“Vengeance,” the other man said, face somber.
Kaladin nodded. “I lost someone once. Because I wasn’t good enough with the spear. I nearly killed myself practicing.”
“Who was it?”
“My brother.”
Moash nodded. The other bridgemen, Moash included, seemed to regard Kaladin’s “mysterious” past with reverence.
“I’m glad I trained,” Kaladin said. “And I’m glad you’re dedicated. But you have to be careful. If I’d gotten myself killed by working so hard, it wouldn’t have meant anything.”
“Sure. But there’s a difference between us, Kaladin.”
Kaladin raised an eyebrow.
“You wanted to be able to save someone. Me, I want to kill somebody.”
“Who?”
Moash hesitated, then shook his head. “Maybe I’ll say, someday.” He reached out, grabbing Kaladin on the shoulder. “I’d surrendered my plans, but you’ve returned them to me. I’ll guard you with my life, Kaladin. I swear it to you, by the blood of my fathers.”
Kaladin met Moash’s intense eyes and nodded. “All right, then. Go help Hobber and Yake. They’re still off on their thrusts.”
Moash jogged off to do as told. He didn’t call Kaladin “sir,” and didn’t seem to regard him with the same unspoken reverence as the others. That made Kaladin more comfortable with him.
Kaladin spent the next hour helping the men, one by one. Most of them were overeager, throwing themselves into their attacks. Kaladin explained the importance of control and precision, which won more fights than chaotic enthusiasm. They took it in, listening. More and more, they reminded him of his old spear squad.
That set him thinking. He remembered how he had felt when originally proposing the escape plan to the men. He’d been looking for something to do-a way to fight, no matter how risky. A chance. Things had changed. He now had a team he was proud of, friends he had come to love, and a possibility-perhaps-for stability.
If they could get the dodging and armor right, they might be reasonably safe. Maybe even as safe as his old spear squad had been. Was running still the best option?
“That is a worried face,” a rumbling voice noted. Kaladin turned as Rock walked up and leaned against the wall near him, folding powerful forearms. “Is the face of a leader, say I. Always troubled.” Rock raised a bushy red eyebrow.
“Sadeas will never let us go, particularly not now that we’re so prominent.” Alethi lighteyes considered it reprehensible for a man to let slaves escape; it made him seem impotent. Capturing those who ran away was essential to save face.
“You said this thing before,” Rock said. “We will fight the men he sends after us, will seek Kharbranth, where there are no slaves. From there, the Peaks, to my people who will welcome us as heroes!”
“We might beat the first group, if he’s foolish and sends only a few dozen men. But after that he’ll send more. And what of our wounded? Do we leave them here to die? Or do we take them with us and go that much more slowly?”
Rock nodded slowly. “You are saying that we need a plan.”
“Yes,” Kaladin said. “I guess that’s what I’m saying. Either that, or we stay here… as bridgemen.”
“Ha!” Rock seemed to take it as a joke. “Despite new armor, we would die soon. We make ourselves targets!”
Kaladin hesitated. Rock was right. The bridgemen would be used, day in and day out. Even if Kaladin slowed the death toll to two or three men a month-once, he would have considered that impossible, but now it seemed within reach-Bridge Four as it was currently composed would be gone within a year.
“I will talk with Sigzil about this thing,” Rock said, rubbing his chin between the sides of his beard. “We will think. There must be a way to escape this trap, a way to disappear. A false trail? A distraction? Perhaps we can convince Sadeas that we have died during bridge run.”
“How would we do that?”
“Don’t know,” Rock said. “But we will think.” He nodded to Kaladin and sauntered off toward Sigzil. The Azish man was practicing with the others. Kaladin had tried speaking to him about Hoid, but Sigzil-typically closemouthed-hadn’t wanted to discuss it.
“Hey, Kaladin!” Skar called. He was part of an advanced group that was going through Teft’s very carefully supervised sparring. “Come spar with us. Show these rock-brained fools how it’s really done.” The others began calling for him as well.
