothes," muttered Murk in awe, pawing at the arrow holes in Kaladin's vest. There were two shafts still dangling from it.

Kaladin breathed heavily. Then a thought seemed to occur to him, and he turned to face the direction from which they had come—the direction of the army's rear officers. "Fall into line, men," he ordered.

They did so, quickly forming ranks behind him. Sarus realized why at once. Brightlord Matal was standing beside their bridge, looking very nearly terrified. And towards him was riding a familiar man in blood-red Shardplate.

—smoke slipping through his shaking fingers—

Sarus shook off the memory as Kaladin began to jog over in the direction of the two lighteyes. Sarus reluctantly joined the rest of the crew as they followed him.

They arrived just a moment after Sadeas did. Matal bowed, followed by Kaladin and the bridge crew.

Sarus did not, at least for a moment. He saw Sadeas meet his eyes. Then, just before the highprince could say anything, Sarus forced himself to stoop before him, feeling hate, grief, rage, and old fear roiling within his belly like boiling water in a cauldron.

"Avarak Matal," said Sadeas. Kaladin stood up straight again. Sarus gratefully followed suit with the rest of the crew. Highprince Sadeas was no longer looking at him, focused instead on Kaladin. "This man looks familiar."

"He is the one from several weeks ago, Brightlord," said Matal, voice slightly higher than normal. "The one who…"

"Ah, yes. The 'miracle.' And you sent him forward as a decoy like that? I would think that you would be… hesitant to dare such measures, after what happened to your predecessor when this man took unusual actions."

"I take full responsibility, Brightlord," said Matal, his face screwed up in resignation.

Sadeas looked past the bridge at the battle on the plateau across it. "Well, fortunately for you, it worked. Those savages almost ignored the bridges in favor of firing on one slave. I suppose I'll have to promote you now." He sighed. "All twenty bridges laid, with scarcely a casualty among the crews." He turned his head slightly, and Sarus met his eyes again. "It seems almost a shame."

Sarus gritted his teeth.

"Consider yourself commended," Sadeas said to Matal, then spurred his horse into motion, crossing the bridge and joining the battle.

The moment he was gone, Matal spun to face Kaladin, eyes wide with fury. "You could have gotten me executed!"

"But I got you promoted instead," said Kaladin. "You're welcome."

"You're welcome—" Matal spluttered. "I should see you strung up."

"You're welcome to try," said Kaladin. "It didn't work last time, and do you really want to give me a chance to survive another storm? Besides—from now on, Sadeas is going to expect me to be out there, distracting the archers. Good luck getting anyone else to try that."

Matal flushed in impotent rage. Without another word, he stalked off to another crew.

Kaladin slumped slightly in relief. As the men crowded around him, he turned and caught Sarus' arm.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I know that must have been hard."

Sarus nodded once.

Kaladin studied him for a moment before turning to face Rock. "We should get the men—" he stopped, eyes widening, staring past Rock at the battle on the next plateau.

Sarus followed his gaze. A crew of Parshendi archers had broken from the battle. Seemingly heedless of the risk from behind, they were aiming directly for the crew. For Kaladin.

"Take cover!" Kaladin shouted, but even as he said it, Sarus knew it would be far too late.

Fortunately, they were not alone on the battlefield. The archers were interrupted in the act of drawing back their bowstrings by a squadron in Kholin blue. A single man in slate-grey Shardplate leapt nearly a dozen feet, bowling over two Parshendi to take a position on the edge of the plateau, between the archers and Bridge Four. He swung in wide arcs with a seven-foot Shardblade, leaving Parshendi corpses falling around him with eyes sputtering out like burning embers.

Highprince Dalinar Kholin, armed with the legendary sword Oathbringer, had come to the rescue of a crew of thirty-one slaves and unfortunates. The Parshendi scattered before him, directly into the blades and spears of his men.

As the Parshendi squadron routed, Dalinar turned to face the bridge crew. He raised Oathbringer in an unmistakable salute, then turned to rejoin the battle.

"Storms!" said Drehy. "That was him, wasn't it? Dalinar Kholin?"

Sarus nodded, but no one was watching him.

"Aye," said Teft, sounding awed. "The king's own uncle."

"He saved us!" Lopen crowed.

"Bah," said Moash. "He saw an opportunity to take out some undefended archers, and took it. Lighteyes don't care about us. Right, Kaladin?"

Sarus looked over at Kaladin. The man's face was vaguely confused. Then he turned, not towards the crew, but looking down the line of bridges.

"Who will care?" he whispered to himself, inaudible to the rest of the crew. Then he blinked and seemed to return to himself. "You're probably right, Moash," he said, "but even if it was just an opportunity taken, I'm not about to be outdone by a storming highprince." He turned to them, gesturing down the line of bridges before them. "There are still plenty of bridgemen from the other crews injured," he said. "Let's see what we can do for them."

144

LithosMaitreya

Jan 16, 2023

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Threadmarks 21: The March of Progress

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

Subscriber

Jan 23, 2023

#686

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

-x-x-x-

The March of Progress

-x-x-x-

Whatever this thing is, it is a threat to the whole cosmere. I see no indication that it intends to remain confined to Ashyn.

-x-x-x-

"With every passing assault, he trusts me more," Torol said.

He and Ialai reclined together in the sitting room of their war palace. It was far humbler than Sadaras, back home—and far humbler than Torol could afford, in theory—but he couldn't be seen to have a grander palace than Elhokar, or even to be attempting to compete with him.

Still, despite the relatively small size—Torol couldn't justify more than half a dozen guest rooms and two extra halls—he was able to furnish it to a suitable level of comfort. He himself sat in a plush armchair, a small map of the Shattered Plains on a table by his left arm. Ialai lounged on a sofa on the other side of the room. The doors were closed, and though there were guards outside, Torol had made certain long ago that any room where he discussed business with Ialai was properly soundproofed. No one would hear anything short of a shout.

"Then do you think our window of opportunity has opened?" Ialai asked, brows furrowed thoughtfully over her shrewd eyes. "Will Dalinar question you if you suggest something that will leave him exposed?"

Torol hesitated, resting his head back against the cushion of his seat. "I'm not certain," he admitted. "Dalinar is… difficult to predict. He always was, but especially these days. Those blasted Codes have entirely rotted away any good Alethi sensibilities that remained to him, Ialai."

"Ironic," she mused, "that the ancient Alethi Codes of War should so heavily undermine modern Alethi customs."

"Culture, like every other measure of human achievement, is a march of progress," Torol said. "I don't think it's at all odd that the so-called 'wisdom' of the ancients should be more an impediment than an aid to us now."

"Hm." Ialai seemed unconvinced. Rather than argue, she returned to the topic at hand. "Do you think there will ever come a point where you can expect him to expose himself to a planned betrayal?" she asked. "If he's so unpredictable these days, we may have to trust at least something to luck, though we can mitigate the risks."

"I don't think I can afford to trust any part of this to luck," said Torol darkly. "If I don't remove Dalinar completely—if I even let one man escape whatever trap I set—I lose my grip on Elhokar entirely. There can be suspicion that I may have betrayed Dalinar, but there can never be proof. Proof would shatter Alethkar irrevocably."

"Not if we could rally the other highprinces behind us," Ialai pointed out. "We both know Elhokar is incompetent. Perhaps Gavilar did the hard work of unification, not for his son, but for us?"

"No. A kingdom founded by a dynasty that lasted only two generations, both of which were killed or deposed before their time? It's a foundation that can't stand, Ialai. It's like building a house on the windward side of a mountain—it'll crumble at the first storm."

Ialai let out a noise of derision. "Elhokar's rule is scarcely better. Even if we had to reconquer half the highprincedoms, it would be better than this."

"I don't believe that." I can't believe that. Not yet. "Elhokar has something going for him that we don't, after all."

Ialai shot him a questioning glance.

Torol smiled sadly. "A living heir."

Ialai's face fell. She looked away from him with a sigh. "I suppose that's true."

Torol's official heir, nowadays, was the son of Ialai's sister. Even if the boy were more than three years old, it was an incredibly tenuous link on which to hang a highprincedom; to dangle the hopes of an entire kingdom on such a thread would doom that kingdom to instability and failure.

Torol and Ialai had, of course, been trying to produce a new heir for years. Even before the rebellion, before Torol's world had come crashing about his ears, they had been trying to produce a male child so that they wouldn't have to trust the highprincedom to an unknown man who had the good fortune to marry their daughter.

They were now most of a dozen stillbirths and miscarriages deep, with Tailiah as their only success. It was looking increasingly like the unbroken line of Sadeas was doomed to end with Torol. Within the next few years, Ialai would cease being fertile entirely, and that would be that.

Certainly, Torol could take mistresses. It was even possible that one of the mistresses he'd had in his youth had actually borne him a child of which he had no knowledge. But such a thing had little appeal to him now. Young women could be beautiful, certainly, but the one time he had tried to lay with one in the past several years he had been unable to stop seeing what his daughter might have looked like, had she only had the time to grow a little older.

Besides, he loved Ialai. More than he would have thought possible, thirty years ago. And the idea of seeking to replace both her and their daughter made him want to retch. No—his legacy would not be in his children, or the continuation of his house. He would leave his immortal mark on the world in the kingdom he kept standing, even as its first king's family tried their very best to bungle it all away.

"Do you think you could manipulate Dalinar into suggesting something himself?" Ialai asked suddenly.

Torol raised an eyebrow, welcoming the change of topic. He had grieved his daughter many times. Right now, he had work to do. "How would you suggest I do that?"

Ialai tapped her lips with a finger, deep in thought. "He wants to change the course of the war. Eliminate a large force of Parshendi at once."

"Yes." Dalinar had expressed the need to do that several times since they had begun collaborating.

"What about the Tower?" Ialai suggested. "It's a very remote plateau, so to reach it in time for a battle would require Dalinar to use your bridges. His chull-pulled ones would never arrive in time. It's only accessible from two other plateaus, as I recall, even for the Parshendi's leaps, which would make it far easier to box them in. And the chasmfiends have planted their chrysalises on it many times already."

A slow smile crossed Torol's face. "You should have been born a man," he said. "But I am grateful every day that you were not, love. It's brilliant."

"A lesser woman might take offense to that," Ialai said.

"You," Torol said, grinning at her, "are not a lesser woman. There may not be another opportunity to assault the Tower for months, but there's no great rush. I'll keep an eye out for any other opportunities, but if an opportunity to assault the Tower appears, that will be our opening."

-x-x-x-

The opportunity came far sooner than Torol had expected. Less than a month later, his sentries sounded the horns, and the runner gave the report he had waited for.

"A chasmfiend has surfaced on the Tower, Brightlord," reported a man in armor. Darkeyed, but relatively respectable. Third nahn, at the lowest.

"Excellent," said Torol, springing to his feet from the chair at his dining table. Anticipationspren sprung up around his feet like red ribbons spiraling in the faint breeze. "Have my horse readied as quickly as possible. I must go to the Kholin warcamp."

The runner saluted, then dashed off again.

Torol walked quickly to his armory, where his servants were already preparing his Plate. They helped him remove his fine outerwear, then slipped his arms into his padded doublet and clipped the red Plate to the arming points. He felt it the moment the suit of Shardplate closed around him—a surge of sudden strength, immediately noticeable, as the Stormlight in the gems powering the armor activated. The Plate transformed in an instant from a weight on his body into a source of strength.

As soon as it was done, he sped from the armory, barely holding himself back from breaking into a dead run. His horse was waiting for him outside the stable. It was not a Ryshadium, so he couldn't leap onto its back without risking injury to it. Instead, he carefully mounted, trying not to resent the delay too much.

The moment he was astride the beast, he spurred it onward, out of the warcamp and towards the one visible on the horizon where Dalinar would be mobilizing his forces.

A single shamespren danced on the wind beside him as he galloped along the plain. He forcibly tamped down on that traitorous part of his mind. It would be devastating if Dalinar or one of his advisors saw a shamespren flitting about now, with success so close Torol could practically taste it.

This is necessary, he told himself again. Your friend died years ago, and if he could see the man who has taken his place, he would give you his blessing. Dalinar knew that sacrifices would be necessary to preserve Alethkar.

He would forgive you. He will forgive you when you meet again in the Tranquiline Halls.

The shamespren faded away. For a moment, Torol thought he saw another spren, like a shadowy shape creeping along the rock face beside his horse, keeping pace with it. But when he turned his head, all he saw was the faint irregularities in the texture and color of the rock itself.

He reached the Kholin warcamp in under ten minutes. The sentries let him pass without so much as a hail—just further evidence that his gambit with Dalinar was paying off. The man, after more than a dozen joint assaults, trusted him implicitly. He had practically bared his back in preparation for Torol's knife.

"You should be with your forces, Sadeas." Dalinar greeted him, already clad in his unadorned Plate. Beside him, young Adolin was just finishing the final components of his own Kholin-blue armor. "The Tower is a distant plateau. Speed will be of the essence."

"Agreed," said Torol. "But we need to confer first, my friend."

"What about?"

"The Tower is more than just a distant plateau, Dalinar! You were the one who said we needed to find a way to trap a large force of Parshendi on a plateau." Dalinar had said that, much to Torol's delight. The moment he'd heard his former friend thinking aloud, he had known that if an assault on the Tower became an option, Dalinar would slide easily into his place. "The Tower is ideal. They always bring a large force there, and two sides are inaccessible even to them. We would only need to box them in on the north and west sides."

Torol didn't bother to hold in his delight when he saw Adolin nodding. "He's right, Father," said the young man. "If we can trap them there, hit them from both sides, it could mean a turning point in the war."

"My scribes estimate they can't have more than twenty or thirty thousand troops left in total," Torol said. That was also true, although their estimates were vague and unreliable at best. The expeditions into the Unclaimed Hills in the years before Gavilar's assassination had not given particularly exact estimates as to the Parshendi population. "The Parshendi will commit ten thousand to the Tower—they always do. If we can entrap and kill that entire force, it will cripple their ability to wage war on the Plains."

"This will work!" Adolin said, seeming to join in with Torol's excitement—albeit for a different reason. "It could be what you've been waiting for—a chance to deal enough damage to the Parshendi that they can't afford to keep fighting!"

"We need troops, Dalinar," Torol coaxed. "How many can you field, at maximum?"

"Eight thousand, perhaps, on such short notice." Dalinar seemed less excited at the prospect than Adolin, but not out of any hesitance. He seemed instead to be considering how to achieve the goal, not considering that Torol might have a different goal entirely.

Good. "I can deploy about seven thousand," said Torol. That was a decent ratio. He had hoped that his army would number about the same as Dalinar's on this final assault, just in case it came down to actual combat. But seven thousand wasn't much less than eight thousand, and if he could wipe out eight thousand Kholin soldiers in one move, it would cripple the rival highprincedom irrevocably.

The logic was the same as that for trapping the Parshendi. But Torol's gaze was longer than Dalinar's. Where Dalinar wanted to win a war in vengeance for the fallen king, Torol wanted to eliminate one of the largest threats to the stability of Alethkar. The Parshendi couldn't threaten the kingdom. Dalinar Kholin could.

"The Parshendi will reach the Tower first," Torol continued. "That's inevitable with a plateau that far out. But if we take all forty of my bridge crews, we can get both of our armies to them faster than ever before."

"I won't risk lives on your bridge crews, Sadeas," Dalinar said firmly. "I don't know that I can agree to a completely joint assault."

Thank the Almighty for that damn bridgeman and his tenacity, Torol thought. Never thought I'd be glad he failed to die. "I have a new way of using the bridgemen," he said aloud, keeping his tone dismissive. "Their casualties have dropped to nearly nothing."

"Really?" Dalinar sounded surprised—and intrigued. "Is it because of the armored bridgemen? What made you change?"

"Perhaps you've gotten through to me," Torol said. Or perhaps I've just been turning the liabilities that appear in my path into advantages. "Regardless, we can't afford to wait for your heavy bridges. Your army will never arrive in time. I can't risk engaging without you, not with the numbers they'll have. This is the best chance we'll get."

There was a moment's pause as Dalinar considered. Torol tried not to let his anxiety boil over, though he couldn't completely avoid drawing a few anticipationspren.

Then Dalinar nodded sharply. "Very well. Let's finish this. Adolin, send word to mobilize the Fourth through Eighth Divisions."

Torol smiled. "I'll go rejoin my men," he said. "This will work, Dalinar."

"I know," said Dalinar, determination writ in every line of his face. "We'll join you soon."

As Torol galloped back to his own warcamp, he finally released the iron grip on his emotions. Triumph flared, drawing a wave of passionspren like crystalline snowflakes. Blending with them were the white petals of shamespren.

I will miss you, Dalinar, Torol finally admitted to himself. I already do. But I swore to keep this kingdom together, and I can't do that with you. This is the march of progress, old friend, and today you will be trampled beneath it.

