“Though I was due for dinner in Veden City that night, I insisted upon visiting Kholinar to speak with Tivbet. The tariffs through Urithiru were growing quite unreasonable. By then, the so-called Radiants had already begun to show their true nature.”

—Following the firing of the original Palanaeum, only one page of Terxim’s autobiography remained, and this is the only line of any use to me.

Kaladin dreamed he was the storm.

He raged forward, the stormwall behind him his trailing cape, soaring above a heaving, black expanse. The ocean. His passing churned up a tempest, slamming waves into one another, lifting white caps to be caught in his wind.

He approached a dark continent and soared upward. Higher. Higher. He left the sea behind. The vastness of the continent spread out before him, seemingly endless, an ocean of rock. So large, he thought, awed. He hadn’t understood. How could he have?

He roared past the Shattered Plains. They looked as if something very large had hit them at the center, sending rippling breaks outward. They too were larger than he’d expected; no wonder nobody had been able to find their way through the chasms.

There was a large plateau at the center, but with the darkness and the distance, he could not see much. There were lights, though. Someone lived there.

He did see that the eastern side of the plains was very different from the western side, marked by tall, spindly pillars, plateaus that had nearly been worn away. Despite that, he could see a symmetry to the Shattered Plains. From high above, the plains resembled a work of art.

In a moment, he was past them, continuing north and west to soar across the Sea of Spears, a shallow inland sea where broken fingers of rock jutted above the water. He passed over Alethkar, catching a glimpse of the great city of Kholinar, built amid formations of rock like fins rising from the stone. Then he turned southward, away from anything he knew. He crested majestic mountains, densely populated at their tips, with villages clustered near vents that emitted steam or lava. The Horneater Peaks?

He left them with rain and winds, rumbling down into foreign lands. He passed cities and open plains, villages and twisting waterways. There were many armies. Kaladin passed tents pulled flat against the leeward sides of rock formations, stakes driven into the rock to hold them taut, men hidden inside. He passed hillsides where soldiers huddled in clefts. He passed large wooden wagons, built to house lighteyes while at war. How many wars was the world fighting? Was there nowhere that was at peace?

He took a path to the southwest, blowing toward a city built in long troughs in the ground that looked like giant claw marks ripped across the landscape. He was over it in a flash, passing a hinterland where the stone itself was ribbed and rippled, like frozen waves of water. The people in this kingdom were dark-skinned, like Sigzil.

The land went on and on. Hundreds of cities. Thousands of villages. People with faintly blue veins beneath their skin. A place where the pressure of the approaching highstorm blew water out of spouts in the ground. A city where people lived in gigantic, hollowed-out stalactites hanging beneath a titanic sheltered ridge.

Westward he blew. The land was so vast. So enormous. So many different people. It dazzled his mind. War seemed far less prevalent in the West than it was in the East, and that comforted him, but still he was troubled. Peace seemed a scarce commodity in the world.

Something drew his attention. Strange flashes of light. He blew toward them at the forefront of the storm. What were those lights? They came in bursts, forming the strangest patterns. Almost like physical things that he could reach out and touch, spherical bubbles of light that vibrated with spikes and troughs.

Kaladin crossed a strange city laid out in a triangular pattern, with tall peaks rising like sentries at the corners and center. The flashes of light were coming from a building on the central peak. Kaladin knew he would pass quickly, for as the storm, he could not retreat. Ever westward he blew.

He threw open the door with his wind, entering a long hallway with bright red tile walls, mosaic murals that he passed too quickly to make out. He rustled the skirts of tall, golden-haired serving women who carried trays of food or steaming towels. They called in a strange language, perhaps wondering who had left a window unbarred in a highstorm.

The flashes of light came from directly ahead. So transfixing. Brushing past a pretty gold-and red-haired woman who huddled frightened in a corner, Kaladin burst through a door. He had one brief glimpse of what lay beyond.

A man stood over two corpses. His pale head shaved, his clothing white, the murderer held a long, thin sword in one hand. He looked up from his victims and almost seemed to see Kaladin. He had large Shin eyes.

It was too late to see anything more. Kaladin blew out the window, throwing shutters wide and streaking into the night.

More cities, mountains, and forests passed in a blur. At his advent, plants curled up their leaves, rockbuds closed their shells, and shrubs withdrew their branches. Before long, he neared the western ocean.

CHILD OF TANAVAST. CHILD OF HONOR. CHILD OF ONE LONG SINCE DEPARTED. The sudden voice shook Kaladin; he floundered in the air.

THE OOATHPACT WAS SHATTERED.

