“‘A sculpture,’ the first said. ‘Can I not feel its curves and slopes, the touch of the chisel that transformed common rock into uncommon wonder?’
“‘I suppose,’ said the second, ‘that you can know the beauty of a sculpture.’
“‘And what of the beauty of food? Is it not a work of art when a chef crafts a masterpiece to delight the tastes?’
“‘I suppose,’ said the second, ‘that you can know the beauty of a chef’s art.’
“‘And what of the beauty of a woman,’ the first said. ‘Can I not know her beauty in the softness of her caress, the kindness of her voice, the keenness of her mind as she reads philosophy to me? Can I not know this beauty? Can I not know most kinds of beauty, even without my eyes?’
“‘Very well,’ said the second. ‘But what if your ears were removed, your hearing taken away? Your tongue taken out, your mouth forced shut, your sense of smell destroyed? What if your skin were burned so that you could no longer feel? What if all that remained to you was pain? You could not know beauty then. It can be taken from a man.’”
The messenger stopped, cocking his head at Shallan.
“What?” she asked.
“What think you? Can beauty be taken from a man? If he could not touch, taste, smell, hear, see . . . what if all he knew was pain? Has that man had beauty taken from him?”
“I . . .” What did this have to do with anything? “Does the pain change day by day?”
“Let us say it does,” the messenger said.
“Then beauty, to that person, would be the times when the pain lessens. Why are you telling me this story?”
The messenger smiled. “To be human is to seek beauty, Shallan. Do not despair, do not end the hunt because thorns grow in your way. Tell me, what is the most beautiful thing you can imagine?”
“Father is probably wondering where I am. . . .”
“Indulge me,” the messenger said. “I will tell you where your brother is.”
“A wonderful painting, then. That is the most beautiful thing.”
“Lies,” the messenger said. “Tell me the truth. What is it, child? Beauty, to you.”
“I . . .” What was it? “Mother still lives,” she found herself whispering, meeting his eyes.
“And?”
“And we are in the gardens,” Shallan continued. “She is speaking to my father, and he is laughing. Laughing and holding her. We are all there, including Helaran. He never left. The people my mother knew . . . Dreder . . . never came to our home. Mother loves me. She teaches me philosophy, and she shows me how to draw.”
“Good,” the messenger said. “But you can do better than that. What is that place? What does it feel like?”
“It’s spring,” Shallan shot back, growing annoyed. “And the mossvines bloom a vigorous red. They smell sweet, and the air is moist from the morning’s highstorm. Mother whispers, but there is music to her tone, and Father’s laugh doesn’t echo—it rises high into the air, bathing us all.
“Helaran is teaching Jushu swords, and they spar nearby. Wikim laughs as Helaran is struck on the side of the leg. He is studying to be an ardent, as Mother wanted. I am sketching them all, charcoal scratching paper. I feel warm, despite the slight chill to the air. I have a steaming cup of cider beside me, and I taste the sweetness in my mouth from the sip I just took. It is beautiful because it could have been. It should have been. I . . .”
She blinked tears. She saw it. Stormfather, but she saw it. She heard her mother’s voice, saw Jushu giving up spheres to Balat as he lost the duel, but laughing as he paid, uncaring of the loss. She could feel the air, smell the scents, hear the sounds of songlings in the brush. Almost, it became real.
Wisps of Light rose before her. The messenger had gotten out a handful of spheres and held them toward her while staring into her eyes. The steamy Stormlight rose between them. Shallan lifted her fingers, the image of her ideal life wrapped around her like a comforter.
No.
She drew back. The misty light faded.
“I see,” the messenger said softly. “You do not yet understand the nature of lies. I had that trouble myself, long ago. The Shards here are very strict. You will have to see the truth, child, before you can expand upon it. Just as a man should know the law before he breaks it.”
Shadows from her past shifted in the depths, surfacing just briefly toward the light. “Could you help?”
“No. Not now. You aren’t ready, for one, and I have work to be about. Another day. Keep cutting at those thorns, strong one, and make a path for the light. The things you fight aren’t completely natural.” He stood up, then bowed to her.