Last edited: Jan 23, 2023

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LithosMaitreya

Jan 23, 2023

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Threadmarks 22: Elsecaller

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

Subscriber

Jan 30, 2023

#734

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

-x-x-x-

Elsecaller

-x-x-x-

It is a terror that will make Rayse and Ati look like children playing with masks. In the worst case, it may even work with Rayse to the ruin of us all.

-x-x-x-

Sarus strapped on his carapace armor.

In the past several weeks, Bridge Four had seen its numbers swell with injured men rescued from other bridges. That gain was offset, however, by the need to field more men in the defiled Parshendi carapace to draw fire away from the other bridge crews. Bridge Four had not lost a single man in the past ten days, despite going on six bridge runs in that time, and it had even gained nine without being allocated a single new arrival from the slave carts. There were now forty men in the crew of Bridge Four. For the first time in many months, Bridge Four's barrack was at capacity.

Generally, only twenty-five to twenty-eight carried the bridge itself during the final run. The rest, now including Sarus, were the decoys. Their armor had been augmented by the work of several men on the crew, including Leyten, who seemed to have some training in such things. It fit snugly, and offered a great deal more protection than that first prototype suit Kaladin had snuck onto the Plains two weeks ago. They bore full-sized carapace shields rather than the small buckler Kaladin had carried that day. While some of the decoys were injured on each run, deaths were rare.

Of course, not all forty men were brought on each run. Several were still injured. Shen was now left at the barracks on all bridge runs, both to spare him the indignity of wearing carapace into battle, and to ensure the wounded had someone to tend to them. Sarus was glad of it. Ever since he had realized Shen's true nature, he had been worried that the man would do something rash to bring an end to their desecration of his people's rest. So far, the disguised Parshendi had kept himself in check.

On today's run, thirty-five men were marching towards the bridge. Each wore carapace armor, even those who were not running as decoys. Ever since Kaladin had learned to redirect arrows, the entirety of Bridge Four had become a de facto decoy, as any arrows fired at a Bridge Four member was usually near enough to Kaladin that its path would curve into his armor or the bridge.

As Kaladin gave the order, Sarus raised the bridge onto his shoulders. Archive leapt from his shoulder to her customary perch in the shadows over his head.

She cocked her head, as though listening. After a moment, he realized that she was hearing the men of the other thirty-nine bridge crews cheering. Sarus looked around blankly at dozens, hundreds of bridgemen, all raising their voices and arms in solidarity with the men of Bridge Four.

Kaladin let out a breath beside him. "Didn't expect that kind of reception," he said. Nor had Sarus.

"They see you as their vanguard," Archive murmured in Sarus' ear. She sounded oddly reticent, as if she wasn't sure how she should feel about the matter. "Your champions."

And aren't we? Sarus wondered. Kaladin was more than just the bridgeleader to one crew, now. He was the man who had turned the entire set of bridge crews into more than a meat grinder. Many of these men wore armor now. Several of the other crews had even started joining Bridge Four in drills. Just as he had with the men of Bridge Four, Kaladin had given these people's lives something resembling meaning.

Sarus tried not to feel envious, but as always, it was all he could do to keep the ugly feeling buried. It still simmered there, beneath the layers of gratitude and friendship. He cared for Kaladin, of course. He couldn't help it. That was one of the things he envied most.

The run began. Sarus realized at once that something was different. Rather than the usual twenty bridges, all forty were being mobilized. The warcamp was a hive of activity, and he saw battalions of Kholin soldiers marshaling in the same muster as the Sadeas troops. Normally, Highprince Dalinar gathered his soldiers at his own warcamp and made his own way to the plateau with his slower bridges. Perhaps, with this assault on such a distant plateau, the Kholin highprince had acquiesced to using Sadeas' faster bridges in order to arrive in time?

The run began just as every other did—with a long sprint across a dozen permanent bridges. Sarus hardly felt the weight of the bridge on his shoulders, after five years on the Plains, but even he was benefiting from the regular drilling with Kaladin. He found he was in less pain after each run and during the breaks between sprints. Rather than an arduous, painful ordeal, the portion of the run leading up to the final plateau was almost pleasantly meditative.

Of course, a run to the Tower was long enough that even his conditioned body started to flag by the end. It was several hours' run from the warcamp to that distant plateau, counting the breaks to allow soldiers to traverse the bridge. Sarus noticed that, this time, Sadeas was carefully not crossing Bridge Four when he traversed alongside Dalinar and Adolin.

Is he worried they might recognize me? Sarus had met the Kholins perhaps twice when he was much younger. He would have been beyond astounded if any of them remembered him at all, much less recognized him after the toll of five years on the Shattered Plains.

Well. Renarin might remember him. But Renarin also probably did not accompany his father and brother on plateau assaults. People prone to occasional seizures were generally kept away from battlefields.

A few of the bridges had apparently been loaned to Highprince Dalinar. They ran a little separated from the main force, eight bridges carried along ahead of a column of blue.

Eventually, the time came for the final sprint. The Parshendi were, of course, already assembled on the plateau. Sarus could practically feel their rage prickling against his skin, raising the hair on his arms beneath the plating of desecrated chitin.

"You sure you don't mind being up in front with me?" Kaladin asked quietly.

Sarus took a swig from his waterskin before nodding.

Kaladin put a hand on his shoulder. "It won't be much longer," he said, his voice barely audible over the marching armies. "A few more weeks before we can make an attempt. We'll get out of this, Tesh. One way or another."

One way or another. Sarus had spent five years stubbornly refusing to take the easy death of the Honor Chasm. Now, in just a few short weeks, he would likely suffer an equally vain death on the spears of the Sadeas guards.

But even if he did, at least this way he would go down spiting Torol Sadeas. And that was some comfort.

The army finished crossing, and Kaladin led the crew across. Sarus no longer carried the bridge—the row behind had moved forward to take his and Kaladin's places at the deathpoint. The two of them, alongside Peet, Bisig, and Dunny, were the primary decoys. They would sprint directly ahead of Bridge Four to draw away the Parshendi fire.

A horn call sounded, and the sprint began. Sarus dashed forward, keeping his shield only vaguely ahead of him. Kaladin kept pace easily. The other three decoys were not far behind. On Sarus' shoulder, Archive grunted as Kaladin sucked in orange Stormlight from the spheres at his belt.

The Parshendi archers fired before they were properly in range. A few arrows flew on target, the rest fell short. The next volley, however, was nearer. Not every arrow curved into Kaladin's shield. But most did.

"Evade!" Kaladin bellowed, and the five decoys scattered. Kaladin moved ahead, twisting like a dancer between flying shafts as if they were moving no faster than chulls. Most of the archers focused on him—somehow, they had learned that he was the ringleader. Perhaps the archers on that first run—the ones who had escaped Dalinar, at least—had given a description to the rest. Either way, they tried mightily to bring him down. He was a symbol, and the Parshendi must have hoped that if they destroyed him, they would end the defilement of their dead. They might even be right.

But Kaladin refused to die. And so did Sarus. Arrows zipped by them, several thudded into hard points on their armor and shields, but none caught Sarus' flesh.

The bridges passed them. With Bridge Four at the head, twenty-seven bridges struck the edge of the plateau. Five had fallen, Sarus saw, felled by archers too distant to aim for the blasphemers of Bridge Four. The remaining bridges were pushed across, and then with a roar like thunder the cavalry charged in.

There was little cover on this plateau, so Sarus signaled to Rock and the rest of the crew to fall back behind him. Kaladin was, for the moment, too distracted to give orders. The archers were still focused on him, even as the heavy cavalry broke through their line. It would be a minute or more before they were forced to face the army or perish.

Sarus grimaced as the rest of the crew drew near. Teft was stumbling, supported by Moash as they hobbled away from the battle. A Parshendi arrow sprouted from his shoulder, having struck a weak point in the plating. As Sarus looked around, taking stock, he saw that another arrow had struck Dunny in the leg. The man was limping away, but as one of the five decoys, several archers were still aiming directly for him.

Sarus moved. He sprinted into the path of the arrows. Four caught on his shield. Another impacted a hard point in his breastplate. He turned into the storm, raising his shield ahead of him like cover against a highstorm. Thudding impacts struck against it, again and again, but it held.

Standing still, however, left Sarus more exposed. An arrow scraped past his bicep, drawing blood. Another scored against his cheek where he was partially exposed beneath the helmet. A third cut against his thigh. But none sank deep.

Then the volley abated. The archers had been forced back. Sarus saw in the distance as Dalinar's eight bridges ran across the plateau, taking advantage of the now fully distracted archers, the Kholin army on their heels.

Kaladin rejoined the group, running towards Teft and Dunny. "Damnation," he cursed. "Lopen, get a fire going and heat up a knife! And pass me a waterskin!"

Sarus watched him rush to Teft's aid. Then he looked down at his own shield. Twenty-two arrows sprouted from it.

They had not curved into it, the way arrows redirected around Kaladin. They had just… happened to be aiming at his shield. The Parshendi firing in his direction had simply been less accurate. It sometimes seemed like those firing in Sarus' direction were always less accurate.

Is this my ability as a Radiant? Sarus wondered. If Kaladin can redirect arrows and stick rocks to chasm walls, maybe I can impose bad aim on my enemies?

The Kholin army completed their crossing, slamming in waves against the Parshendi line. They maneuvered around, trying to close off the northern escape route, pinning the Parshendi against the rising slope of the Tower. With Dalinar Kholin on the plateau's northern side, Torol Sadeas to the west, the Parshendi were entirely pinned.

With Torol Sadeas to the west… Sarus looked, and his heart momentarily stopped.

The army in green was retreating. The moment the Kholin army had completed their crossing, they had allowed the Parshendi line to break past them, so that instead of encircling the Parshendi, the force in blue was now encircled themselves. Sadeas officers were galloping towards Dalinar's eight bridge crews, ordering them to pull back their bridges. Sarus saw one lighteyes cut down a bridgeleader who refused, then give the same order to a different terrified man. This one obeyed.

Oh, no, Sarus thought, staring at the tragedy playing out before his eyes. That man was your friend, Sadeas. What have you done?

"Tesh!" Kaladin called from behind him. The man sounded ragged. Sarus turned to see Kaladin beckoning him. "You injured?"

Sarus shook his head, jogging over, only too glad of an excuse to turn his back on the doomed battle across the chasm. Teft seemed to be recovering, though a nasty cauterized scar was visible on his shoulder. Kaladin was leaning over Dunny, who seemed to have had his injuries stitched closed. As Sarus approached, he saw Kaladin look past him at the battle. Then he frowned, doing a double take. His eyes widened and he sprang to his feet. "Rock, Murk, get the men ready to flee. Tesh, carry Dunny. Leyten, Drehy, you two get Teft. Moash, you're with me."

"Flee? What—" Murk began, but Kaladin was already gone.

Sarus blinked after him. What opportunity did Kaladin see that he did not? How could Sadeas' betrayal of Dalinar give them an opportunity to escape? He shrugged at Murk, then hefted Dunny up in his arms.

"Careful," said Dunny through gritted teeth. "Storms, that's not pleasant."

It's an arrow wound, Sarus thought dryly. I'd not expect it to be.

The crew dashed towards the bridge as Kaladin and Moash moved towards the Sadeas banners. Sarus, Leyten, and Drehy carried the wounded in the other direction, towards the western end of the plateau.

Kaladin and Moash rejoined the rest of the crew soon. Sarus couldn't see much from here, but there were storm clouds in Kaladin's expression. Soon, the crew moved towards Sarus and his group, the bridge back on their shoulders.

"They're abandoning Dalinar," Kaladin said stiffly. His face was grim. "Sadeas betrayed him."

Sarus blinked, falling into step beside the bridge. What did you think was happening?

"I thought he might have been injured," Kaladin said, correctly interpreting Sarus' look. "I thought… well, it doesn't matter now." He sighed.

You thought there might be something good in Torol Sadeas, Sarus thought. If only you weren't wrong.

With five men either injured or carrying the injured, and so soon after the mad sprint to the Tower, Bridge Four was slower than the rest of the army. By the time they reached the first chasm on the long march back to the warcamp, the army had already mostly crossed.

They set the bridge down heavily. Sarus felt a little guilty that he was only laden with Dunny, rather than with the weight of the bridge. "Don't push it across," Kaladin ordered the others with a sigh. "We'll wait until the last of the soldiers have crossed, then carry it over one of the other bridges."

Sarus saw Brightlord Matal shoot Kaladin a look from nearby, but he realized, as Kaladin and Sarus did, that even if they pushed it across, they'd have to pull it back on the other side after mere moments.

"Battah's storming biceps," muttered Murk from Sarus' left. He was gazing back at the Tower. "I can't believe this."

"A shame, is what it is," said Gadol. He spat on the rock beside his feet. "A storming shame."

Several other bridgemen nodded, grim displeasure and even grief on their faces. They had not forgotten that, barely a week ago, Dalinar Kholin had come to their rescue.

Now they were leaving him to die.

"Bridge Four!" called Brightlord Matal. Sarus turned to see him waving from across Bridge Six. "Come on!"

"We'll follow on our own bridge!" Kaladin called back. "We just got here. We need a breather for a few minutes."

Sarus blinked at him. Kaladin seemed exhausted, leaning against the railing of the bridge, but there was a tension around his eyes.

"Cross now!" Matal shouted back.

"We'll just fall farther behind! You want to explain to Sadeas why he has to hold up the whole column for one bridge crew? We have our bridge—we'll catch up later."

"And if the Parshendi come after you?"

"Then the Parshendi come after us, and you don't have to deal with us anymore."

Matal seemed to decide that was a fair answer. He shrugged, and ordered Bridge Six to pull their bridge across, leaving Sarus and his crew alone on the plateau.

Sarus' mouth dropped open, staring at the back of Avarak Matal's head. That man, he thought in awe, is perhaps the most storming stupid one I have ever seen. He whipped his head around to see the broad smile spreading across Kaladin's face.

"I can't believe it," Kaladin said. "After all that worrying, and now, just because Matal is an idiot—Men, we're free!"

The others turned to him. Several were confused, but Sarus saw the realization spreading across the faces of the rest.

"We'll follow in a short while," Kaladin said, grinning widely. "Matal will assume we're coming. We fall farther and farther behind, until we're out of sight. Then we turn north, use the bridge to cross the Plains. We can escape northward into the Unclaimed Hills, and everyone will just assume the Parshendi caught up and killed us!"

"Supplies," Teft said, but it was the tone of a man figuring out how to make an idea work, not a man doubting its validity.

"We have a wealth of spheres here," said Kaladin, holding up his sphere pouch. "We can take the armor and weapons from the dead to defend ourselves. It'll be hard, but we won't be chased!" Then he paused, even as the other bridgemen started to mutter excitedly. "I'll have to stay behind."

"What?" Moash barked.

"The men back in camp," Murk said quietly. "Arik, Peet, and the others."

"And Shen," confirmed Kaladin. "I won't leave them behind. Besides, if I stay behind, I can support the story. Wound me and leave me on a plateau. When Sadeas sends scavengers back, I can tell them the Parshendi hunted my crew down in retribution for desecrating their dead, and tossed our bridge into the chasm. They'll believe it."

Sarus wasn't so sure they would.

"We're not leaving without you," said Sigzil.

"Of course we're not," said Moash.

Kaladin sighed. "We can talk about it later. Maybe I'll go with you and return later for the wounded." Sarus could tell not a single man on the crew believed Kaladin would do so. "For now, go salvage from those bodies. That's an order."

The rest of the crew started towards the dead on the eastern side of the plateau, the men who had been killed by Parshendi arrows on the approach. Most of them were bridgemen, of course, but there were a few soldiers here and there. Sarus stayed.

"You too, Tesh," Kaladin said. But Sarus wasn't looking at him. He was looking at Syl.

The Honorspren had grown to the size of a human. She was standing eastward of the both of them, her face turned to the battle still raging on the Tower. Her eyes were haunted, as if she was seeing not one battle, but hundreds, playing out before her eyes in compressed lifetimes of violence.

Kaladin followed Sarus' gaze, then followed Syl's. Out of the corner of his eye, Sarus saw his expression twist. "It'd be suicide," he said. "We have a bridge, and with the Parshendi distracted, we might be able to get it placed. But even with me and Syl, we'd never be able to hold it. Not for long enough to get that whole army out. We'd be slaughtered right with them, and the Parshendi would throw our bridge into the chasm."

Life before death, Sarus thought. But that wasn't the whole oath, was it?

The other bridgemen began to trickle back. Rock followed their gaze towards the Tower. "This thing, it is terrible," he said. "Can we do nothing to help?"

"We'd just die, Rock," said Kaladin.

"We could hang back out of range," Sigzil suggested. "See if Kholin can cut his way to us, then lay the bridge if he does?"

