The Way of Kings (118 page)

Then he began to rush from the room. He made it only halfway before crashing to the floor, his body sliding a little way across the spotless stone.

“Kabsal!” Shallan said, leaping out of the bed, hurrying to his side, wearing only the white robe. He was shaking. And…and…

And so was she. The room was spinning. Suddenly she felt very, very tired. She tried to stand, but slipped, dizzy. She barely felt herself hit the floor.

Someone was kneeling above her, cursing.

Jasnah. Her voice was distant. “She’s been poisoned. I need a garnet. Bring me a garnet!”

There’s one in my pouch,
Shallan thought. She fumbled with it, managing to undo the tie of her safehand’s sleeve.
Why…why does she want…

But no, I can’t show her that. The Soulcaster!

Her mind was so fuzzy.

“Shallan,” Jasnah’s voice said, anxious, very soft. “I’m going to have to Soulcast your blood to purify it. It will be dangerous.
Extremely
dangerous. I’m not good with flesh or blood. It’s not where my talent lies.”

She needs it. To save me.
Weakly, she reached in and pulled out her safepouch with her right hand. “You…can’t…”

“Hush, child. Where is that garnet!”

“You can’t Soulcast,” Shallan said weakly, pulling the ties of her pouch open. She upended it, vaguely seeing a fuzzy golden object slip out onto the floor, alongside the garnet that Kabsal had given her.

Stormfather! Why was the room spinning so much?

Jasnah gasped. Distantly.

Fading…

Something happened. A flash of warmth burned through Shallan, something
inside
her skin, as if she had been dumped into a steaming hot cauldron. She screamed, arching her back, her muscles spasming.

All went black.

“Radiant / of birthplace / the announcer comes / to come announce / the birthplace of Radiants.”

—Though I am not overly fond of the ketek poetic form as a means of conveying information, this one by Allahn is often quoted in reference to Urithiru. I believe some mistook the home of the Radiants for their birthplace.

The towering walls of the chasm rising on either side of Kaladin dripped with greenish grey moss. His torch’s flames danced, light reflecting on slick, rain-wetted sections of stone. The humid air was chilly, and the highstorm had left puddles and ponds. Spindly bones—an ulna and a radius—poked from a deep puddle Kaladin passed. He didn’t look to see if the rest of the skeleton was there.

Flash floods,
Kaladin thought, listening to the scraping steps of the bridgemen behind him.
That water has to go somewhere, otherwise we’d have canals to cross instead of chasms.

Kaladin didn’t know if he could trust his dream or not, but he’d asked around, and it was true that the eastern edge of the Shattered Plains was more open than the western side. The plateaus had been worn away. If the bridgemen could get there, they might be able to flee to the east.

Might. Many chasmfiends lived in that area, and Alethi scouts patrolled the perimeter beyond. If Kaladin’s team met them, they would have trouble explaining what a group of armed men—many with slave brands—was doing there.

Syl walked along the wall of the chasm, about level with Kaladin’s head. Groundspren didn’t pull her downward as they did everything else. She walked with her hands clasped behind her back, her tiny, knee-length skirt fluttering in an intangible wind.

Escape to the east. It seemed unlikely. The highprinces had tried
very
hard to explore that way, looking for a route to the center of the Plains. They’d failed. Chasmfiends had killed some groups. Others had been caught in the chasms during highstorms, despite precautions. It was impossible to predict the storms perfectly.

Other scouting parties had avoided those two fates. They’d used enormous extensible ladders to climb atop plateaus during highstorms. They’d lost many men, though, as the plateau tops provided poor cover during storms, and you couldn’t bring wagons or other shelter with you into the chasms. The bigger problem, he’d heard, had been the Parshendi patrols. They’d found and killed dozens of scouting parties.

“Kaladin?” Teft asked, hustling up, splashing through a puddle where bits of empty cremling carapace floated. “You all right?”

“Fine.”

“You look thoughtful.”

“More breakfast-full,” Kaladin said. “That gruel was particularly dense this morning.”

Teft smiled. “I never took you for the glib type.”

“I used to be more so. I get it from my mother. You could rarely say anything to her without getting it twisted about and tossed back to you.”

Teft nodded. They walked in silence for a time, the bridgemen behind laughing as Dunny told a story about the first girl he’d ever kissed.

“Son,” Teft said, “have you felt anything strange lately?”

“Strange? What kind of strange?”

“I don’t know. Just…anything odd?” He coughed. “You know, like odd surges of strength? The…er, feeling that you’re light?”

“The feeling that I’m
what
?”

“Light. Er, maybe, like your head is light. Light-headed. That sort of thing. Storm it, boy, I’m just checking to see if you’re still sick. You were beat up pretty badly by that highstorm.”

“I’m fine,” Kaladin said. “Remarkably so, actually.”

“Odd, eh?”

It
was
odd. It fed his nagging worry that he was subject to some kind of supernatural curse of the type that were supposed to happen to people who sought the Old Magic. There were stories of evil men made immortal, then tortured over and over again—like Extes, who had his arms torn off each day for sacrificing his son to the Voidbringers in exchange for knowledge of the day of his death. It was just a tale, but tales came from somewhere.

Kaladin lived when everyone else died. Was that the work of some spren from Damnation, toying with him like a windspren, but infinitely more nefarious? Letting him think that he might be able to do some good, then killing everyone he tried to help? There were supposed to be thousands of kinds of spren, many that people never saw or didn’t know about. Syl followed him. Could some kind of evil spren be doing the same?

