Kaladin raised an eyebrow, but turned back to his work. Teft had been acting very strange lately. Was it the stress? A lot of people were superstitious about spheres and Stormlight.
Rock and his team brought three more wounded, then said that was all they’d found. Bridgemen who fell often ended up like Dunny, getting trampled. Well, at least Bridge Four wouldn’t have to make a return trip to the plateau.
The three had bad arrow wounds, and so Kaladin left the man with the gash on his arm to them, instructing Skar to keep pressure on the unfinished sewing job. Teft heated a dagger for cauterization; these newcomers had obviously lost a lot of blood. One probably wouldn’t make it.
So much of the world is at war, he thought as he worked. The dream had highlighted what others already spoke of. Kaladin hadn’t known, growing up in remote Hearthstone, how fortunate his town had been to avoid battle.
The entire world warred, and he struggled to save a few impoverished bridgemen. What good did it do? And yet he continued searing flesh, sewing, saving lives as his father had taught him. He began to understand the sense of futility he’d seen in his father’s eyes on those occasional darkened nights when Lirin had turned to his wine in solitude.
You’re trying to make up for failing Dunny, Kaladin thought. Helping these others won’t bring him back.
He lost the one he’d suspected would die, but saved the other four, and the one who’d taken a knock to the head was beginning to wake up. Kaladin sat back on his knees, weary, hands covered in blood. He washed them off with a stream of water from Lopen’s waterskins, then reached up, finally remembering his own wound, where the arrow had sliced his cheek.
He froze. He prodded at his skin, but couldn’t find the wound. He had felt blood on his cheek and chin. He’d felt the arrow slice him, hadn’t he?
He stood up, feeling a chill, and raised his hand to his forehead. What was happening?
Someone stepped up beside him. Moash’s now-clean-shaven face exposed a faded scar along his chin. He studied Kaladin. “About Dunny…”
“You were right to do what you did,” Kaladin said. “You probably saved my life. Thank you.”
Moash nodded slowly. He turned to look at the four wounded men; Lopen and Dabbid were giving them drinks of water, asking their names “I was wrong about you,” Moash said suddenly, holding out a hand to Kaladin.
Kaladin took the hand, hesitant. “Thank you.”
“You’re a fool and an instigator. But you’re an honest one.” Moash chuckled to himself. “If you get us killed, it won’t be on purpose. Can’t say that for some I’ve served under. Anyway, let’s get these men ready for moving.”
“The burdens of nine become mine. Why must I carry the madness of them all? Oh, Almighty, release me.”
—Dated Palaheses, 1173, unknown seconds pre-death. Subject: a wealthy lighteyes. Sample collected secondhand.
The cold night air threatened that a stretch of winter might soon be coming. Dalinar wore a long, thick uniform coat over trousers and shirt. It buttoned stiffly up the chest and to the collar, and was long in the back and on the sides, coming down to his ankles, flowing at the waist like a cloak. In earlier years, it might have been worn with a takama, though Dalinar had never liked the skirtlike garments.
The purpose of the uniform was not fashion or tradition, but to distinguish him easily for those who followed him. He wouldn’t have nearly the problem with the other lighteyes if they would at least wear their colors.
He stepped onto the king’s feasting island. Stands had been set up at the sides where the braziers normally stood, each one bearing one of those new fabrials that gave off heat. The stream between the islands had slowed to a trickle; ice had stopped melting in the highlands.
Attendance at the feast tonight was small, though that was mostly manifest on the four islands that were not the king’s. Where there was access to Elhokar and the highprinces, people would attend even if the feast were held in the middle of a highstorm. Dalinar walked down the central pathway, and Navani—sitting at a women’s dining table—caught his eyes. She turned away, perhaps still remembering his abrupt words to her at their last meeting.
Wit wasn’t at his customary place insulting those who walked onto the king’s island; in fact, he wasn’t to be seen at all. Not surprising, Dalinar thought. Wit didn’t like to grow predictable; he’d spent several recent feasts on his pedestal doling out insults. Likely he felt he’d played out that tactic.
All nine other highprinces were in attendance. Their treatment of Dalinar had grown stiff and cold since refusing his requests to fight together. As if they were offended by the mere offer. Lesser lighteyes made alliances, but the highprinces were like kings themselves. Other highprinces were rivals, to be kept at arm’s length.
Dalinar sent a servant to fetch him food and sat down at the table. His arrival had been delayed while he took reports from the companies he’d called back, so he was one of the last to eat. Most of the others had turned to mingling. To the right, an officer’s daughter was playing a serene flute melody to a group of onlookers. To the left, three women had set up sketchpads and were each drawing the same man. Women were known to challenge each other to duels in the way of men with Shardblades, though they rarely used the word. These were always “friendly competitions” or “games of talent.”
His food arrived, steamed stagm—a brownish tuber that grew in deep puddles—atop a bed of boiled tallew. The grain was puffed with water, and the entire meal was drenched in a thick, peppery, brown gravy. He slid out his knife and sliced a disk off the end of the stagm. Using his knife to spread tallew over the top, he grasped the vegetable disk between two fingers and began eat. It had been prepared both spicy and hot this night, probably because of the chill, and tasted good as he chewed, the steam from his plate fogging the air in front of him.
So far, Jasnah had not replied regarding his vision, though Navani claimed she might be able to find something on her own. She was a renowned scholar herself, though her interests had always been more in fabrials. He glanced at her. Was he a fool to off end her as he had? Would it make her use the knowledge of his visions against him?
No, he thought. She wouldn’t be that petty. Navani did seem to care for him, though her affection was inappropriate.
The chairs around him were left empty. He was becoming a pariah, first because of his talk of the Codes, then because of his attempts to get the highprinces to work with him, and finally because of Sadeas’s investigation. No wonder Adolin was worried.
Suddenly, someone slid right into the seat beside Dalinar, wearing a black cloak against the chill. It wasn’t one of the highprinces. Who would dare—
The figure lowered his hood, revealing Wit’s hawklike face. All lines and peaks, with a sharp nose and jaw, delicate eyebrows, and keen eyes. Dalinar sighed, waiting for the inevitable stream of too-clever quips.
Wit, however, didn’t speak. He inspected the crowd, his expression intense.
Yes, Dalinar thought. Adolin is right about this one too. Dalinar himself had judged the man too harshly in the past. He was not the fool some of his predecessors had been. Wit continued in silence, and Dalinar decided that—perhaps—the man’s prank this night was to sit down beside people and unnerve them. It wasn’t much of a prank, but Dalinar often missed the point of what Wit did. Perhaps it was terribly clever if one had the mind for it. Dalinar returned to his meal.