"He'd assume we were scouts left by Sadeas," Kaladin said. "No, we'd have to charge the chasm. He'd never come down otherwise. Besides, if we did save some of those men, they'd talk, and Sadeas would know we survived. We'd be throwing away our chance at freedom." His voice fell to a whisper, as if he was trying to convince himself. "We owe them nothing. Kholin got them into this. I won't let my men die for him."

"Are windspren attracted to wind," Syl said, her voice hollow, "or do they make it?"

"What?" Kaladin asked, glancing back at her.

She turned to him. "I'm an honorspren, Kaladin. I bind things. I am a spirit of oaths and promises. Of nobility."

Sarus watched a hundred expressions cross Kaladin's face in the space between two heartbeats. "I've been here before, Syl," he said, and his whispered words cracked brokenly. "I gave the lives of a dozen of the men under my command to save a lighteyes who was supposed to be noble, and it cost the ones who survived their lives too. It landed me here. I've learned. I won't be a fool again. I can't let them die again."

He looked so small, in that moment. Far from the proud man Sarus had known. He looked beaten. In this moment he looked every bit the broken slave his brands proclaimed him to be.

He looked weak.

And Sarus got it.

Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination.

He reached out and put a shaking hand on the carapace armor of Kaladin's shoulder. As he felt the plating against his palm, the shuddering ceased. Uncertainty gave way to certainty.

Kaladin blinked at him. "Tesh?"

"My name," said Sarus, "is Sarus." The words hurt as they emerged from his throat, tearing through three years of disuse like a stormwind through paper. His voice was a strange, unnatural croak, but the words were still intelligible.

Kaladin's eyes grew wide. "You—"

"The spite of a lighteyes put me here," said Sarus. "I refuse to be the instrument… he uses to betray a better man." Even as he spoke, word by word, his voice came easier. The pain in his throat smoothed away strangely quickly, as if the damage to his body were being healed between one moment and the next. Is this Stormlight healing me? He wondered. Is it Archive doing this?

"Is he really a better man?" Kaladin asked quietly.

Sarus shrugged. "Does it matter?" he asked. And though his voice was a little deeper than he remembered, it had fully returned by the time he spoke the final word.

Kaladin met his eyes. Then he turned back to the Tower. "No," he said. "No, I guess it doesn't."

"Then we go back?" Rock asked.

Sarus and Kaladin both turned. The rest of the crew were staring at them, standing beside the bridge.

"You're all willing?" Kaladin asked.

One by one, every single man nodded. Even Moash, who hated lighteyes. Even Gadol, who hated nearly everything.

Kaladin took a deep breath. "Then, yes," he said. And, in a shout, "Bridge up!"

Thirty-three beggars, slaves, wretches, and unfortunates cheered their agreement. Sarus found himself smiling.

"I accept your words," said Archive softly from his shoulder. "I accept, my Elsecaller."

"Thank you," whispered Sarus as he raised the bridge onto his shoulders. For the first time in three years, it felt like he'd had something to say that was worth saying. It felt like he had said something that made a difference. "Thank you for everything, Archive."

As one, Bridge Four charged back into the fray.

179

LithosMaitreya

Jan 30, 2023

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Threadmarks 23: Neshua Kadal

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

Subscriber

Feb 6, 2023

#760

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

-x-x-x-

Neshua Kadal

-x-x-x-

I am deathly afraid. I feel no shame in saying so. Had you seen this thing, you would be too.

-x-x-x-

As they approached, the Kholin army visibly changed tactics. Sarus knew they had been seen. Dalinar Kholin was going to try and come to them. Unfortunately, a squadron of Parshendi had also seen them. Several archers were hastily preparing a firing line, while another group leapt to an adjacent plateau and drew their own bows back in an attempt to flank.

"Kaladin!" Sarus called ahead to the decoy at the front. "Our right flank!"

Kaladin glanced back. His eyes widened. "Bridge Four!" he bellowed. "Side carry right!"

It had been weeks since they had drilled with side carry, but they remembered the movement. The flanking Parshendi found only wood to meet their arrows.

But the Parshendi still on the Tower were drawing back to fire. Kaladin whirled to face them, screaming. Stormlight burst from him, coating the rock around his feet in frost. The volley arced in midair, and several arrows along the outside seemed to speed up as they fled directly into Kaladin's shield. The man stumbled back with a groan, and Sarus caught him.

In awe, the men ground to a halt. Several stopped even trying to hold the bridge, and those who remained were not enough to keep it aloft. It struck the rock with a muted thump.

"Nalan's leaky overcoat," whispered Murk in awe.

Kaladin was shaking in Sarus arms. Sarus had noticed that using Stormlight drained him, and that had to be more Stormlight than he had ever used at once. The face of his shield was entirely hidden behind hundreds of arrows, many splitting one another. Several had broken through it entirely and speared into his forearm, which was bleeding. As Kaladin dropped it, the shield crumbled away into little more than sawdust.

"Neshua Kadal!" The words came from across the chasm. Sarus looked up to see the Parshendi staring in awe and fear at Kaladin. The language was unfamiliar, and yet Sarus understood exactly what they were saying: Knight Radiant.

Then the front line of Parshendi turned and fled.

"What?" Kaladin mumbled.

"Don't know, and it doesn't matter now," said Sarus. "Lopen, get Kaladin to safety. The rest of you—we still have a job to do. Bridge up!"

The crew obeyed. They made the final sprint quickly, before the Parshendi had time to rally. "Get across and keep the bridge open for the Kholin retreat," Sarus ordered. "I'll go help Kaladin."

Rock, Moash, and Murk—the three uninjured subsquad leaders—all nodded. Then, with a few quick, barked orders, they dashed across the bridge and into battle.

Sarus sprinted back to where Kaladin lay beside Teft and Dunny. His skin was ashen, the color of an underripe vinebud from the fields around Sadear. As Sarus approached, he saw that Kaladin's eyes were bright and glazed over as if with fever, staring up into the sky.

"Something's wrong!" Syl called as she saw Sarus approaching. Her face was twisted with horror. "Please, help him! He needs Stormlight!"

Sarus nodded, already reaching for his pouch. The long run had replenished his spheres… but, unfortunately, he had given those freshly infused spheres to Kaladin before the final charge so that he would have Stormlight aplenty for the assault. What he had now were those spheres which had gone dun in Kaladin's possession. A trickle of orange light was visible in them, but as he held them out to Kaladin, he doubted it would be enough.

Kaladin breathed in, orange light flowing into him. He blinked, and his eyes cleared, but his skin was still clammy. "Tesh?"

"Again," said Sarus, "my name is Sarus. I realize that will take some getting used to."

Kaladin blinked, looking past Sarus at the Tower. "They're all going to die," he whispered.

"Kaladin," whispered Syl, leaning close to her Radiant. "Do you know the Words?"

Sarus raised an eyebrow. Another oath? Would that help Kaladin here?

"All I wanted to do was protect them," Kaladin whispered.

"I know," said Syl soothingly. "That's why I'm here. The Words, Kaladin. Please."

She was crying, Sarus realized, crystalline tears trailing down her translucent cheeks.

"They're going to die. They're all going to die." Kaladin's voice was hoarse. His eyes stared at the battle, glazed and hollow. Sarus followed his gaze and saw that the Parshendi had assembled on the plateau right where the bridge was about to make contact. The furious war-song they sang whenever they saw the bridgemen in their carapace was on their lips.

The bridge would land, and the Parshendi would surge across it, slaughter Bridge Four, and send the Kholin army's only escape route tumbling into the chasm.

"Not if you do something about it," Sarus said. "The words, Kaladin. I suspect you know them."

Kaladin stared up at him. Then his face hardened. Skin still pale, he forced himself to his feet.

"Speak," Sarus commanded.

"I will protect those who cannot protect themselves."

Stormlight exploded from Kaladin with a sound like a thunderclap and a flare like lightning. His skin cleared. His eyes glowed, suddenly brilliant blue, the color of infused sapphires. He smiled and bent down to pick up a spear.

Then he turned to Sarus. "Thank you," he said.

"Thank me by helping us all get out of this alive," said Sarus.

Kaladin grinned and turned to charge. Sarus followed, picking up another fallen spear as he ran.

They reached the bridgemen within the space of a few heartbeats. Kaladin leapt over their heads, sandals thudding onto the bridge, which was still only partially extended. Sarus followed as he began to run across it, leaping the last of the distance onto the tower, spear raised, eyes luminous. The Parshendi fell back, their song falling quiet, awe and terror in their eyes. Even as they did, Sarus saw Light flowing from the gems woven into their hair and beard, streaming upward into Kaladin.

He landed, spear twisting in the air to beat away the weapons of the few Parshendi who had not already leapt back to give him room. They stared at him, humming with amazement and fear. Sarus saw a few gloryspren blooming into being around Kaladin, and in a sudden breeze, several windspren orbited momentarily around him.

Several Parshendi—those with gems still infused in their hair, Sarus noticed—fled. Several more raised their weapons in challenge. In the momentary lull, the bridge made contact with the plateau at Kaladin's heels. Sarus ran across it, coming to a halt beside his bridgeleader. Not a word was spoken; they glanced at one another and merely nodded. Then, together, they dove into the screaming Parshendi line.

Sarus found himself laughing as he carried his body through the forms that had once been so familiar. He scarcely bothered with the point of his spear, preferring instead to use the long haft to deflect and redirect the enemy's blows to their own ruin. Beside him, Kaladin was a highstorm in the shape of a man, tearing through the Parshendi, drawing in intermittent Streams of stormlight from their gems. There was a perverse joy in the slaughter—perhaps not in the actual death of the enemy surrounding him, but in feeling as though, for the first time in years, he was himself again.

He deflected a Parshendi axe, sending the blade careening into the chest of another foe. Then he twisted, allowing a blade to slip past his head as he drove his spear point into its wielder. He spun, twisting the spear around him so that both the butt and the point struck half a dozen Parshendi where they were weakest—the head, beneath the arm, the inside of the knee.

Kaladin gradually drew back to the bridge. Sarus followed, fighting as he withdrew. "I don't have as much Stormlight as I'd like," Kaladin said, barely audible over the clashing of weapons.

"You seem to be making far better use of it than before," Sarus answered.

"I think I'm more efficient. A lot more efficient. And speaking the Words gave me a burst of it. But I'm not getting any more."

"Well, I can't replenish mine any faster than I have been," Sarus said. "So you'll have to make it last."

Kaladin nodded grimly. A momentary break in the combat allowed him to look over the Parshendi at the Kholin army approaching. "They're getting close."

They were, but Sarus saw something that made his heart sink. "Dalinar is fighting a Shardbearer," he said.

Kaladin deflected a weapon. "You can see that from here?"

Sarus had always had keen eyes. He could also see that Dalinar's Plate was damaged. And he could see the way the men around him refused to leave him behind. He watched them dying.

Another figure in blue Plate broke through the Parshendi line at last. A flood of soldiers rushed toward the bridge. Kaladin and Sarus fell back as the Kholin army took over the defense of the bridge. But the soldiers seemed reluctant to cross, instead holding the bridgehead with grim determination.

"Report," Kaladin called to Rock.

"Three dead," Rock said. He stood over the bodies of Pelan, Hobber, and Koolf. "And two more injured—Natam and Leyten. Lopen took them to Teft and Dunny."

Kaladin nodded grimly. "Pull back, let the soldiers defend the bridge for now. Sarus, you stay with me. Moash, you too."

Moash was the best of the crew with the spear, other than Kaladin or Sarus. He nodded, standing straight as the rest of the men fell back.

Kaladin crossed back onto the Tower, then turned to face a wounded soldier leaning on the bridge's railing. "Who's in command here?"

"…Brightlord Dalinar," said the man. He spoke slowly, and his eyes seemed unfocused, as if he was seeing double.

"Immediate command," Kaladin amended impatiently. "Who's your captain?"

"Dead," said the man. He had a long cut across his cheek, beneath green eyes, and his helmet was dented. "And—and my companylord, and his second."

Kaladin cursed. "Storms. I need an officer." He waved the man across the bridge. "Get across. You and all the other wounded."

The man limped over the crossing as Kaladin pushed into the army. Sarus and Moash followed.

"I need an officer!" Kaladin bellowed, trying to make himself heard over the clamor of battle. "An officer, storm you all!"

"Over here!" a voice called from across a wide group of men. "I've found Brightlord Havar! He commands the rear guard!"

Once they reached Brightlord Havar, however, they found him already nearly dead. His gut had been split by a Parshendi, and blood trailed from his lips, staining his beard.

Kaladin grimaced, looking at the man who had called them over. "Where's his second?"

"Dead," said the man.

"And you are?"

"Nacomb Gaval." He was a young man, Sarus noted. Younger than himself or Kaladin. Lighteyed, but likely no higher than eighth or seventh dahn.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Brightlord Gaval," said Kaladin. "You've been given a field commission as commander of the rear guard. Now get your men across that bridge as quickly as possible."

Nacomb Gaval's eyes went wide. "Command—can you do that?"

"I just did," said Kaladin. "Now get to work."

The man seemed about to protest, so Sarus stepped forward. The man's eyes caught on him, and he seemed to pale. "I—right." Then he picked up the dying commander and bellowed for the rear guard to follow him.

"It's handy that you can do that," Kaladin observed, beginning to pull off his armor. "Get the carapace off, both of you—we don't want to enrage the Parshendi right now."

There was still some protection offered by the gambeson beneath the chitin. Sarus unhooked the carapace plates from his armor, tossing them down beside Moash and Kaladin's. Then the three of them pressed farther forward. Near the front line they finally found a commander, wearing a steel breastplate over his deeper blue uniform, silver knots on his shoulder. He gave Kaladin a nod as they approached.

"You command the bridgemen?" He had to shout to be heard over the melee.

"Yes," Kaladin called back. "Why aren't your men moving across the bridge?"

"We are the Cobalt Guard. Our duty is to protect Brightlord Adolin." The commander pointed in the direction of Adolin, resplendent in his blue Plate. He seemed to be pushing into the Parshendi.

"He's trying to reach his father," Sarus said. Squinting, he could still make out where the shoulder of Dalinar's grey Plate peeked out over the heads of the Parshendi.

"Where are his guards, then?" Kaladin asked.

"Dead," Sarus reported. There were no more men in blue around the highprince. He seemed to be locked in a duel with a Parshendi Shardbearer, surrounded by a ring of watching Parshendi. As Sarus watched, the Parshendi swung her blade in a wide arc, catching Dalinar in the hip, and he went down. Not dead yet—the Plate had not broken—but that would likely change soon.

Kaladin cursed. "You have to fall back," he told the commander. "The rear guard is already crossing. If you stay, you'll be surrounded in minutes!"

"We will not abandon Brightlord Adolin." The man was grimly resigned. "I'm sorry."

"Fine," growled Kaladin. Then he raised his spear and charged through the Alethi front line. Sarus and Moash followed. The three of them cut a path through the Parshendi, felling dozens, until they reached Adolin.

There they had to halt to avoid passing into the range of his wide swings. His six-foot Shardblade moved as if it were no heavier than a child's toy sword. Yet Sarus could see the man was flagging. His helm was gone, replaced with a spearman's cap. He favored his left leg, and a gaping hole was visible in the Plate protecting his right side, where a portion of the armor had shattered.

"Adolin Kholin!" Kaladin bellowed. The man didn't even seem to hear him.

"Adolin!" Sarus shouted. His deep voice resonated, seeming almost to rattle the fallen weapons strewn across the rocks.

Adolin started, leaping back into a guard and looking at them. With apparent reluctance, he fell back, allowing the Cobalt Guard to rush forward and take over the defense.

"Who are you three?" Adolin demanded.

"The men who saved your life," Kaladin snapped. "You need to order a retreat. These men can't fight any longer."

"My father is out there, bridgeman," said Adolin, pointing with his Blade. "I saw him just moments ago. His Ryshadium went for him, but they need help."

Sarus looked and—yes, the massive Ryshadium had joined Dalinar, but it was being held back by the Parshendi. They seemed reluctant to attack it with their weapons, instead trying to bodily force it back, as if they were afraid to injure such a majestic creature. Dalinar himself had fallen, and his helmet had shattered. The Parshendi Shardbearer stood over him—but, for some reason, she wasn't attacking. She seemed to be studying him, as if looking for something in his exposed face.

There was no time. Dalinar would be dead in moments if that Shardbearer decided to attack. But she wasn't attacking. That presented an opportunity. "Kaladin," said Sarus, "the highprince is on the ground. The enemy Shardbearer hasn't killed him yet, but we don't have time for a protracted offense, even if these men could manage such a thing."

Adolin bared his teeth. "He's so close. You can even see him."

"Yes," Sarus said, glaring at the lighteyes. "And we can reach him. We can move faster than your army. Get your men out of here. We will rescue your father."

