Kaladin didn’t retch. He shoved his half-burned torch between two large stones, then got to work, pulling bodies from the pile. At least they weren’t rotted enough to come apart. The bridgemen slowly filled in around him, working. Kaladin let his mind grow numb, not thinking.
Once the bodies were down, the bridgemen laid them in a line. Then they began pulling off their armor, searching their pockets, taking knives from belts. Kaladin left gathering the spears to the others, working by himself off to the side.
Teft knelt beside Kaladin, rolling over a body with a head smashed by the fall. The shorter man began to undo the straps on the fallen man’s breastplate. “Do you want to talk?”
Kaladin didn’t say anything. He just kept working. Don’t think about the future. Don’t think about what will happen. Just survive.
Don’t care, but don’t despair. Just be.
“Kaladin.” Teft’s voice was like a knife, digging into Kaladin’s shell, making him squirm.
“If I wanted to talk,” Kaladin grumbled, “would I be working here by myself?”
“Fair enough,” Teft said. He finally got the breastplate strap undone. “The other men are confused, son. They want to know what we’re going to do next.”
Kaladin sighed, then stood, turning to look at the bridgemen. “I don’t know what to do! If we try to protect ourselves, Sadeas will have us punished! We’re bait, and we’re going to die. There’s nothing I can do about it! It’s hopeless.”
The bridgemen regarded him with shock.
Kaladin turned from them and went back to work, kneeling beside Teft. “There,” he said. “I explained it to them.”
“Idiot,” Teft said under his breath. “After all you’ve done, you’re abandoning us now?”
To the side, the bridgemen turned back to work. Kaladin caught a few of them grumbling. “Bastard,” Moash said. “I said this would happen.”
“Abandoning you?” Kaladin hissed to Teft. Just let me be. Let me go back to apathy. At least then there’s no pain. “Teft, I’ve spent hours and hours trying to find a way out, but there isn’t one! Sadeas wants us dead. Lighteyes get what they want; that’s the way the world works.”
“So?”
Kaladin ignored him, turning back to his work, pulling at the boot on a soldier whose fibula looked to have been shattered in three different places. That made it storming awkward to get the boot off.
“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 own er, 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?
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 highst
orms, 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.
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