The booming sound made the stormwall itself vibrate. Kaladin hit the ground, separating from the storm. He skidded to a stop, feet throwing up sprays of water. Stormwinds crashed into him, but he was enough a part of them that they neither tossed nor shook him.

MEN RIDE THE STORMS NO LONGER. The voice was thunder, crashing in the air. THE OOATHPACT IS BROKEN, CHILD OF HONOR.

“I don’t understand!” Kaladin screamed into the tempest.

A face formed before him, the face he had seen before, the aged face as wide as the sky, its eyes full of stars.

ODIUM COMES. MOST DANGEROUS OF ALL THE SIXTEEN. YOU WILL NOW GO.

Something blew against him. “Wait!” Kaladin said. “Why is there so much war? Must we always fight?” He wasn’t sure why he asked. The questions simply came out.

The storm rumbled, like a thoughtful aged father. The face vanished, shattering into droplets of water.

More softly, the voice answered, ODIUM REIGNS.

Kaladin gasped as he awoke. He was surrounded by dark figures, holding him down against the hard stone floor. He yelled, old reflexes taking over. Instinctively, he snapped his hands outward to the sides, each grabbing an ankle and jerking to pull two assailants off balance.

They cursed, crashing to the ground. Kaladin used the moment to twist while bringing an arm up in a sweep. He knocked free the hands pushing him down, rocked and threw himself forward, lurching into the man directly in front of him.

Kaladin rolled over him, tucking and coming up on his feet, free of his captives. He spun, flinging sweat from his brow. Where was his spear? He clutched for the knife at his belt.

No knife. No spear.

“Storm you, Kaladin!” That was Teft.

Kaladin raised a hand to his breast, breathing deliberately, dispelling the strange dream. Bridge Four. He was with Bridge Four. The king’s stormwardens had predicted a highstorm in the early morning hours.

“It’s all right,” he said to the cursing, twisting clump of bridgemen who had been holding him down. “What were you doing?”

“You tried to go out in the storm,” Moash said accusingly, extricating himself. The only light was a single diamond sphere one of the men had set in the corner.

“Ha!” Rock added, standing up and brushing himself off. “Had the door open to the rain, staring out, as if you’d been hit on the head with stone. We had to pull you back. Is not good for you to spend another two weeks sick in bed, eh?”

Kaladin calmed himself. The riddens—the quiet rainfall at the trailing end of a highstorm—continued outside, drops sprinkling the roof.

“You wouldn’t wake up,” Sigzil said. Kaladin glanced at the Azish man, sitting with his back to the stone wall. He hadn’t tried to hold Kaladin down. “You were having some kind of fever dream.”

“I feel just fine,” Kaladin said. That wasn’t quite true; his head ached and he was exhausted. He took a deep breath and threw back his shoulders, trying to force the fatigue away.

The sphere in the corner flickered. Then its light faded away, leaving them in darkness.

“Storm it!” Moash muttered. “That eel Gaz. He’s been giving us dun spheres again.”

Kaladin crossed the pitch-black barrack, stepping carefully. His headache faded away as he felt for the door. He pushed it open, letting in the faint light of an overcast morning.

The winds were weak, but the rain still fell. He stepped out, and was shortly soaked through. The other bridgemen followed him out, and Rock tossed Kaladin a small chunk of soap. Like most of the others, Kaladin wore only his loincloth, and he lathered himself up in the cold downpour. The soap smelled of oil and was gritty with the sand suspended in it. No sweet, soft soaps for bridgemen.

Kaladin tossed the bit of soap to Bisig, a thin bridgeman with an angular face. He took it gratefully—Bisig didn’t say much—and began to lather up as Kaladin let the rain wash the soap from his body and hair. To the side, Rock was using a bowl of water to shave and trim his Horneater beard, long on the sides and covering the cheeks, but clean below the lips and chin. It made an odd counterpoint to his head, which he shaved up the center, from directly above the eyebrows back. He trimmed the rest of his hair short.

Rock’s hand was smooth and careful, and he didn’t so much as nick himself. Once finished, he stood up and waved to the men waiting behind him. One by one, he shaved any who wanted it. He occasionally paused to sharpen the razor using his whetstone and leather strop.

Kaladin raised his fingers to his own beard. He hadn’t been clean-shaven since he’d been in Amaram’s army, so long ago. He walked forward to join those waiting in line. When Kaladin’s time came, the large Horneater laughed. “Sit, my friend, sit! Is good you have come. Your face is more like scragglebark branches than a proper beard.”

“Shave it clean,” Kaladin said, sitting down on the stump. “And I’d rather not have a strange pattern like yours.”

“Ha!” Rock said, sharpening his razor. “You are a lowlander, my good friend. Is not right for you to wear a humaka’aban. I would have to thump you soundly if you tried this thing.”