Kaladin looked at him, then nodded. "These men will all die if you don't give that order, Brightlord," he told Adolin.

Adolin swore. "Captainlord Malan!" he shouted. "Take your soldiers, go with these men. Get my father out!" And with that, he reluctantly limped away.

"Moash, go with him," Kaladin ordered.

"No," Moash said.

"I wasn't asking."

"We will be fine, Moash," Sarus promised. "You have my word."

Moash grimaced at him, and Sarus even winced at his own words. The last time he'd verbally promised to protect someone, she had died in his arms.

—Smoke drifting away on the gale—

"I'll hold you to that," growled Moash, before turning and following Adolin away.

Kaladin turned to Sarus. "Ready?"

Sarus nodded.

Kaladin smiled thinly, then turned and charged the Parshendi again. Sarus kept pace. They tripped up the first line with their spears, then killed another four between them. Within moments, they reached the rock shelf where Dalinar had fallen.

"Hold our retreat!" Kaladin bellowed to Sarus.

Sarus nodded, shouting a battle cry in a voice that rolled like thunder. He spun his spear in a practiced maneuver, beating the Parshendi back around him, holding them away momentarily. If the entire force that had surrounded the Shardbearer's duel closed in on them, he would be surrounded in moments. But they had been taken by surprise, and that bought them precious time.

There was a scream somewhere behind Sarus as Kaladin attacked the Parshendi Shardbearer. Her voice was pained. He must have found a weak point in her armor. The sound sent the Parshendi soldiers shying away in terror—or, perhaps that was the way Kaladin was glowing. Sarus could see the blue light reflected in his enemies' black eyes.

Then he noticed that he was glowing too. Stormlight flickered around him in two shades—the flame-orange of his own infused spheres, and a cool teal color that resembled the color of infused zircon spheres. It was a shade he had not often seen before, as zircon spheres were not especially common.

"They fear us," Archive said softly from his shoulder. "Their memory yet is, and they fear our kind."

"Neshua Kadal," whispered Sarus. The Parshendi nearest him, close enough to hear, blanched. "Knights Radiant."

"On your horse!" he heard Kaladin command.

"We should finish him…" Dalinar's voice sounded muzzy. He must have taken a blow to the head, hard enough to rattle him as it shattered his helm. "We—"

"Get on your storming horse, highprince!" Kaladin bellowed. "Your men won't leave without you, and my men won't leave without them. So you will get on your horse, and we will escape this deathtrap. Now!"

There was a moment's pause. Sarus didn't dare look back, keeping his eyes on the Parshendi ahead of him.

Then, finally—"Retreat!" bellowed Dalinar Kholin. A moment later, the Ryshadium sprung past Sarus with a joyful whinny, bowling over the front line of the Parshendi and galloping down the thin corridor the Cobalt Guard had managed to secure. Sarus and Kaladin sprinted after it, the Cobalt Guard withdrawing behind them.

Then, at long last, they were through. They crossed the bridge, and Kaladin bellowed for the crew to draw it back. Sarus turned, already prepared to fight any Parshendi who leapt across in pursuit.

But none did. They crowded on the edge of the Tower, watching the Alethi escape. Their song had changed from the frenzied battle-chant of combat to the triumphant song they always hummed when they defeated the Alethi forces. The woman in silver Shardplate stepped through the line, limping, and raised her Blade in salute.

Upon his horse, Sarus saw Highprince Dalinar salute back.

And with that, it was over. The army fell back, and the Parshendi began the work of opening the chrysalis.

"Set up triage!" Dalinar ordered to his surviving soldiers. "We don't leave anyone behind who has a chance at living! The Parshendi won't attack us here."

Sarus heard the triumph in the answering shouts. He had heard the celebrations after successful gemheart hunts. Not one of them had been half so victorious as the relief of these men pulled from the jaws of death.

Dalinar slumped on his horse. He turned to regard Sarus and Kaladin. "You are… to be commended," he said. "Why did Sadeas withdraw, only to send you back?"

Several of the bridgemen chuckled. Sarus heard Dunny whoop in laughter.

"He didn't," Kaladin said dryly. "We came on our own, despite his wishes."

Dalinar seemed to realize that was the only sensible answer even as Kaladin delivered it. "Why? Why come for us?"

Kaladin shrugged with a sigh. "You let yourself get pretty spectacularly trapped there."

"Yes, but why did you come? And how did you learn to fight so well?"

"By accident," said Kaladin flatly, before kneeling beside the injured Natam, turning his back to the highprince.

Sarus sighed at his bridgeleader's rudeness. "Forgive him," he told Dalinar smoothly. "I expect he's now coming to terms with the consequences of our actions."

Dalinar looked grim. "You fear reprisal from Sadeas."

"More than that—we had an opportunity to escape today when we fell behind the army with our bridge. Instead, we came to rescue you. Even if we escape now, he will certainly hunt us down."

"A great sacrifice to make for men in your position," said Dalinar softly. "I could take you into my camp—make Sadeas free you from your bondage."

"And why would he let us go?" Sarus said with a grim smile. "You can ill afford war with the Sadeas highprincedom now, after losing what must be nearly four thousand men in a single day. And the fact that he tried to remove you by subterfuge suggests that he does not desire war either. By taking us into your camp, you would be committing robbery against another highprince. The king would be bound by law to take his side—and if he did not, it would fracture the kingdom."

Dalinar grimaced. "Unite them…" he muttered to himself. Then he shook his head. "I will not allow Sadeas to punish you for this," he said. "Return with me. I vow that you will be safe. I swear it on every shred of honor left to me."

Sarus raised an eyebrow. "I believe that you intend to deliver," he said. "But can you?"

Dalinar gritted his teeth. "I must," he said simply.

"Fine," grunted Kaladin. He stood up, having finished binding Natam's wound. "We'll return. I can't leave the rest of my men back at camp. And anyway, with so many of us wounded, we don't have the necessary supplies left to run."

Dalinar nodded. "I will see you safe," he promised again, before riding off to confer with his soldiers.

Kaladin shook his head with a sigh. "Do you think he can do it?" he asked Sarus.

"Of course he can do it," Sarus said. "He's a highprince. If nothing else, he can buy us from Sadeas. But Sadeas will ask far more than we are nominally worth out of pure spite. I worry Dalinar Kholin's honor may not be enough to convince him to pay so dearly for a few dozen slaves."

Kaladin groaned. "I can't believe I'm relying on the honor of a lighteyes again," he said. "After everything."

"Perhaps it will be different this time," Sarus said.

"We can only hope. We really don't have the supplies to run anymore. We'd just lose our injured and then starve out here." Kaladin sighed. Then he reached out and clasped Sarus' shoulder. "I'm glad you were here, Sarus," he said. "And I'm glad you found your voice again."

"As am I, Kaladin," said Sarus, smiling through the envy flaring once more, deep inside him. "As am I."

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LithosMaitreya

Feb 6, 2023

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Threadmarks 24: Oathbringer

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

Subscriber

Feb 13, 2023

#787

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

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Oathbringer

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Please. I understand your reasons for neutrality, though I disagree with them, but they do not apply here.

-x-x-x-

Renarin's fingers nervously fiddled with the trimmed edge of his coat as he strode into the Sadeas warcamp's staging area. The army had returned mere minutes ago—returned in far smaller numbers than they had left. And Renarin had seen a frightening lack of blue uniforms among the sea of green.

Do you think Father is all right, Glys? Renarin asked.

"I do," said Glys, though he didn't sound especially confident. He floated along beside Renarin, red crystalline body twirling nervously. "We saw him in one of those vision-panes, remember? A few weeks ago. That hasn't happened yet, so he should still be alive."

How certain are those visions, though? Renarin wondered. Are they predestined facts, or just possible outcomes?

"I don't know, Renarin," said Glys. "But I'm inclined to guess that they're fairly certain. Otherwise, I think we'd be seeing a wider web of options—a map of possible futures—rather than just a singular instant. It's not something I feel like an expert in, though."

Renarin's honor guard followed him into a small gap in the mustering ground between regiments of green-uniformed soldiers. Renarin looked around, trying to find any familiar faces, any hint of blue. Instead, he found a woman, her face set in worried, displeased lines. Aunt Navani. He hurried over to her. "Mashala!" he called—a traditional term for an aunt of higher dahn than himself. "What's happening? What have you heard?"

"Sadeas' army returned without your father's," said Navani. Her lips were a thin line, almost white with how tightly she pressed them against one another. "There is talk of a rout, but these men do not look to me like men who have routed." She glared over at the highprince, who seemed to finally deign to notice her.

He sent a soldier in their direction, who bustled over and bowed to Navani. "You may approach now, Brightness," he said apologetically.

"About time," growled Navani, looking mutinous. Renarin followed as she stormed past, trying to blend into her shadow in case the soldier decided that the permission for his aunt to approach Sadeas did not extend to her nephew.

Sadeas dismounted from his horse as they drew near, then turned to them, his hands clasped behind his back in a military rest position. His face was grim, but Renarin thought he saw a strange glint in his eyes. "Brightness Navani," he said, without shooting Renarin so much as a look. "I had hoped to bring the news to your son's palace. I suppose word of a disaster of this magnitude is too large to contain. You have my sincerest condolences."

Renarin took an involuntary step back, feeling as though he'd taken a punch to the gut.

Aunt Navani folded her arms. Her face might as well have been carved of stone. "You will explain," she told Sadeas.

Something in her face must have put Sadeas on edge. He grimaced, leaning minutely away from her. "I'm sorry, Brightness. The Parshendi overwhelmed your brother's army. Our change in tactics—working together—was so threatening to them that they brought every soldier they could to this battle. They surrounded us entirely."

"So you left him?" Navani asked furiously.

"We tried to reach him, but the enemy numbers were overpowering. We had no choice but to retreat, lest we be trapped as well." Sadeas grimaced, but Renarin couldn't shake the feeling that he was hiding a different expression entirely. "I was prepared to stay, to continue the battle, until I saw your brother fall myself. The enemy began carrying fragments of his bloodied Shardplate away as trophies, the barbarians."

That certainly didn't sound right. The Parshendi had carried Plate of their own at the beginning of the war. They would know better than to separate the set like that; it would make it harder to gather the pieces up once more to use against the Alethi. Renarin narrowed his eyes at Sadeas. He's lying, isn't he?

"I think so," Glys said. Paradoxically, he sounded more certain now than he had before the highprince had started talking. "But…" suddenly his voice grew sad. "But I think he's lying because he deliberately betrayed your father. That doesn't improve Dalinar's chances of survival."

Renarin balled his fists. He can't get away with this.

"No," Glys agreed, and there was a darkness in his voice, an almost hungry Thrill. "No, he can't."

"I don't believe this," said Aunt Navani suddenly after a long pause.

"I understand the news is difficult," said Sadeas gently. "I wish I had not been forced to bring it to you. Dalinar… well, he and I did not always predict the same storms, but I knew him for many years. I considered him an ally and a friend." He sighed, murmuring a soft curse on Talenelat'Elin's name as he looked eastward, towards the Plains. "They will pay for this. I promise you that."

Renarin hesitated. The man sounded so sincere in his rage and grief. But then he looked past the highprince and saw a single spren, like the petal of a white Shin flower, drifting on the faint breeze beside him.

Shamespren.

Renarin felt the rage building in him. He wished he were a duelist like his brother. For the first time in his life, however, it was not because he wished he were respected, or that he could make his father proud.

No, he just wanted to ram a Shardblade through that man's chest and watch his eyes sputter out like dying coals.

Then he felt it. His trembling grew suddenly worse. Oh, no.

"Now, of all times?" Glys hissed. "Damn it all."

One of Sadeas' attendants brought a chair for Aunt Navani. She refused it. Renarin took advantage of the opportunity to sit, then put his head in his hands and let the vision overcome him.

Two men stood before a highstorm. Their hands were clasped about one another's wrists in a gesture of solidarity.

"Come on, Your Majesty," said the first, a man with dark hair and a slave's brand across his brow. There was a pale blue spear in his hand, faintly luminous and giving off wisps of Stormlight.

The other man, with skin of pure silver and hair as white as snow, smiled. A strange mechanical harness whirred upon his back. "Life before death," he said.

The vision changed.

A Parshendi woman stood facing an army of her own kin. Her carapace armor was cracked, and blood leaked from a terrible gash across her cheek. She carried a Shardblade, its edges flared like the tongues of a flame.

She let the blade fall from her fingers, and it clattered to the rock. The gem on its pommel flashed as her bond to it shattered. She took a deep breath, her eyes fixed on one Parshendi with blood-red eyes in the other army.

"Strength before weakness," she whispered.

The vision changed.

Adolin Kholin knelt, a vicious snarl on his face. A knife was in his hand, and he slowly lowered it towards the face of a man in green and red livery—Torol Sadeas. Sadeas struggled, his hands on Adolin's wrists, trying to force the blade away from his eye. But Adolin was stronger, and the knife descended gradually.

"Journey…" Sadeas croaked. "Journey before destination."

"No!" Glys shouted furiously. "That bastard, a Radiant? Absolutely not! Where's his storming spren, I'll kill them!"

Renarin blinked back to consciousness, shaking. It had been like his first vision this time. Sequential, not simultaneous.

"It's got to be a Cryptic," growled Glys, whirling in the air, darting hither and thither in impotent fury. "The man's a pathological liar; Cryptics eat that crem up. That means it's visible. Cryptics can't go invisible. I just have to find it. I'll rip it apart!"

Glys, Renarin said softly. Soothing. It'll be all right.

Glys stopped flitting about. He hovered in the air ahead of Renarin's face, vibrating like a tree in the breeze that preceded a highstorm. "Radiants are supposed to—" he stopped. "It was supposed to mean something," he whispered.

It does mean something, Glys.

"Does it?" Glys asked softly. "We just saw Torol storming Sadeas, swearing the First Ideal. I'm tempted to try and kill the bastard now to prevent that."

We also saw Adolin, said Renarin. He's still alive.

Glys took a deep breath. "Yes," he said. "There is that. Not all bad, I guess. No text this time, either."

I'm getting there in my reading, Renarin said. I would probably be able to recognize the characters if there was text again, and then we could figure out what they meant later.

"Maybe," Glys said. "I just hope we have the time to finish learning. I think what we saw the last two times were numbers, and I'm worried it might be a countdown."

A countdown? To what? Renarin had seen the golden numbers superimposed over the violet storm again since the first time he had seen the stained-glass panes of foresight, and the characters had been different.

"I'm not sure," said Glys. "I'm just not sure. Two occurrences isn't enough to draw any conclusions, but if we see them again, we might be able to find a pattern."

Forgive me if I don't hope to have another of those visions.

"Understandable."

Renarin stood on shaking legs. He looked around. Then he blinked.

Aunt Navani was painting a glyphward. A glyphward larger than most Renarin had seen. She crawled upon the rock, trailing her brush in the dust. He could already see the shape of the glyph, though he could see that she was injecting a great deal of flourish into the artistry. The glyph was thath—justice.

He watched, transfixed, as she painted. She was crying, and her tears mixed with the ink. When she wiped her eyes, the ink stained her cheeks. In this exchange she became one with the glyph. There was something sacred about what Renarin was watching—or, perhaps, something sanctifying.

Minutes passed in silence. Even the Sadeas soldiers nearby seemed afraid to speak, lest they disturb the Queen Mother. Even Sadeas himself stood beneath a canopy, watching with a strange, unreadable expression on his face. Renarin saw another pair of shamespen drifting down to the ground beside him.

I hate that man, Renarin realized. It was a muted thought. It was the first time he had ever consciously admitted to hating another man, but it wasn't surprising. This man had tried to kill his father and brother. Sadeas should be grateful Renarin wasn't half the man either of them was, or he would already be fighting for his life.

At last, after several long minutes of painting, Aunt Navani fell back onto her knees, looking down at the completed glyphward. It was nearly twenty paces across, and as intricate as any glyph Renarin had ever seen. With a shaking hand, she reached for a lit candle and set the ink alight. The flames rushed through the symbol, drawing lines of flame upon the barren rock.

Then it was gone, after only a moment, leaving only smoke to signify its passing. The ardents taught that the burned glyphward died and joined the Almighty just as fallen heroes did. But in this moment, all Renarin saw was the work of a master vanishing into nothing more than a puff of hot ash.

"Brightlord Sadeas!" A soldier called, running towards the highprince from somewhere outside the camp. A sentry, perhaps—the man was not an officer. Renarin ignored him, fearing that if he looked directly at Sadeas now he wouldn't be able to hold his hate inside.

Instead, he crossed to his aunt and knelt beside her. He rested one hand on her arm. "Thank you, Mashala," he said quietly.

