And he didn’t care.
He crossed his arms on the wooden windowsill. There was no glass in the window and he could feel the breeze. A windspren flitted from one tent to another. Behind Kaladin, the room had a thick red rug and shields on the walls. There were a number of padded wooden chairs, like the one Kaladin sat in. This was the “small” waiting chamber of the warcenter—small, yet larger than his entire house back in Hearthstone, the surgery included.
I killed a Shardbearer, he thought again. And then I gave away the Blade and Plate.
That single event had to be the most monumentally stupid thing anyone, in any kingdom, in any era, had ever done. As a Shardbearer, Kaladin would have been more important than Roshone—more important than Amaram. He’d have been able to go to the Shattered Plains and fight in a real war.
No more squabbling over borders. No more petty lighteyed captains belonging to unimportant families, bitter because they’d been left behind. He would never again have had to worry about blisters from boots that didn’t fit, dinner slop that tasted of crem, or other soldiers who wanted to pick a fight.
He could have been rich. He’d given it all away, just like that.
And still, the mere thought of touching that Blade turned his stomach. He didn’t want wealth, titles, armies, or even a good meal. He wanted to be able to go back and protect the men who had trusted him. Why had he chased after the Shardbearer? He should have run. But no, he’d insisted on charging at a storming Shardbearer.
You protected your highmarshal, he told himself. You’re a hero.
But why was Amaram’s life worth more than those of his men? Kaladin served Amaram because of the honor he had shown. He let spearmen share his comfort in the warcenter during highstorms, a different squad each storm. He insisted that his men be well fed and well paid. He didn’t treat them like slime.
He did let his subordinates do so, though. And he’d broken his promise to shelter Tien.
So did I. So did I….
Kaladin’s insides were a twisted mess of guilt and sorrow. One thing remained clear, like a bright spot of light on the wall of a dark room. He wanted nothing to do with those Shards. He didn’t even want to touch them.
The door thumped open, and Kaladin turned in his chair. Amaram entered. Tall, lean, with a square face and long martial coat of deep green. He walked on a crutch. Kaladin eyed the wrappings and splint with a critical eye. I could have done better. He’d also have insisted that the patient remain in bed.
Amaram was talking to one of his stormwardens, a middle-aged man with a square beard and robes of deep black.
“…why Thaidakar would risk this?” Amaram was saying, speaking in a soft voice. “But who else would it be? The Ghostbloods grow more bold. We’ll need to find out who he was. Do we know anything about him?”
“He was Veden, Brightlord,” the stormwarden said. “Nobody I recognize. But I will investigate.”
Amaram nodded, falling silent. Behind the two, a group of lighteyed officers entered, one of them carrying the Shardblade, holding it on a pure white cloth. Behind this group came the four surviving members of Kaladin’s squad: Hab, Reesh, Alabet, and Coreb.
Kaladin stood up, feeling exhausted. Amaram remained by the door, arms folded, as two final men entered and closed the door. These last two were also lighteyes, but lesser ones—officers in Amaram’s personal guard. Had these been among those who had fled?
It was the smart thing to do, Kaladin thought. Smarter than what I did.
Amaram leaned on his walking staff, inspecting Kaladin with bright tan eyes. He’d been in conference with his counselors for several hours now, trying to discover who the Shardbearer had been. “You did a brave thing today, soldier,” Amaram said to Kaladin.
“I…” What did you say to that? I wish I’d left you to die, sir. “Thank you.”
“Everyone else fled, including my honor guard.” The two men closest to the door looked down, ashamed. “But you charged in for the attack. Why?”
“I didn’t really think about it, sir.”
Amaram seemed displeased by the answer. “Your name is Kaladin, is it?”
“Yes, Brightlord. From Hearthstone? Remember?”
Amaram frowned, looking confused.
“Your cousin, Roshone, is citylord there. He sent my brother into the army when you came recruiting. I…I joined with my brother.”
“Ah yes,” Amaram said. “I believe I remember you.” He didn’t ask after Tien. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why attack? It wasn’t for the Shardblade. You rejected that.”