“I thought you said fighting was beneath you.”

“Is allowed several important exceptions,” Rock said. “Now stop with your talking, unless you wish to be losing a lip.”

Rock began by trimming the beard down, then lathered and shaved, starting at the left cheek. Kaladin had never let another shave him before; when he’d first gone to war, he’d been young enough that he’d barely needed to shave at all. He’d grown into doing it himself as he got older.

Rock’s touch was deft, and Kaladin didn’t feel any nicks or cuts. In a few minutes, Rock stood back. Kaladin raised his fingers to his chin, touching smooth, sensitive skin. His face felt cold, strange to the touch. It took him back, transformed him—just a little—into the man he had been.

Strange, how much difference a shave could make. I should have done this weeks ago.

The riddens had turned to drizzle, heralding the storm’s last whispers. Kaladin stood up, letting the water wash bits of shorn hair from his chest. Baby-faced Dunny—the last of those waiting—sat down for his turn at being shaven. He hardly needed it at all.

“The shave suits you,” a voice said. Kaladin turned to see Sigzil leaning against the wall of the barrack, just under the roof’s overhang. “Your face has strong lines. Square and firm, with a proud chin. We would call it a leader’s face among my people.”

“I’m no lighteyes,” Kaladin said, spitting to the side.

“You hate them so much.”

“I hate their lies,” Kaladin said. “I hate it that I used to believe they were honorable.”

“And would you cast them down?” Sigzil asked, sounding curious. “Rule in their place?”

“No.”

This seemed to surprise Sigzil. To the side, Syl finally appeared, having finished frolicking in the winds of the highstorm. He always worried—just a little—that she’d ride away with them and leave him.

“Have you no thirst to punish those who have treated you so?” Sigzil asked.

“Oh, I’m happy to punish them,” Kaladin said. “But I have no desire to take their place, nor do I wish to join them.”

“I’d join them in a heartbeat,” Moash said, walking up behind. He folded his arms across his lean, well-muscled chest. “If I were in charge, things would change. The lighteyes would work the mines and the fields. They would run bridges and die by Parshendi arrows.”

“Won’t happen,” Kaladin said. “But I won’t blame you for trying.”

Sigzil nodded thoughtfully. “Have either of you ever heard of the land of Babatharnam?”

“No,” Kaladin said, glancing toward the camp. The soldiers were moving about now. More than a few were washing too. “That a funny name for a country, though.”

Sigzil sniffed. “Personally, I always thought Alethkar sounded like a ridiculous name. I guess it depends on where you were raised.”

“So why bring up Babab…” Moash said.

“Babatharnam,” Sigzil said. “I visited there once, with my master. They have very peculiar trees. The entire plant—trunk and all—lies down when a highstorm approaches, as if built on hinges. I was thrown in prison three times during our visit there. The Babath are quite particular about how you speak. My master was quite displeased at the amount he had to pay to free me. Of course, I think they were using any excuse to imprison a foreigner, as they knew my master had deep pockets.” He smiled wistfully. “One of those imprisonments was my fault. The women there, you see, have these patterns of veins that sit shallowly beneath their skin. Some visitors find it unnerving, but I found the patterns beautiful. Almost irresistible…”

Kaladin frowned. Hadn’t he seen something like that in his dream?

“I bring up Babath because they have a curious system of rule there,” Sigzil continued. “You see, the elderly are given office. The older you are, the more authority you have. Everyone gets a chance to rule, if they live long enough. The king is called the Most Ancient.”

“Sounds fair,” Moash said, walking over to join Sigzil beneath the overhang. “Better than deciding who rules based on eye color.”

“Ah yes,” Sigzil said. “The Babath are very fair. Currently, the Monavakah Dynasty reigns.”

“How can you have a dynasty if you choose your leaders based on their age?” Kaladin asked.

“It’s actually quite easy,” Sigzil said. “You just execute anyone who gets old enough to challenge you.”

Kaladin felt a chill. “They do that?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Sigzil said. “There is a great deal of unrest in Babatharnam. It was dangerous to visit when we did. The Monavakahs make very certain that their family members live the longest; for fifty years, no one outside their family has become Most Ancient. All others have fallen through assassination, exile, or death on the battlefield.”

“That’s horrible,” Kaladin said.

“I doubt many would disagree. But I mention these horrors for a purpose. You see, it has been my experience that no matter where you go, you will find some who abuse their power.” He shrugged. “Eye color is not so odd a method, compared to many others I have seen. If you were to overthrow the lighteyes and place yourselves in power, Moash, I doubt that the world would be a very different place. The abuses would still happen. Simply to other people.”