She nodded silently before standing up. Then she looked over to where Sadeas stood, staring out to the east, at the Shattered Plains. He looked furious, Renarin noticed. His face was turning red with his rage. Renarin smiled slightly, because he had a feeling he knew what Sadeas was looking at. He and his aunt pushed their way through the crowds of soldiers to the rim of the staging area, following the highprince's gaze.

And there they were. A bedraggled and wounded army in blue uniforms hoisted tattered Kholin banners aloft. And at their head were two men, mounted on Ryshadium, in Shardplate of slate-grey and sapphire-blue.

Renarin sighed quietly. He had known his family had survived—or, at least, he'd had reason to believe it. But it was still a relief to see them, apparently still well enough to ride. As he watched them approach, Renarin saw a portion of the column separate from the rest, moving towards the Kholin warcamp to the south. Why are they splitting up? he wondered.

"Probably to get the wounded out of the line of fire in case things get violent," Glys said, and Renarin realized he must have broadcast the thought without meaning to. "Maybe also to tell the soldiers still back at camp to get ready for a fight. It's what I'd do."

That makes sense.

"He's alive," whispered Aunt Navani.

"They both are," Renarin said quietly. His own smile was wider than it had ever been, at least in his memory. He took his aunt's arm. "Come, we should greet them."

The soldiers made no effort to stop them as they approached the edge of the Plains. They came to a stop just before the first permanent bridge.

Soon, Renarin's family reached them. "Father!" he called, raising an arm. "Adolin! You're still alive!" He hoped he sounded as surprised as he, perhaps, should have been. But none of his relief was feigned.

Adolin swung out of Sureblood's saddle, laughing, and pulled him into his arms. Renarin leaned into his brother's Plate, gripping Adolin's—cracked, he noticed—pauldron, and could for a moment forget the visions of doom that tormented him, the sight of Torol Sadeas speaking the very Words that had passed Renarin's own lips a few short months ago.

His brother was still alive. Today, that was enough.

Then their father dismounted, and pulled Aunt Navani into his arms. Renarin glanced over and blinked. That was—a more intimate greeting than Renarin would have expected. His father had always kept Aunt Navani at arm's length. They were speaking softly in each other's arms, too quiet for Renarin to hear.

"Not sure how I feel about that, little brother," said Adolin quietly.

"About what?"

Adolin nodded at their father and aunt. "I suppose I have time to get used to it," he said. "And it's better than having Father be whispered about for his visions and fits. But it will make the rumors spread even faster."

"What will?"

Adolin grinned at him. "I don't think Father thinks of Aunt Navani as a sister-in-law anymore," he said. "I suppose, if nothing else, I'm glad he's getting over Mother."

Wait… Renarin looked back at his father, blinking. Then he squinted, trying to see what Adolin was seeing. "Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be without wedding bells," said Adolin dryly. Then his face fell as he looked past Renarin.

A moment later, Dalinar and Navani broke apart. Dalinar glanced at his sons, then followed Adolin's gaze. Renarin and Aunt Navani did the same.

Torol Sadeas seemed to have gotten his anger somewhat under control. Now he merely looked like he had swallowed an extremely underripe jellafruit.

"Sadeas abandoned you, didn't he?" Navani asked. She sounded as angry as Renarin felt.

"He didn't abandon us," Adolin growled. "He set us up to die. This was all planned from the beginning."

"We survived," said Dalinar. He sounded calmer—but not calm. There was hard anger, unyielding as a stone and cold as ice, giving an edge to every syllable. "He won't attack us here, there are too many eyes. But he may try to provoke us. Do not draw your Blade, Adolin, and don't let our troops make any mistakes. We cannot afford them."

Then he began to walk forward. The rest of them followed, the army behind them. Renarin noticed a group of scruffy-looking men in rags near the head of the column, two men at their front. They bore slave brands, and one of them had patches of gray and white in his long, unkempt hair.

…Wait a moment. He recognized that man. Didn't he? He racked his brain, trying to remember, but he was too distracted now. It might come to him later.

The man beside him, however, Renarin recognized at once—after all, he'd seen him just a few minutes ago. It was the man who had carried the glowing spear in his vision.

Oh, Damnation, Glys said in Renarin's head, darting into the pocket of his coat.

Renarin blinked. What?

Prospective Radiant. Don't want to risk his spren guessing I'm here.

The man from the vision?

Yes. Stay focused, don't give us away. We can talk later.

…They can't see you, right? You said they shouldn't be able to.

No, they can't see me, Glys admitted, sounding at once frustrated and oddly ashamed. But I just—if they guess I'm here, they might… I don't know what they'd do. But it could be bad. I just want to be careful, that's all.

Renarin shrugged.

No visible motions! Glys snapped.

Fine, fine. Renarin put Glys temporarily out of his mind, following his family as they walked towards the warcamp. Sadeas was standing upon the burned rock where Aunt Navani had burned her thath glyphward. There was something intensely symbolic in that, Renarin thought.

Sadeas took a breath, visibly forcing his face to cooperate. "Dalinar!" he called, voice boisterous with relief and eyes alight with malice. "My old friend, it appears I overestimated the odds against you! I apologize for withdrawing while you were still in danger, but I had to look to the safety of my own men. You understand, I'm sure."

"Of course," said Dalinar. "You did what you had to do."

He turned, waving the men—and Renarin, Adolin, and Aunt Navani—back. Then he stepped up to the edge of the burned glyph, and Sadeas met him there, on the very edge of justice. They spoke quietly for a moment. Renarin couldn't hear what they said, and curiosity burned in him.

I… might be able to help with that, said Glys. Just don't look at me, all right? Be careful.

I will, Renarin promised.

Glys left Renarin's pocket and drifted invisibly forward until he was floating above the two highprinces Renarin carefully kept his eyes on the highprinces themselves, without so much as glancing at the red spren hovering near them. After a moment, their words suddenly passed into Renarin's mind through his link to the mistspren.

"We swore to protect this kingdom years ago," Sadeas was saying. "Protect the kingdom, and protect Elhokar."

"That's what I was doing! We had the same purpose, and we were winning!"

"It was. But I'm confident I can beat the Parshendi on my own now. Everything we achieved together, I can emulate by splitting my own army in two. And I had to take the chance to remove you, old friend. Gavilar died because he didn't immediately try to conquer the Parshendi—because he tried to pursue peace. But we are Alethkar. Peace is not our way. And now you're following his footsteps, with the Codes and that storming book. And your ideas are infecting Elhokar. He's beginning to think of retreating. I can't allow you to drive this kingdom to ruin."

"So you think this was an act of honor?"

"Not at all." Renarin saw that Sadeas was chuckling. But his eyes were no longer angry or malicious. They seemed almost… sad. "Honor has no part in this. But I swore to protect Alethkar, and if I must act without honor to see that done, I will do it. Honor died years ago, Dalinar. Elhokar needs better influences than his uncle who is slowly descending into madness. And you are going insane. You may deny it all you like, but what I did today was a mercy. This way you could have died in glory. Now, instead, you will simply spiral further down."

"…Then tell me one thing. Why not pin the attempt on Elhokar's life on me? Why clear me, only to betray me later on?"

"Oh, Dalinar, this is why you were always a better soldier than you were a highprince. No one would have believed it, and by accusing you I'd only have implicated myself. Besides, even if it had worked, you'd still have been in a position of relative power. One doesn't chase a whitespine with a sword, Dalinar. One lays a baited snare."

"Men are not beasts to hunt, Sadeas."

"They are. That you cannot see that is exactly the problem. If it means anything, I really am fond of you. Even still. But you are an obstacle, and a force working unwittingly to destroy Alethkar. When the chance came to remove you, I took it."

"This wasn't mere opportunity. You planned this."

"I'm always planning. I don't always act on those plans. Today I did."

"Well, you've shown me something today. If nothing else, you've shown me that I'm still a threat."

"I suppose I have. A threat to Alethkar. Congratulations on the position. May you choke on it."

Sadeas stepped away before Dalinar could reply. "Well," he said loudly. "Your men are obviously tired, Dalinar. We can speak in detail about what went wrong later, though I think it's fair to say our alliance has proven impractical."

"Impractical," said Dalinar. "A generous way of putting it." Then he turned and pointed at the men in rags beside the Kholin column. "I'm taking these bridgemen with me to my camp."

"I'm afraid I cannot part with them," said Sadeas immediately. His voice was suddenly sharp. His face had twisted in sudden hate, which vanished just as quickly.

"Surely they aren't worth much to you," said Renarin's father, turning back to Sadeas. He had missed the sudden flash of emotion. "Name your price."

"I am not looking to sell at this time," said Sadeas stiffly.

"I will pay sixty emerald broams per man," Dalinar said.

Renarin's eyes widened slightly. That was at least twenty times the price of a good slave. Those men appeared to be powerfully built, but surely not that powerfully built?

Then he realized what must have happened. These were bridgemen. His father had not taken any of his own bridges to this assault. Those thirty-something men were the only reason his father and brother had survived the day.

"Not for a thousand each, Dalinar," said Sadeas. His eyes were dark, and he seemed even angrier now than when he had first seen the Kholin army approaching from the plains. But this anger was cold. Slow. "Take your soldiers and leave my property here."

"Do not press me on this, Sadeas." Dalinar's voice was as hard as the other highprince's.

Adolin shifted beside Renarin, his fists clenching at his sides.

Sadeas sneered. "Do not press you? Is that the best threat you can muster? Leave. If you try to steal my property, I will have every justification in attacking you. Do not think I will not take that opportunity as well."

There was silence for a moment. Renarin's father didn't look like a man torn between two difficult options. He seemed grim, but determined.

Will it be a fight? Renarin wondered.

"No," said Glys quietly. "No, I don't think it will."

Dalinar stepped away from Sadeas, holding out an arm. Hist coalesced in his palm, snapping into the solid form of the Shardblade Oathbringer.

Renarin tensed, ready for action.

Then his father drove the weapon, point first, into the stone at Sadeas' feet. He took another step back. "For the bridgemen," he said simply.

Sadeas stared at the weapon, blinking rapidly. "…What?"

"The Blade for your bridgemen. All of them. Every single one in your camp. They become mine to do with as I please, never to be touched by you and yours again. In exchange," he gestured, "the sword."

Sadeas stared down at the weapon. There was a complicated expression on his face—one Renarin had no hope of unraveling. "This weapon is worth kingdoms," he said quietly. "Worth more than the entire Shattered Plains."

"Do we have a deal?" Dalinar asked.

Sadeas looked up from the Blade, fixing his eyes on the bridgemen. On one of the bridgemen, Renarin thought, though he couldn't tell which. For a long moment, he actually seemed to be considering refusing.

Then his hand snapped out and closed on the hilt of the Blade. He pulled it from the stone, already turning away, as though to hide his face. "Take them," he said. "Take them and get the Damnation out of my camp."

Dalinar turned from Sadeas. There was a smile on his face, small, but satisfied. "Let's go," he said.

"Wait," said a voice. One of the bridgemen—the leader, a tall man with long dark hair and a shash mark alongside his slave's brand. "That—wait. What? What just happened?"

"I agree," said Adolin faintly.

Renarin looked at the other bridgemen. All of them were looking similarly aghast, save one. The man with the patches of grey in his hair looked almost frozen, like a cremling caught outside in a highstorm whose only hope was to cling to the rock as tightly as it could. His hands were shaking, and his face was pale.

…Renarin had definitely seen him before. Where?

"I cannot guess what your lives have been like up to now," said Dalinar quietly to the bridgeman. "But I can promise you this much: you will be neither slaves nor bridgemen in my camp."

The man just blinked at him. He looked almost awed, like he had beheld the face of a Herald and couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

Dalinar smiled, looking amused. "What is the value of a man's life?" he asked the bridgeman.

"Depends on who you ask," said the man faintly. "The slavemasters say one man is worth about two emerald broams, a bit more if they're fit."

"And what do you say, son?"

"A life is priceless."

"Coincidentally, so was that sword. So today, you and your men sacrificed to buy me twenty-six hundred priceless lives, and all it cost me to repay you was a single priceless sword." Renarin's father shrugged. "I'd call that a bargain."

"You really… you actually think that was a good trade, don't you?"

"For my honor? Absolutely. Go lead your men to safety, soldier, and fetch the other bridgemen from their barracks. We'll talk again later tonight."

-x-x-x-

That night, Renarin woke suddenly just after second moonset. He sat bolt upright in his bed, eyes wide.

"What is it?" Glys asked immediately. "What's wrong?"

"That was storming Sarus!"

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LithosMaitreya

Feb 13, 2023

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Threadmarks 25: Honesty

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

Subscriber

Feb 20, 2023

#812

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

-x-x-x-

Honesty

-x-x-x-

This is not Adonalsium's various aspects vying for dominance. This is something from outside Adonalsium's power entirely, and it will not stop until we are all dead.

-x-x-x-

Twelve Years Ago

Sarus started when he heard the horn call. So did his tutor, an elderly ardent named Lobor. "Ah," said the old man, seeming to recall something. "Of course."

"Of course what, sir?" Sarus asked, looking out the window. He was trying to catch a glimpse of the castle gates, but he couldn't get the right angle from his seat. The window of Ardent Lobor's study, where Sarus was being taught, overlooked the central courtyard of Castle Sadaras, richly overgrown with flowering vinebuds and sinuous dalewillows amidst an ornamental boulder garden. However, seated at his low desk, Sarus could only see the wall on the courtyard's other side, near the servants quarters. He could actually see his own window from here—he had noticed that a few days ago, while staring out and listening to Ardent Lobor's voice slowly droning through the Heraldic Scripts.

"I had forgotten, young one," said Lobor. "The Kholins were to visit the castle today. That must be them arriving now."

"The Kholins?" Sarus turned, blinking up at the old ardent. "I thought Highprince Dalinar was campaigning in Jah Keved?"

Ardent Lobor smiled at him. "Ah, I see you have been paying attention to your lessons in politics."

"I pay attention to all my lessons, sir," said Sarus earnestly, widening his eyes just slightly in that way that made adults smile indulgently at the 'precocious little lad.'

It worked, of course. Lobor was easy; he hadn't spent nearly long enough with Sarus to have caught on to his tricks. Part of that was because Sarus hadn't had a need to cash in on his goodwill yet. He was still in the early stages of his relationship with his tutor—still in the warm first phase, where he behaved as a model student and did all he could to please and impress the old man. It wasn't lying—Sarus tried not to lie, if he could avoid it—it was just an investment.

You never knew when there might be a reason to skip one day's lessons, or to do something else the ardentia might consider naughty. When such a thing inevitably happened, it would pay to have the ardent he spent the most time with to vouch for his character.

It couldn't work forever, of course—eventually, people wised up to the cyclic nature of their relationship with Sarus. He would be good for a while, then use up some of that goodwill in one way or another, then return to his holding pattern. Sometimes, if the person was particularly sensitive to feeling that they had been taken advantage of, they grew angry at the realization. Sarus hadn't yet figured out how to get back into the good graces of the castle's head cook, Palathas, or the stablemaster, Drular.

But sometimes they didn't get angry. Sometimes they would understand. They still wouldn't let him get away with it on them anymore, but they'd still treat him with warmth when he was behaving. His mother was like that. So was Brightlady Ialai, on the few occasions he'd interacted with her. She'd caught on to him after only a couple of cycles. The woman was brilliant. He knew where Tailiah had gotten her intelligence.

And Tailiah, of course, was the one exception to both rules. Once she'd realized what he was doing, she'd laughed. From that day on, she'd been a participant, rather than a mark. She seemed to regard it as a great joke the two of them shared at the expense of the rest of the castle's inhabitants.

"Well," Lobor said, "Brightlord Dalinar is on campaign. But his family is going to the border to visit him, and Brightlady Ialai invited Brightlady Evi to spend a few nights here on the way."

"I see," said Sarus. He kept his voice deliberately casual as he asked, "I assume her children will be accompanying her?"

"I believe so," said ardent Lobor. "Indeed, we may have an opportunity to meet young Prince Renarin. He is just a little under a year younger than yourself, young one, and is also just beginning his schooling."

Sarus cocked his head. "Has he chosen his Calling, sir?"

"He has not," said Ardent Lobor. "Or at least, I have not heard that he has. He may even join us in our lessons, if he has not already covered the Heraldic Scripts."

For the younger Prince's sake, Sarus hoped he had already covered the Heraldic Scripts. They were both exceptionally tedious and so obviously a historical fabrication that it was a wonder the ardentia weren't embarrassed to continue teaching them. The Scripts purported to be a code of good Vorin morals as set down by the Herald Nalan himself. They had also quite obviously been written after the fall of the Hierocracy, given the very clear references to the idea that the highest calling of the truly devout was service. It was possible the ardentia were willfully ignorant of the dubious nature of the Scripts. It might comfort them to think that the total collapse of their power had all been in the service of the Almighty.