“Yes, sir.”
To the side, the stormwarden raised his eyebrows, as if he hadn’t believed that Kaladin had turned down the Shards. The soldier holding the Shardblade kept glancing at it in awe.
“Why?” Amaram said. “Why did you reject it? I have to know.”
“I don’t want it, sir.”
“Yes, but why?”
Because it would make me one of you. Because I can’t look at that weapon and not see the faces of the men its wielder slaughtered so offhandedly.
Because…because…
“I can’t really answer that, sir,” Kaladin said, sighing.
The stormwarden walked over to the room’s brazier, shaking his head. He began warming his hands.
“Look,” Kaladin said. “Those Shards are mine. Well, I said to give them to Coreb. He’s the highest ranked of my soldiers, and the best fighter among them.” The other three would understand. Besides, Coreb would take care of them, once he was a lighteyes.
Amaram looked at Coreb, then nodded to his attendants. One closed the window shutters. The others pulled out swords, then began moving toward the four remaining members of Kaladin’s squad.
Kaladin yelled, leaping forward, but two of the officers had positioned themselves close to him. One slammed a punch into Kaladin’s gut as soon as he started moving. He was so surprised that it connected directly, and he gasped.
No.
He fought off the pain, turning to swing at the man. The man’s eyes opened wide as Kaladin’s fist connected, throwing him backward. Several other men piled on him. He had no weapons, and he was so tired from the battle that he could barely stay upright. They knocked him to the ground with punches to his side and back. He collapsed to the floor, pained, but still able to watch as the soldiers came at his men.
Reesh was cut down first. Kaladin gasped, stretching out a hand, struggling to his knees.
This can’t happen. Please, no!
Hab and Alabet had their knives out, but fell quickly, one soldier gutting Hab as two others hacked down Alabet. Alabet’s knife thumped as it hit the ground, followed by his arm, then finally his corpse.
Coreb lasted the longest, backing away, hands held forward. He didn’t scream. He seemed to understand. Kaladin’s eyes were watering, and soldiers grabbed him from behind, stopping him from helping.
Coreb’s fell to his knees and began to beg. One of Amaram’s men took him at the neck, neatly severing his head. It was over in seconds.
“You bastard!” Kaladin said, gasping against his pain. “You storming bastard!” Kaladin found himself weeping, struggling uselessly at the four men holding him. The blood of the fallen spearmen soaked the boards.
They were dead. All of them were dead. Stormfather! All of them!
Amaram stepped forward, expression grim. He went down on one knee before Kaladin. “I’m sorry.”
“Bastard!” Kaladin screamed as loud as he could.
“I couldn’t risk them telling what they saw. This is what must be, soldier. It’s for the good of the army. They’re going to be told that your squad helped the Shardbearer. You see, the men must believe that I killed him.”
“You’re taking the Shards for yourself!”
“I am trained in the sword,” Amaram said, “and am accustomed to plate. It will serve Alethkar best if I bear the Shards.”
“You could have asked me for them! Storm you!”
r /> “And when news got around camp?” Amaram said grimly. “That you’d killed the Shardbearer but I had the Shards? Nobody would believe that you’d given them up of your own free choice. Besides, son. You wouldn’t have let me keep them.” Amaram shook his head. “You’d have changed your mind. In a day or two, you’d have wanted the wealth and prestige—others would convince you of it. You’d have demanded that I return them to you. It took hours to decide, but Restares is right—this is what must be done. For the good of Alethkar.”
“It’s not about Alethkar! It’s about you! Storm it, you’re supposed to be better than the others!” Tears dripped from Kaladin’s chin.
Amaram looked guilty suddenly, as if he knew what Kaladin had said was true. He turned away, waving to the stormwarden. The man turned from the brazier, holding something he’d been heating in the coals. A small branding iron.
“It’s all an act?” Kaladin asked. “The honorable brightlord who cares about his men? Lies? All of it?”
