“That’s the truth,” Laresh said. “These ten at the front were caught smuggling. You know what to do.”
New bridgemen were constantly needed, but there were always enough bodies. Slaves were common, but so were thieves or other lawbreakers from among the camp followers. Never parshmen. They were too valuable, and besides, the Parshendi were some kind of cousins to the parshmen. Better not to give the parshman workers in camp the sight of their kind fighting.
Sometimes a soldier would be thrown into a bridge crew. That only happened if he’d done something extremely bad, like striking an officer. Acts that would earn a hanging in many armies meant being sent to the bridge crews here. Supposedly, if you survived a hundred bridge runs, you’d be released. It had happened once or twice, the stories said. It was probably just a myth, intended to give the bridgemen some tiny hope for survival.
Kaladin and the others walked past the newcomers, gazes down, and began hooking their ropes to the next log.
“Bridge Four needs some men,” Gaz said, rubbing his chin.
“Four always needs men,” Laresh said. “Don’t worry. I brought a special batch for it.” He nodded toward a second group of recruits, much more ragtag, walking up behind.
Kaladin slowly stood upright. One of the prisoners in that group was a boy of barely fourteen or fifteen. Short, spindly, with a round face. “Tien?” he whispered, taking a step forward.
He stopped, shaking himself. Tien was dead. But this newcomer looked so familiar, with those frightened black eyes. It made Kaladin want to shelter the boy. Protect him.
But…he’d failed. Everyone he’d tried to protect—from Tien to Cenn—had ended up dead. What was the point?
He turned back to dragging the log.
“Kaladin,” Syl said, landing on the log, “I’m going to leave.”
He blinked in shock. Syl. Leave? But…she was the last thing he had left. “No,” he whispered. It came out as a croak.
“I’ll try to come back,” she said. “But I don’t know what will happen when I leave you. Things are strange. I have odd memories. No, most of them aren’t even memories. Instincts. One of those tells me that if I leave you, I might lose myself.”
“Then don’t go,” he said, growing terrified.
“I have to,” she said, cringing. “I can’t watch this anymore. I’ll try to return.” She looked sorrowful. “Goodbye.” And with that, she zipped away into the air, adopting the form of a tiny group of tumbling, translucent leaves.
Kaladin watched her go, numb.
Then he turned back to hauling the log. What else could he do?
The youth, the one that reminded him of Tien, died during the very next bridge run.
It was a bad one. The Parshendi were in position, waiting for Sadeas. Kaladin charged the chasm, not even flinching as men were slaughtered around him. It wasn’t bravery that drove him; it wasn’t even a wish that those arrows would take him and end it all. He ran. That was what he did. Like a boulder rolled down a hill, or like rain fell from the sky. They didn’t have a choice. Neither did he. He wasn’t a man; he was a thing, and things just did what they did.
The bridgemen laid their bridges in a tight line. Four crews had fallen. Kaladin’s own team had lost nearly enough stop them.
Bridge placed, Kaladin turned away, the army charging across the wood to start the real battle. He stumbled back across the plateau. After a few moments, he found what he was looking for. The boy’s body.
Kaladin stood, wind whipping at his hair, looking down at the corpse. It lay faceup in a small hollow in the stone. Kaladin remembered lying in a similar hollow, holding a similar corpse.
Another bridgeman had fallen nearby, bristling with arrows. It was the man who’d lived through Kaladin’s first bridge run all those weeks back. His body slumped to the side, lying on a stone outcropping a foot or so above the corpse of the boy. Blood dripped from the tip of an arrow sticking out his back. It fell, one ruby drop at a time, splattering on the boy’s open, lifeless eye. A little trail of red ran from the eye down the side of his face. Like crimson tears.
That night, Kaladin huddled in the barrack, listening to a highstorm buff et the wall. He curled against the cold stone. Thunder shattered the sky outside.
I can’t keep going like this, he thought. I’m dead inside, as sure as if I’d taken a spear through the neck.
The storm continued its tirade. And for the first time in a year, Kaladin found himself crying.
NINE YEARS AGO
Kal stumbled into the surgery room, the open door letting in bright white sunlight. At ten years old, he was already showing signs that he would be tall and lanky. He’d always preferred Kal to his full name, Kaladin. The shorter name made him fit in better. Kaladin sounded like a lighteyes’s name.
“I’m sorry, Father,” he said.
Kal’s father, Lirin, carefully tightened the strap around the arm of the young woman who was tied onto the narrow operating table. Her eyes were closed; Kal had missed the administration of the drug. “We will discuss your tardiness later,” Lirin said, securing the woman’s other hand. “Close the door.”
Kal cringed and closed the door. The windows were dark, shutters firmly in place, and so the only light was that of the Stormlight shining from a large globe filled with spheres. Each of those spheres was a broam, in total an incredible sum that was on permanent loan from Hearthstone’s landlord. Lanterns flickered, but Stormlight was always true. That could save lives, Kal’s father said.
