It was a common layout for training grounds. Kaladin had been in several buildings like this. Mostly back when he’d first been training in Amaram’s army.
Kaladin set his jaw, resting his fingers on the archway leading into the training grounds. It had been seven days since Amaram’s arrival in the warcamps. Seven days of dealing with the fact that Amaram and Dalinar were friends.
He’d decided to be storming happy about Amaram’s arrival. After all, it meant that Kaladin would be able to find a chance to finally stick a spear in that man.
No, he thought, entering the training grounds, not a spear. A knife. I want to be up close to him, face-to-face, so I can watch him panic as he dies. I want to feel that knife going in.
Kaladin waved to his men and entered through the archway, forcing himself to focus on his surroundings instead of Amaram. That archway was good stone, quarried nearby, built into a structure with the traditional eastward reinforcement. Judging by the modest crem deposits, these walls hadn’t been here long. It was another sign that Dalinar was starting to think of the warcamps as permanent—he was taking down simple, temporary buildings and replacing them with sturdy structures.
“I don’t know what you expected,” Drehy said to Moash as he inspected the grounds. “How would you make sparring grounds different for the lighteyes? Use diamond dust instead of sand?”
“Ouch,” Kaladin said.
“I don’t know how,” Moash said. “It’s just that they make such a big deal of it. No darkeyes on the ‘special’ sparring grounds. I don’t see what makes them special.”
“That’s because you don’t think like lighteyes,” Kaladin said. “This place is special for one simple reason.”
“Why’s that?” Moash asked.
“Because we’re not here,” Kaladin said, leading the way in. “Not normally, at least.”
He had with him Drehy and Moash, along with five other men, a mix of Bridge Four members and a few survivors of the old Cobalt Guard. Dalinar had assigned those to Kaladin, and to Kaladin’s surprise and pleasure, they had accepted him as their leader without a word of complaint. To a man, he’d been impressed with them. The old Guard had deserved its reputation.
A few, all darkeyed, had started eating with Bridge Four. They’d asked for Bridge Four patches, and Kaladin had gotten them some—but ordered them to put their Cobalt Guard patches on the other shoulder, and continue to wear them as a mark of pride.
Spear in hand, Kaladin led his team toward a group of ardents who bustled in their direction. The ardents wore Vorin religious garb—loose trousers and tunics, tied at the waist with simple ropes. Pauper’s clothing. They were slaves, and then they also weren’t. Kaladin had never given much thought to them. His mother would probably lament how little Kaladin cared for religious observance. The way Kaladin figured it, the Almighty didn’t show much concern for him, so why care back?
“This is the lighteyes’ training ground,” said the lead ardent sternly. She was a willowy woman, though you weren’t supposed to think of ardents as male or female. She had her head shaven, like all ardents. Her male companions wore square beards with clean upper lips.
“Captain Kaladin, Bridge Four,” Kaladin said, scanning the practice grounds and shouldering his spear. It would be very easy for an accident to happen here, during sparring. He’d have to watch for that. “Here to guard the Kholin boys while they practice today.”
“Captain?” one of the ardents scoffed. “You—”
Another ardent silenced him by whispering something. News about Kaladin had traveled quickly through camp, but ardents could be an isolated lot, sometimes.
“Drehy,” Kaladin said, pointing. “See those rockbuds growing up on the top of the wall there?”
“Yup.”
“They’re cultivated. That means there’s a way up.”
“Of course there is,” the lead ardent said. “The stairwell is at the northwestern corner. I have the key.”
“Good, you can let him in,” Kaladin said. “Drehy, keep an eye on things from up there.”
“On it,” Drehy said, trotting in the direction of the stairwell.
“And what kinds of danger do you expect them to be in here?” the ardent said, folding her arms.
“I see lots of weapons,” Kaladin said, “lots of people moving in and out, and . . . are those Shardblades I see? I wonder what could possibly go wrong.” He gave her a pointed look. The woman sighed, then handed her key to an assistant, who jogged off after Drehy.
