“Yes. The Almighty,” he said, sitting. “Our very language is symmetrical. Look at the glyphs – each one can be folded in half perfectly. And the alphabet too. Fold any line of text down across itself, and you’ll find symmetry. Surely you know the story, that both glyphs and letters came from the Dawnsingers?”
“Yes.”
“Even our names. Yours is nearly perfect. Shallan. One letter off, an ideal name for a lighteyed woman. Not too holy, but ever so close. The original names for the ten Silver Kingdoms. Alethela, Valhav, Shin Kak Nish. Perfect, symmetrical.”
He reached forward, taking her hand. “It’s here, around us. Don’t forget that, Shallan, no matter what she says.”
“I won’t,” she said, realizing how he’d guided the conversation. He’d said he believed her, but still he’d gone through his proofs. It was touching and annoying at the same time. She did not like condescension. But, then, could one really blame an ardent for preaching?
Kabsal looked up suddenly, releasing her hand. “I hear footsteps.” He stood, and Shallan turned as Jasnah walked into the alcove, followed by a parshman carrying a basket of books. Jasnah showed no surprise at the presence of the ardent.
“I’m sorry, Brightness Jasnah,” Shallan said, standing. “He–”
“You are not a captive, child,” Jasnah interrupted brusquely. “You are allowed visitors. Just be careful to check your skin for tooth marks. These types have a habit of dragging their prey out to sea with them.”
Kabsal flushed. He moved to gather up his things.
Jasnah waved for the parshman to place her books on the table. “Can that plate reproduce a cymatic pattern corresponding to Urithiru, priest? Or do you only have patterns for the standard four cities?”
Kabsal looked at her, obviously shocked to realize that she knew exactly what the plate was for. He picked up his book. “Urithiru is just a fable.”
“Odd. One would think that your type would be used to believing in fables.”
His face grew redder. He finished packing his things, then nodded curtly to Shallan and walked hastily from the room.
“If I may say so, Brightness,” Shallan said, “that was exceptionally rude of you.”
“I’m prone to such bouts of incivility,” Jasnah said. “I’m certain he has heard what I’m like. I simply wanted to make sure he got what he expected.”
“You haven’t acted that way toward other ardents in the Palanaeum.”
“The other ardents in the Palanaeum haven’t been working to turn my ward against me.”
“He wasn’t…” Shallan trailed off. “He was simply worried about my soul.”
“Has he asked you to try to steal my Soulcaster yet?”
Shallan felt a sudden spike of shock. Her hand went to the pouch at her waist. Did Jasnah know? No, Shallan told herself. No, listen to the question. “He didn’t.”
“Watch,” Jasnah said, opening a book. “He will eventually. I’ve experience with his type.” She looked at Shallan, and her expression softened. “He’s not interested in you. Not in any of the ways you think. In particular, this isn’t about your soul. It’s about me.”
“That is somewhat arrogant of you,” Shallan said, “don’t you think?”
“Only if I’m wrong, child,” Jasnah said, turning back to her book. “And I rarely am.”
34
Stormwall
“I walked from Abamabar to Urithiru.”
Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive…
Kaladin’s mind felt fuzzy. He knew that he hurt, but other than that, he floated. As if his head were detached from his body and bouncing off the walls and ceilings.
“Kaladin!” a concerned voice whispered. “Kaladin, please. Please don’t be hurt anymore.”
Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive. Why did those words bother him so much? He remembered what had happened, using the bridge as a shield, throwing the army off, dooming the assault. Stormfather, he thought, I’m an idiot!
“Kaladin?”
It was Syl’s voice. He risked opening his eyes and looked out on an upside-down world, sky extending below him, familiar lumberyard in the air above him.
No. He was upside down. Hanging against the side of Bridge Four’s barrack. The Soulcast building was fifteen feet tall at its peak, with a shallowly slanted roof. Kaladin was tied by his ankles to a rope, which would – in turn – be affixed to a ring set into the slanted roof. He’d seen it happen to other bridgemen. One who had committed a murder in camp, another who had been caught stealing for the fifth time.
His back was to the wall so that he faced eastward. His arms were free, hanging down at his sides, and they almost touched the ground. He groaned again, hurting everywhere.
As his father had trained him, he began to prod his side to check for broken ribs. He winced as he found several that were tender, at least cracked. Probably broken. He felt at his shoulder too, where he feared that his collarbone was broken. One of his eyes was swollen. Time would show if he’d sustained any serious internal damage.
He rubbed his face, and flakes of dried blood cracked free and fluttered toward the ground. Gash on his head, bloodied nose, split lip. Syl landed on his chest, feet planted on his sternum, hands clasped before her. “Kaladin?”
“I’m alive,” he mumbled, words slurred by his swollen lip. “What happened?”
“You were beaten by those soldiers,” she said, seeming to grow smaller. “I’ve gotten back at them. I made one of them trip three times today.” She looked concerned.
He found himself smiling. How long could a man hang like this, blood going to his head?
“There was a lot of yelling,” Syl said softly. “I think several men were demoted. The soldier, Lamaril, he…”
“What?”
“He was executed,” Syl said, even more quietly. “Highprince Sadeas did it himself, the hour the army got back from the plateau. He said something about the ultimate responsibility falling on the lighteyes. Lamaril kept screaming that you had promised to absolve him, and that Gaz should be punished instead.”
Kaladin smirked ruefully. “He shouldn’t have had me beaten senseless. Gaz?”
“They left him in his position. I don’t know why.”
“Right of responsibility. In a disaster like this, the lighteyes are supposed to take most of the blame. They like to make a show of obeying old precepts like that, when it suits them. Why am I still alive?”
“Something about an example,” Syl said, wrapping her translucent arms around herself. “Kaladin, I feel cold.”
“You can feel temperature?” Kaladin said, coughing.
“Not usually. I can now. I don’t understand it. I… I don’t like it.”
“It’ll be all right.”
“You shouldn’t lie.”
“Sometimes it’s all right to lie, Syl.”
“And this is one of those times?”
He blinked, trying to ignore his wounds, the pressure in his head, trying to clear his mind. He failed on all counts. “Yes,” he whispered.
“I think I understand.”
“So,” Kaladin said, resting his head back, the parietal knob of his skull resting against the wall, “I’m to be judged by the highstorm. They’ll let the storm kill me.”
Hanging here, Kaladin would be exposed directly to the winds and everything they would throw at him. If you were prudent and took appropriate action, it was possible to survive outside in a highstorm, though it was a miserable experience. Kaladin had done it on several occasions, hunkered down, taking shelter in the lee of a rock formation. But hanging on a wall facing directly stormward? He’d be cut to ribbons and crushed by stones.