“I once knew a real axalacious bloke,” Kaladin said. “He was great at psychological fights.”
“Psychological fights?”
“He could really get inside someone’s head.”
Adolin frowned as they walked. “Get inside … Oh!” Adolin chuckled, slapping Kaladin on the back. “You talk like a girl sometimes. Um … I mean that as a compliment.”
“Thanks?”
“But you do need to practice the sword more,” Adolin said, growing excited. “I know you like the spear, and you’re good with it. Great! But you’re not simply a spearman anymore; you’re going to be an irregular. You won’t be fighting in a line, holding a shield for your buddies. Who knows what you’ll be facing?”
“I trained a little with Zahel,” Kaladin said. “I’m not completely useless with a sword. But … part of me doesn’t see the point.”
“You’ll be better if you practice with a sword, trust me. Being a good duelist is about knowing one weapon, and being a good foot soldier—that’s probably more about training than it is about any single weapon. But you want to be a great warrior? For that you need to be able to use the best tool for the job. Even if you’re never going to use a sword, you’ll fight people who do. The best way to learn how to defeat someone wielding a weapon is to practice with it yourself.”
Kaladin nodded. He was right. It was strange to look at Adolin in that bright outfit, stylish and glittering with golden thread, and hear him speak real battle sense.
When I was imprisoned for daring to accuse Amaram, he was the only lighteyes who stood up for me.
Adolin Kholin was simply a good person. Powder-blue clothing and all. You couldn’t hate a man like him; storms, you kind of had to like him.
Their destination was a modest home, by lighteyed standard. Tall and narrow, at four stories high it could have housed a dozen darkeyed families.
“All right,” Elhokar said as they drew near. “Adolin and I will feel out the lighteyes for potential allies. Bridgemen, chat with those in the darkeyed guard tent, and see if you can discover anything about the Cult of Moments, or other oddities in the city.”
“Got it, Your Majesty,” Drehy said.
“Captain,” he said to Kaladin, “you’ll go to the lighteyed guard tent. See if you can—”
“—find out anything about this Highmarshal Azure person,” Kaladin said. “From the Wall Guard.”
“Yes. We will plan to stay relatively late, as intoxicated party guests might share more than sober ones.”
They broke, Adolin and Elhokar presenting invitations to the doorman, who let them in—then gestured Drehy and Skar toward the darkeyed guards’ feast, happening in a tent set up on the grounds.
There was a separate tent for people who were lighteyed but not landowners. Privileged, but not good enough to get in the doors to the actual party. In his role as a lighteyed bodyguard, that would be the place for Kaladin—but for some reason the thought of going in there made him feel sick.
Instead he whispered to Skar and Drehy—promising to be back soon—and borrowed Skar’s spear, just in case. Then Kaladin left, walking the block. He’d return to do as told by Elhokar. But while there was enough light, he thought he’d maybe survey the wall and see if he could get an idea of the Wall Guard’s numbers.
More, he wanted to walk a little longer. He strolled to the foot of the nearby city wall, counting guard posts on top, looking at the large lower portion that was a natural part of the local rock. He rested his hand on the smooth, strata-lined formation of stone.
“Hey!” a voice called. “Hey, you!”
Kaladin sighed. A squad of soldiers from the Wall Guard was patrolling here. They considered this road around the city—next to the foot of the wall—to be their jurisdiction, but they didn’t patrol any farther inward.
What did they want? He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Well, running would only stir up a ruckus, so he dropped his spear and turned around, extending his arms out to the sides. In a city full of refugees, certainly they wouldn’t harass one man too much.
A squad of five tromped over to him, led by a man with a wispy dark beard and bright, light blue eyes. The man took in Kaladin’s uniform, with no insignia, and glanced at the fallen spear. Then he looked at Kaladin’s forehead and frowned.
Kaladin raised his hands to the brands there, which he could feel. But Shallan had put an illusion over those. Hadn’t she?
Damnation. He’s going to assume I’m a deserter.
“Deserter, I assume?” the soldier asked sharply.
Should have just gone to the storming party.
“Look,” Kaladin said. “I don’t want trouble. I just—”
“Do you want a meal?”
“A … meal?”
“Free food for deserters.”
That’s unexpected.
Reluctantly, he lifted the hair from his forehead, testing to see that the brands were still visible. Mostly, the hair prevented one from seeing the details.
The soldiers started visibly. Yes, they could see the brands. Shallan’s illusion had worn off for some reason? Hopefully the other disguises fared better.
“A lighteyes with a shash brand?” their lieutenant asked. “Storms, friend. You’ve got to have some story.” He slapped Kaladin on the back and pointed toward their barracks ahead. “I’d love to hear it. Free meal, no strings. We won’t press you into service. I give my oath.”
Well, he’d wanted information about the leader of the Wall Guard, hadn’t he? What better place to get it than from these men?
Kaladin picked up his spear and let them lead him away.
Something is happening to the Sibling. I agree this is true, but the division among the Knights Radiant is not to blame. Our perceived worthiness is a separate issue.
—From drawer 1-1, third zircon
The Wall Guard’s barracks smelled like home to Kaladin. Not his father’s house—which smelled of antiseptic and the flowers his mother crushed to season the air. His true home. Leather. Boiling stew. Crowded men. Weapon oil.
Spheres hung on the walls, white and blue. The place was big enough to house two platoons, a fact confirmed by the shoulder patches he saw. The large common room was filled with tables, and a few armorers worked in the corner, sewing jerkins or uniforms. Others sharpened weapons, a rhythmic, calming sound. These were the noises and scents of an army well maintained.
The stew didn’t smell anywhere near as good as Rock’s; Kaladin had been spoiled by the Horneater’s cooking. Still, when one of the men went to fetch him a bowl, he found himself smiling. He settled onto a long wooden bench, near a fidgety little ardent who was scribing glyphwards onto pieces of cloth for the men.
Kaladin instantly loved this place, and the state of the men spoke highly of Highmarshal Azure. He would likely be some middling officer who had been thrust into command during the chaos of the riots, which made him all the more impressive. Azure had secured the wall, gotten the parshmen out of the city, and seen to the defense of Kholinar.
Syl zipped around the rafters as soldiers called out questions about the newcomer. The lieutenant who had found him—his name was Noromin, but his men called him Noro—answered readily. Kaladin was a deserter. He had a shash brand, an ugly one. You should see it. Sadeas’s mark. On a lighteyes no less.