“My brother,” she said.
“He is in Alethkar.”
Alethkar? “Why?”
“Because that is where he feels he is needed, of course. If I see him again, I will give him word of you.” The messenger walked away on light feet, his steps smooth, almost like moves in a dance.
Shallan watched him go, the deep things within her settling again, returning to the forgotten parts of her mind. She realized she had not even asked the man his name.
When Simol was informed of the arrival of the Edgedancers, a concealed consternation and terror, as is common in such cases, fell upon him; although they were not the most demanding of orders, their graceful, limber movements hid a deadliness that was, by this time, quite renowned; also, they were the most articulate and refined of the Radiants.
—From Words of Radiance, chapter 20, page 12
Kaladin reached the end of the line of bridgemen. They stood at attention, spears to shoulders, eyes forward. The transformation was marvelous. He nodded under the darkening sky.
“Impressive,” he said to Pitt, the sergeant of Bridge Seventeen. “I’ve rarely seen such a fine platoon of spearmen.”
It was the kind of lie that commanders learned to give. Kaladin didn’t mention how some of the bridgemen shuffled while they stood, or how their maneuvers in formation were sloppy. They were trying. He could sense it in their earnest expressions, and in the way they had begun taking pride in their uniforms, their identity. They were ready to patrol, at least close to the warcamps. He made a mental note to have Teft start taking them out in a rotation with the other two crews that were ready.
Kaladin was proud of them, and he let them know it as the hour stretched long and night arrived. He then dismissed them to their evening meal, which smelled quite different from Rock’s Horneater stew. Bridge Seventeen considered their nightly bean curry to be part of their identity. Individuality through meal choice; Kaladin found that amusing as he moved off into the night, shouldering his spear. He had three more crews to look in on.
The next, Bridge Eighteen, was one of those having problems. Their sergeant, though earnest, didn’t have the presence necessary for a good officer. Or, well, none of the bridgemen had that. He was just particularly weak. Prone to begging instead of ordering, awkward in social situations.
It couldn’t all be blamed on Vet, however. He’d also been given a particularly discordant group of men. Kaladin found the soldiers of Eighteen sitting in isolated bunches, eating their evening meal. No laughter, no camaraderie. They weren’t as solitary as they’d been as bridgemen. Instead, they’d splintered into little cliques who didn’t mingle.
Sergeant Vet called them to order and they rose sluggishly, not bothering to stand in a straight line or salute. Kaladin saw the truth in their eyes. What could he do to them? Surely nothing as bad as their lives had been as bridgemen. So why make an effort?
Kaladin spoke to them of motivation and unity for a time. I’ll need to do another training session in the chasms with this lot, he thought. And if that didn’t work either . . . well, he’d probably have to break them up, stick them in other platoons that were working.
He eventually left Eighteen, shaking his head. They didn’t seem to want to be soldiers. Why had they taken Dalinar’s offer then, instead of leaving?
Because they don’t w
ant to make choices anymore, he thought. Choices can be hard.
He knew how that felt. Storms, but he did. He remembered sitting and staring at a blank wall, too morose to even get up and go kill himself.
He shivered. Those were not days he wanted to remember.
As he made his way toward Bridge Nineteen, Syl floated past on a current of wind in the form of a small patch of mist. She melded into a ribbon of light and zipped around him in circles before coming to rest on his shoulder.
“Everyone else is eating their dinners,” Syl said.
“Good,” Kaladin said.
“That wasn’t a status report, Kaladin,” she said. “It was a point of contention.”
“Contention?” He stopped in the darkness near the barrack of Bridge Nineteen, whose men were doing well, eating around their fire as a group.
“You’re working,” Syl said. “Still.”
“I need to get these men ready.” He turned his head to look at her. “You know something is coming. Those countdowns on the walls . . . Have you seen more of those red spren?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I think so, at least. In the corners of my eyes, watching me. Very infrequently, but there.”
