Around them, the crowd was silent.
An hour later, Kal sat on the steps in front of the surgery room, crying. It was a soft thing, his grief. A shake here. A few persistent tears, slipping down his cheeks.
He sat with knees up, arms wrapped around his legs, trying to figure out how to stop hurting. Was there a salve to take away this pain? A bandage to stop the flow from his eyes? He should have been able to save her.
Footsteps approached, and a shadow fell on him. Lirin knelt down beside him. “I inspected your work, son. You did well. I’m proud.”
“I failed,” Kal whispered. His clothing was stained red. Before he’d washed the blood free of his hands, it had been scarlet. But soaked into his clothing, it was a duller reddish brown.
“I’ve known men who practiced for hours and hours, yet still froze when confronted by a wounded person. It’s harder when it takes you by surprise. You didn’t freeze, you went to her, administered help. And you did it well.”
“I don’t want to be a surgeon,” Kal said. “I’m terrible at it.”
Lirin sighed, rounding the steps, sitting down beside his son. “Kal, this happens. It’s unfortunate, but you couldn’t have done more. That little body lost blood too quickly.”
Kal didn’t reply.
“You have to learn when to care, son,” Lirin said softly. “And when to let go. You’ll see. I had similar problems when I was younger. You’ll grow calluses.”
And this is a good thing? Kal thought, another tear trickling down his cheek. You have to learn when to care…and when to let go….
In the distance, Harl continued to wail.
21
Why men Lie
One need only look at the aftermath of his brief visit to Sel to see proof of what I say.
Kaladin didn’t want to open his eyes. If he opened his eyes, he’d be awake. And if he were awake, that pain-the burning in his side, the aching of his legs, the dull throb in his arms and shoulders-wouldn’t be just a nightmare. It would be real. And it would be his.
He stifled a groan, rolling onto his side. It all ached. Every length of muscle, every inch of skin. His head pounded. It seemed that his very bones were sore. He wanted to lie motionless and throbbing until Gaz was forced to come and tow him out by his ankles. That would be easy. Didn’t he deserve to do what was easy, for once?
But he couldn’t. To stop moving, to give up, would be the same as dying, and he could not let that happen. He’d made his decision already. He would help the bridgemen.
Curse you, Hav, he thought. You can boot me out of my bunk even now. Kaladin threw off his blanket, forcing himself to stand. The door to the barrack was cracked open to let in fresh air.
He felt worse standing up, but the life of a bridgeman wouldn’t wait for him to recover. You either kept up or you got crushed. Kaladin steadied himself, hand against the unnaturally smooth, Soulcast rock of the barrack wall. Then he took a deep breath and crossed the room. Oddly, more than a few of the men were awake and sitting up. They watched Kaladin in silence.
They were waiting, Kaladin realized. They wanted to see if I’d get up.
He found the three wounded where he’d left them at the front of the barrack. He held his breath as he checked on Leyten. Amazingly, he was still alive. His breathing was still shallow, his pulse weak and his wounds dire, but he was alive.
He wouldn’t stay that way long without antiseptic. None of the wounds looked infected with rotspren yet, but it would only be a matter of time in these dirty confines. He needed some of the apothecary’s salves. But how?
He checked the other two. Hobber was smiling openly. He was round-faced and lean, with a gap between his teeth and short, black hair. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for saving me.”
Kaladin grunted, inspecting the man’s leg. “You’ll be fine, but you won’t be able to walk for a few weeks. I’ll bring food from the mess hall for you.”
“Thank you,” Hobber whispered, taking Kaladin’s hand, clutching it. He actually seemed to be tearing up.
That smile forced back the gloom, made the aches and soreness fade. Kaladin’s father had described that kind of smile. Those smiles weren’t why Lirin had become a surgeon, but they were why he’d remained one.
“Rest,” Kaladin said, “and keep that wound clean. We don’t want to attract any rotspren. Let me know if you see any. They are small and red, like tiny insects.”
Hobber nodded eagerly and Kaladin moved to Dabbid. The youthful bridgeman looked just as he had the day before, staring forward, eyes unfocused.