Kaladin nodded slowly, but Moash shook his head. “No. I’d change the world, Sigzil. And I mean to.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Kaladin asked, amused.

“I came to this war to get myself a Shardblade,” Moash said. “And I still mean to do it, somehow.” He blushed, then turned away.

“You joined up assuming they’d make you a spearman, didn’t you?” Kaladin asked.

Moash hesitated, then nodded. “Some of those who joined with me did become soldiers, but most of us got sent to the bridge crews.” He glanced at Kaladin, expression growing dark. “This plan of yours had better work, lordling. Last time I ran away, I got a beating. I was told if I tried again, I’d get a slave’s mark instead.”

“I never promised it would work, Moash. If you’ve got a better idea, go ahead and share it.”

Moash hesitated. “Well, if you really do teach us the spear like you promised, then I guess I don’t care.”

Kaladin glanced about, warily checking to see if Gaz or any bridgemen from other crews were nearby. “Keep quiet,” Kaladin muttered to Moash. “Don’t speak of that outside of the chasms.” The rain had almost stopped; soon the clouds would break.

Moash glared at him, but remained silent.

“You don’t really think they’d let you have a Shardblade, do you?” Sigzil said.

“Any man can win a Shardblade.” Moash said. “Slave or free. Lighteyes or dark. It’s the law.”

“Assuming they follow the law,” Kaladin said with a sigh.

“I’ll do it somehow,” Moash repeated. He glanced to the side, where Rock was closing up his razor and wiping the rainwater from his bald head.

The Horneater approached them. “I have heard of this place you spoke of, Sigzil,” Rock said. “Babatharnam. My cousin cousin cousin visited there one time. They have very tasty snails.”

“That is a long distance to travel for a Horneater,” Sigzil noted.

“Nearly same distance as for an Azish,” Rock said. “Actually, much more, since you have such little legs!”

Sigzil scowled.

“I have seen your kind before,” Rock said, folding his arms.

“What?” Sigzil asked. “Azish? We are not so rare.”

“No, not your race,” Rock said. “Your type. What is it they are called? Visiting places around the land, telling others of what they have seen? A Worldsinger. Yes, is the right name. No?”

Sigzil froze. Then he suddenly stood up straight and stalked away from the barrack without looking back.

“Now why is he acting like this thing?” Rock asked. “I am not ashamed of being cook. Why is he ashamed of being Worldsinger?”

“Worldsinger?” Kaladin asked.

Rock shrugged. “I do not know much. Are strange people. Say they must travel to each kingdom and tell the people there of other kingdoms. Is a kind of storyteller, though they are thinking of themselves as much more.”

“He’s probably some kind of brightlord in his country,” Moash said. “The way he talks. Wonder how he ended up with us cremlings.”

“Hey,” Dunny said, joining them. “What’d you do to Sigzil? He promised to tell me about my homeland.”

“Homeland?” Moash said to the younger man. “You’re from Alethkar.”

“Sigzil said these violet eyes of mine aren’t native to Alethkar. He thinks I must have Veden blood in me.”

“Your eyes aren’t violet,” Moash said.

“Sure they are,” Dunny said. “You can see it in bright sunlight. They’re just really dark.”

“Ha!” Rock said. “If you are from Vedenar, we are cousins! The Peaks are near Vedenar. Sometimes the people there have good red hair, like us!”

“Be glad that someone didn’t mistake your eyes for red, Dunny,” Kaladin said. “Moash, Rock, go gather your subsquads and pass the word to Teft and Skar. I want the men oiling their vests and sandals against the humidity.”

The men sighed, but did as ordered. The army provided the oil. While the bridgemen were expendable, good hogshide and metal for buckles were not cheap.

As the men gathered to work, the sun broke through the clouds. The warmth of the light felt good on Kaladin’s rain-wet skin. There was something refreshing about the chill of a highstorm followed by the sun. Tiny rockbud polyps on the side of the building opened, drinking in the wet air. Those would have to be scraped free. Rockbuds would eat away the stone of the walls, creating pockmarks and cracks.

The buds were a deep crimson. It was Chachel, third day of the week. The slave markets would show new wares. That would mean new bridgemen. Kaladin’s crew was in serious danger. Yake had caught an arrow in the arm during their last run, and Delp had caught one in the neck. There’d been nothing Kaladin could do for him, and with Yake wounded, Kaladin’s team was down to twenty-eight bridge-capable members.

Sure enough, about an hour into their morning activities—caring for equipment, oiling the bridge, Lopen and Dabbid running to fetch their morning gruel pot and bring it back to the lumberyard—Kaladin caught sight of soldiers leading a line of dirty, shuffling men toward the lumberyard. Kaladin gestured to Teft, and the two of them marched up to meet Gaz.

