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The plateau they’d fought on seemed exactly like the others they’d crossed. The only thing that was different here was that there was a large lump of…something in the center of the plateau. It looked like an enormous rockbud, perhaps some kind of chrysalis or shell, a good twenty feet tall. One side had been hacked open, exposing slimy innards. He hadn’t noticed it on the initial charge; the archers had demanded all of his attention.
“A name,” the windspren said, her voice distant. “Yes. I do have a name.” She seemed surprised as she looked at Kaladin. “Why do I have a name?”
“How should I know?” Kaladin said, forcing himself to move. His feet blazed with pain. He could barely limp.
The nearby bridgemen looked to him with surprise, but he ignored them, limping across the plateau until he found the corpse of a bridgeman who still had his vest and shoes. It was the leathery-faced man who had been so kind to him, dead with an arrow through the neck. Kaladin ignored those shocked eyes, staring blankly into the sky, and harvested the man’s clothing—leather vest, leather sandals, lacing shirt stained red with blood. Kaladin felt disgusted with himself, but he wasn’t going to count on Gaz giving him clothing.
Kaladin sat down and used the cleaner parts of the shirt to change his improvised bandages, then put on the vest and sandals, trying to keep from moving too much. A breeze now blew, carrying away the scents of blood and the sounds of soldiers calling to one another. The cavalry was already forming up, as if eager to return.
“A name,” the windspren said, walking through the air to stand beside his face. She was in the shape of a young woman, complete with flowing skirt and delicate feet. “Sylphrena.”
“Sylphrena,” Kaladin repeated, tying on the sandals.
“Syl,” the spirit said. She cocked her head. “That’s amusing. It appears that I have a nickname.”
“Congratulations.” Kaladin stood up again, wobbling.
To the side, Gaz stood with hands on hips, shield tied to his back. “You,” he said, pointing at Kaladin. He then gestured to the bridge.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Kaladin said, looking as the remnants of the bridge crew—fewer than half of their previous number remained—gathered around the bridge.
“Either carry or stay behind,” Gaz said. He seemed angry about something.
I was supposed to die, Kaladin realized. That’s why he didn’t care if I had a vest or sandals. I was at the front. Kaladin was the only one on the first row who had lived.
Kaladin nearly sat down and let them leave him. But dying of thirst on a lonely plateau was not the way he’d choose to go. He stumbled over to the bridge.
“Don’t worry,” said one of the other bridgemen. “They’ll let us go slow this time, take lots of breaks. And we’ll have a few soldiers to help—takes at least twenty-five men to lift a bridge.”
Kaladin sighed, getting into place as some unfortunate soldiers joined them. Together, they heaved the bridge into the air. It was terribly heavy, but they managed it, somehow.
Kaladin walked, feeling numb. He’d thought that there was nothing more life could do to him, nothing worse than the slave’s brand with a shash, nothing worse than losing all he had to the war, nothing more terrible than failing those he’d sworn to protect.
It appeared that he’d been wrong. There had been something more they could do to him. One final torment the world had reserved just for Kaladin.
And it was called Bridge Four.
“They are aflame. They burn. They bring the darkness when they come, and so all you can see is that their skin is aflame. Burn, burn, burn….”
—Collected on Palahishev, 1172, 21 seconds pre-death. Subject was a baker’s apprentice.
Shallan hurried down the hallway with its burnt-orange colorings, the ceiling and upper walls now stained by the passing of black smoke from Jasnah’s Soulcasting. Hopefully, the paintings on the walls hadn’t been ruined.
Ahead, a small group of parshmen arrived, bearing rags, buckets, and stepladders to use in wiping off the soot. They bowed to her as she passed, uttering no words. Parshmen could speak, but they rarely did so. Many seemed mute. As a child, she’d found the patterns of their marbled skin beautiful. That had been before her father forbade her to spend any time with the parshmen.
She turned her mind to her task. How was she going to convince Jasnah Kholin, one of the most powerful women in the world, to change her mind about taking Shallan as a ward? The woman was obviously stubborn; she had spent years resisting the devotaries’ attempts at reconciliation.
She reentered the broad main cavern, with its lofty stone ceiling and bustling, well-dressed occupants. She felt daunted, but that brief glimpse of the Soulcaster seduced her. Her family, House Davar, had prospered in recent years, coming out of obscurity. This had primarily been because of her father’s skill in politics—he had been hated by many, but his ruthlessness had carried him far. So had the wealth lent by the discovery of several important new marble deposits on Davar lands.
Shallan had never known enough to be suspicious of that wealth’s origins. Every time the family had exhausted one of its quarries, her father had gone out with his surveyor and discovered a new one. Only after interrogating the surveyor had Shallan and her brothers discovered the truth: Her father, using his forbidden Soulcaster, had been creating new deposits at a careful rate. Not enough to be suspicious. Just enough to give him the money he needed to further his political goals.
Nobody knew where he’d gotten the fabrial, which she now carried in her safepouch. It was unusable, damaged on the same disastrous evening that her father had died. Don’t think about that, she told herself forcefully.
They’d had a jeweler repair the broken Soulcaster, but it no longer worked. Their house steward—one of her father’s close confidants, an advisor named Luesh—had been trained to use the device, and he could no longer make it function.
Her father’s debts and promises were outrageous. Their choices were limited. Her family had some time—perhaps as long as a year—before the missed payments became egregious, and before her father’s absence became obvious. For once, her family’s isolated, backcountry estates were an advantage, providing a reason that communications were being delayed. Her brothers were scrambling, writing letters in her father’s name, making a few appearances and spreading rumors that Brightlord Davar was planning something big.
All to give her time to make good on her bold plan. Find Jasnah Kholin. Become her ward. Learn where she kept her Soulcaster. Then replace it with the nonfunctional one.
With the fabrial, they’d be able to make new quarries and restore their wealth. They’d be able to make food to feed their house soldiers. With enough wealth in hand to pay off debts and make bribes, they could announce their father’s death and not suffer destruction.
Shallan hesitated in the main hallway, considering her next move. What she planned to do was very risky. She’d have to escape without implicating herself in the theft. Though she’d devoted much thought to that, she still didn’t know how she’d manage it. But Jasnah was known to have many enemies. There had to be a way to pin the fabrial’s “breaking” on them instead.