Kaladin waved them down, shaking his head.
Teft trotted over, a heavy spear on one shoulder. “Lad,” he said quietly, “I think it would be good for their morale if you showed them a thing or two yourself.”
“I’ve already given them instruction.”
“With a spear you knocked the head off of. Going very slowly, with lots of talk. They need to see it, lad. See you.”
“We’ve been through this, Teft.”
“Well, so we have.”
Kaladin smiled. Teft was careful not to look angry or belligerent-he looked as if he were having a normal conversation with Kaladin. “You’ve been a sergeant before, haven’t you?”
“Never mind that. Come on, just show them a few simple routines.”
“No, Teft,” Kaladin said, more seriously.
Teft eyed him. “You going to refuse to fight on the battlefield, just like that Horneater?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Well what is it like?”
Kaladin reached for an explanation. “I’ll fight when the time comes. But if I let myself get back into it now, I’ll be too eager. I’ll push to attack now. I’ll have trouble waiting until the men are ready. Trust me, Teft.”
Teft studied him. “You’re scared of it, lad.”
“What? No. I-”
“I can see it,” Teft said. “And I’ve seen it before. Last time you fought for someone, you failed, eh? So now you hesitate to take it up again.”
Kaladin paused. “Yes,” he admitted. But it was more than that. When he fought again, he would have to become that man from long ago, the man who had been called Stormblessed. The man with confidence and strength. He wasn’t certain he could be that man any longer. That was what scared him.
Once he held that spear again, there would be no turning back.
“Well.” Teft rubbed his chin. “When the time comes, I hope you’re ready. Because this lot will need you.”
Kaladin nodded and Teft hurried back to the others, giving some kind of explanation to mollify them.
64
A man of extremes
“They come from the pit, two dead men, a heart in their hands, and I know that I have seen true glory.”
— Kakashah 1173, 13 seconds pre-death. A rickshaw puller.
“I couldn’t decide if you were interested or not,” Navani said softly to Dalinar as they slowly walked around the grounds of Elhokar’s raised field palace. “Half the time, you seemed like a flirt-offering hints at courtship, then backing away. The other half of the time, I was certain I had misread you. And Gavilar was so forthcoming. He always did prefer to seize what he wished.”
Dalinar nodded thoughtfully. He wore his blue uniform, while Navani was in a subdued maroon dress with a thick hem. Elhokar’s gardeners had begun to cultivate the plant life here. To their right, a twisting length of yellow shalebark rose to waist height, like a railing. The stonelike plant was overgrown by small bunches of haspers with pearly shells slowly opening and closing as they breathed. They looked like tiny mouths, silently speaking in rhythm with one another.
Dalinar and Navani’s pathway took a leisurely course up the hillside. Dalinar strolled with hands clasped behind his back. His honor guard and Navani’s clerks followed behind. A few of them looked perplexed at the amount of time Dalinar and Navani were spending with one another. How many of them suspected the truth? All? Part? None? Did it matter? “I didn’t mean to confuse you, all those years ago,” he said, voice soft to keep it from prying ears. “I had intended to court you, but Gavilar e
xpressed a preference for you. So I eventually felt I had to step aside.”
“Just like that?” Navani asked. She sounded offended.
“He didn’t realize that I was interested. He thought that by introducing you to him, I was indicating that he should court you. That was often how our relationship worked; I would discover people Gavilar should know, then bring them to him. I didn’t realize until too late what I had done in giving you to him.”
“‘Giving’ me? Is there a slave’s brand on my forehead of which I’ve been unaware?”
“I did not mean-”
“Oh hush,” Navani said, her voice suddenly fond. Dalinar stifled a sigh; though Navani had matured since their youth, her moods always had changed as quickly as the seasons. In truth, that was part of her allure.
“Did you often step aside for him?” Navani asked.
“Always.”
“Didn’t that grow tiresome?”
