“I won’t be a liability, sir. I’ll work hard.”
“I don’t doubt you would, Renarin. Look, why do you want to be in Bridge Four?”
“My father and my brother,” Renarin said softly, face shadowed, “they’re warriors. Soldiers. I’m not, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Yes. Something about…”
“Physical ailments,” Renarin said. “I’ve a blood weakness.”
“That’s a folk description of many different conditions,” Kaladin said. “What do you really have?”
“I’m epileptic,” Renarin said. “It means—”
“Yes, yes. Is it idiopathic or symptomatic?”
Renarin stood absolutely still in the darkness. “Uh…”
“Was it caused by a specific brain injury,” Kaladin asked, “or is it something that just started happening for no reason?”
“I’ve had it since I was a kid.”
“How bad are the seizures?”
“They’re fine,” Renarin said quickly. “It’s not as bad as everyone says. It’s not like I fall to the ground or froth like everyone thinks. My arm will jerk a few times, or I’ll twitch uncontrollably for a few moments.”
“You retain consciousness?”
“Yeah.”
“Myoclonic, probably,” Kaladin said. “You’ve been given bitterleaf to chew?”
“I… Yes. I don’t know if it helps. The jerking isn’t the whole problem. A lot of times, when it’s happening, I get really weak. Particularly along one side of my body.”
“Huh,” Kaladin said. “I suppose that could fit with the seizures. Have you ever had any persistent relaxation of the muscles, an inability to smile on one side of your face, for example?”
“No. How do you know these things? Aren’t you a soldier?”
“I know some field medicine.”
“Field medicine… for epilepsy?”
Kaladin coughed into his hand. “Well, I can see why they didn’t want you going into battle. I’ve seen men with wounds that caused similar symptoms, and the surgeons always dismissed those men from duty. It’s no shame to not be fit enough for battle, Brightlord. Not every man is needed for fighting.”
“Sure,” Renarin said bitterly. “Everyone tells me that. Then they all go back to fighting. The ardents, they claim every Calling is important, but then what do they teach about the afterlife? That it’s a big war to reclaim the Tranquiline Halls. That the best soldiers in this life are glorified in the next.”
“If the afterlife really is a big war,” Kaladin said, “then I hope I end up in Damnation. At least there I might be able to get a wink or two of sleep. Regardless, you’re no soldier.”
“I want to be.”
“Brightlord—”
“You don’t have to set me to doing anything important,” Renarin said. “I came to you, instead of one of the other battalions, because most of your men spend their time patrolling. If I’m patrolling, I won’t be in much danger, and my fits won’t hurt anyone. But at least I can see, I can feel what it’s like.”
“I—”
He rushed on. Kaladin had never heard so many words from the normally quiet young man.
“I will obey your commands,” Renarin said. “Treat me like a new recruit. When I’m here, I’m not a prince’s son, I’m not a lighteyes. I’m just another soldier. Please. I want to be part of it. When Adolin was young, my father made him serve in a spearman squad for two months.”
“He did?” Kaladin asked, genuinely surprised.
“Father said every officer should serve in the shoes of his men,” Renarin said. “I have Shards now. I’m going to be in war, but I’ve never felt what it’s like to really be a soldier. I think this is the closest I’ll be able to get. Please.”
Kaladin folded his arms, looking the youth over. Renarin looked anxious. Very anxious. He’d formed his hands to fists, though Kaladin could see no sign of the box Renarin often fiddled with when nervous. He’d begun breathing deeply, but had set his jaw, and kept his eyes forward.
Coming to see Kaladin, to ask this of him, terrified the young man for some reason. He’d done it anyway. Could one ask anything more of a recruit?
Am I really considering this? It seemed ludicrous. And yet, one of Kaladin’s jobs was to protect Renarin. If he could pound some solid self-defense skills into him, that would go a long way toward helping him survive assassination attempts.
“I should probably point out,” Renarin said, “how much easier it will be to guard me if I’m spending time training with your men. Your resources are thin, sir. Having one fewer person to protect must be appealing. The only times I’ll leave are the days when I practice with my Shards under Swordmaster Zahel.”
Kaladin sighed. “You really want to be a soldier?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Go take those dirty stew bowls and wash them,” Kaladin said, pointing. “Then help Rock clean his cauldron and put away the cooking implements.”
“Yes, sir!” Renarin said with an enthusiasm Kaladin had never heard from anyone assigned washing duty. Renarin jogged over and began happily snatching up bowls.
Kaladin folded his arms and leaned against the barrack. The men didn’t know how to react to Renarin. They’d hand over bowls of half-finished stew to please him, and conversation hushed when he was too near. But they’d been nervous around Shen too, before eventually coming to accept him. Could they ever do the same for a lighteyes?
Moash had refused to hand his bowl to Renarin, washing it himself, as was their common practice. Once done, he strolled over to Kaladin. “You’re really going to let him join?”
“I’ll speak to his father tomorrow,” Kaladin said. “Get the highprince’s read on it.”
“I don’t like it. Bridge Four, our nightly conversations… these things are supposed to be safe from them, you know?”
“Yeah,” Kaladin said. “But he’s a good kid. I think if any lighteyes could fit in here, he could.”
Moash turned, raising an eyebrow toward him.
“You disagree, I presume?” Kaladin asked.
“He doesn’t act right, Kal. The way he talks, the way he looks at people. He’s strange. That’s not important, though—he’s lighteyed, and that should be enough. It means we can’t trust him.”
“We don’t need to,” Kaladin said. “We’re just going to keep an eye on him, maybe try to train him to defend himself.”
Moash grunted, nodding. He seemed to accept those as good reasons for letting Renarin stay.
I’ve got Moash here, Kaladin thought. Nobody else is close enough to hear. I should ask…
But how did he form the words? Moash, were you involved in a plot to kill the king?
“Have you thought about what we’re going to do?” Moash asked. “Regarding Amaram, I mean.”
“Amaram is my problem.”
“You’re Bridge Four,” Moash said, taking Kaladin by the arm. “Your problem is our problem. He’s the one who made you a slave.”