“They lived out in the wilds, always awaiting the Desolation—or sometimes, a foolish child who took no heed of the night’s darkness.”

—A child’s tale, yes, but this quote from Shadows Remembered seems to hint at the truth I seek. See page 82, the fourth tale.

Kaladin awoke to a familiar feeling of dread.

He’d spent much of the night lying awake on the hard floor, staring up into the dark, thinking. Why try? Why care? There is no hope for these men.

He felt like a wanderer seeking desperately for a pathway into the city to escape wild beasts. But the city was atop a steep mountain, and no matter how he approached, the climb was always the same. Impossible. A hundred different paths. The same result.

Surviving his punishment would not save his men. Training them to run faster would not save them. They were bait. The efficiency of the bait did not change its purpose or its fate.

Kaladin forced himself to his feet. He felt ground down, like a millstone used far too long. He still didn’t understand how he’d survived. Did you preserve me, Almighty? Save me so that I could watch them die?

You were supposed to burn prayers to send them to the Almighty, who waited for his Heralds to recapture the Tranquiline Halls. That had never made sense to Kaladin. The Almighty was supposed to be able to see all and know all. So why did he need a prayer burned before he would do anything? Why did he need people to fight for him in the first place?

Kaladin left the barrack, stepping into the light. Then he froze.

The men were lined up, waiting. A ragged bunch of bridgemen, wearing brown leather vests and short trousers that only reached their knees. Dirty shirts, sleeves rolled to the elbows, lacing down the front. Dusty skin, mops of ragged hair. And yet now, because of Rock’s gift, they all had neatly trimmed beards or clean-shaven faces. Everything else about them was worn. But their faces were clean.

Kaladin raised a hesitant hand to his face, touching his unkempt black beard. The men seemed to be waiting for something. “What?” he asked.

The men shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the lumberyard. They were waiting for him to lead them in practice, of course. But practice was futile. He opened his mouth to tell them that, but hesitated as he saw something approaching. Four men, carrying a palanquin. A tall, thin man in a violet lighteyes’s coat walked beside it.

The men turned to look. “What’s this?” Hobber asked, scratching at his thick neck.

“It will be Lamaril’s replacement,” Kaladin said, gently pushing his way through the line of bridgemen. Syl flitted down and landed on his shoulder as the palanquin bearers stopped before Kaladin and turned to the side, revealing a dark-haired woman wearing a sleek violet dress decorated with golden glyphs. She lounged on her side, resting on a cushioned couch, her eyes a pale blue.

“I am Brightness Hashal,” she said, voice lightly touched by a Kholinar accent. “My husband, Brightlord Matal, is your new captain.”

Kaladin held his tongue, biting back a remark. He had some experience with lighteyes who got “promoted” to positions like this one. Matal himself said nothing, simply standing with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He was tall—nearly as tall as Kaladin—but spindly. Delicate hands. That sword hadn’t seen much practice.

“We have been advised,” Hashal said, “that this crew has been troublesome.” Her eyes narrowed, focusing on Kaladin. “It seems that you have survived the Almighty’s judgment. I bear a message for you from your betters. The Almighty has given you another chance to prove yourself as a bridgeman. That is all. Many are trying to read too much into what happened, so Highprince Sadeas has forbidden gawkers to come see you.

“My husband does not intend to run the bridge crews with his predecessor’s laxness. My husband is a well-respected and honored associate of Highprince Sadeas himself, not some near-darkeyed mongrel like Lamaril.”

“Is that so?” Kaladin said. “Then how did he end up in this latrine pit of a job?”

Hashal didn’t display a hint of anger at the comment. She flicked her fingers to the side, and one of the soldiers stepped forward and rammed the butt of his spear toward Kaladin’s stomach.

Kaladin caught it, old reflexes still too keen. Possibilities flashed through his mind, and he could see the fight before it took place.

Yank on the spear, throw the soldier off guard.

Step forward and ram an elbow into his forearm, making him drop the weapon.

Take control, spin the spear up and slam the soldier on the side of the head.

Spin into a sweep to drop the two who came to help their companion.

Raise the spear for the—

No. That would only get Kaladin killed.

Kaladin released the butt of the spear. The soldier blinked in surprise that a mere bridgeman had blocked his blow. Scowling, the soldier jerked the butt up and slammed it into the side of Kaladin’s head.

Kaladin let it hit him, rolling with it, allowing it to toss him to the ground. His head rang from the shock, but his eyesight stopped spinning after a moment. He’d have a headache, but probably no concussion.

He took in a few deep breaths, lying on the ground, hands forming fists. His fingers seemed to burn where he had touched the spear. The soldier stepped back into position beside the palanquin.

“No laxness,” Hashal said calmly. “If you must know, my husband requested this assignment. The bridge crews are essential to Brightlord Sadeas’s advantage in the War of Reckoning. Their mismanagement under Lamaril was disgraceful.”

Rock knelt down, helping Kaladin to his feet while scowling at the lighteyes and their soldiers. Kaladin stumbled up, holding his hand to the side of his head. His fingers felt slick and wet, and a trickle of warm blood ran down his neck to his shoulder.

“From now on,” Hashal said, “aside from doing normal bridge duty, each crew will be assigned only one type of work duty. Gaz!”

The short bridge sergeant poked out from behind the palanquin. Kaladin hadn’t noticed him there, behind the porters and the soldiers. “Yes, Brightness?” Gaz bowed several times.

“My husband wishes Bridge Four to be assigned chasm duty permanently. Whenever they are not needed for bridge duty, I want them working in those chasms. This will be far more efficient. They will know which sections have been scoured recently, and will not cover the same ground. You see? Efficiency. They will start immediately.”