“Afore you yell at me,” Gaz said as Kaladin arrived, “understand that I can’t change anything here.” The slaves were bunched up, watched over by a pair of soldiers in wrinkled green coats.

“You’re bridge sergeant,” Kaladin said. Teft stepped up beside him. He hadn’t gotten a shave, though he’d begun keeping his short, grey beard neatly trimmed.

“Yeah,” Gaz said, “but I don’t make assignments any more. Brightness Hashal wants to do it herself. In the name of her husband, of course.”

Kaladin gritted his teeth. She’d starve Bridge Four of members. “So we get nothing.”

“I didn’t say that,” Gaz said, then spat black spittle to the side. “She gave you one.”

That’s something, at least, Kaladin thought. There were a good hundred men in the new group. “Which one? He’d better be tall enough to carry a bridge.”

“Oh, he’s tall enough,” Gaz said, gesturing a few slaves out of the way. “Good worker too.” The men shuffled aside, revealing one man standing at the back. He was a little shorter than average, but he was still tall enough to carry a bridge.

But he had black and red marbled skin.

“A parshman?” Kaladin asked. To his side, Teft cursed under his breath.

“Why not?” Gaz said. “They’re perfect slaves. Never talk back.”

“But we’re at war with them!” Teft said.

“We’re at war with a tribe of oddities,” Gaz said. “Those out on the Shattered Plains are right different from the fellows who work for us.”

That much, at least, was true. There were a lot of parshmen in the warcamp, and—despite their skin markings—there was little similarity between them and the Parshendi warriors. None had the strange growths of armorlike carapace on their skin, for instance. Kaladin eyed the sturdy, bald man. The parshman stared at the ground; he wore only a loincloth, and he had a thickness about him. His fingers were thicker than those of human men, his arms stouter, his thighs wider.

“He’s domesticated,” Gaz said. “You don’t need to worry.”

“I thought parshmen were too valuable to use in bridge runs,” Kaladin said.

“This is just an experiment,” Gaz said. “Brightness Hashal wants to know her options. Finding enough bridgemen has been difficult lately, and parshmen could help fill in holes.”

“This is foolishness, Gaz,” Teft said. “I don’t care if he’s ‘domesticated’ or not. Asking him to carry a bridge against others of his kind is pure idiocy. What if he betrays us?”

Gaz shrugged. “We’ll see if that happens.”

“But—”

“Leave it, Teft,” Kaladin said. “You, parshman, come with me.” He turned to walk back down the hill. The parshman dutifully followed. Teft cursed and did so as well.

“What trick are they trying on us, do you think?” Teft asked.

“I suspect it’s just what he said. A test to see if a parshman can be trusted to run bridges. Perhaps he’ll do as he’s told. Or perhaps he’ll refuse to run, or will try to kill us. She wins regardless.”

“Kelek’s breath,” Teft cursed. “Darker than a Horneater’s stomach, our situation is. She’ll see us dead, Kaladin.”

“I know.” He glanced over his shoulder at the parshman. He was a little taller than most, his face a little wider, but they all looked about the same to Kaladin.

The other members of Bridge Four had lined up by the time Kaladin returned. They watched the approaching parshman with surprise and disbelief. Kaladin stopped before them, Teft at his side, the parshman behind. It made him itch, to have one of them behind him. He casually stepped to the side. The parshman just stood there, eyes downward, shoulders slumped.

Kaladin glanced at the others. They had guessed, and they were growing hostile.

Stormfather, Kaladin thought. There is something lower in this world than a bridgeman. A parshman bridgeman. Parshmen might cost more than most slaves, but so did a chull. In fact, the comparison was a good one, because parshmen were worked like animals.

Seeing the reaction of the others made Kaladin pity the creature. And that made him mad at himself. Did he always have to react this way? This parshman was dangerous, a distraction for the other men, a factor they couldn’t depend on.

A liability.

Turn a liability into an advantage whenever you can.. Those words had been spoken by a man who cared only for his own skin.

Storm it, Kaladin thought. I’m a fool. A downright, sodden idiot. This isn’t the same. Not at all. “Parshman,” he asked. “Do you have a name?”

The man shook his head. Parshmen rarely spoke. They could, but you had to prod them into it.

“Well, we’ll have to call you something,” Kaladin said. “How about Shen?”

The man shrugged.

“All right then,” Kaladin said to the others. “This is Shen. He’s one of us now.”

“A parshman?” Lopen asked, lounging beside the barrack. “I don’t like him, gancho. Look how he stares at me.”