Kaladin pointed to positions for his other men to watch from. They moved off, leaving only him and Moash. The lean man had turned immediately at the mention of Shardblades, and now watched them hungrily. A pair of lighteyed men bearing them had moved out into the center of the sands. One Blade was long and thin, with a large crossguard, while the other was wide and enormous, with wicked spikes—slightly flamelike—jutting out of both sides along the lower third. Both weapons had protective strips on the edges, like a partial sheath.
“Huh,” Moash said, “I don’t recognize either of those men. I thought I knew all the Shardbearers in camp.”
“They aren’t Shardbearers,” the ardent said. “They’re using the King’s Blades.”
“Elhokar lets people use his Shardblade?” Kaladin asked.
“It is a grand tradition,” the ardent said, seeming annoyed that she had to explain. “The highprinces used to do it in their own princedoms, before the reunification, and now it is the king’s obligation and honor. Men may use the King’s Blade and Plate to practice. The lighteyes of our armies must be trained with Shards, for the good of all. Blade and Plate are difficult to master, and if a Shardbearer falls in battle, it is important that others be capable of their immediate use.”
That made sense, Kaladin supposed, though he found it hard to imagine any lighteyes letting someone else touch his Blade. “The king has two Shardblades?”
“One is that of his father, kept for the tradition of training Shardbearers.” The ardent glanced at the sparring men. “Alethkar has always had the finest Shardbearers in the world. This tradition is part of it. The king has hinted that someday, he might bestow his father’s Blade upon a worthy warrior.”
Kaladin nodded in appreciation. “Not bad,” he said. “I’ll bet that a lot of men come to practice with them, each hoping to prove he’s the most skilled and most deserving. A good way for Elhokar to trick a bunch of men into training.”
The ardent huffed and walked away. Kaladin watched the Shardblades flash in the air. The men using them barely knew what they were doing. The real Shardbearers he’d seen, the real Shardbearers he’d fought, hadn’t lurched about swinging the oversized swords like polearms. Even Adolin’s duel the other day had—
“Storms, Kaladin,” Moash said, watching the ardent stalk away. “And you were telling me to be respectful?”
“Hmm?”
“You didn’t use an honorific for the king,” Moash said. “Then you implied that the lighteyes coming to practice were lazy and needed to be tricked into it. I thought we were supposed to avoid antagonizing the lighteyes?”
Kaladin looked away from the Shardbearers. Distracted, he’d spoken thoughtlessly. “You’re right,” he said. “Thanks for the reminder.”
Moash nodded.
“I want you by the gate,” Kaladin said, pointing. A group of parshmen came in, bearing boxes, probably foodstuffs. Those wouldn’t be dangerous. Would they? “Pay particularly close attention to servants, sword runners, or anyone else seemingly innocuous who approaches Highprince Dalinar’s sons. A knife to the side from someone like that would be one of the best ways to pull off an assassination.”
“Fine. But tell me something, Kal. Who is this Amaram fellow?”
Kaladin turned sharply toward Moash.
“I see how you look at him,” Moash said. “I see how your face gets when the other bridgemen mention him. What did he do to you?”
“I was in his army,” Kaladin said. “The l
ast place I fought, before . . .”
Moash gestured to Kaladin’s forehead. “That’s his work, then?”
“Yeah.”
“So he’s not the hero people say he is,” Moash said. He seemed pleased by that fact.
“His soul is as dark as any I’ve ever known.”
Moash took Kaladin by the arm. “We are going to get back at them somehow. Sadeas, Amaram. The ones who have done these things to us?” Angerspren boiled up around him, like pools of blood in the sand.
Kaladin met Moash’s eyes, then nodded.
“Good enough for me,” Moash said, shouldering his spear and jogging off toward the position Kaladin had indicated, the spren vanishing.
“He’s another who needs to learn to smile more,” Syl whispered. Kaladin hadn’t noticed her flitting nearby, and now she settled down on his shoulder.
Kaladin turned to walk around the perimeter of the practice grounds, noting each entrance. Perhaps he was being overly cautious. He just liked doing jobs well, and it had been a lifetime since he’d had a job other than saving Bridge Four.
Sometimes, though, it seemed like his job was impossible to do well. During the highstorm last week, someone had again sneaked into Dalinar’s rooms, scrawling a second number on the wall. Counting it down, it pointed at the same date a little over a month away.