"Well," said Lobor, looking back down at the book on his desk and adjusting his thick-lensed spectacles. "We have a few more minutes before your first recess of the day, young one. I think perhaps we have just long enough to finish the Ninth Article, unless you have any questions about the Eighth?"

Sarus wanted nothing more than to let Lobor continue reading and thus shorten the amount of time between now and when he would finally be done listening to the Heraldic Scripts, but ignoring an invitation like that would be a waste. "Well, sir," he said, "I was wondering one thing. When Nalan'Elin wrote of the virtue of sacrifice, the poetry of the line was unusually rich. There were several interlocking near-keteks near the end of the passage. It reminded me of his defense of the Three Peaks alongside Talenelat'Elin during the Seventh Desolation. Do we know during which Desolation Nalan'Elin wrote the Scripts?"

Lobor's expression brightened. It wasn't a difficult question—a difficult question would have been pointing out that the Eighth Article also specifically referred to violet wine, which all records indicated had not been invented until many centuries into the Era of Solitude. But the point wasn't to ask a hard question—the point was to make Lobor happy.

"There is much debate among historical scholars on that very topic, young one," said Lobor warmly. "As you pointed out, the discussion of sacrifice suggests that the Scripts, or at least the Eighth Article, were written sometime after the Seventh Desolation. However, other historians believe that the Seventh Desolation showed Nalan'Elin embodying the very ideals he had already prescribed in these texts. The historian Runeus, for instance, takes the position that…"

Sarus listened with half an ear, taking occasional notes in his head of any specifics that might be helpful in demonstrating his attentiveness, and let the rest of his mind wander.

So. The Kholins were coming to Sadaras, were they? He'd never met them before—all of Tailiah's previous meetings with them had been held in Kholinar. There was something unsettling about having them here, in Sadaras. It gnawed at him, dark and unpleasant, like the feeling of hunger in his belly after being sent to bed without supper.

He wasn't an idiot. He hadn't expected to be so much more affected by having them here, but he knew why he was feeling this way. It was an open secret that Tailiah was slated to eventually be courted by Prince Adolin. The boy was, according to Tailiah's reports, handsome, witty, ready with a smile and a laugh, and not half as intelligent as either she or Sarus was.

It wasn't as though Sarus wanted to marry Tailiah himself. Even if that were the slightest bit possible, he didn't really understand the appeal of marriage to begin with. His mother would only tell him that he would understand as he grew older, and he hadn't yet figured out which ardent it was safe to ask. But the idea of her moving out of Sadaras to live in Kholinar, dozens of leagues away, with only a stranger and his attendants for company, was upsetting. When she eventually did leave, they would both be alone, no matter how many people surrounded each of them.

Lobor eventually did wind down and dismissed Sarus for his first recess. He got three each day—the first and third were brief, only a few minutes, and he had so far spent them in the ardential wing, studying his glyphs somewhere he would be seen and noted for his studiousness. The middle recess was longer, giving him time to return home for lunch.

Today, however, the ardential wing was somehow stifling. He left it behind, strolling down the stairs as quickly as he could while still appearing perfectly respectable.

He emerged out into the courtyard. The sun shone overhead, bright and warm. A few colorful cremlings were sunning themselves on the largest stones of the boulder garden. Brightlady Ialai liked to keep a few of the creatures in the courtyard, because unlike more exotic, Shin pets, these could survive on their own in a highstorm.

There were a few guards in Kholin-blue uniforms seated together around a small table in the shade of one of the dalewillows. They were sipping from glasses of auburn wine—strong enough to satisfy a craving, yet light enough to be refreshing in the summer. Or so Sarus had heard on the one occasion he'd gotten Captain Noethar to talk about wine. The man had reluctantly explained the different colors, their relative strengths, and—once he'd gotten over his reluctance to discuss such things with an eight-year-old—when each was most pleasant to drink.

The Kholin men were laughing about something, a joke one of them had shared. There was something in their eyes that unsettled Sarus. A dark amusement, like the local soldiers sometimes got when talking about some pathetic low-nahn darkeyes they'd encountered in the city the last time they were there. He approached them carefully, keeping his gaze well away from them, pretending that he was a gardener's assistant examining the shalebark. Soon, he drew near enough to hear them.

"—Another one this morning," one was saying.

"Didn't he have one in the night, too?" asked another. "Heard Palir and Mearis got woken up in the middle of the night to attend to him."

"Aye," said the first. "Don't know why Brightlady Evi insists on taking him traveling with her. Boy's weak little heart is liable to give out afore they even reach Brightlord Dalinar."

"I assume she wants her sons to know their father," said one man—the only one who didn't have a sneering curl to his lips. "He's never spent more than a few months at a time with the lads."

"Well, it'll only be a couple years afore Prince Adolin can join him on campaign. The boy's a storming prodigy. He'll make a superb duelist when he's grown up a bit."

"He'll have to be, with how defensive he is of his brother." The man speaking let out a derisive snort. "At some point he'll have to admit what we all know. Little Prince Renarin is useless. Better he be sent off to be citylord of some minor town and have him out of the way."

"True enough. Ho, boy!"

Sarus turned, assembling his face into respectful eagerness. "Yes, Brightlord?" he asked, blinking adorably up at the soldier.

"Tell the kitchens to send us some more auburn, would you?" said the soldier. He was lighteyed, thankfully—that meant Sarus hadn't slipped up in calling him Brightlord. "Storms, tell them to send over a cask."

"Don't curse in front of the lad, Ladocas," chided another man. He gave Sarus a nod. He had officer's knots on his shoulder. "Off with you, lad."

"Yes, Brightlord," said Sarus, bustling off. He brought word to the kitchens—carefully staying out of Palathas' line of sight—and then returned to the ardential wing.

When he arrived, he found he was no longer the only student in Ardent Lobor's study.

"Ah, welcome back, young one," said the old ardent, smiling at him over his spectacles. "At the request of Brightladies Ialai and Evi, young Prince Renarin shall be joining our lessons for the rest of the day. Prince Renarin, if that will be an issue, I can send for an alternative tutor for young Sarus."

"No," said Prince Renarin. His voice was quiet and a little bit hesitant. He looked in Sarus' direction, but never directly at Sarus' face. His face was placid, and the expression was a little wooden, as though he knew he should be emoting but didn't quite know what to show or how to show it. "It won't be a problem."

This would be difficult. Sarus had to simultaneously continue to impress Lobor while also making sure Renarin didn't feel overshadowed by the little darkeyed boy sharing a classroom with him. All this without tipping either old man or boy off about the way he was playing their counterpart. Sarus found that he was both frustrated and excited at the prospect of the challenge.

He bowed to Renarin—low, as befit a first-nahn darkeyes bowing to a third-dahn lighteyes, but not so low that he risked being interpreted as mocking. "I appreciate your indulgence, Brightlord," he said. If he had been alone with the younger prince, he would have pitched his voice slightly down—the squeaky tones of a young child weren't nearly as effective on someone even younger than himself as they were on an old man. But, tragically, he had to stick with the intonation Ardent Lobor was accustomed to. "Please, do not feel you must slow the pace of your lesson on my account. I can always ask Ardent Lobor for help with anything I don't understand once your family has left Castle Sadaras."

There, he thought, satisfied, shooting Lobor a glance. The old man looked surprised but pleased. And now Sarus was safe to fade into the background of the lesson, and allow Renarin to learn at whatever pace suited him without having to worry about Ardent Lobor wondering why he had stopped being such an attentive pupil.

"I wouldn't want to interfere with your lessons," Renarin said hesitantly.

"Please, do not trouble yourself on my account, Brightlord," said Sarus. "Any interference will be swiftly corrected within a week of your departure, I'm sure. It is far more important that your lessons continue uninterrupted than mine, after all."

Renarin looked like he didn't know what to make of that. But rather than continue the discussion, he nodded stiffly and turned back to the old man. "Well," he said. "What will you be teaching us, Ardent?"

"I was just about to read young Sarus the Ninth Article of the Heraldic Scripts," said Lobor. "Unless you have already studied the topic, Brightlord?"

Renarin's expression didn't change as he said, "I thought the Scripts were mostly considered dubious."

Ardent Lobor's expression fell. "Dubious, young prince?"

"My cousin Jasnah says they were likely written in the time of the Sunmaker," said Renarin. "She said they were likely part of the effort to reconstruct the ardentia after the fall of the Hierocracy."

"Ah," said Lobor. His lips were thin with displeasure. "Your cousin. The Veristitalian."

"Yes, Ardent," said Renarin. His face was still perfectly blank, but Sarus caught the way his voice shook slightly. He realized that he had misstepped, but didn't understand how, and didn't know how to correct his course.

Sarus was fascinated. He's smart enough to understand the concept of dubious historicity, even if he didn't pick out the Scripts himself, he thought, and yet he doesn't understand why an ardent might take issue with him pointing it out? It seemed contradictory, but that was the point, wasn't it?

People are always contradictory, Sarus, Tailiah had once told him with a grin after returning from another long trip to Kholinar. The trick to politics is to find the cracks and move in their blind spots.

Sarus now stood at a crossroads. He could let this play out—let Ardent Lobor express his displeasure, let Prince Renarin bear it, and continue on his current course. Or he could take the riskier route and interfere. It had the potential to damage his relationship with Lobor if he didn't thread the needle perfectly, but it would probably endear him to Prince Renarin.

…And, honestly, a good relationship with Tailiah's probable future brother-in-law was a lot more valuable than being seen affectionately by an old ardent here in Sadaras.

"Have you had the Scripts read to you already in full, Brightlord?" asked Sarus smoothly.

Renarin blinked over at him. "…No," he said. "I have not."

"Then I think if there is anything on which both the ardentia and the Veristitalians can agree, it is that we should at least have the text itself read to us so that we can learn from it ourselves," said Sarus. "Even if its attribution to Nalan'Elin were inaccurate, it might still have valuable instruction for us."

He met Renarin's eyes. Take the out, he thought. I'm holding the door for you, you just have to step through.

Slowly, Prince Renarin nodded. "Yes," he said. "That makes sense."

Sarus heard Lobor take a steadying breath. "Yes," he said. "Even if the scripts were not the writings of the Herald himself, they still would provide valuable instruction to any who wish to be good and devout Vorins, young Brightlord."

"That makes sense," said Renarin, turning back to the ardent. "Please, continue."

Ardent Lobor smiled thinly, then sat at his desk and opened the book again. "In that case," he said, "We continue with the Ninth Article."

Sarus smiled to himself, leaning back into his chair as Lobor continued the lesson. He'd struck his target perfectly. Lobor thought he had given him an opportunity to teach an impressionable young mind a lesson that the Damnation-bound Veristitalians would have corrupted away from him. Renarin thought he had stopped a potential conflict in a context where the prince was clearly uncomfortable before it could even begin.

In this case, only the prince was actually correct, but the point was that they both believed what Sarus wanted them to.

-x-x-x-

Once Lobor dismissed them both for lunch, Sarus fully expected Renarin to dash off to join the rest of his family. Instead, the prince turned to him the moment they both left the ardent's study.

"Why did you lie?" he asked.

Sarus blinked once. He'd heard those words before, of course, but usually from adults, and generally not the intelligent ones. The clever ones usually knew why he had lied. But in this case… "When did I lie, Prince Renarin?" he asked.

"When you said that I didn't need to slow down for you," said Renarin.

"But you didn't need to slow down for me."

"No, you had to slow down for me. It's obvious you're smarter than I am, and you're a year older."

It's obvious you're smarter than I am. Almighty, this boy was a disaster waiting to happen. "Brightlord," he said, glancing down the corridor in both directions. None of the ardents were visible, but they might be by at any moment. "I would never imply that I am your superior in any way." Renarin looked like he was going to say something, so Sarus put out a hand quickly to forestall him. "To do so," he said, "would be potentially harmful to us both."

Renarin froze.

"If you would like to discuss our lessons, I would be honored to accompany you wherever you would like," Sarus said. "Although I do not think I will be welcome at your family's table."

Renarin hesitated again. He did that a lot, Sarus noted. "Can you walk with me on the way?" he asked.

"Of course, Brightlord." Sarus fell into step beside and a little behind Renarin. They passed a few ardents on the way out and into the sunlight of the courtyard.

"I try never to lie, Prince Renarin," said Sarus quietly the moment they were outside, where the stone corridors could no longer echo and amplify their every word. "Sometimes it's unavoidable, but even when I intend to mislead, it's usually better to do so without lying, where possible."

Renarin blinked at him. "But why did you want to mislead me?" he asked. He didn't sound angry. If anything, he sounded desperate.

"Because you are a lighteyes of the third dahn," said Sarus, "while I am a darkeyes of the first nahn. When you grow up as a darkeyes in the company of lighteyes, as I have, you learn very quickly that flattery will get you everywhere."

Normally, he would never be this open with someone he had just met. But he also felt that he had gotten a fairly accurate measure of Renarin in the two hours they had spent together already. The boy was a social disaster—which meant that Sarus' best path to his good graces was probably to share his own expertise in that topic. He didn't think he had anything to fear from Renarin potentially informing on him.

Renarin blinked at him. "You're darkeyed?" he said, squinting into Sarus' face. "But your eyes are gray."

"I am told that in some lightings they appear light," said Sarus. "But, yes, I am darkeyed. My mother is a maid here in the castle."

"Huh." Renarin looked faintly bemused. Sarus was starting to pick out the tiny expressions on his seemingly impassive face. "Why were you learning from the castle ardents, then?"

"Brightness Tailiah interceded on my behalf," said Sarus. It was true—although not much intercession had been necessary. It wasn't as though Tailiah's parents didn't know that the two of them interacted on occasion (even if neither of them had any idea just how often those occasions were), and Sarus suspected that Brightlord Torol would rather his daughter be friends with an educated darkeyes than an uneducated one.

"You know Brightness Tailiah?" Renarin asked.

"I have served her on occasion," said Sarus carefully.

Renarin's eyes narrowed suddenly. "You're lying again."

"I am not," said Sarus, pleasantly surprised. The other boy was more observant than he had given him credit for. He might have no idea at all what to do with the information he gleaned from his social observations, but that didn't mean he wasn't making them. "But I am misleading by telling you the truth again, yes. Tailiah and I are friends, but that's not something a darkeyed servant boy can go around telling people. Even Tailiah can't just tell people that, and she's second dahn."

Renarin stared at him. "You stopped Ardent Lobor from getting upset at the beginning of the lesson," he said.

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because it would endear me to you," said Sarus truthfully. He found he liked Renarin. It was pleasant to be able to just be honest, secure in the knowledge that nothing else would be as effective in winning the prince over.

"Why does that matter?"

"Because having the good opinion of a person of higher standing than yourself is a very useful thing. Maybe one day I'll need your help, and you'll give it because you remember me fondly. I try to always make friends before I make enemies. An enemy is never helpful. A friend might be."

"I've never been good at making friends," said Renarin. There was a hint of bitterness in his voice.

I can see that, Sarus thought but didn't say. "Perhaps I can help you," he said.

Renarin looked at him. "How?"

"I don't know how to teach you, exactly," Sarus said. He and Tailiah had bemoaned that very fact, once—neither of them knew how to put what they did into words. They just… played people off of each other. Told them what they wanted to hear. Gathered goodwill like a jealous brightlord gathered spheres. "But I would be happy to answer any questions you have. Both now and any time we meet again in future."

Renarin looked at him. There was a very, very faint smile on his face. Sarus had a feeling that was the equivalent of beaming for this strange boy. "I'd appreciate that," he said.

-x-x-x-

The Kholins remained at Castle Sadaras for three days before departing for the Veden front. During that time, Sarus carefully avoided any contact with Tailiah, lest he draw undue attention from her visitors.

The night after they left, however, there came a familiar tapping at his window. He was already smiling when he opened the latch.

Tailiah slipped inside. She had taken to wearing darker colors when she snuck around the grounds at night after one near miss when a guard had caught a glimpse of her white nightgown practically luminous in the moonlight. Tonight, she wore a simple black shift over that nightgown, whose pale hem was a soft halo about her ankles. She flopped down into the seat beside his bed, grinning at him. "Hey, Sarus."

"Hey," he replied in a whisper. "Good to see you."

"Oh, you have no idea." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "I swear. Adolin's a sweetheart, but I don't even think he understands why he and I keep meeting."

"Dumb?" Sarus asked sympathetically.

"Not exactly. Just… sheltered. Not that I'm one to talk. He's just not used to questioning why things are happening. Things just happen, in his world, and he goes along with them." She grimaced. "It's like he doesn't understand that he can affect the world. Not a great look for a highprince's heir."

"That's probably why they want you to marry him," Sarus said, trying to keep the simmering displeasure at the thought from his voice. "He'll need someone to actually lead his highprincedom."