“He’ll kill us while we sleep,” Moash added.

“No, this is good,” Skar said. “We can just have him run at the front. He’ll take an arrow for one of us.”

Syl alighted on Kaladin’s shoulder, looking down at the parshman. Her eyes were sorrowful.

If you were to overthrow the lighteyes and place yourselves in power, abuses would still happen. They’d just happen to other people.

But this was a parshman.

Gotta do what you can to stay alive….

“No,” Kaladin said. “Shen is one of us now. I don’t care what he was before. I don’t care what any of you were. We’re Bridge Four. So is he.”

“But—” Skar began.

“No,” Kaladin said. “We not going to treat him like the lighteyes treat us, Skar. That’s all there is to it. Rock, find him a vest and sandals.”

The bridgemen split up, all save Teft. “What about…our plans?” Teft asked quietly.

“We proceed,” Kaladin said.

Teft looked uncomfortable about that.

“What’s he going to do, Teft?” Kaladin asked. “Tell on us? I’ve never heard a parshman say more than a single word at a time. I doubt he could act as a spy.”

“I don’t know,” Teft grumbled. “But I’ve never liked them. They seem to be able to talk to each other, without making any sounds. I don’t like the way they look.”

“Teft,” Kaladin said flatly, “if we rejected bridgemen based on their looks, we’d have kicked you out weeks ago for that face of yours.”

Teft grunted. Then he smiled.

“What?” Kaladin asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just…for a moment, you reminded me of better days. Afore this storm came crashing down on me. You realize the odds, don’t you? Fighting our way free, escaping a man like Sadeas?”

Kaladin nodded solemnly.

“Good,” Teft said. “Well, since you aren’t inclined to do it, I’ll keep an eye on our friend ‘Shen’ over there. You can thank me after I stop him from sticking a knife in your back.”

“I don’t think we have to worry.”

“You’re young,” Teft said. “I’m old.”

“That makes you wiser, presumably?”

“Damnation no,” Teft said. “The only thing it proves is that I’ve more experience staying alive than you. I’ll watch him. You just train the rest of this sorry lot to…” He trailed off, looking around. “To keep from tripping over their own feet the moment someone threatens them. You understand?”

Kaladin nodded. That sounded much like something one of Kaladin’s old sergeants would say. Teft was insistent on not talking about his past, but he never had seemed as beaten down as most of the others.

“All right,” Kaladin said, “make sure the men take care of their equipment.”

“What will you be doing?”

“Walking,” Kaladin said. “And thinking.”

An hour later, Kaladin still wandered Sadeas’s warcamp. He’d need to return to the lumberyard soon; his men were on chasm duty again, and had been given only a few free hours to care for equipment.

As a youth, he hadn’t understood why his father had often gone walking to think. The older Kaladin grew, the more he found himself imitating his father’s habits. Walking, moving, it did something to his mind. The constant passing of tents, colors cycling, men bustling—it created a sense of change, and it made his thoughts want to move as well.

Don’t hedge bets with your life, Kaladin, Durk had always said. Don’t put in a chip when you have a pocket full of marks. Bet them all or leave the table.

Syl danced before him, jumping from shoulder to shoulder in the crowded street. Occasionally she’d land on the head of someone passing in the other direction and sit there, legs crossed, as she passed Kaladin. All his spheres were on the table. He was determined to help the bridgemen. But something itched at him, a worry that he couldn’t yet explain.

“You seem troubled,” Syl said, landing on his shoulder. She wore a cap and jacket over her usual dress, as if imitating nearby shop keepers. They passed the apothecary’s shop. Kaladin barely bothered to glance at it. He had no knobweed sap to sell. He’d run out of supplies soon.

He’d told his men that he’d train them to fight, but that would take time. And once they were trained, how would they get spears out of the chasms to use in the escape? Sneaking them out would be tough, considering how they were searched. They could just start fighting at the search itself, but that would only put the entire warcamp on alert.

Problems, problems. The more he thought, the more impossible his task seemed.

He made way for a couple of soldiers in forest-green coats. Their brown eyes marked them as common citizens, but the white knots on their shoulders meant they were citizen officers. Squadleaders and sergeants.

“Kaladin?” Syl asked.

“Getting the bridgemen out is as large a task as I’ve ever faced. Much more difficult than my other escape attempts as a slave, and I failed at each of those. I can’t help wondering if I’m setting myself up for another disaster.”

“It will be different this time, Kaladin,” Syl said. “I can feel it.”