The highprince didn’t seem worried, and wanted the event kept quiet. Storms . . . was he writing the glyphs himself while he had fits? Or was it some kind of spren? Kaladin was sure nobody could have gotten past him this time to get in.
“Do you want to talk about the thing that is bothering you?” Syl asked from her perch.
“I’m worried about what’s happening during the highstorms with Dalinar,” Kaladin said. “Those numbers . . . something is wrong. You still seeing those spren about?”
“Red lightning?” she asked. “I think so. They’re hard to spot. You haven’t seen them?”
Kaladin shook his head, hefting his spear and walking over onto the walkway around the sands. Here, he peeked into a storage room. Wooden practice swords, some the size of Shardblades, and sparring leathers lined the wall.
“Is that all that’s bothering you?” Syl asked.
“What else would be?”
“Amaram and Dalinar.”
“It’s not a big deal. Dalinar Kholin is friends with one of the worst murderers I’ve ever met. So? Dalinar is lighteyed. He’s probably friends with a lot of murderers.”
“Kaladin . . .” Syl said.
“Amaram’s worse than Sadeas, you know,” Kaladin said, walking around the storage room, checking for doorways. “Everyone knows that Sadeas is a rat. He’s straight with you. ‘You’re a bridgeman,’ he told me, ‘and I’m going to use you up until you die.’ Amaram, though . . . He promised to be more, a brightlord like those in the stories. He told me he’d protect Tien. He feigned honor. That’s worse than any depth Sadeas could ever reach.”
“Dalinar’s not like Amaram,” Syl said. “You know he’s not.”
“People say the same things about him that they did of Amaram. That they still do of Amaram.” Kaladin stepped back out into the sunlight and continued his circuit of the grounds, passing dueling lighteyes who kicked up sand as they grunted, sweated, and clacked wooden swords against one another.
Each pair was attended by a half-dozen darkeyed servants carrying towels and canteens—and many had a parshman or two bring them chairs to sit on when they rested. Stormfather. Even in something routine like this, the lighteyes had to be pampered.
Syl zipped out into the air in front of Kaladin, coming down like a storm. Literally like a storm. She stopped in the air right in front of him, a cloud boiling from beneath her feet, flashing with lightning. “You can honestly say,” she demanded, “that you think Dalinar Kholin is only pretending to be honorable?”
“I—”
“Don’t you lie to me, Kaladin,” she said, stepping forward, pointing. Diminutive though she was, in that moment, she seemed as vast as a highstorm. “No lies. Ever.”
He took a deep breath. “No,” he finally said. “No, Dalinar gave up his Blade for us. He’s a good man. I accept that. Amaram has him fooled. He had me fooled too, so I suppose I can’t blame Kholin too much.”
Syl nodded curtly, the cloud dissipating. “You should talk to him about Amaram,” she said, walking in the air beside Kaladin’s head as he continued scouting the structure. Her steps were small, and she should have fallen behind, but she didn’t.
“And what should I say?” Kaladin asked. “Should I go to him and accuse a lighteyes of the third dahn of murdering his own troops? Of stealing my Shardblade? I’ll sound like either a fool or a madman.”
“But—”
“He won’t listen, Syl,” Kaladin said. “Dalinar Kholin might be a good man, but he won’t let me speak ill of a powerful lighteyes. It’s the way of the world. And that is truth.”
He continued his inspection, wanting to know what was in the rooms where people could watch people spar. Some were for storage, others for bathing and resting. Several of those were locked, with lighteyes inside recovering from their daily sparring. Lighteyes liked baths.
The back side of the structure, opposite the entrance gate, held the living quarters for the ardents. Kaladin had never seen so many shaved heads and robed bodies scurrying about. Back in Hearthstone, the citylord had kept only a few wizened old ardents for tutoring his son. Those had also come down to the town periodically to burn prayers and elevate darkeyes’ Callings.
These ardents didn’t seem to be the same type. They had the physiques of warriors, and would often step in to practice with lighteyes who needed a sparring partner. Some of the ardents had dark eyes, but still used the sword—they weren’t considered lighteyed or darkeyed. They were just ardents.