"I already have one highprincedom to rule. Do they expect our princedoms to merge?" Tailiah shrugged. "The more I think about it, the more problems I see. I just wish I knew if Father's even thought about them, and just isn't telling me, or if they're all just as blind to the issues as Adolin is."

"What issues, exactly?" Sarus asked, feeling his envy bleed away in the wake of his curiosity. "Is it just that Sadeas doesn't border Kholin, which makes merging them complicated?"

"That's just the surface!" Tailiah threw up her hands. "The ardentia won't be happy if we have nine highprincedoms, and King Gavilar has done his best to establish us as a godly Vorin kingdom. So either we have to lose that reputation just for the sake of one marriage, or we have to not merge the highprincedoms—which leaves me in charge of two different highprincedoms which are rivals, even if our parents get along—or we have to conquer a new highprincedom! Or split one of the existing ones!" She shook her head. "I think this might be a ploy for King Gavilar to seize the Kholin highprincedom as held directly by the Crown. Right now, His Majesty doesn't actually have any lands of his own besides the royal palace at Kholinar itself. That's unusual—the Veden royalty hold the Vedenar province directly. So he may be planning to kick his brother's bloodline over to the Sadeas highprincedom to be our problem so that he can keep the Kholin highprincedom for himself."

"Hm." Sarus sat back, his legs up on his cot, his back leaning against the wall. He hadn't fully considered the implication of a marriage alliance between the Sadeas and Kholin families. "Maybe Brightness Kholin is trying to get Prince Renarin to be the new Kholin highprince instead of his brother?" he suggested. "If Adolin comes to rule Sadeas with you, Renarin could take over Kholin."

"Not a chance," said Tailiah derisively. "Brightness Evi is… well, I know where Adolin got his attitude to politics. She doesn't seem to have a single thought in her head on the topic."

"You're sure she's not playing the fool?" Sarus asked. "You're the one who told me that it often made sense for women to do that."

"If she is, she's the best actor I've ever seen," Tailiah said. "No, I don't think so. If anyone is making plans around this, it's not Brightness Evi. I just wish I knew if anyone was, and who."

That was something Sarus understood. He and Tailiah both hated the feeling—intimately familiar to any eight-year-old more than passingly aware of the world around them—that someone unseen was making plans for their lives. The feeling that their fates were not their own. "I'll keep my eyes open," he promised. "We'll figure this out, Tailiah."

She shot him a smile, conspiratorial and sharp-edged. "Of course we will," she said. "It's us."

Last edited: May 1, 2023

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Threadmarks 26: Spectacular

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

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Spectacular

-x-x-x-

Help me, old friend. I beg you.

-x-x-x-

"So. You speak now?" Moash looked Sarus up and down, leaning on the spear he had salvaged during the battle. Several of the men had kept their scavenged weapons, carrying them atop the bridge on the long march back to the warcamps.

Sarus nodded. Then he blinked. "Yes," he said. In the heat of battle, when Kaladin had needed encouragement and the bridgemen had needed a secondary leader, it had been easy to speak. Now that the battle was over, he found he was slipping back into old habits. I will not fall silent again.

They were in their new barracks in the Kholin warcamp. Highprince Dalinar had tasked Adolin with finding all of the newly freed bridgemen—well over a thousand men, all told, even after the losses of the battle—a barracks complex where they could be housed. It had not been difficult. Adolin had simply gestured vaguely in the direction of the first cluster of barracks they had passed, looking grim. "That was where the Ninth Company was housed. If any of them survived, tell them to join the Sixth Company barracks for now."

The building was far better furnished than the bridgeman barracks they were all accustomed to. The beds were real mattresses, albeit cheap ones stuffed with vinebud fibers or breachtree cotton, and they even had pillows of a similar material. It was as far from the simple fabric cots of the bridge crew barracks as could be imagined for darkeyes like them.

But it was still not comfortable. Sarus could see that every man in the crew was having difficulty getting truly settled, knowing they were sleeping in the beds of men they had failed to rescue. There were still personal effects in the trunks at the foot of every single bed. Sarus himself had found a stack of letters in his. He hadn't opened them. The mere thought of doing so made him feel a little ill. At some point in the coming weeks, he intended to have the letters sent back, along with the rest of the soldier's personal effects, to whomever he had been in correspondence with.

"What changed?" asked Sigzil. He was sitting on his own trunk, having just snapped it closed with a slightly pale face and a grim set to his lips.

"What changed when you decided to follow Kaladin?" Sarus asked.

Kaladin himself was not in the barrack. He had gone out to meet Dalinar, who had requested his presence at first moonrise, which would likely be coming at any moment.

"He showed us that hoping for something better was better than just despairing," said Murk. "But you were the first one with him. You know that."

"I do know that," Sarus agreed, "but I didn't feel it. Not really."

"Then why did you follow him from the beginning?" asked Moash. "Why go out and drill with him, help him buy medicine and food, and all the rest, if you didn't actually have any hope?"

"Boredom," said Sarus simply.

Moash blinked once, slowly. "You were bored?" he asked incredulously. "Bored of getting shot at every two days?"

Sarus' lips twitched. "Do you know when I came up to the Shattered Plains, Moash?"

Moash frowned at the apparent change of subject. "Gotta be a while ago. Everybody says you've been here even longer than Kaladin."

"I have. Much longer. I may not remember exactly how many bridge runs I made, but I do remember the exact date I first arrived on the Plains." Sarus smiled slightly. "Betabevach, 1167."

The barracks fell completely silent. Even the men who had been holding their own quiet conversations had turned to stare at him.

"That…" Moash swallowed. "That's less than two months after King Gavilar was assassinated."

"That," said Sarus, "is when Highprince Sadeas first organized his bridge crews. I was one of the original sixteen hundred slaves assigned to them. So, yes, Moash—after five years of somehow, inexplicably failing to die despite running at or near the deathpoint on every single run after the first few dozen, I was bored. Profoundly so."

"Pailiah's plucked eyebrows," muttered Murk. "No wonder you never spoke."

"Every time I tried to speak to a lighteyes or superior, I was beaten," Sarus said. "They had all been instructed not to listen to a word I said. I could be very persuasive when I was younger, and Sadeas knew it. And when I spoke to a fellow bridgeman, they died within a few weeks anyway. It always felt pointless to try to speak. To speak was to try to affect the world, and I'd been shown over and over that the world would never be affected by me again. Then Kaladin came along, and if nothing else at least he represented some sort of change. After five years of living in stasis, anything was preferable. Even without hope."

"Storms," said Murk softly.

Sarus felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Rock. The large Horneater looked sympathetic and horrified, yes, but also strangely mournful. "When Kaladin began asking us what we were before we became bridgemen," he said, "I wondered what your answer would be. But this thing is not what I imagined. I thought you might have been a soldier, or a courier, or an outlaw. I never imagined you might have been a child."

Sarus' lips twitched. "I was fifteen, Rock," he said. "Here in Alethkar, that's old enough to pick up a spear."

"Is too young to die," Rock said. "If you Alethi think otherwise, you are all more airsick than I thought."

"You'll get no disagreement from me on that point," Sarus said quietly, thinking of a fourteen-year-old who had died before her time.

Rock sighed, shaking his head. "This is a grim place," he said, looking around the room. "Is good for sleeping in, maybe, but not so good for talking right now. Come, let us go outside. I will make stew."

"Stew sounds great right now," said Teft. He was lying in bed, his wounded arm in a sling. With a little difficulty, he swung his legs over the side and stood up. "Anybody see a pot in their trunk?"

"I found one under the bed," called Narm, holding up a pewter cauldron with some difficulty. "Can I get a hand?"

Rock went to help him, and together the survivors of Bridge Four left their new barrack. They set up their firepit around its back, where there was nothing but a small open field between them and the perimeter of the warcamp. There were sentries patrolling the low wall, albeit fewer than Sarus expected had been there the night before.

Sarus sat down beside Shen, near the outer edge of the group. Slowly, he guided the conversation away from himself, getting Rock to tell the rest of the crew some stories of the Horneater Peaks that Sarus, Kaladin, and Murk had already heard during the long nights spent recovering knobweed sap. He sipped at his stew, waiting until none of the men were looking at him.

"What will you do now?" he asked Shen quetly.

There was a long moment of silence. "I don't know," Shen finally said. His voice was slow and ponderous, and he released each syllable according to an intricate rhythm that Sarus felt he could only hear the very edge of.

"You'll be better positioned now than you were as a slave in the Sadeas camp."

"Yes," Shen said. "But I also have never wanted to use that position less."

Sarus snorted, still quiet enough that none of the other men could hear them. "Don't tell me that after everything you've seen you're starting to come over to the Alethi side. If anything, I'd think we'd have cured you of any sympathy you might have had for us."

"I never had any desire to see the Alethi dead. But sooner the Alethi than my own people. Now… No. I don't care about the Alethi generally. But in spite of all you did to—to our dead, I still…" Shen trailed off.

"You don't want to get Kaladin killed," Sarus guessed.

"It's more than that. He is Neshua Kadal. If he dies, we may all be doomed. We may be doomed anyway. But yes—he has, somehow, won my loyalty. I do not want to have to choose." Shen suddenly shot him a look. "What about you?" he asked. "You know of me. What will you do with that knowledge?"

"For now? Nothing. At worst, I'll tell Kaladin and no one else. But for now, your secret is safe with me." Sarus smiled grimly. "Dalinar Kholin is a better man than Torol Sadeas, but that's a bit like saying a candle provides more light in a highstorm than the stars behind the clouds. The Alethi have absolutely no loyalty from me. But, like you, I don't want to see Kaladin and the others hurt."

Shen nodded. "I understand," he said. "If it's any comfort, I missed every rendezvous since I was placed in Bridge Four. I expect the others assume I am dead, and I will not have any opportunity to inform on you anyway."

"Not especially," Sarus admitted. "This war will end, Shen. I don't know who will still be standing at the end, but for your sake I hope your people pull through, and that those you care for are among the survivors."

"I hope the same for you, Sarus," said Shen quietly.

"Everyone I care for died five years ago," said Sarus. "Bridge Four is all I have left. But, yes, I hope they all survive too."

They lapsed into silence, sipping at their stew. Then Shen spoke again. "Rlain," he said.

"Pardon?"

"My name," said Shen. "It is Rlain."

Sarus committed it to memory. "It's an honor, Rlain," he said.

At that moment, Kaladin rounded the corner of the barrack. He narrowed his eyes at them. "You should all be resting," he said.

"We are," Sarus said.

"In bed."

"What are you, our mother?" asked Moash, grinning. Then his smile fell away as he gestured at the pot of stew. "It didn't feel right to go to sleep without doing this. Especially not in dead men's bunks."

Kaladin grimaced slightly, nodding. He approached the fire and accepted a bowl of stew from Rock.

"You think Dalinar saw what you were doing out there on the field?" Moash asked. "You know, with the Stormlight."

Kaladin grimaced. "Storms, I hope not."

"You think he'd react poorly?" Teft asked.

Instead of answering directly, Kaladin turned to Murk. "How do you think a relatively devout lighteyes would react to finding out one of his men is a Knight Radiant?"

"Definitely a chance that goes badly," Murk acknowledged. "But you did save his storming life, and the lives of every man who walked away from that plateau."

"Forgive me if I'm not willing to trust all of our safety to the gratitude of a lighteyes," said Kaladin dryly. "Dalinar's better than Sadeas, but that's not saying much." He hesitated. "I want to trust him," he admitted. "I want to believe he's different. And he's given me no reason to doubt him. But it's…" He trailed off.

"You've been burned before," said Sarus softly.

Kaladin nodded, gazing down into the campfire. From her perch on his shoulder, Syl patted his cheek.

"We'll not tell anyone," said Moash. "Not until you give the word. Right?"

Every man nodded solemnly.

"Thanks," said Kaladin.

Sarus looked around for a moment, then glanced at the speck on his shoulder. Archive leapt from there to his ear.

"Are you certain?" she asked.

Sarus nodded. If you are.

"I am," she said firmly. Had she heard his thoughts? That had never happened before. Perhaps the deepening of their bond had given her some access to his mind. "The silence is no more."

Sarus stood. "Kaladin," he said. "You've trusted us with this. It's only fair I do the same. Archive?"

She leapt from his ear. As she fell, she grew, until she was the size of a full-grown woman, made of iridescent black, like the gleaming of spilled oil in bright sunlight. She landed gracefully, and sat down on a vacant spot beside Sarus.

"I knew it!" Syl crowed, darting towards Archive's face. "I knew you were with Sarus!"

Kaladin was staring at Archive with wide eyes. Sarus knew he must be remembering the terrible night when he'd been left out to the mercy of the highstorm. The night when Archive had chosen to act. "You saved my life," he said.

Archive nodded. She sat with her legs—clad in trousers, in defiance of traditional Alethi fashion—curled beneath her body and her uncovered hands resting upon her thighs. "You did much for Sarus," she said. "Reciprocity was."

"Thank you," Kaladin said quietly.

"I hope we can work together," Archive said with a thin smile. "Much animosity is between honorspren and inkspren. I hope that the disagreements of our people need not affect us." She shot Syl, who was orbiting merrily around Archive's head, a sidelong glance.

Syl stopped quite suddenly, hovering before Archive's face. Her expression was uncharacteristically solemn. "I was too stupid to remember the words," she said. "I think the crossing affected me more than most. I've always been scatterbrained. You saved Kaladin's life, Archive. I don't care if you're an inkspren, a highspren, even a voidspren—I'd consider you a friend no matter what you were, after that. Thank you."

Archive smiled. "You are welcome."

"So, wait," Teft said after a short silence. "Does this mean you're a Knight Radiant too, Sarus?"

"It appears so," said Sarus. "An Elsecaller, or so Archive has told me."

"Huh." Teft looked intrigued. "I know a little about the WIndrunners, but nothing at all about the Elsecallers."

"Windrunners?" Kaladin asked. He glanced at Syl. "You used that word once."

Syl flushed a slightly deeper blue than usual. "That's your order," she said. "I told you I was scatterbrained. Sorry."

"No harm done," said Kaladin. "But—Archive, it sounds like you might know a bit more?"

Archive nodded sedately. "A little," she said. "Holes are in my memory, as well. The crossing to the Physical Realm is difficult. As the oaths are sworn, our memories return. I expect Syl already remembers more."

"Oh!" Syl said happily. "Yes! I remembered your Surges, Kaladin! We can start practicing them!"

"You've already been practicing them some," Teft pointed out. "That trick with the shield was pretty spectacular."

"True," said Archive. "Surgebinding is usually weak until the Second Ideal is sworn. For it to be on this scale so early is impressive."

"Is it?" Kaladin asked. Then he shrugged. "I mean, Sarus must have been doing the same with how long he's survived. Unless he's already sworn the Second Ideal."

"I haven't," said Sarus. "I managed to grasp the First Ideal during the battle, just before I started talking."

"Even more impressive, then," said Kaladin.

Archive looked thoughtful. "Perhaps," she said. "My memory of the Elsecaller Surges is not yet. I suspect something else may be."

"What else could it be?" Sarus asked.

"I do not know. But this is: No Knight Radiant could generate Stormlight. That is—or was—the domain of the gods." She looked at Sarus. "More is to you than meets the eye," she said.

Sarus met her eyes. And, quite suddenly, after several hours of joyfully following Kaladin into battle, supporting him when he stumbled, rising to meet the challenges before them… the envy and self-loathing surged up in his belly again.

"However strange my abilities," said Sarus, hoping his voice didn't sound as hollow as he felt, "I think it's clear who is the truly spectacular one here tonight." He shot Kaladin a tight smile, then passed his empty bowl to Rock. "I think I'll be able to sleep now," he said. "See you all in the morning."

The End Of

Part One

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Threadmarks Interludes I

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Raoden • Marienne • Melkor

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Threadmarks I-1: The Doom of the Dragons

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-x-x-x-

I-1

The Doom of the Dragons

-x-x-x-

329 Years Ago, Rosharan Calendar

The machine whirred on Raoden's back. He still hadn't gotten used to it, even after nearly ten years of wearing it almost constantly.

His fingers twined through the air in a practiced pattern, drawing Aon Daa in the air with as many amplification modifiers as he knew. He finished the Aon just as the Dakhor monk reached him. The blast of energy struck him dead in the center of the chest, vaporizing him instantly.

Raoden whirled, drawing a rapid Aon Ashe with a directional amplifier to blind the soldiers charging him from the left. They flailed, covering their eyes and fumbling with their weapons. His own soldiers took advantage of the opening, charging in with blades and spears. Raoden turned away from the bloodshed, looking around the grand entrance hall of Zigareth.