“He was sitting like that when I fell asleep too, sir,” Hobber said. “It’s like he hasn’t moved all night. Gives me the chills, it does.”
Kaladin snapped his fingers in front of Dabbid’s eyes. The man jumped at the sound, focusing on the fingers, following them as Kaladin moved his hand.
“He’s been hit in the head, I think,” Hobber said.
“No,” Kaladin said. “It’s battle shock. It will wear off.” I hope.
“If you say so, sir,” Hobber said, scratching at the side of his head.
Kaladin stood and pushed the door open all the way, lighting the room. It was a clear day, the sun just barely over the horizon. Already, sounds drifted from the warcamp, a blacksmith working early, hammer on metal. Chulls trumpeting in the stables. The air was cool, chilly, clinging to the vestiges of night. It smelled clean and fresh. Spring weather.
You got up, Kaladin told himself. Might as well get on with it. He forced himself to go out and do his stretches, body complaining at each motion. Then he checked his own wound. It wasn’t too bad, though infection could make it worse.
Stormwinds take that apothecary! he thought, fetching a ladle full of water from the bridgeman barrel, using it to wash his wound.
He immediately regretted the bitter thought against the elderly apothecary. What was the man to do? Give Kaladin the antiseptic for free? It was Highprince Sadeas he should be cursing. Sadeas was responsible for the wound, and was also the one who had forbidden the surgeon’s hall to give supplies to bridgemen, slaves, and servants of the lesser nahns.
By the time he finished stretching, a handful of bridgemen had risen to get something to drink. They stood around the barrel, regarding Kaladin.
There was only one thing to do. Setting his jaw, Kaladin crossed the lumber grounds and located the plank he’d carried the day before. The carpenters hadn’t yet added it to their bridge, so Kaladin picked it up and walked back to the barracks. Then he began practicing the same way he had yesterday.
He couldn’t go as fast. In fact, much of the time, he could only walk. But as he worked, his aches soothed. His headache faded. His feet and shoulders still hurt, and he had a deep, latent exhaustion. But he didn’t embarrass himself by falling over.
In his practice, he passed the other bridgeman barracks. The men in front of them were barely distinguishable from those in Bridge Four. The same dark, sweat-stained leather vests over bare chests or loosely tied shirts. There was the occasional foreigner, Thaylens or Vedens most often. But they were unified in their scraggly appearances, unshaven faces, and haunted eyes. Several groups watched Kaladin with outright hostility. Were they worried that his practice would encourage their own bridgeleaders to work them?
He had hoped that some members of Bridge Four might join his work-out. They’d obeyed him during the battle, after all, even going so far as to help him with the wounded. His hope was in vain. While some bridgemen watched, others ignored him. None took part.
Eventually, Syl flitted down and landed on the end of his plank, riding like a queen on her palanquin. “They’re talking about you,” she said as he passed the Bridge Four barrack again.
“Not surprising,” Kaladin said between puffs.
“Some think you’ve gone mad,” she said. “Like that man who just sits and stares at the floor. They say the battle stress broke your mind.”
“Maybe they’re right. I didn’t consider that.”
“What is madness?” she asked, sitting with one leg up against her chest, vaporous skirt flickering around her calves and vanishing into mist.
“It’s when men don’t think right,” Kaladin said, glad for the conversation to distract him.
“Men never seem to think right.”
“Madness is worse than normal,” Kaladin said with a smile. “It really just depends on the people around you. How different are you from them? The person that stands out is mad, I guess.”
“So you all just…vote on it?” she asked, screwing up her face.
“Well, not so actively. But it’s the right idea.”
She sat thoughtfully for a time longer. “Kaladin,” she finally said. “Why do men lie? I can see what lies are, but I don’t know why people do it.”
“Lots of reasons,” Kaladin said, wiping the sweat from his brow with his free hand, then using it to steady the plank.
“Is it madness?”
“I don’t know if I’d say that. Everyone does it.”
“So maybe you’re all a little mad.”