She rapped on the side of her palanquin, and the porters turned, bearing her away. Her husband continued to walk alongside her without saying a word, and Gaz hurried to keep up. Kaladin stared after them, holding his hand to his head. Dunny ran and fetched him a bandage.

“Chasm duty,” Moash grumbled. “Great job, lordling. She’d see us dead from a chasmfiend if the Parshendi arrows don’t take us.”

“What are we going to do?” asked lean, balding Peet, his voice edged with worry.

“We get to work,” Kaladin said, taking the bandage from Dunny.

He walked away, leaving them in a frightened clump.

A short time later, Kaladin stood at the edge of the chasm, looking down. The hot light of the noon sun burned the back of his neck and cast his shadow downward into the rift, to join with those below. I could fly, he thought. Step off and fall, wind blowing against me. Fly for a few moments. A few, beautiful moments.

He knelt and grabbed the rope ladder, then climbed down into the darkness. The other bridgemen followed in a silent group. They’d been infected by his mood.

Kaladin knew what was happening to him. Step by step, he was turning back into the wretch he had been. He’d always known it was a danger. He’d clung to the bridgemen as a lifeline. But he was letting go now.

As he stepped down the rungs, a faint translucent figure of blue and white dropped beside him, sitting on a swinglike seat. Its ropes disappeared a few inches above Syl’s head.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked softly.

Kaladin just kept climbing down.

“You should be happy. You survived the storms. The other bridgemen were so excited.”

“I itched to fight that soldier,” Kaladin whispered.

Syl cocked her head.

“I could have beaten him,” Kaladin continued. “I probably could have beaten all four of them. I’ve always been good with the spear. No, not good. Durk called me amazing. A natural born soldier, an artist with the spear.”

“Maybe you should have fought them, then.”

“I thought you didn’t like killing.”

“I hate it,” she said, growing more translucent. “But I’ve helped men kill before.”

Kaladin froze on the ladder. “What?”

“It’s true,” she said. “I can remember it, just faintly.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” She grew paler. “I don’t want to talk about it. But it was right to do. I feel it.”

Kaladin hung for a moment longer. Teft called down, asking if something was wrong. He started to descend again.

“I didn’t fight the soldiers today,” Kaladin said, eyes toward the chasm wall, “because it wouldn’t work. My father told me that it is impossible to protect by killing. Well, he was wrong.”

“But—”

“He was wrong,” Kaladin said, “because he implied that you could protect people in other ways. You can’t. This world wants them dead, and trying to save them is pointless.” He reached the bottom of the chasm, stepping into darkness. Teft reached the bottom next and lit his torch, bathing the moss-covered stone walls in flickering orange light.

“Is that why you didn’t accept it?” Syl whispered, flitting over and landing on Kaladin’s shoulder. “The glory. All those months ago?”

Kaladin shook his head. “No. That was something else.”

“What did you say, Kaladin?” Teft raised the torch. The aging bridgeman’s face looked older than usual in the flickering light, the shadows it created emphasizing the furrows in his skin.

“Nothing, Teft,” Kaladin said. “Nothing important.”

Syl sniffed at that. Kaladin ignored her, lighting his torch from Teft’s as the other bridgemen arrived. When they were all down, Kaladin led the way out into the dark rift. The pale sky seemed distant here, like a far-off scream. This place was a tomb, with rotting wood and stagnant pools of water, good only for growing cremling larvae.

The bridgemen clustered together unconsciously as they always did in this fell place. Kaladin walked in front, and Syl fell silent. He gave Teft the chalk to mark directions, and didn’t pause to pick up salvage. But neither did he walk too quickly. The other bridgemen were hushed behind them, speaking in occasional whispers too low to echo. As if their words were strangled by the gloom.

Rock eventually moved up to walk beside Kaladin. “Is difficult job, we have been given. But we are bridgemen! Life, it is difficult, eh? Is nothing new. We must have plan. How do we fight next?”

“There is no next fight, Rock.”

“But we have won grand victory! Look, not days ago, you were delirious. You should have died. I know this thing. But instead, you walk, strong as any other man. Ha! Stronger. Is miracle. The Uli’tekanaki guide you.”

“It’s not a miracle, Rock,” Kaladin said. “It’s more of a curse.”

“How is that a curse, my friend?” Rock asked, chuckling. He jumped up and into a puddle and laughed louder as it splashed Teft, who was walking just behind. The large Horneater could be remarkably childlike at times. “Living, this thing is no curse!”

“It is if it brings me back to watch you all die,” Kaladin said. “Better I shouldn’t have survived that storm. I’m just going to end up dead from a Parshendi arrow. We all are.”

Rock looked troubled. When Kaladin offered nothing more, he withdrew. They continued, uncomfortably passing sections of scarred wall where chasmfiends had left their marks. Eventually they stumbled across a heap of bodies deposited by the highstorms. Kaladin stopped, holding up his torch, the other bridgemen peeking around him. Some fifty people had been washed into a recess in the rock, a small dead-end side passage in the stone.

The bodies were piled there, a wall of the dead, arms hanging out, reeds and flotsam stuck between them. Kaladin saw at a glance that the corpses were old enough to begin bloating and rotting. Behind him, one of the men retched, which caused a few of the others to do so as well. The scent was terrible, the corpses slashed and ripped into by cremlings and larger carrion beasts, many of which scuttled away from the light. A disembodied hand lay nearby, and a trail of blood led away. There were also fresh scrapes in the lichen as high as fifteen feet up the wall. A chasmfiend had ripped one of the bodies loose to devour. It might come back for the others.

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.