Kaladin forced down his immediate burst of anger. It was difficult.
“I appreciated your input when we were talking about my son’s duels earlier,” Dalinar said. “This is the second time you’ve added something important to one of our conferences, I believe.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But soldier,” Dalinar said, “you’re walking quite a line between helpfulness and insubordination in the way you treat me and mine. You have a chip on your shoulder the size of a boulder. I ignore it, because I know what was done to you, and I can see the soldier beneath. That’s the man I hired for this job.”
Kaladin ground his teeth, and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now run along.”
“Sir, but I must escort—”
“I think I’ll return to the palace,” Dalinar said. “I don’t think I’ll get much sleep tonight, so I might want to pester the dowager with my thoughts. Her guards can watch over me. I’ll take one with me when I return to my camp.”
Kaladin let out a long breath. Then saluted. Fine, he thought, continuing down the dark, damp path. When he reached the bottom, Dalinar was still standing up above, now just a shadow. He seemed lost in thought.
Kaladin turned and walked back toward Dalinar’s warcamp. Syl flitted up and landed on his shoulder. “See,” she said. “He listened.”
“No he didn’t, Syl.”
“What? He replied and said—”
“I told him something he didn’t want to hear,” Kaladin said. “Even if he does look into it, he’ll find plenty of reasons to dismiss what I said. In the end, it will be my word against Amaram’s. Stormfather! I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You’d let it go, then?”
“Storms, no,” Kaladin said. “I’d find my own justice.”
“Oh…” Syl settled on his shoulder.
They walked for a long while, eventually approaching the warcamp.
“You’re not a Skybreaker, Kaladin,” Syl finally said. “You’re not supposed to be like this.”
“A what?” he asked, stepping over scuttling cremlings in the dark. They came out in force after a storm, when plants unfolded to lap up the water. “That was one of the orders, wasn’t it?” He did know some little of them. Everyone did, from the legends.
“Yes,” Syl said, voice soft. “I’m worried about you, Kaladin. I thought things would be better, once you were free from the bridges.”
“Things are better,” he said. “None of my men have been killed since we were freed.”
“But you…” She didn’t seem to know what else to say. “I thought you might be like the person you were before. I can remember a man on a field of battle… A man who fought…”
“That man is dead, Syl,” Kaladin said, waving to the guards as he entered the warcamp. Once again, light and motion surrounded him, people running quick errands, parshmen repairing buildings damaged by the storm. “During my time as a bridgeman, all I had to worry about was my men. Now things are different. I have to become someone. I just don’t know who yet.”
When he reached Bridge Four’s barrack, Rock was dishing out the evening stew. Far later than usual, but some of the men were on odd shifts. The men weren’t limited to stew any longer, but they still insisted on it for the evening meal. Kaladin took a bowl gratefully, nodding to Bisig, who was relaxing with several of the others and chatting about how they actually missed carrying their bridge. Kaladin had instilled in them a respect for it, much as a soldier respected his spear.
Stew. Bridges. They spoke so fondly of things that had once been emblems of their captivity. Kaladin took a bite, then stopped, noticing a new man leaning against a rock beside the fire.
“Do I know you?” he asked, pointing at the bald, muscular man. He had tan skin, like an Alethi, but he didn’t seem to have the right face shape. Herdazian?
“Oh, don’t mind Punio,” Lopen called from nearby. “He’s my cousin.”
“You had a cousin on the bridge crews?” Kaladin asked.
“Nah,” Lopen said. “He just heard my mother say we needed more guards, so he came to help. I got him a uniform and things.”
The newcomer, Punio, smiled and raised his spoon. “Bridge Four,” he said with a thick Herdazian accent.
“Are you a soldier?” Kaladin asked him.
“Yes,” the man said. “Brightlord Roion army. Not worry. I swore to Kholin instead, now. For my cousin.” He smiled affably.
“You can’t just leave your army, Punio,” Kaladin said, rubbing his forehead. “It’s called desertion.”
“Not for us,” Lopen called. “We’re Herdazian—nobody can tell us apart anyway.”
“Yes,” Punio said. “I leave for the homeland once a year. When I come back, nobody remembers me.” He shrugged. “This time, I come here.”
Kaladin sighed, but the man looked like he knew his way around a spear, and Kaladin did need more men. “Fine. Just pretend you were one of the bridgemen from the start, all right?”
“Bridge Four!” the man said enthusiastically.
Kaladin passed him and found his customary place by the fire to relax and think. He didn’t get that chance, however, as someone stepped up and squatted down before him. A man with marbled skin and a Bridge Four uniform.
“Shen?” Kaladin asked.
“Sir.”
Shen continued to stare at him.
“Is there something you wanted?” Kaladin asked.
“Am I really Bridge Four?” Shen asked.
“Of course you are.”
“Where is my spear?”
Kaladin looked Shen in the eyes. “What do you think?”
“I think that I am not Bridge Four,” Shen said, taking time to think with each word. “I am Bridge Four’s slave.”
It was like a punch to Kaladin’s gut. He’d hardly heard a dozen words out of the man during their time together, and now this?
The words smarted either way. Here was a man who, unlike the others, wasn’t welcome to leave and make his way in the world. Dalinar had freed the rest of Bridge Four—but a parshman… he’d be a slave no matter where he went or what he did.
What could Kaladin say? Storms.
“I appreciate your help when we were scavenging. I know it was difficult for you to see what we did down there sometimes.”
Shen waited, still squatting, listening. He regarded Kaladin with those impenetrable, solid black parshman eyes of his.
“I can’t start arming parshmen, Shen,” Kaladin said. “The lighteyes barely accept us as it is. If I gave you a spear, think of the storm it would cause.”
Shen nodded, face displaying no hint of his emotions. He stood up straight. “A slave I am, then.”
He withdrew.
Kaladin knocked his head back against the stone behind him, staring up at the sky. Storming man. He had a good life, for a parshman. Certainly more freedom than any other of his kind.
And were you satisfied with that? a voice inside him asked. Were you happy to be a well-treated slave? Or did you try to run, fight your way to freedom?