“I didn’t think about it much,” Dalinar said. “When I did… yes, I was frustrated. But it was Gavilar. You know how he was. That force of will, that air of natural entitlement. It always seemed to surprise him when someone denied him or when the world itself didn’t do as he wished. He didn’t force me to defer-it was simply how life was.”
Navani nodded in understanding.
“Regardless,” Dalinar said, “I apologize for confusing you. I… well, I had difficulty letting go. I fear that-on occasion-I let too much of my true feelings slip out.”
“Well, I suppose I can forgive that,” she said. “Though you did spend the next two de cades making certain I thought you hated me.”
“I did nothing of the sort!”
“Oh? And how else was I to interpret your coldness? The way you would often leave the room when I arrived?”
“Containing myself,” Dalinar said. “I had made my decision.”
“Well, it looked a lot like hatred,” Navani said. “Though I did wonder several times what you were hiding behind those stony eyes of yours. Of course, then Shshshsh came along.”
As always, when the name of his wife was spoken, it came to him as the sound of softly rushing air, then slipped from his mind immediately. He could not hear, or remember, the name.
“She changed everything,” Navani said. “You truly seemed to love her.”
“I did,” Dalinar said. Surely he had loved her. Hadn’t he? He could remember nothing. “What was she like?” He quickly added, “I mean, in your opinion. How did you see her?”
“Everyone loved Shshshsh,” Navani said. “I tried hard to hate her, but in the end, I could only be mildly jealous.”
“You? Jealous of her? Whatever for?”
“Because,” Navani said. “She fit you so well, never making inappropriate comments, never bullying those around her, always so calm.” Navani smiled. “Thinking back, I really should have been able to hate her. But she was just so nice. Though she wasn’t very… well…”
“What?” Dalinar asked.
“Clever,” Navani said. She blushed, which was rare for her. “I’m sorry, Dalinar, but she just wasn’t. She wasn’t a fool, but… well… not everyone can be cunning. Perhaps that was part of her charm.”
She seemed to think that Dalinar would be offended. “It’s all right,” he said. “Were you surprised that I married her?”
“Who could be surprised? As I said, she was perfect for you.”
“Because we were matched intellectually?” Dalinar said dryly.
“Hardly. But you were matched in temperament. For a time, after I got over trying to hate her, I thought that the four of us could be quite close. But you were so stiff toward me.”
“I could not allow any further… lapses to make you think that I was still interested.” He said the last part awkwardly. After all, wasn’t that what he was doing now? Lapsing?
Navani eyed him. “There you go again.”
“What?”
“Feeling guilty. Dalinar, you are a wonderful, honorable man-but you really are quite prone to self-indulgence.”
Guilt? As self-indulgence? “I never considered it that way before.”
She smiled deeply.
“What?” he asked.
“You really are genuine, aren’t you, Dalinar?”
“I try to be,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder. “Though the nature of our relationship continues to perpetuate a kind of lie.”
“We’ve lied to nobody. Let them think, or guess, what they wish.”
“I suppose you are right.”
“I usually am.” She fell silent for a moment. “Do you regret what we have-”
“No,” Dalinar said sharply, the strength of his objection surprising him. Navani just smiled. “No,” Dalinar continued, more gently. “I do not regret this, Navani. I don’t know how to proceed, but I am not going to let go.”
Navani hesitated beside a growth of tiny, fist-size rockbuds with their vines out like long green tongues. They were grouped almost like a bouquet, growing on a large oval stone placed beside the pathway.
“I suppose it’s too much to ask for you to not feel guilty,” Navani said. “Can’t you let yourself bend, just a little?”
“I’m not certain if I can. Particularly not now. Explaining why would be difficult.”
“Could you try to? For me?”
“I… Well, I’m a man of extremes, Navani. I discovered that when I was a youth. I’ve learned, repeatedly, that the only way to control those extremes is to dedicate my life to something. First it was Gavilar. Now it’s the Codes and the teachings of Nohadon. They’re the means by which I bind myself. Like the enclosure of a fire, meant to contain and control it.”