“Something is coming,” Kaladin said. “That countdown points right toward the Weeping. Whatever happens then, I’ll have the bridgemen ready to weather it.”
“Well, you won’t if you drop dead from exhaustion first!” Syl hesitated. “People really can do that, right? I heard Teft saying he felt like he was going to do so.”
“Teft likes to exaggerate,” Kaladin said. “It’s one mark of a good sergeant.”
Syl frowned. “And that last part . . . was a joke?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” She looked into his eyes. “Rest anyway, Kaladin. Please.”
Kaladin looked toward Bridge Four’s barrack. It was a distance away, down the rows, but he thought he could hear Rock’s laughter echoing through the night.
Finally, he sighed, acknowledging his exhaustion. He could check on the last two platoons tomorrow. Spear in hand, he turned and hiked back. The advent of darkness meant it would be about two hours before men started turning in for the night. Kaladin arrived to the familiar scent of Rock’s stew, though Hobber—sitting on a tall stump the men had fashioned for him, a blanket across his grey, useless legs—was doing the serving. Rock stood nearby, arms folded, looking proud.
Renarin was there, taking and washing the dishes of those who’d finished. He did that every night, kneeling quietly beside the washbasin in his bridgeman uniform. The lad certainly was earnest. He didn’t display any of the spoiled temperament of his brother. Though he had insisted on joining them, he often sat at the edges of the group, near the back of the bridgemen at night. Such an odd young man.
Kaladin passed Hobber and gripped the man’s shoulder. He nodded, meeting Hobber’s eyes, raising a fist. Fight on. Kaladin reached for some stew, then froze.
Sitting nearby on a log were not one, but three beefy, thick-armed Herdazians. All wore Bridge Four uniforms, and Kaladin only recognized Punio out of the three.
Kaladin found Lopen nearby, staring at his hand—which he held before himself in a fist for some reason. Kaladin had long since given up on understanding Lopen.
“Three?” Kaladin demanded.
“Cousins!” Lopen replied, looking up.
“You have too many of those,” Kaladin said.
“That’s impossible! Rod, Huio, say hello!”
“Bridge Four,” the two men said, raising their bowls.
Kaladin shook his head, accepting his own stew and then walking past the cauldron into the darker area beside the barrack. He peeked into the storage room, and found Shen stacking sacks of tallew grain there, lit only by a single diamond chip.
“Shen?” Kaladin said.
The parshman continued stacking bags.
“Fall in and attention!” Kaladin barked.
Shen froze, then stood up, back straight, at attention.
“At ease, soldier,” Kaladin said softly, stepping up to him. “I spoke to Dalinar Kholin earlier today and asked if I could arm you. He asked if I trusted you. I told him the truth.” Kaladin held out his spear to the parshman. “I do.”
Shen looked from the spear to Kaladin, dark eyes hesitant.
“Bridge Four doesn’t have slaves,” Kaladin said. “I’m sorry for being frightened before.” He urged the man to take the spear, and Shen finally did so. “Leyten and Natam practice in the mornings with a few men. They’re willing to help you learn so that you don’t have to train with the greenvines.”
Shen held the spear with what seemed to be reverence. Kaladin turned to leave the storage room.
“Sir,” Shen said.
Kaladin paused.
“You are,” Shen said, speaking in his slow way, “a good man.”
“I’ve spent my life being judged for my eyes, Shen. I won’t do something similar to you because of your skin.”
“Sir, I—” The parshman seemed troubled by something.
“Kaladin!” Moash’s voice came from outside.
“Was there something you wanted to say?” Kaladin asked Shen.
“Later,” the parshman said. “Later.”
Kaladin nodded, then stepped out to see what the disturbance was. He found Moash looking for him near the cauldron.
“Kaladin!” Moash said, spotting him. “Come on. We’re going out, and you’re coming with us. Even Rock is coming tonight.”
“Ha! Stew is in good hands,” Rock said. “I will go do this thing. Will be good to get away from stink of little bridgemen.”
“Hey!” Drehy said.
“Ah. And stink of big bridgemen too.”