And what do I do if one of them decides to try killing the princelings? Storms, but he hated some aspects of bodyguard duty. If nothing happened, then you were never sure if it was because nothing was wrong, or because you had deterred potential assassins.
Adolin and his brother finally arrived, both fully armored in their Shardplate, helms under their arms. They were accompanied by Skar and a handful of former members of the Cobalt Guard. Those saluted Kaladin as he walked up and gestured that they were dismissed, the shift officially changed. Skar would be off to join Teft and the group protecting Dalinar and Navani.
“The area is as secure as I can make it without disrupting training, Brightlord,” Kaladin said, walking up to Adolin. “My men and I will keep an eye out while you spar, but don’t hesitate to give a holler if something seems amiss.”
Adolin grunted, surveying the place, barely paying Kaladin any heed. He was a tall man, his few black Alethi hairs overwhelmed by quite a bit of golden blond. His father didn’t have that. Adolin’s mother had been from Rira, perhaps?
Kaladin turned to walk toward the northern side of the courtyard, where he’d have a different view from Moash.
“Bridgeman,” Adolin called. “You’ve decided to start using proper titles for people? Didn’t you call my father ‘sir’?”
“He’s in my chain of command,” Kaladin said, turning back. The simple answer seemed the best.
“And I’m not?” Adolin asked, frowning.
“No.”
“And if I give you an order?”
“I’ll comply with any reasonable requests, Brightlord. But if you wish for someone to fetch you tea between bouts, you’ll have to send someone else. There should be plenty here willing to lick your heels.”
Adolin stepped up to him. Though the deep blue Shardplate added only a few inches to his height, he seemed to tower because of it. Perhaps that line about licking heels had been brash.
Adolin represented something, though. The privilege of the lighteyes. He wasn’t like Amaram or Sadeas, who brought out Kaladin’s hatred. Men like Adolin just annoyed him, reminding him that in this world, some sipped wine and wore fancy clothing while ot
hers were made slaves almost on a whim.
“I owe you my life,” Adolin growled, as if it hurt to say the words. “That’s the only reason I haven’t yet thrown you through a window.” He reached up with a gauntleted finger and tapped at Kaladin’s chest. “But my patience with you won’t extend as far as my father’s, little bridgeman. There’s something off about you, something I can’t put my finger on. I’m watching you. Remember your place.”
Great. “I’ll keep you alive, Brightlord,” Kaladin said, pushing aside the finger. “That’s my place.”
“I can keep myself alive,” Adolin said, turning away and tromping across the sand with a clink of Plate. “Your job is to watch over my brother.”
Kaladin was more than happy to let him leave. “Spoiled child,” he muttered. Kaladin supposed that Adolin was a few years older than him. Just recently, Kaladin had realized that he’d passed his twentieth birthday while a bridgeman, and never known it. Adolin was in his early twenties. But being a child had little to do with age.
Renarin still stood awkwardly near the front gate, wearing Dalinar’s former Shardplate, carrying his newly won Shardblade. Adolin’s quick duel from yesterday was the talk of the warcamps, and it would take Renarin five days to fully bond his Blade before he could dismiss it.
The young man’s Shardplate was the color of dark steel, unpainted. That was how Dalinar had preferred it. By giving his Plate away, Dalinar suggested that he felt he needed to win his next victories as a politician. It was a laudable move; you couldn’t always have men following you because they feared you could beat them up—or even because you were the best soldier among them. You needed more, far more, to be a true leader.
Yet Kaladin did wish Dalinar had kept the Plate. Anything that helped the man stay alive would have been a boon for Bridge Four.
Kaladin leaned back against a column, folding his arms, spear in the crook of his arm, watching the area for trouble and inspecting everyone that got too close to the princelings. Adolin walked over and grabbed his brother by the shoulder, towing him across the courtyard. Various people sparring in the square stopped and bowed—if not in uniform—or saluted the princelings as they passed. A group of grey-clothed ardents had gathered at the back of the courtyard, and the woman from earlier stepped forward to chat with the brothers. Adolin and Renarin both bowed formally to her.