Wasn’t he a fool to keep grasping as he did? If only he could win once. That would be enough. As long as he could believe that he could help someone, as long as he believed that some paths led to places other than darkness, he could hope.
You promised yourself you would try one last time, he thought. They aren’t dead yet.
Still alive. For now.
There was one thing he hadn’t tried. Something he’d been too frightened of. Every time he’d tried it in the past, he’d lost everything.
The wretch seemed to be standing before him. He meant release. Apathy. Did Kaladin really want to go back to that? It was a false refuge. Being that man hadn’t protected him. It had only led him deeper and deeper until taking his own life had seemed the better way.
Life before death.
Kaladin stood up, opening his eyes, dropping the small rock. He walked slowly back toward the torchlight. The bridgemen looked up from their work. So many questioning eyes. Some doubtful, some grim, others encouraging. Rock, Dunny, Hobber, Leyten. They believed in him. He had survived the storms. One miracle granted.
“There is something we could try,” Kaladin said. “But it will most likely end with us all dead at the hands of our own army.”
“We’re bound to end up dead anyway,” Maps noted. “You said so yourself.” Several of the others nodded.
Kaladin took a deep breath. “We have to try to escape.”
“But the warcamp is guarded!” said Earless Jaks. “Bridgemen aren’t allowed out without supervision. They know we’d run.”
“We’d die,” Moash said, face grim. “We’re miles and miles from civilization. There’s nothing out here but greatshells, and no shelter from highstorms.”
“I know,” Kaladin said. “But it’s either this or the Parshendi arrows.”
The men fell silent.
“They’re going to send us down here every day to rob corpses,” Kaladin said. “And they don’t send us with supervision, since they fear the chasmfiends. Most bridgeman work is busywork, to distract us from our fate, so we only have to bring back a small amount of salvage.”
“You think we should choose one of these chasms and flee down it?” Skar asked. “They’ve tried to map them all. The crews never reached the other side of the Plains – they got killed by chasmfiends or highstorm floods.”
Kaladin shook his head. “That’s not what we’re going to do.” He kicked at something on the ground before him – a fallen spear. His kick sent it into the air toward Moash, who caught it, surprised.
“I can train you to use those,” Kaladin said softly.
The men fell silent, looking at the weapon.
“What good would this thing do?” Rock asked, taking the spear from Moash, looking it over. “We cannot fight an army.”
“No,” Kaladin said. “But if I train you, then we can attack a guard post at night. We might be able to get away.” Kaladin looked at them, meeting each man’s eyes in turn. “Once we’re free, they’ll send soldiers after us. Sadeas won’t let bridgemen kill his soldiers and get away with it. We’ll have to hope he underestimates us and sends a small group at first. If we kill them, we might be able to get far enough away to hide. It will be dangerous. Sadeas will go to great lengths to recapture us, and we’ll likely end with an entire company chasing us down. Storm it, we’ll probably never escape the camp in the first place. But it’s something.”
He fell silent, waiting as the men exchanged uncertain glances.
“I’ll do it,” Teft said, straightening up.
“Me too,” Moash said, stepping forward. He seemed eager.
“And I,” Sigzil said. “I would rather spit in their Alethi faces and die on their swords than remain a slave.”
“Ha!” Rock said. “And I shall cook you all much food to keep you full while you kill.”
“You won’t fight with us?” Dunny asked, surprised.
“Is beneath me,” Rock said raising his chin.
“Well, I’ll do it,” Dunny said. “I’m your man, Captain.”
Others began to chime in, each man standing, several grabbing spears from the wet ground. They didn’t yell in excitement or roar like other troops Kaladin had led. They were frightened by the idea of fighting – most had been common slaves or lowly workmen. But they were willing.
Kaladin stepped forward and began to outline a plan.
44
The Weeping
FIVE YEARS AGO
Kaladin hated the Weeping. It marked the end of an old year and the coming of a new one, four solid weeks of rain in a ceaseless cascade of sullen drops. Never furious, never passionate like a highstorm. Slow, steady. Like the blood of a dying year that was taking its last few shambling steps toward the cairn. While other seasons of weather came and went unpredictably, the Weeping never failed to return at the same time each year. Unfortunately.
Kaladin lay on the sloped roof of his house in Hearthstone. A small pail of pitch sat next to him, covered by a piece of wood. It was almost empty now that he’d finished patching the roof. The Weeping was a miserable time to do this work, but it was also when a persistent leak could be most irritating. They’d repatch when the Weeping ended, but at least this way they wouldn’t have to suffer a steady stream of drips onto their dining table for the next weeks.
He lay on his back, staring up at the sky. Perhaps he should have climbed down and gone inside, but he was already soaked through. So he stayed. Watching, thinking.
Another army was passing through the town. One of many these days – they often came during the Weeping, resupplying and moving to new battlefields. Roshone had made a rare appearance to welcome the warlord: Highmarshal Amaram himself, apparently a distant cousin as well as head of Alethi defense in this area. He was of the most renowned soldiers still in Alethkar; most had left for the Shattered Plains.
The small raindrops misted Kaladin. Many of the others liked these weeks – there were no highstorms, save for one right in the middle. To the townspeople, it was a cherished time to rest from farming and relax. But Kaladin longed for the sun and the wind. He actually missed the highstorms, with their rage and vitality. These days were dreary, and he found it difficult to get anything productive done. As if the lack of storms left him without strength.
Few people had seen much of Roshone since the ill-fated whitespine hunt and the death of his son. He hid in his mansion, increasingly reclusive. The people of Hearthstone trod very lightly, as if they expected that any moment he could explode and turn his rage against them. Kaladin wasn’t worried about that. A storm – whether from a person or the sky – was something you could react to. But this suffocation, this slow and steady dousing of life… That was far, far worse.
“Kaladin?” Tien’s voice called. “Are you still up there?”
“Yeah,” he called back, not moving. The clouds were so bland during the Weeping. Could anything be more lifeless than that miserable grey?
Tien rounded to the back of the building, where the roof sloped down to touch the ground. He had his hands in the pockets of his long raincoat, a wide-brimmed hat on his head. Both looked too large for him, but clothing always seemed too large for Tien. Even when it fit him properly.
Kaladin’s brother climbed up onto the roof and walked up beside him, then lay down, staring upward. Someone else might have tried to cheer Kaladin up, and they would have failed. But somehow Tien knew the right thing to do. For the moment, that was keeping silent.
“You like the rain, don’t you?” Kaladin finally asked him.
“Yeah,” Tien said. Of course, Tien liked pretty much everything. “Hard to stare up at like this, though. I keep blinking.”
For some reason, that made Kaladin smile.