He chuckled. “Yes, perhaps.”
“But if everyone does it,” she said, leaning her head on her knee, “then the one who doesn’t would be the one who is mad, right? Isn’t that what you said earlier?”
“Well, I guess. But I don’t think there’s a person out there who hasn’t ever lied.”
“Dalinar.”
“Who?”
“The king’s uncle,” Syl said. “Everyone says he never lies. Your bridgemen even talk about it sometimes.”
That’s right. The Blackthorn. Kaladin had heard of him, even in his youth. “He’s a lighteyes. That means he lies.”
“But-”
“They’re all the same, Syl. The more noble they look, the more corrupt they are inside. It’s all an act.” He fell quiet, surprised at the vehemence of his bitterness. Storm you, Amaram. You did this to me. He’d been burned too often to trust the flame.
“I don’t think men were always this way,” she said absently, getting a far-off look in her face. “I…”
Kaladin waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. He passed Bridge Four again; many of the men relaxed, backs to the barrack wall, waiting for the afternoon shade to cover them. They rarely waited inside. Perhaps staying inside all day was too gloomy, even for bridgemen.
“Syl?” he finally prompted. “Were you going to say something?”
“It seems I’ve heard men talk about times when there were no lies.”
“There are stories,” Kaladin said, “about the times of the Heraldic Epochs, when men were bound by honor. But you’ll always find people telling stories about supposedly better days. You watch. A man joins a new team of soldiers, and the first thing he’ll do is talk about how wonderful his old team was. We remember the good times and the bad ones, forgetting that most times are neither good nor bad. They just are.”
He broke into a jog. The sun was growing warm overhead, but he wanted to move.
“The stories,” he continued between puffs, “they prove it. What happened to the Heralds? They abandoned us. What happened to the Knights Radiant? They fell and became tarnished. What happened to the Epoch Kingdoms? They crashed when the church tried to seize power. You can’t trust anyone with power, Syl.”
“What do you do, then? Have no leaders?”
“No. You give the power to the lighteyes and leave it to corrupt them. Then try to stay as far from them as possible.” His words felt hollow. How good a job had he done staying away from lighteyes? He always seemed to be in the thick of them, caught in the muddy mire they created with their plots, schemes, and greed.
Syl fell silent, and after that last jog, he decided to stop his practicing. He couldn’t afford to strain himself again. He returned the plank. The carpenters scratched their heads, but didn’t complain. He made his way back to the bridgemen, noticing that a small group of them-including Rock and Teft-were chatting and glancing at Kaladin.
“You know,” Kaladin said to Syl, “talking to you probably doesn’t do anything for my reputation of being insane.”
“I’ll do my best to stop being so interesting,” Syl said, alighting on his shoulder. She put her hands on her hips, then plopped down to a sitting position, smiling, obviously pleased with her comment.
Before Kaladin could get back to the barrack, he noticed Gaz hustling across the lumberyard toward him. “You!” Gaz said, pointing at Kaladin. “Hold a season.”
Kaladin stopped, waiting with folded arms.
“I’ve news for you,” Gaz said, squinting with his good eye. “Brightlord Lamaril heard what you did with the wounded.”
“How?”
“Storms, boy!” Gaz said. “You think people wouldn’t talk? What were you going to do? Hide three men in the middle of us all?”
Kaladin took a deep breath, but backed down. Gaz was right. “All right. What does it matter? We didn’t slow the army.”
“Yeah,” Gaz said, “but Lamaril isn’t too polished on the idea of paying and feeding bridgemen who can’t work. He took the matter to Highprince Sadeas, intending to have you strung up.”
Kaladin felt a chill. Strung up would mean hung out during a highstorm for the Stormfather to judge. It was essentially a death sentence. “And?”
“Brightlord Sadeas refused to let him do it,” Gaz said.
What? Had he misjudged Sadeas? But no. This was part of the act.
“Brightlord Sadeas,” Gaz said grimly, “told Lamaril to let you keep the soldiers-but to forbid them food or pay while they’re unable to work. Said it would show why he’s forced to leave bridgemen behind.”