“Come on,” Moash said, waving to Kaladin. “You promised.”
He’d done no such thing. He just wanted to settle down by the fire, eat his stew, and watch the flamespren. Everyone was looking at him, though. Even the ones who weren’t going with Moash tonight.
“I . . .” Kaladin said. “Fine. Let’s go.”
They cheered and clapped. Storming fools. They cheered to see their commander go out drinking? Kaladin slurped down a few bites of stew, then handed the rest to Hobber. With reluctance, he then walked over to join Moash, as did Lopen, Peet, and Sigzil.
“You know,” Kaladin growled under his breath to Syl, “if this had been one of my old spearman crews, I’d assume they wanted me out of the camp so they could get away with something while I’m gone.”
“I doubt it’s that,” Syl said, frowning.
“No,” Kaladin said. “These men just want to see me as human.” He did need to go, for that reason. He was already too separate from the men. He didn’t want them thinking of him as they would a lighteyes.
“Ha!” Rock said, jogging up to join them. “These men, they claim they can drink more than Horneater. Airsick lowlanders. Is not possible.”
“A drinking contest?” Kaladin said, groaning inwardly. What was he getting into?
“None of us are on duty until the late morning,” Sigzil said with a shrug. Teft was watching the Kholins overnight, along with Leyten’s team.
“Tonight,” Lopen said, finger to the air, “I will be victorious. It is said you should never bet against the one-armed Herdazian in a drinking contest!”
“It is?” Moash asked.
“It will be said,” Lopen continued, “you should never bet against the one-armed Herdazian in a drinking contest!”
“You weigh about as much as a starved axehound, Lopen,” Moash said skeptically.
“Ah, but I have focus.”
They continued, turning down a pathway that led toward the market. The warcamp was laid out with blocks of barracks forming a large circle around the lighteyed buildings closer to the center. On the way out toward the market, which was in the outer ring of camp followers beyond the soldiers, they passed plenty of other barracks manned by ordinary soldiers—and the men there were busy in tasks that Kaladin had rar
ely seen in Sadeas’s army. Sharpening spears, oiling breastplates, before their dinner call came.
Kaladin’s men weren’t the only ones going out for the night, though. Other groups of soldiers had already eaten, and these strolled toward the market, laughing. They were recovering, slowly, from the slaughter that had left Dalinar’s army crippled.
The market was aglow with life, torches and oil lanterns shining from most buildings. Kaladin wasn’t surprised. An ordinary army would have had camp followers aplenty, and that was for a moving army. Here, merchants showed off wares. Criers sold news they claimed had come via spanreed, reporting events in the world. What was that about a war in Jah Keved? And a new emperor in Azir? Kaladin had only a vague idea of where that was.
Sigzil jogged over to get an earful of news, paying the crier a sphere while Lopen and Rock argued which tavern was the best to visit for the night. Kaladin watched the flow of life. Soldiers passing on the night watch. A group of chatting darkeyed women moving from spice merchant to spice merchant. A lighteyed courier posting projected highstorm dates and times on a board, her husband yawning nearby and looking bored—as if he’d been forced to come along to keep her company. The Weeping was coming up soon, the time of constant rain with no highstorms—the only break was Lightday, right in the middle. It was an off year in the thousand-day cycle of two years, which meant the Weeping would be a calm one this time.
“Enough arguing,” Moash said to Rock, Lopen, and Peet. “We’re going to the Ornery Chull.”
“Aw!” Rock said. “But they do not have Horneater lagers!”
“That’s because Horneater lagers melt your teeth,” Moash said. “Anyway, it’s my pick tonight.” Peet nodded eagerly. That tavern had been his choice as well.
Sigzil got back from hearing the news, and he’d apparently stopped somewhere else as well, as he carried something steaming and wrapped in paper.
“Not you too,” Kaladin said, groaning.
“It’s good,” Sigzil said defensively, then took a bite of the chouta.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“Of course I do.” Sigzil hesitated. “Hey, Lopen. What’s in this stuff?”