“This is for my men,” Amaram said. He took the Shardblade from the cloth, holding it in his hand. The gemstone at its pommel let out a flash of white light. “You can’t begin to understand the weights I carry, spearman.” Amaram’s voice lost some of its calm tone of reason. He sounded defensive. “I can’t worry about the lives of a few darkeyed spearmen when thousands of people may be saved by my decision.”
The stormwarden stepped up to Kaladin, positioning the branding iron. The glyphs, reversed, read sas nahn. A slave’s brand.
“You came for me,” Amaram said, limping to the door, stepping around Reesh’s body. “For saving my life, I spare yours. Five men telling the same story would have been believed, but a single slave will be ignored. The warcamp will be told that you didn’t try to help your fellows—but you didn’t try to stop them, either. You fled and were captured by my guard.”
Amaram hesitated by the door, resting the blunt edge of the stolen Shardblade on his shoulder. The guilt was still there in his eyes, but he grew hard, covering it. “You are being discharged as a deserter and branded as a slave. But you are spared death by my mercy.”
He opened the door and walked out.
The branding iron fell, searing Kaladin’s fate into his skin. He let out a final, ragged scream.
THE END OF
Part Three
Baxil hastened down the lavish palace corridor, clutching the bulky bag of tools. A sound like a footfall came from behind him and he jumped, spinning. He didn’t see anything. The corridor was empty, a golden carpet lining the floor, mirrors on the walls, arched ceiling inlaid with elaborate mosaics.
“Would you stop that?” Av said, walking beside him. “Every time you jump I nearly cuff you one out of surprise.”
“I can’t help it,” Baxil said. “Shouldn’t we be doing this at night?”
“Mistress knows what she’s doing,” Av said. Like Baxil, Av was Emuli, with dark skin and hair. But the taller man was far more self-confident. He sauntered down the halls, acting as if they’d been invited, thick-bladed sword slung in a sheath over his shoulder.
If the Prime Kadasix may provide, Baxil thought, I’d rather Av never have to draw that weapon. Thank you.
Their mistress walked ahead of them, the only other person in the hallway. She wasn’t Emuli–she didn’t even seem Makabaki, though she had dark skin and long, beautiful black hair. She had eyes like a Shin, but she was tall and lean, like an Alethi. Av thought she was a mixed breed. Or so he said when they dared talk about such things. The mistress had good ears. Strangely good ears.
She stopped at the next intersection. Baxil caught himself glancing over his shoulder again. Av elbowed him, but he couldn’t help looking. Yes, the mistress claimed that the palace servants would be busy getting the new guest wing ready, but this was the home of Ashno of Sages himself. One of the richest and holiest men in all of Emul. He had hundreds of servants. What if one of them walked down this hallway?
The two men joined their mistress at the intersection. He forced his eyes forward so he wouldn’t keep looking over his shoulder, but then found himself staring at the mistress. It was dangerous, being employed by a woman as beautiful as she was, with that long black hair, worn free, hanging down to her waist. She never wore a proper woman’s robe, or even a dress or skirt. Always trousers, usually sleek and tight, a thin-bladed sword at her hip. Her eyes were so faintly violet they were almost white.
She was amazing. Wonderful, intoxicating, overwhelming.
Av elbowed him in the ribs again. Baxil jumped, then glared at his cousin, rubbing his belly.
“Baxil,” the mistress said. “My tools.”
He opened the bag, handing over a folded tool belt. It clinked as she took it, not looking at him, then she strode down the hallway to their left.
Baxil watched, uncomfortable. This was the Hallowed Hall, the place where a wealthy man placed images of his Kadasix for reverence. The mistress walked up to the first piece of art. The painting depicted Epan, Lady of Dreams. It was beautiful, a masterpiece of gold leaf on black canvas.
The mistress took a knife from her bundle and slashed the painting down the front. Baxil cringed, but said nothing. He’d almost gotten used to the casual way she destroyed art, though he was baffled by it. She did pay the two of them very well, however.
Av leaned back against the wall, picking his teeth with a fingernail. Baxil tried to imitate his relaxed pose. The large hallway was lit with topaz chips set in beautiful chandeliers, but they made no move to take them. The mistress did not approve of stealing.