“That sounds like something Tien would have said. His death proves that words don’t change anything, Syl. Before you ask, I’m not sinking into despair again. But I can’t ignore what has happened to me. It started with Tien. Since that moment, it seems that every time I’ve specifically picked people to protect, they’ve ended up dead. Every time. It’s enough to make me wonder if the Almighty himself hates me.”

She frowned. “I think you’re being foolish. Besides, if anything, he’d hate the people who died, not you. You lived.”

“I suppose it’s self-centered to make it all about me. But, Syl, I survive, every time, when almost nobody else does. Over and over again. My old spearman’s squad, the first bridge crew I ran with, numerous slaves I tried to help escape. There’s a pattern. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore.”

“Maybe the Almighty is preserving you,” Syl said.”

Kaladin hesitated on the street; a passing soldier cursed and shoved him aside. Something about this whole conversation was wrong. Kaladin moved over beside a rain barrel set between two sturdy stone-walled shops.

“Syl,” he said. “You mentioned the Almighty.”

“You did first.”

“Ignore that for now. Do you believe in the Almighty? Do you know if he really exists?”

Syl cocked her head. “I don’t know. Huh. Well, there are a lot of things I don’t know. But I should know this one. I think. Maybe?” She seemed very perplexed.

“I’m not sure if I believe,” Kaladin said, looking out at the street. “My mother did, and my father always spoke of the Heralds with reverence. I think he believed too, but maybe just because of the traditions of healing that are said to have come from the Heralds. The ardents ignore us bridgemen. They used to visit the soldiers, when I was in Amaram’s army, but I  haven’t seen a single one in the lumberyard. I haven’t given it much thought. Believing never seemed to help any of the soldiers.”

“So if you don’t believe, then there’s no reason to think that the Almighty hates you.”

“Except,” Kaladin said, “if there is no Almighty, there might be something else. I don’t know. A lot of the soldiers I knew were superstitious. They’d talk about things like the Old Magic and the Nightwatcher, things that could bring a man bad luck. I scoffed at them. But how long can I continue to ignore that possibility? What if all of these failures can be traced to something like that?”

Syl looked disturbed. The cap and jacket she’d been wearing dissolved to mist, and she wrapped her arms around herself as if chilled by his comments.

Odium reigns….

“Syl,” he said, frowning, thinking back to his strange dream. “Have you ever heard of something called Odium? I don’t mean the feeling, I mean…a person, or something called by that name.”

Syl suddenly hissed. It was a feral, disturbing sound. She zipped off his shoulder, becoming a darting streak of light, and shot up underneath the eaves of the next building.

He blinked. “Syl?” he called, drawing the attention of a couple of passing washwomen. The spren did not reappear. Kaladin folded his arms. That word had set her off. Why?

A loud series of curses interrupted his thoughts. Kaladin spun as a man burst out of a handsome stone building across the street and shoved a half-naked woman out in front of him. The man had bright blue eyes, and his coat—carried over one arm—had red knots on the shoulder. A lighteyed officer, not very high-ranking. Perhaps seventh dahn.

The half-dressed woman fell to the ground. She held the loose front of the dress to her chest, crying, her long black hair down and tied with two red ribbons. The dress was that of a lighteyed woman, except that both sleeves were short, safehand exposed. A courtesan.

The officer continued to curse as he pulled on his coat. He didn’t do up the buttons. Instead, he stepped forward and kicked the whore in the belly. She gasped, painspren pulling from the ground and gathering around her. Nobody on the street paused, though most did hurry on their way, heads down.

Kaladin growled, jumping into the roadway, pushing his way past a group of soldiers. Then he stopped. Three men in blue stepped out of the crowd, moving purposefully between the fallen woman and the officer in red. Only one was lighteyed, judging by the knots on his shoulders. Golden knots. A high-ranking man indeed, second or third dahn. These obviously weren’t from Sadeas’s army, not with those well-pressed blue coats.

Sadeas’s officer hesitated. The officer in blue rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. The other two were holding fine halberds with gleaming half-moon heads.

A group of soldiers in red moved out of the crowd and began to surround those in blue. The air grew tense, and Kaladin realized that the street—bustling just moments ago—was quickly emptying. He stood practically alone, the only one watching the three men in blue, now surrounded by seven in red. The woman was still on the ground, sniffling. She huddled next to the blue garbed officer.

The man who had kicked her—a thick-browed brute with a mop of uncombed black hair—began to button up the right side of his coat. “You don’t belong here, friends. It seems you wandered into the wrong warcamp.”

“We have legitimate business,” said the officer in blue. He had light golden hair, speckled with Alethi black, and a handsome face. He held his hand before him as if wishing to shake hands with Sadeas’s officer. “Come now,” he said affably. “Whatever your problem with this woman, I’m sure it can be resolved without anger or violence.”

