“Well, maybe we will die,” Teft said. “But maybe this isn’t about surviving.”
Why was Teft – of all people – trying to cheer him up? “If survival isn’t the point, Teft, then what is?” Kaladin finally got the boot off. He turned to the next body in line, then froze.
It was a bridgeman. Kaladin didn’t recognize him, but that vest and those sandals were unmistakable. He lay slumped against the wall, arms at his sides, mouth slightly open and eyelids sunken. The skin on one of the hands had slipped free and pulled away.
“I don’t know what the point is,” Teft grumbled. “But it seems pathetic to give up. We should keep fighting. Right until those arrows take us. You know, ‘journey before destination.’”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Teft said, looking down quickly. “Just something I heard once.”
“It’s something the Lost Radiants used to say,” Sigzil said, walking past.
Kaladin glanced to the side. The soft-spoken Azish man set a shield on a pile. He looked up, brown skin dark in the torchlight. “It was their motto. Part of it, at least. ‘Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination.’”
“Lost Radiants?” Skar said, carrying an armful of boots. “Who’s bringing them up?”
“Teft did,” Moash said.
“I did not! That was just something I heard once.”
“What does it even mean?” Dunny asked.
“I said I don’t know!” Teft said.
“It was supposedly one of their creeds,” Sigzil said. “In Yulay, there are groups of people who talk of the Radiants. And wish for their return.”
“Who’d want them to return?” Skar said, leaning back against the wall, folding his arms. “They betrayed us to the Voidbringers.”
“Ha!” Rock said. “Voidbringers! Lowlander nonsense. Is campfire tale told by children.”
“They were real,” Skar said defensively. “Everyone knows that.”
“Everyone who listens to campfire stories!” Rock said with a laugh. “Too much air! Makes your minds soft. Is all right, though – you are still my family. Just the dumb ones!”
Teft scowled as the others continued to talk about the Lost Radiants.
“Journey before destination,” Syl whispered on Kaladin’s shoulder. “I like that.”
“Why?” Kaladin asked, kneeling down to untie the dead bridgeman’s sandals.
“Because,” she replied, as if that were explanation enough. “Teft is right, Kaladin. I know you want to give up. But you can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t.”
“We’re assigned to chasm duty from now on,” Kaladin said. “We won’t be able to collect any more reeds to make money. That means no more bandages, antiseptic, or food for the nightly meals. With all of these bodies, we’re bound to run into rotspren, and the men will grow sick – assuming chasmfiends don’t eat us or a surprise highstorm doesn’t drown us. And we’ll have to keep running those bridges until Damnation ends, losing man after man. It’s hopeless.”
The men were still talking. “The Lost Radiants helped the other side,” Skar argued. “They were tarnished all along.”
Teft took offense at that. The wiry man stood up straight, pointing at Skar. “You don’t know anything! It was too long ago. Nobody knows what really happened.”
“Then why do all the stories say the same thing?” Skar demanded. “They abandoned us. Just like the lighteyes are abandoning us right now. Maybe Kaladin’s right. Maybe there is no hope.”
Kaladin looked down. Those words haunted him. Maybe Kaladin is right… maybe there is no hope…
He’d done this before. Under his last owner, before being sold to Tvlakv and being made a bridgeman. He’d given up on a quiet night after leading Goshel and the other slaves in rebellion. They’d been slaughtered. But somehow he’d survived. Storm it all, why did he always survive? I can’t do it again, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. I can’t help them.
Tien. Tukks. Goshel. Dallet. The nameless slave he’d tried to heal in Tvlakv’s slave wagons. All had ended up the same. Kaladin had the touch of failure. Sometimes he gave them hope, but what was hope except another opportunity for failure? How many times could a man fall before he no longer stood back up?
“I just think we’re ignorant,” Teft grumbled. “I don’t like listening to what the lighteyes say about the past. Their women write all the histories, you know.”
“I can’t believe you’re arguing about this, Teft,” Skar said, exasperated. “What next? Should we let the Voidbringers steal our hearts? Maybe they’re just misunderstood. Or the Parshendi. Maybe we should just let them kill our king whenever they want.”
“Would you two just storm off?” Moash snapped. “It doesn’t matter. You heard Kaladin. Even he thinks we’re as good as dead.”
Kaladin couldn’t take their voices anymore. He stumbled away, into the darkness, away from the torchlight. None of the men followed him. He entered a place of dark shadows, with only the distant ribbon of sky above for light.
Here, Kaladin escaped their eyes. In the darkness he ran into a boulder, stumbling to a stop. It was slick with moss and lichen. He stood with his hands pressed against it, then groaned and turned around to lean back against it. Syl alighted in front of him, still visible, despite the darkness. She sat down in the air, arranging her dress around her legs.
“I can’t save them, Syl,” Kaladin whispered, anguished.
“Are you certain?”
“I’ve failed every time before.”
“And so you’ll fail this time too?”
“Yes.”
She fell silent. “Well then,” she eventually said. “Let’s say that you’re right.”
“So why fight? I told myself that I would try one last time. But I failed before I began. There’s no saving them.”
“Doesn’t the fight itself mean anything?”
“Not if you’re destined to die.” He hung his head.
Sigzil’s words echoed in his head. Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination. Kaladin looked up at the crack of sky. Like a faraway river of pure, blue water.
Life before death.
What did the saying mean? That men should seek life before seeking death? That was obvious. Or did it mean something else? That life came before death? Again, obvious. And yet the simple words spoke to him. Death comes, they whispered. Death comes to all. But life comes first. Cherish it.
Death is the destination. But the journey, that is life. That is what matters.
A cold wind blew through the corridor of stone, washing over him, bringing crisp, fresh scents and blowing away the stink of rotting corpses.
Nobody cared for the bridgemen. Nobody cared for those at the bottom, with the darkest eyes. And yet, that wind seemed to whisper to him over and over. Life before death. Life before death. Live before you die.
His foot hit something. He bent down and picked it up. A small rock. He could barely make it out in the darkness. He recognized what was happening to him, this melancholy, this sense of despair. It had taken him often when he’d been younger, most frequently during the weeks of the Weeping, when the sky was hidden by clouds. During those times, Tien had cheered him up, helped him pull out of his despair. Tien had always been able to do that.
Once he’d lost his brother, he’d dealt with these periods of sadness more awkwardly. He’d become the wretch, not caring – but also not despairing. It had seemed better not to feel at all, as opposed to feeling pain.
I’m going to fail them, Kaladin thought, squeezing his eyes shut. Why try?