Shallan sat, offering the bread and jam to Jasnah, who shook her head and continued researching. Shallan cut herself another slice and topped it with jam. Then she opened a book and sighed in satisfaction.
In one week, she’d have to leave. But in the meantime, she would let herself pretend a little while longer.
43
The Wretch
“They lived out in the wilds, always awaiting the Desolation – or sometimes, a foolish child who took no heed of the night’s darkness.”
Kaladin awoke to a familiar feeling of dread.
He’d spent much of the night lying awake on the hard floor, staring up into the dark, thinking. Why try? Why care? There is no hope for these men.
He felt like a wanderer seeking desperately for a pathway into the city to escape wild beasts. But the city was atop a steep mountain, and no matter how he approached, the climb was always the same. Impossible. A hundred different paths. The same result.
Surviving his punishment would not save his men. Training them to run faster would not save them. They were bait. The efficiency of the bait did not change its purpose or its fate.
Kaladin forced himself to his feet. He felt ground down, like a millstone used far too long. He still didn’t understand how he’d survived. Did you preserve me, Almighty? Save me so that I could watch them die?
You were supposed to burn prayers to send them to the Almighty, who waited for his Heralds to recapture the Tranquiline Halls. That had never made sense to Kaladin. The Almighty was supposed to be able to see all and know all. So why did he need a prayer burned before he would do anything? Why did he need people to fight for him in the first place?
Kaladin left the barrack, stepping into the light. Then he froze.
The men were lined up, waiting. A ragged bunch of bridgemen, wearing brown leather vests and short trousers that only reached their knees. Dirty shirts, sleeves rolled to the elbows, lacing down the front. Dusty skin, mops of ragged hair. And yet now, because of Rock’s gift, they all had neatly trimmed beards or clean-shaven faces. Everything else about them was worn. But their faces were clean.
Kaladin raised a hesitant hand to his face, touching his unkempt black beard. The men seemed to be waiting for something. “What?” he asked.
The men shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the lumberyard. They were waiting for him to lead them in practice, of course. But practice was futile. He opened his mouth to tell them that, but hesitated as he saw something approaching. Four men, carrying a palanquin. A tall, thin man in a violet lighteyes’s coat walked beside it.
The men turned to look. “What’s this?” Hobber asked, scratching at his thick neck.
“It will be Lamaril’s replacement,” Kaladin said, gently pushing his way through the line of bridgemen. Syl flitted down and landed on his shoulder as the palanquin bearers stopped before Kaladin and turned to the side, revealing a dark-haired woman wearing a sleek violet dress decorated with golden glyphs. She lounged on her side, resting on a cushioned couch, her eyes a pale blue.
“I am Brightness Hashal,” she said, voice lightly touched by a Kholinar accent. “My husband, Brightlord Matal, is your new captain.”
Kaladin held his tongue, biting back a remark. He had some experience with lighteyes who got “promoted” to positions like this one. Matal himself said nothing, simply standing with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He was tall – nearly as tall as Kaladin – but spindly. Delicate hands. That sword hadn’t seen much practice.
“We have been advised,” Hashal said, “that this crew has been troublesome.” Her eyes narrowed, focusing on Kaladin. “It seems that you have survived the Almighty’s judgment. I bear a message for you from your betters. The Almighty has given you another chance to prove yourself as a bridgeman. That is all. Many are trying to read too much into what happened, so Highprince Sadeas has forbidden gawkers to come see you.
“My husband does not intend to run the bridge crews with his predecessor’s laxness. My husband is a well-respected and honored associate of Highprince Sadeas himself, not some near-darkeyed mongrel like Lamaril.”
“Is that so?” Kaladin said. “Then how did he end up in this latrine pit of a job?”
Hashal didn’t display a hint of anger at the comment. She flicked her fingers to the side, and one of the soldiers stepped forward and rammed the butt of his spear toward Kaladin’s stomach.
Kaladin caught it, old reflexes still too keen. Possibilities flashed through his mind, and he could see the fight before it took place.
Yank on the spear, throw the soldier off guard.
Step forward and ram an elbow into his forearm, making him drop the weapon.
Take control, spin the spear up and slam the soldier on the side of the head.
Spin into a sweep to drop the two who came to help their companion.
Raise the spear for the–
No. That would only get Kaladin killed.
Kaladin released the butt of the spear. The soldier blinked in surprise that a mere bridgeman had blocked his blow. Scowling, the soldier jerked the butt up and slammed it into the side of Kaladin’s head.
Kaladin let it hit him, rolling with it, allowing it to toss him to the ground. His head rang from the shock, but his eyesight stopped spinning after a moment. He’d have a headache, but probably no concussion.
He took in a few deep breaths, lying on the ground, hands forming fists. His fingers seemed to burn where he had touched the spear. The soldier stepped back into position beside the palanquin.
“No laxness,” Hashal said calmly. “If you must know, my husband requested this assignment. The bridge crews are essential to Brightlord Sadeas’s advantage in the War of Reckoning. Their mismanagement under Lamaril was disgraceful.”
Rock knelt down, helping Kaladin to his feet while scowling at the lighteyes and their soldiers. Kaladin stumbled up, holding his hand to the side of his head. His fingers felt slick and wet, and a trickle of warm blood ran down his neck to his shoulder.
“From now on,” Hashal said, “aside from doing normal bridge duty, each crew will be assigned only one type of work duty. Gaz!”
The short bridge sergeant poked out from behind the palanquin. Kaladin hadn’t noticed him there, behind the porters and the soldiers. “Yes, Brightness?” Gaz bowed several times.
“My husband wishes Bridge Four to be assigned chasm duty permanently. Whenever they are not needed for bridge duty, I want them working in those chasms. This will be far more efficient. They will know which sections have been scoured recently, and will not cover the same ground. You see? Efficiency. They will start immediately.”
She rapped on the side of her palanquin, and the porters turned, bearing her away. Her husband continued to walk alongside her without saying a word, and Gaz hurried to keep up. Kaladin stared after them, holding his hand to his head. Dunny ran and fetched him a bandage.
“Chasm duty,” Moash grumbled. “Great job, lordling. She’d see us dead from a chasmfiend if the Parshendi arrows don’t take us.”
“What are we going to do?” asked lean, balding Peet, his voice edged with worry.
“We get to work,” Kaladin said, taking the bandage from Dunny.
He walked away, leaving them in a frightened clump.
A short time later, Kaladin stood at the edge of the chasm, looking down. The hot light of the noon sun burned the back of his neck and cast his shadow downward into the rift, to join with those below. I could fly, he thought. Step off and fall, wind blowing against me. Fly for a few moments. A few, beautiful moments.