He took a deep breath. “I’m a weak man, Navani. I really am. If I give myself a few feet of leeway, I burst through all of my prohibitions. The momentum of following the Codes these years after Gavilar’s death is what keeps me strong. If I let a few cracks into that armor, I might return to the man I once was. A man I never want to be again.”
A man who had contemplated murdering his own brother for the throne-and for the woman who had married that brother. But he couldn’t explain that, didn’t dare let Navani know what his desire for her had once almost driven him to do.
On that day, Dalinar had sworn that he would never hold the throne himself. That was one of his restraints. Could he explain how she, without trying, pried at those restraints? How it was difficult to reconcile his long-fermenting love for her with his guilt at finally taking for himself what he’d long ago given up for his brother?
“You are not a weak man, Dalinar,” Navani said.
“I am. But weakness can imitate strength if bound properly, just as cowardice can imitate heroism if given nowhere to flee.”
“But there’s nothing in Gavilar’s book that prohibits us. It’s just tradition that-”
“It feels wrong,” Dalinar said. “But please, don’t worry; I do enough worrying for both of us. I will find a way to make this work; I just ask your understanding. It will take time. When I display frustration, it is not with you, but with the situation.”
“I suppose I can accept that. Assuming you can live with the rumors. They’re starting already.”
“They won’t be the first rumors to plague me,” he said. “I’m starting to worry less about them and more about Elhokar. How will we explain to him?”
“I doubt he’ll notice,” Navani said, snorting softly, resuming her walk. He followed. “He’s so fixated on the Parshendi and, occasionally, the idea that someone in camp is trying to kill him.”
“This might feed into that,” Dalinar said. “He could read a number of conspiracies out of the two of us entering a relationship.”
“Well, he-”
Horns began sounding loudly from below. Dalinar and Navani stopped to listen and identify the call.
“Stormfather,” Dalinar said. “That’s the Tower itself where a chasmfiend has been seen. It’s one of the plateaus Sadeas has been watching.” Dalinar felt a s
urge of excitement. “Highprinces have failed every time to win a gemheart there. It will be a major victory if he and I can do it together.”
Navani looked troubled. “You’re right about him, Dalinar. We do need him for our cause. But keep him at arm’s length.”
“Wish me the wind’s favor.” He reached toward her, but then stopped himself. What was he going to do? Embrace her here, in public? That would set off the rumors like fire across a pool of oil. He wasn’t ready for that yet. Instead, he bowed to her, then hastened off to answer the call and collect his Shardplate.
It wasn’t until he was halfway down the path that he paused to consider Navani’s choice of words. She had said “We need him” for “our cause.”
What was their cause? He doubted that Navani knew either. But she had already started to think of them as together in their eff orts.
And, he realized, so did he.
The horns called, such a pure and beautiful sound to signify the imminence of battle. It caused a frenzy in the lumberyard. The orders had come down. The Tower was to be assaulted again-the very place where Bridge Four had failed, the place where Kaladin had caused a disaster.
Largest of the plateaus. Most coveted.
Bridgemen ran this way and that for their vests. Carpenters and apprentices rushed out of the way. Matal shouted orders; an actual run was the only time he did that without Hashal. Bridgeleaders, showing a modicum of leadership, bellowed for their teams to line up.
A wind whipped the air, blowing wood chips and bits of dried grass into the sky. Men yelled, bells rang. And into this chaos strode Bridge Four, Kaladin at their head. Despite the urgency, soldiers stopped, bridgemen gaped, carpenters and apprentices stilled.
Thirty-five men marched in rusty orange carapace armor, expertly crafted by Leyten to fit onto leather jerkins and caps. They’d cut off arm guards and shin guards to complement the breastplates. The helms were built from several different headpieces, and had been ornamented-at Leyten’s insistence-with ridges and cuts, like tiny horns or the edges of a crab’s shell. The breastplates and guards were ornamented as well, cut into toothlike patterns, each one reminiscent of a saw blade. Earless Jaks had bought blue and white paint and drawn designs across the orange armor.
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