The seat of Wyrn's power was an austere building, like a massive stone pyramid with an intricate pattern of abstract lines drawn in red around its outer walls. Raoden had wondered, when he had first seen it in the distance while his forces laid siege to Widor, whether the pattern had been an incredibly large and ornate Bloodsealing. Even if it was, the Seal couldn't have much power this far from Dzhamar. Raoden still wasn't entirely certain whether he had been right in his guess that the pattern had been a Bloodsealing, but at the very least his army had encountered no Skeletals in the battle for Widor. Indeed, it seemed that the only people left to defend Wyrn's would-be empire were its original natives—the Dakhor and other Fjordell warriors. Raoden had yet to see any of the imperial-loyalist JinDo warriors who had wielded ChayShan against his forces in past sieges.

The battle was finally winding down. In one corner he could see a few of the Fjordell medics tending to Gyorn Morverth, the last of Wyrn's gyorns to be defeated in battle. Raoden let them—Morverth was unconscious, pale with blood loss, and had likely lost the use of his legs given his wounds. Without Forgery or AonDor—neither of which had been seen fighting on the side of Fjordell through the entire war—the gyorn wouldn't be rising again today.

The rest of the gyorns had been captured or killed in previous battles. Seven had fallen during the liberation of Duladel, and four more had been defeated during the siege of Haiko. Of the nine who had remained, eight had already faced and been defeated by Raoden's armies earlier in the siege. Only Morverth, the best warrior among the gyorns, had been kept back to defend Wyrn himself.

Another Dakhor monk burst from a side room. He was followed by several more. They must have just teleported in, Raoden thought, already moving his fingers. He couldn't possibly take all of them out with Aon Daa—it took a heavily empowered blast to reliably put down one, and by the time he had drawn two or three Aons the survivors would be upon him. Still, he raised both hands and began to draw two separate Aons in the air, lines of white light trailing behind his fingertips. As he completed those two, he took a step back to allow them to finish channeling the Dor while he brought both hands together to draw a third. He finished it just in time.

Three monks down, he thought, leaping backwards out of the way of the claw-like hand of one of the five surviving monks. He drew his sword—an ornate weapon of a strange, silvery metal which was constantly warm to the touch—and severed the monk's arm. He screamed as the blade grew white-hot when it came into contact with his flesh, cauterizing the wound as it passed. He remained standing, however, baring his teeth at Raoden. He and the other four monks tried to surround Raoden, but he knew better than to allow that. He feinted at the one furthest to the left, then thrust to the right when another monk tried to leap at his back. The blade of pure dragonsteel buried itself in the man's heart. He screamed, his eyes flaming, and fell to the ground dead.

Before the surviving monks could react, another blast of energy from an Aon Daa launched itself at them. Raoden whirled, astonished. They had only had one of the machines that allowed an Elantrian to access their full power outside of Arelon, so who…?

Galladon stood there, another whirring machine harnessed to his back. He looked different than he had the last time Raoden had seen him. There was a grim set to his face, and he seemed to have grown thinner in the past several months. A strange hole in the air—like a basket of woven white lines fanning out from a swirling maelstrom—closed behind him.

Raoden grinned, then turned and struck at another of the surprised Dakhor as Galladon began drawing another Aon. They were pinned between the two Elantrians. Two fell to Raoden's blade, and another to Galladon's magic.

Then silence fell at long last, save for the heavy breathing of the surviving warriors and the gasps and moans of the injured.

Raoden sheathed his sword—it never needed cleaning, because it burned away any blood that might stain it—before turning to face his best friend. "Galladon!" he exclaimed, reaching out to embrace the man. "What are you doing here? I thought—"

"Reunions later, sule.," Galladon said curtly, already striding past Raoden. He started up the steps leading towards Wyrn's throne room. "We've got to stop Wyrn before he has time to finish what he's started. Kolo?"

"Kolo," said Raoden, falling into step beside Galladon. He waved back to Commander Latimus. "Organize a sweep of Zigareth," he ordered. "Stay in groups of three or more, and make sure you don't get surprised by any remaining Dakhor or ChayShan warriors."

"Yes, sir!" Latimus called back with a salute, before turning to his soldiers.

Raoden and Galladon ascended the stairs. At the top was a door, which opened onto a long corridor. The open archways on either side led to twenty individual meditation chambers, one for each Derethi gyorn. At the end of the hall, Raoden could see the wide, red-carpeted room where Wyrn sat and ruled over the Fjordell Empire.

Galladon walked quickly, and Raoden had to do the same to keep pace. "I thought Wyrn needed control of Fjordell to finish his ritual."

"He does, sule," said Galladon as they entered the throne room. There was a raised pedestal in the room's center, where a chair of iron and gold, upholstered with rich red velvet, sat empty. "But until you formally take that throne away from him, he still has it. You slowed him down by conquering JinDo and Duladel, but you didn't stop him. Kolo?"

"All right." Raoden followed Galladon behind the throne. There was a tapestry depicting Jaddeth ascending from beneath the earth on the back wall. Galladon pushed it aside without breaking step, revealing a hidden doorway. He held the fabric aside to allow Raoden to pass him, then followed him into the narrow spiral stairwell. "You knew this was here?"

"Yes. We were able to find the blueprints of Zigareth in one of the cities lost in the GeneDor."

Raoden blinked at his friend in shock. "This castle is that old?" The GeneDor was the poorly-remembered calamity that marked the beginning of recorded history on all of Sel. It was the moment their gods had died, and the Dor had been created from their corpses in a calamitous storm.

Galladon nodded. "One of the oldest buildings on Sel, sule. This palace was the seat of Skai's power before he died. Right now we're heading up to his old throne room. Kolo?"

Raoden realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it and continued up the stairs. "Why did Wyrn move the throne?"

"It wasn't this Wyrn who did it. It was Wulfden the First, centuries ago. And he did it because a Wyrn's throne should be easier to access than this room is—but also because there was something he wanted to keep hidden in a difficult-to-reach room. Having it high up was a bonus."

"Having what high up?"

"You'll see, sule. You'll see."

They reached the top of the stairway. There was a stone door there, slightly slanted inward, so that its top was nearer to him than its base. Raoden realized they must be very near to the summit of the pyramid. He forced the door open and stared at the sight that greeted him.

The city of Widor stretched out before him, vast enough that its walls lined the horizon. He had not realized just how far up they had gone. There was no wall or railing between the door and the long slope of the Zigareth's side—only a narrow stone pathway, which passed to either side of the door until it turned to go around the corner of the square pyramid.

The door had swung out to the right, so Raoden took the slightly wider left path. He had seen the cut near the top of the pyramid from a distance, so he knew this narrow path circumnavigated the entire structure. Around the back of the pyramid there was a steep stairway leading up to the brazier where the Flame of Jaddeth burned at all times. He glanced up. At this angle he couldn't see the actual flame, but the cylindrical brazier with its stone pillars loomed overhead, ascending from the top of Zigareth.

It had taken most of the past several years to fully pick apart the truth behind Derethi doctrine. When Raoden had first learned about Dominion and Devotion, Skai and Aona, he had assumed that they were the original identities of the god now remembered by the dual identities of Domi and Jaddeth. But that wasn't the case at all. He hadn't been able to uncover the origins of Domi and Shu-Korath yet, but Jaddeth and Shu-Dereth, according to what little record Raoden had managed to uncover, weren't natively Selish at all.

Wyrn certainly believed as much. To the people of Fjordell, this was an attempt to usher in the return of Jaddeth to the world. In actuality, Wyrn was usurping his own religion. He would supplant the Jaddeth that had been brought to this world long ago and replace it with one of Sel's two native gods—with himself as its Vessel.

Raoden and Galladon circled the pyramid and began to climb the final stairs. The path ended in a small open area, with a ladder on one side to ascend to the brazier. To call it a chamber wasn't quite accurate. It had no walls—only four stone pillars which were wider at the base than at their top, slanting slightly inwards from the corners of the pyramid's flat top towards the circular brazier above them.

Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth stood on the other side of the room with no walls. He was not looking at them. His hands were clasped behind his back as he looked out over the city before him. His red robes, trimmed with gold, shifted slightly in the wind. This high up, what was a faint breeze on the ground was nearly a gale.

Between Raoden and Wyrn was a stone pedestal. It was a separate piece from the rest of Zigareth, bolted to the exact center of the floor with heavy, iron spikes. The pedestal was a column with seven sides. A glass sphere about half the size of a man's head rested upon the pedestal. It did not appear to be affixed to the stone in any way, yet it seemed perfectly stable despite its shape.

"Wyrn," Raoden called.

For a moment, Wyrn gave no indication that he had heard. Then he spoke. "I should have known the endeavor was doomed," he said. He sounded almost mournful. "The moment you appeared on the battlefield, wearing that apparatus and with that sword, I should have realized that all was lost."

He turned. Raoden recoiled slightly. The irises of the man's eyes were blood red, and he seemed to be leaking bloody tears from the corners of his eyes.

Galladon cursed. "He's already started, sule!" he said. "You've got to kill him, now!"

"Do you?" asked Wyrn, his red eyes meeting Raoden's blue ones. "You could simply let me finish. I know you don't like killing an unarmed foe. Well, I have no weapon—and, you have my word, if I am able to finish mantling Dominion I will leave Sel forever. I will cease to be your problem."

"Maybe he'll stop being your problem," said Galladon, "but he'll be everyone else's! Sule, you have to—"

Raoden stepped forward. "I do hate killing an unarmed enemy," he said. "But I am also a king, Wyrn. And a king doesn't allow an outlaw to continue murdering his way across the cosmere simply because he promises to leave the king's own fiefdom alone."

"I am not one of your people," said Wyrn. "If you insist on using the analogy of crime and justice, you have no legal jurisdiction over me."

"I disagree," said Raoden. "Because, Wyrn, I have taken your throne room. I have captured the seat of your power. You are not the leader of Fjorden anymore—I am."

Wyrn's entire body seized. His hand came up to clutch at his breast. "No…" he croaked. The blood began to pour from his eyes in earnest now, and to leak from his nose and mouth. "No, no, no…"

"You cannot mantle Dominion if you have nothing left to rule," said Raoden softly. He stepped around the stone pedestal until he was just two paces from Wyrn, staring down at the man as his blood splattered onto the stone floor. "It's over, Wyrn."

Wyrn said nothing for a moment. Then he looked up, his entire face leaking crimson. "Not while I live," he said. "The bleeding will stop, and I will survive. I will never stop being your enemy, King Raoden of Elantris."

"I agree," said Raoden. "Not while you live."

Then he stepped forward, crossing the distance between himself and Wyrn, and buried his sword in the man's belly. Wyrn screamed once, then fell still, slumped against Raoden's shoulder.

"That was for Palashea," Raoden whispered. The war had not been fought for vengeance—it had been fought to stop Wyrn from completing his plans and absorbing half of the essence of the Dor to ascend to godhood. But it was still good to finally kill the man who had ordered the death of Raoden's daughter all those years ago.

He pulled his sword out of Wyrn's gut and stepped aside to allow the man to fall to the floor, dead. Then he turned to Galladon. "Now it's done," he said.

"That it is, sule." But Galladon wasn't looking at him. He had stepped up to the glass sphere, his hand hovering hesitantly near it, as though he wanted to touch it but was afraid to do so.

"What is that thing?" Raoden asked, stepping forward so that he was opposite Galladon, the sphere between them.

"An artifact from before the cosmere itself was formed," said Galladon softly. "It's how Frost made contact with us twelve years ago. He has another of them."

Raoden stared at his friend. "What do you mean, before the cosmere was formed?"

"Exactly what I said, sule." Galladon looked up and met his eyes. "I can't stay long," he said. "A few years, at most."

Raoden grimaced. Galladon had volunteered to work for the mysterious Frost in exchange for the assistance Raoden had needed to defeat Wyrn. It had worked, but he had regretted for all these years that he had let his best friend be traded away like coins in a marketplace. "I know."

"But there is some good news," said Galladon. He looked back down at the sphere. With some apparent reluctance, he drew his hand away. "With this, we won't have to be out of contact."

Raoden blinked. Then he understood. "Frost is giving this to me?"

Galladon nodded. "You're an ally to the Seventeenth Shard now," he said. "We need a way to keep in contact. The Palantíri aren't exactly safe to use—a few of them are still unaccounted for—but it's a reliable way for you to keep in touch with Frost, and by extension, with me." He nodded at it. "Go on—touch it."

Raoden slowly reached out. The moment his hand came into contact with the sphere, the world seemed to fall away. He was still there, standing at the summit of Zigareth, but his vision was no longer constrained to his body. He felt that, if he looked, there was nothing in the whole cosmere he could not see.

"Stay focused," Galladon said. His voice sounded like it was coming from a long way off, and yet was as crisp and clear as if he was whispering in Raoden's ear. "There should be six threads. Can you see them?"

Raoden paused, looking closer at the sphere. "Yes," he said. There were six connections, visible to his eyes now, which bound this sphere to its counterparts across the cosmere. Three of them seemed to fade as they grew distant, as though those spheres—Palantíri?—were somehow hidden or lost. One thread, however, seemed stronger than the others, as though coated in hoarfrost. With a small smile, Raoden plucked at that one.

The sphere suddenly shifted in color. Instead of unnaturally deep black, it now seemed to contain within it a strange face, like that of a lizard with white scales. In its head were two ice-blue eyes with slitted pupils. "King Raoden," said Frost in his smooth, rumbling voice. "I see you were successful."

"Yes," said Raoden. "Thank you for sending Galladon. I don't think I'd have made it in time if it weren't for him."

"There is no sense in dwelling on what might have been," said Frost. "Instead, let us turn our attention to the future. The object you hold is a Palantír of Númenor, one of the seven ancient seeing-stones. With them, the Seventeenth Shard keeps a network of information across the cosmere—albeit not an entirely reliable one. There are far more than seven worlds of importance, after all."

"And you want me to be your informant here on Sel?"

"Informant makes your role sound like one of servitude. No, Your Majesty, I want you to be my ally on Sel. Our goals are very heavily aligned, I think you will find."

"What are your goals?" It was a question that had bothered Raoden from the moment he had picked up his sword. What could motivate Frost to give Raoden so much aid in exchange for just one Elantrian to assist him? What did Frost need done so badly that he was willing to give up so much to get someone to do it for him?

"Quite simple," said Frost. "We wish to prevent conflict between Shards or other fragments of the divine. If Wyrn had succeeded in mantling Dominion, he would have used that power to build an empire, coming into conflict with several other Shards across the Cosmere. We could not allow that. Not if it could be avoided. The cost to ordinary people would be immense."

"It's just a matter of principle?" asked Raoden. In his experience, people with as much power as Frost seemed to possess were rarely so completely altruistic.

"Not at all. It is a matter of self-preservation. For most mortals, the conflicts of Shards spells death. For myself, there is a prophecy that foretells the doom or enslavement of my entire species. The best way I have found to attempt to avert that fate is to maintain the tenuous equilibrium that has stabilized within the cosmere. That my means align well with the goals of most other peoples in the cosmere is a happy coincidence."

"What is this prophecy?" Raoden asked. "And why does maintaining the status quo help to stave it off?"

Frost paused for a long moment, as though gathering his thoughts. His eyes narrowed slightly as he considered. "It is not a prophecy in the traditional sense," he said at last. "Not a prediction in words of an exact event in the future. It is more an inevitable consequence of the nature of the cosmere, and that which exists outside the cosmere."

Outside the cosmere? But before Raoden could ask for clarification on that point, Frost had already continued.

"There are two opposed forces in the multimere, the collection of all cosmeres that exist. My people, few as we are, exist at a terrible intersection between these two. If one force wins, we will be enslaved to their service. But if the other wins, we will surely be destroyed, for our very existence is accursed and blasphemous to them. And so, it is our only hope, we dragons, to prevent either side from achieving final victory. At all costs."

Raoden stared at Frost for a long moment. "And how do the Shards fit into that conflict?"

"They are fragments of the only true divinity," said Frost. "Or, more precisely, they are fragments of an aspect of the only true divinity. Among them is the champion of that side which would enslave us. But if he is defeated, it becomes nearly inevitable that the Shards will one day be reunited, and then the divine will strike us down—and with us, all others it deems accursed. And in the process of that reunification, uncountable people are likely to die in agony. Simply put, Your Majesty, I am trying to avert a war in which either side will doom my people if victorious. Will you help me?"

Raoden considered for a moment. Frost had been a great help to him in these past twelve years, but nothing he said was possible for Raoden to verify. It always worried him to trust in someone with power, particularly when they were asking him to add his power to theirs. It was a trait that had served him well, both as a prince in the court of King Iadon, and then later as the King of Elantris and Arelon.

But Frost had given his assistance, and Raoden had no reason to believe ill of him. And, if nothing else, he trusted Galladon. He looked up at his friend, who nodded firmly.

"Very well," said Raoden, turning back to Frost's face in the Palantír. "I'll help you if I can."

108

LithosMaitreya

Mar 6, 2023

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