“A wise enough bet,” Moash said. He hunched forward, resting his arms on his knees. In this tunnel, the buzz of people outside seemed a distant thing, though only cloth separated them.
“Son?” Guff asked. “Why you here, boy? What do you want?”
“I just need to be who I was.”
“That makes as much sense as the storming Stormfather playing the flute, boy. But you wouldn’t be the first to go off to those Plains and come back not all right. No you wouldn’t. That’s the Stormfather’s storming own truth, that storming is.”
“They tried to break me. Damnation, they did break me. But then he made me again, a new man.” Moash paused. “I threw it all away.”
“Sure, sure,” Guff said.
“I always do that,” Moash whispered. “Why must we always take something precious, Guff, and find ourselves hating it? As if by being pure, it reminds us of just how little we deserve it. I held the spear, and I stabbed myself with it.…”
“The spear?” Guff asked. “Boy, you a storming soldier?”
Moash looked at him with a start, then stood up, stretching, showing his patchless uniform coat.
Guff squinted in the darkness. “Come with me.” The old wheelwright rose—with difficulty—and set his piece of wood on his chair. He led Moash with a rickety gait farther into the cloth tunnel, and they entered a portion of the tented area that was more roomlike, the far corner of the large bunker. Here, a group of maybe a dozen people sat in furtive conversation, chairs pulled together.
A man at the door grabbed Guff by the arm as he shuffled in. “Guff? You’re supposed to be on guard, fool man.”
“I’m storming on storming guard, you pisser,” Guff said, shaking his arm free. “The bright wanted to know if we found any soldiers. Well I found a storming soldier, so storm off.”
The guard turned his attention to Moash, then flicked his eyes to Moash’s shoulder. “Deserter?”
Moash nodded. It was true in more ways than one.
“What’s this?” One of the men stood up, a tall fellow. Something about his silhouette, that bald head, that cut of clothing …
“Deserter, Brightlord,” the guard said.
“From the Shattered Plains,” Guff added.
The highlord, Moash realized. Paladar. Vamah’s kinsman and regent, a notoriously harsh man. In years past, he had nearly run the city to the ground, driving away many darkeyes who had the right of travel. Not a caravan had passed when someone hadn’t complained about Paladar’s greed and corruption.
“From the Shattered Plains, you say?” Paladar said. “Excellent. Tell me, deserter, what news is there from the highprinces? Do they know of my plight here? Can I expect aid soon?”
They put him in charge, Moash thought, spotting other lighteyes. They wore fine clothing—not silks of course, but well-trimmed uniforms. Exceptional boots. There was food aplenty set out at the side of this chamber, while those outside scrounged and did heavy labor.
He’d begun to hope … But of course that had been stupid. The arrival of the Voidbringers hadn’t cast the lighteyes down; the few Moash had seen outside were merely the sacrifices. The fawning darkeyes at the periphery confirmed this. Soldiers, guards, some favored merchants.
To Damnation with them! They’d been given a chance to escape from the lighteyes, and it had only made them more eager to be servants! In that moment—surrounded by the pettiness that was his own kind—Moash had a revelation.
He wasn’t broken. All of them were broken. Alethi society—lighteyed and dark. Maybe all of humankind.
“Well?” the regent demanded. “Speak up, man!”
Moash remained silent, overwhelmed. He wasn’t the exception, always ruining what he was given. Men like Kaladin were the exception—the very, very rare exception.
These people proved it. There was no reason to obey lighteyes. They had no power, no authority. Men had taken opportunity and cast it to the crem.
“I … I think there’s something wrong with him, Brightlord,” the guard said.
“Yeah,” Guff added. “Should maybe have mentioned, he’s storming strange in the head now, storming pisser.”
“Bah!” the regent said, pointing at Moash. “Have that one thrown out. We haven’t time for foolishness if we are to restore my place!” He pointed at Guff. “Have that one beaten, and post a competent guard next time, Ked, or you’ll be next!”
Old Guff cried out as they seized him. Moash just nodded. Yes. Of course. That was what they would do.
The guards took him under the arms and dragged him to the side of the tent. They parted the cloth and hauled him out. They passed a frazzled woman trying to divide a single piece of flatbread between three young, crying children. You could probably hear their weeping from the brightlord’s tent, where he had a stack of bread piled high.
The guards threw him back out into the “street” that ran down the middle of the large bunker. They told him to stay away, but Moash barely heard. He picked himself up, dusted himself off, then walked to the third of the work stations—the one seeking hard laborers.
There, he volunteered for the most difficult job they had, pulling wagons of supplies for the Voidbringer army.
Did you expect anything else from us? We need not suffer the interference of another. Rayse is contained, and we care not for his prison.
Skar the bridgeman ran up one of the ramps outside Urithiru, breath puffing in the cold air as he silently counted his steps to maintain focus. The air was thinner up here at Urithiru, and that made running harder, though he really only noticed it outside.
He wore full marching pack and gear: rations, equipment, helmet, jerkin, and a shield tied to the back. He carried his spear, and even had some greaves stuck to his legs, held in place by the shape of the metal. All of that weighed almost as much as he did.
He finally hit the top of the Oathgate platform. Storms, but the center building looked farther away than he remembered. He tried to pick up his pace anyway, and jogged for all he was worth, the pack clinking. Finally—sweating, breath growing ragged—he reached the control building and dashed inside. He finally pulled to a stop, dropping his spear and resting his hands on his knees, gasping for breath.
Most of Bridge Four waited here, some glowing with Stormlight. Of them all, Skar was the only one who—despite two weeks of practice—still hadn’t figured out how to draw it in. Well, except for Dabbid and Rlain.
Sigzil checked the clock they’d been allocated by Navani Kholin, a device the size of a small box. “That was about ten minutes,” he said. “Just under.”
Skar nodded, wiping his brow. He’d run over a mile from the center of the market, then crossed the plateau and charged the ramp. Storms. He’d pushed himself too hard.
“How long,” he said, gasping, “how long did it take Drehy?” The two had set out together.
Sigzil glanced at the tall, muscled bridgeman who still glowed with residual Stormlight. “Under six minutes.”
Skar groaned, sitting down.
“The baseline is equally important, Skar,” Sigzil said, marking glyphs in his notebook. “We need to know a normal man’s abilities to make comparisons. Don’t worry though. I’m sure you’ll figure out Stormlight soon.”