A very disturbing thought.

Superstition is useless,
he told himself forcefully.
Think on it too much, and you’ll end up like Durk, insisting that you need to wear your lucky boots into every battle.

They reached a section where the chasm forked, splitting around a plateau high above. Kaladin turned to face the bridgemen. “This is as good a place as any.” The bridgemen stopped, bunching up. He could see the anticipation in their eyes, the excitement.

He’d felt that once, back before he’d known the soreness and the pain of practice. Oddly, Kaladin felt he was now both more in awe of
and
more disappointed in the spear than he’d been as a youth. He loved the focus, the feeling of certainty that he felt when he fought. But that hadn’t saved those who followed him.

“This is where I’m supposed to tell you what a sorry group you are,” Kaladin said to the men. “It’s the way I’ve always seen it done. The training sergeant tells the recruits that they are pathetic. He points out their weakness, perhaps spars with a few of them, tossing them on their backsides to teach them humility. I did that a few times myself when training new spearmen.”

Kaladin shook his head. “Today, that’s not how we’ll begin. You men don’t need humbling. You don’t dream of glory. You dream of survival. Most of all, you
aren’t
the sad, unprepared group of recruits most sergeants have to deal with. You’re tough. I’ve seen you run for miles carrying a bridge. You’re brave. I’ve seen you charge straight at a line of archers. You’re determined. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, right now, with me.”

Kaladin walked to the side of the chasm and extracted a discarded spear from some flood-strewn rubble. Once he had it, however, he realized that the spearhead had been knocked off. He almost tossed it aside, then reconsidered.

Spears were dangerous for him to hold. They made him want to fight, and might lead him to think he was who he’d once been: Kaladin Stormblessed, confident squadleader. He wasn’t that man any longer.

It seemed that whenever he picked up weapons, the people around him died—friends as well as foes. So, for now, it seemed good to hold this length of wood; it was just a staff. Nothing more. A stick he could use for training.

He could face returning to the spear another time.

“It’s good that you’re already prepared,” Kaladin said to the men. “Because we don’t have the six weeks I was given to train a new batch of recruits. In six weeks, Sadeas will have half of us dead. I intend to see you all drinking mudbeer in a tavern somewhere safe by the time six weeks have passed.”

Several of them gave a kind of half-cheer at that.

“We’ll have to be fast,” Kaladin said. “I’ll have to push you hard. That’s our only option.” He glanced at the spear haft. “The first thing you need to learn is that it’s all right to care.”

The twenty-three bridgemen stood in a double row. All had wanted to come. Even Leyten, who had been hurt so badly. They didn’t have any who were wounded so badly they couldn’t walk, although Dabbid continued to stare off at nothing. Rock stood with his arms folded, apparently with no intention of learning to fight. Shen, the parshman, stood at the very back. He looked at the ground. Kaladin didn’t intend to put a spear in his hands.

Several of the bridgemen seemed confused by what Kaladin had said about emotions, though Teft just raised an eyebrow and Moash yawned. “What do you mean?” Drehy asked. He was a lanky blond man, long-limbed and muscled. He spoke with a faint accent; he was from somewhere far to the west, called Rianal.

“A lot of soldiers,” Kaladin said, running his thumb across the pole, feeling the grain of the wood, “they think that you fight the best if you’re passionless and cold. I think that’s stormleavings. Yes, you need to be focused. Yes, emotions are dangerous. But if you don’t care about anything, what are you? An animal, driven only to kill. Our passion is what makes us human. We
have
to fight for a reason. So I say that it’s all right to care. We’ll talk about controlling your fear and anger, but remember this as the first lesson I taught you.”

Several of the bridgemen nodded. Most seemed confused still. Kaladin remembered being there, wondering why Tukks wasted time talking about emotions. He’d thought he understood emotion—his drive to learn the spear had come
because
of his emotions. Vengeance. Hatred. A lust for the power to exact retribution on Varth and the soldiers of his squad.

He looked up, trying to banish those memories. No, the bridgemen didn’t understand his words about caring, but perhaps they would remember later, as Kaladin had.

“The second lesson,” Kaladin said, slapping the decapitated spear to the rock beside him with a crack that echoed down the chasm, “is more utilitarian. Before you can learn to fight, you’re going to have to learn how to stand.” He dropped the spear. The bridgemen watched him with frowns of disappointment.

Kaladin fell into a basic spearman’s stance, feet wide apart—but not too wide—turned sideways, knees bent in a loose crouch. “Skar, I want you to come try to push me backward.”

“What?”

“Try and throw me off balance,” Kaladin said. “Force me to stumble.”

Skar shrugged and walked forward. He tried to shove Kaladin back, but Kaladin easily knocked his hands aside with a quick snap of the wrist. Skar cursed and came at him again, but Kaladin caught his arm and shoved him backward, causing Skar to stumble.

“Drehy, come help him,” Kaladin said. “Moash, you too. Try to force me off balance.”

The other two joined Skar. Kaladin stepped around the attacks, staying squarely in the middle of them, adjusting his stance to rebuff each attempt. He grabbed Drehy’s arm and yanked him forward, nearly causing him to fall. He stepped into Skar’s shoulder-rush, deflecting the weight of the man’s body and throwing him backward. He pulled back as Moash got his arms on him, causing Moash to overbalance himself.