Kaladin moved back under the overhang where Syl had hidden.

“She’s a whore,” Sadeas’s man said.

“I can see that,” replied the man in blue. He kept his hand out.

The officer in red spat on it.

“I see,” said the blond man. He pulled his hand back, and twisting lines of mist gathered in the air, coalescing in his hands as he raised them to an offensive posture. A massive sword appeared, as long as a man is tall.

It dripped with water that condensed along its cold, glimmering length. It was beautiful, long and sinuous, its single edge rippled like an eel and curved up into a point. The back bore delicate ridges, like crystal formations.

Sadeas’s officer stumbled away and fell, his face pale. The soldiers in red scattered. The officer cursed at them—as vile a curse as Kaladin had ever heard—but none returned to help him. With a final glare, he scrambled up the steps back into the building.

The door slammed, leaving the roadway eerily silent. Kaladin was the only one on the street besides the soldiers in blue and the fallen courtesan. The Shardbearer gave Kaladin a glance, but obviously judged him no threat. He thrust his sword into the stones; the blade sank in easily and stood with its hilt toward the sky.

The young Shardbearer then gave his hand to the fallen whore. “What did you do to him, out of curiosity?”

Hesitantly, she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “He refused to pay, claiming his reputation made it a pleasure for me.” She grimaced. “He kicked me the first time after I made a comment about his ‘reputation.’ It apparently wasn’t what he thought he was known for.”

The brightlord chuckled. “I suggest you insist on being paid first from now on. We’ll escort you to the border. I advise against returning to Sadeas’s warcamp anytime soon.”

The woman nodded, holding the front of her dress to her chest. Her safehand was still exposed. Sleek, with tan skin, the fingers long and delicate. Kaladin found himself staring at it and blushing. She sidled up to the brightlord while his two comrades watched the sides of the streets, halberds ready. Even with her hair disheveled and her makeup smudged, she was quite pretty. “Thank you, Brightlord. Perhaps I could interest you? There would be no charge.”

The young brightlord raised an eyebrow. “Tempting,” he said, “but my father would kill me. He has this thing about the old ways.”

“A pity,” she said, pulling away from him, awkwardly covering her chest as she slipped her arm into its sleeve. She took out a glove for her safehand. “Your father is quite prudish, then?”

“You might say that.” He turned toward Kaladin. “Ho, bridgeboy.”

Bridgeboy? This lordling looked to be just a few years older than Kaladin himself.

“Run and give word to Brightlord Reral Makoram,” the Shardbearer said, flipping something across the street toward Kaladin. A sphere. It sparkled in the sunlight before Kaladin caught it. “He’s in the Sixth Battalion. Tell him that Adolin Kholin won’t make today’s meeting. I’ll send word to reschedule another time.”

Kaladin looked down at the sphere. An emerald chip. More than he normally earned in two weeks. He looked up; the young brightlord and his two men were already retreating, the whore following.

“You rushed to help her,” a voice said. He looked up as Syl floated down to rest on his shoulder. “That was very noble of you.”

“Those others got there first,” Kaladin said. And one of them a lighteyes, no less. What was in it for him?

“You still tried to help.”

“Foolishly,” Kaladin said. “What would I have done? Fought down a lighteyes? That would have drawn half the camp’s soldiers down on me, and the whore would just have been beaten more for causing such a fracas. She could have ended up dead for my efforts.” He fell silent. That sounded too much like what he’d been saying before.

He couldn’t give in to assuming he was cursed, or had bad luck, or whatever it was. Superstition never got a man anywhere. But he had to admit, the pattern was disturbing. If he acted as he always had before, how could he expect different results? He had to try something new. Change, somehow. This was going to take more thought.

Kaladin began walking back toward the lumberyard.

“Aren’t you going to do what the brightlord asked?” Syl said. She didn’t show any lingering effects of her sudden fright; it was as if she wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.

“After how he treated me?” Kaladin snapped.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“I’m not going to bow to them,” Kaladin said. “I’m done running at their whims just because they expect me to do so. If he was so worried about this message, then he should have waited to make certain I was willing.”

“You took his sphere.”

“Earned by the sweat of the darkeyes he exploits.”

Syl fell silent for a moment. “This darkness about you when you talk of them frightens me, Kaladin. You stop being yourself when you think about lighteyes.”

He didn’t respond, just continuing on his way. He owed that brightlord nothing, and besides, he had orders to be back in the lumberyard.

But the man had stepped up to protect the woman.

No, Kaladin told himself forcefully. He was just looking for a way to embarrass one of Sadeas’s officers. Everyone knows there’s tension between the camps.

And that was all he let himself think on the subject.