Kal approached the table, anxious. The young woman, Sani, had sleek black hair, not tinged with even a single strand of brown or blond. She was fifteen, and her freehand was wrapped with a bloody, ragged bandage. Kal grimaced at the clumsy bandaging job—it looked like the cloth had been ripped from someone’s shirt and tied in haste.
Sani’s head rolled to the side, and she mumbled, drugged. She wore only a white cotton shift, her safehand exposed. Older boys in the town sniggered about the chances they’d had—or claimed to have had—at seeing girls in their shifts, but Kal didn’t understand what the excitement was all about. He was worried about Sani, though. He always worried when someone was wounded.
Fortunately, the wound didn’t look terrible. If it had been life-threatening, his father would have already begun working on it, using Kal’s mother—Hesina—as an assistant.
Lirin walked to the side of the room and gathered up a few small, clear bottles. He was a short man, balding despite his relative youth. He wore his spectacles, which he called the most precious gift he’d ever been given. He rarely got them out except for surgery, as they were too valuable to risk just wearing about. What if they were scratched or broken? Hearthstone was a large town, but its remote location in northern Alethkar would make replacing the spectacles difficult.
The room was kept neat, the shelves and table washed clean each morning, everything in its place. Lirin said you could tell a lot about a man from how he kept his workspace. Was it sloppy or orderly? Did he respect his tools or did he leave them casually about? The town’s only fabrial clock sat here on the counter. The small device bore a single dial at the center and a glowing Smokestone at its heart; it had to be infused to keep the time. Nobody else in the town cared about minutes and hours as Lirin did.
Kal pulled over a stool to get a better vantage. Soon he wouldn’t need the stool; he was growing taller by the day. He inspected Sani’s hand. She’ll be all right, he told himself, as his father had trained him. A surgeon needs to be calm. Worry just wastes time.
It was hard advice to follow.
“Hands,” Lirin said, not turning away from gathering his tools.
Kal sighed, hopping off his stool and hurrying over to the basin of warm, soapy water by the door. “Why does it matter?” He wanted to be at work, helping Sani.
“Wisdom of the Heralds,” Lirin said absently, repeating a lecture he’d given many times before. “Deathspren and rotspren hate water. It will keep them away.”
“Hammie says that’s silly,” Kal said. “He says deathspren are mighty good at killing folk, so why should they be afraid of a little water?”
“The Heralds were wise beyond our understanding.”
Kal grimaced. “But they’re demons, father. I heard it off that ardent who came teaching last spring.”
“That’s the Radiants he spoke of,” Lirin said sharply. “You’re mixing them again.”
Kal sighed.
“The Heralds were sent to teach mankind,” Lirin said. “They led us against the Voidbringers after we were cast from heaven. The Radiants were the orders of knights they founded.”
“Who were demons.”
“Who betrayed us,” Lirin said, “once the Heralds left.” Lirin raised a finger. “They were not demons, they were just men who had too much power and not enough sense. Either way, you are always to wash your hands. You can see the effect it has on rotspren with your own eyes, even if deathspren cannot be seen.”
Kal sighed again, but did as he was told. Lirin walked over to the table again, bearing a tray lined with knives and little glass bottles. His ways were odd—though Lirin made certain that his son didn’t mix up the Heralds and the Lost Radiants, Kal had heard his father say that he thought the Voidbringers weren’t real. Ridiculous. Who else could be blamed when things went missing in the night, or when a crop got infected with digger-worms?
The others in town thought Lirin spent too much time with books and sick people, and that made him strange. They were uncomfortable around him, and with Kal by association. Kal was only just beginning to realize how painful it could feel to be different.
Hands washed, he hopped back up onto the stool. He began to feel nervous again, hoping that nothing would go wrong. His father used a mirror to focus the spheres’ light onto Sani’s hand. Gingerly, he cut off the makeshift bandage with a surgeon’s knife. The wound wasn’t life-threatening, but the hand was pretty badly mangled. When his father had started training Kal two years before, sights like this had sickened him. Now he was used to torn flesh.
That was good. Kal figured this would be useful when he went to war someday, to fight for his highprince and the lighteyes.
Sani had three broken fingers and the skin on her hand was scraped and gouged, the wound cluttered with sticks and dirt. The third finger was the worst, shattered and twisted nastily, splinters of bone protruding through the skin. Kal felt its length, noting the fractured bones, the blackness on the skin. He carefully wiped away dried blood and dirt with a wet cloth, picking out rocks and sticks as his father cut thread for sewing.
“The third finger will have to go, won’t it?” Kal said, tying a bandage around the base of the finger to keep it from bleeding.
His father nodded, a hint of a smile on his face. He’d hoped Kal would discern that. Lirin often said that a wise surgeon must know what to remove and what to save. If that third finger had been set properly at first…but no, it was beyond recovery. Sewing it back together would mean leaving it to fester and die.