“That cremling,” Kaladin muttered.
Gaz paled. “Hush. That’s the highprince himself you’re talking about, boy!” He glanced about to see if anyone had heard.
“He’s trying to make an example of my men. He wants the other bridgemen to see the wounded suffer and starve. He wants it to seem like he’s doing a mercy by leaving the wounded behind.”
“Well, maybe he’s right.”
“It’s heartless,” Kaladin said. “He brings back wounded soldiers. He leaves the bridgemen because it’s cheaper to find new slaves than it is to care for wounded ones.”
Gaz fell silent.
“Thank you for bringing me this news.”
“News?” Gaz snapped. “I was sent to give you orders, lordling. Don’t try to get extra food from the mess hall for your wounded; you’ll be refused.” With that, he rushed away, muttering to himself.
Kaladin made his way back to the barrack. Stormfather! Where was he going to get food enough to feed three men? He could split his own meals with them, but while bridgemen were kept fed, they weren’t given an excess. Even feeding one man beyond himself would be a stretch. Trying to split the meals four ways would leave the wounded too weak to recover and Kaladin too weak to run bridges. And he still needed antiseptic! Rotspren and disease killed far more men in war than the enemy did.
Kaladin stepped up to the men lounging by the barrack. Most were going about the usual bridgeman activities-sprawled on the ground and despondently staring into the air, sitting and despondently staring at the ground, standing and despondently staring into the distance. Bridge Four wasn’t on bridge duty at all this day, and they didn’t have work detail until third afternoon bell.
“Gaz says our wounded are to be refused food or pay until they are well,” Kaladin said to the collected men.
Some of them-Sigzil, Peet, Koolf-nodded, as if this was what they’d expected.
“Highprince Sadeas wants to make an example of us,” Kaladin said. “He wants to prove that bridgemen aren’t worth healing, and he’s going to do it by making Hobber, Leyten, and Dabbid die slow, painful deaths.” He took a deep breath. “I want to pool our resources to buy medicine and get food for the wounded. We can keep those three alive if a few of you will split your meals with them. We’ll need about two dozen or so clearmarks to buy the right medic
ine and supplies. Who has something they can spare?”
The men stared at him, then Moash started laughing. Others joined him. They waved dismissive hands and broke up, walking away, leaving Kaladin with his hand out. “Next time it could be you!” he called. “What will you do if you’re the one that needs healing?”
“I’ll die,” Moash said, not even bothering to look back. “Out on the field, quickly, rather than back here over a week’s time.”
Kaladin lowered his hand. He sighed, turning, and almost ran into Rock. The beefy, towerlike Horneater stood with arms folded, like a tan-skinned statue. Kaladin looked up at him, hopeful.
“Don’t have any spheres,” Rock said with a grunt. “Is all spent already.”
Kaladin sighed. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Two of us couldn’t afford to buy the medicine. Not alone.”
“I will give some food,” Rock grumbled.
Kaladin glanced back at him, surprised.
“But only for this man with arrow in his leg,” Rock said, arms still folded.
“Hobber?”
“Whatever,” Rock said. “He looks like he could get better. Other one, he will die. Is certain. And I have no pity for man who sits there, not doing anything. But for the other one, you may have my food. Some of it.”
Kaladin smiled, raising a hand and gripping the larger man’s arm. “Thank you.”
Rock shrugged. “You took my place. Without this thing, I would be dead.”
Kaladin smirked at that logic. “I’m not dead, Rock. You’d be fine.”
Rock shook his head. “I’d be dead. Is something strange about you. All men can see it, even if they don’t want to speak of this thing. I looked at bridge where you were. Arrows hit all around you-beside your head, next to your hands. But they weren’t hitting you.”
“Luck.”
“Is no such thing.” Rock glanced at Kaladin’s shoulder. “Besides, there is mafah’liki who always follows you.” The large Horneater bowed his head reverently to Syl, then made a strange gesture with his hand touching his shoulders and then his forehead.
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