“I’ve been thinking of seeking the Old Magic,” Baxil said, partially to keep himself from cringing as the mistress moved on to gouge out the eyes of a fine bust.
Av snorted. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Baxil said. “Seems like something to do with myself. I’ve never sought it, you know, and they say every man gets one chance. Ask a boon of the Nightwatcher. Have you used yours?”
“Nah,” Av said. “Don’t fancy making the trip all the way to the Valley. Besides, my brother went. Came back with two numb hands. Never could feel anything with them again.”
“What was his boon?” Baxil asked as the mistress wrapped up a vase with a cloth, then quietly shattered it on the floor and crushed the pieces.
“Don’t know,” Av said. “He never said. Seemed embarrassed. Probably asked for something silly, like a good haircut.” Av smirked.
“I was thinking I’d make myself more useful,” Baxil said. “Ask for courage, you know?”
“If you want,” Av replied. “I figure there are better ways than the Old Magic. You never know what kind of curse you’ll end up with.”
“I could phrase my request perfectly,” Baxil said.
“Doesn’t work that way,” Av said. “It’s not a game, no matter how the stories try to put it. The Nightwatcher doesn’t trick you or twist your words. You ask a boon. She gives what she feels you deserve, then gives you a curse to go along with it. Sometimes related, sometimes not.”
“And you’re an expert?” Baxil asked. The mistress was slashing another painting. “I thought you said you never went.”
“I didn’t,” Av said. “On account of my father going, my mother going, and each of my brothers going. A few got what they wanted. Most all of them regretted the curse, save my father. He got a heap of good cloth; sold to keep us from starving during the lurnip famine a few decades ago.”
“What was his curse?” Baxil said.
“Saw the world upside down from then on.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Av said. “Twisted all about. Like people walk on the ceilings and the sky was underneath him. Said he got used to it pretty quickly, though, and didn’t really think it a curse by the time he died.”
Even thinking about that curse made Baxil feel sick. He looked down at his sack of tools. If he weren’t such a coward, would he–maybe–be able to convince the mistress to see him as something more than just hired musc
le?
If the Prime Kadasix could provide, he thought, it would be very nice if I could know the right thing to do. Thank you.
The mistress returned, hair somewhat disheveled. She held out a hand. “Padded mallet, Baxil. There’s a full statue back there.”
He responded, pulling the mallet out of the sack and handing it to her.
“Perhaps I should get myself a Shardblade,” she said absently, putting the tool up on her shoulder. “But that might make this too easy.”
“I wouldn’t mind if it were too easy, mistress,” Baxil noted.
She sniffed, walking back down the hallway. Soon she began to pound on a statue at the far end, breaking off its arms. Baxil winced. “Someone’s going to hear that.”
“Yeah,” Av said. “Probably why she waited to do it last.”
At least the pounding was muffled by the padding. They had to be the only thieves who sneaked into the homes of rich men without taking anything.
“Why does she do this, Av?” Baxil found himself asking.
“Don’t know. Maybe you should ask her.”
“I thought you said I should never do that!”
“Depends,” Av said. “How attached to your limbs are you?”
“Rather attached.”
“Well, if you ever want that changed, start asking the mistress prying questions. Until then, shut up.”
Baxil said nothing further. The Old Magic, he thought. It could change me. I will go looking for it.
Knowing his luck, though, he wouldn’t be able to find it. He sighed, resting back against the wall as muted thuds continued to come from the mistress’s direction.
“I’m thinking of changing my Calling,” Ashir said from behind.
Geranid nodded absently as she worked on her equations. The small stone room smelled sharply of spices. Ashir was trying another new experiment. It involved some kind of curry powder and a rare Shin fruit that he’d caramelized. Something like that. She could hear it sizzling on his new fabrial hotplate.
“I’m tired of cooking,” Ashir continued. He had a soft, kindly voice. She loved him for that. Partially because he liked to talk–and if you were going to have someone talk while you were attempting to think, they might as well have a soft, kindly voice.