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That was one of the revelations that had shaken the foundation of the Radiants—both ancient and new. Though many of the orders had accepted the truth as an oddity and moved on, many Windrunners had not. Nor had Dalinar; Kaladin could see the way he winced whenever the idea was discussed.
This world had belonged to the singers with Honor as their god. Until humans had arrived, bringing Odium.
“All of this highlights a bigger problem,” Dalinar said. “This war is increasingly being fought in the skies. Navani’s flying transport will only escalate the situation. We need more honorspren and Windrunners.”
Kaladin looked to where Syl hung in the air beside him. Dalinar fixed his gaze on her a moment later, so she must have decided to reveal herself to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “My relatives can be … difficult.”
“They have to see that we’re fighting for the survival of Roshar as much as for the survival of the Alethi,” Dalinar said. “We can’t do that without their help.”
“To my cousins, you are dangerous,” Syl said. “As dangerous as the singers. The betrayal of the Knights Radiant killed so many of them.…”
“The other spren have begun coming around,” Kaladin said. “They see it.”
“Honorspren are more … rigid,” she said. “Most of them at least.” She shrugged and looked to the side, as if ashamed. Human gestures from her were so common these days that Kaladin barely paused to notice them.
“We need to do something,” Dalinar said. “It’s been eight months without a new honorspren coming to us.” He eyed Kaladin. “But that’s a problem I suppose I’ll continue to contemplate. For now, I’m worried about the way the Heavenly Ones and the Windrunners are interacting. It smacks of neither of you giving this your all—and I can’t have soldiers on the battlefield that I worry won’t be able to fight when the pressure mounts.”
Kaladin felt cold as he met Dalinar’s eyes. So. This conversation was about Kaladin after all. What had happened to him.
Again.
“Kaladin,” Dalinar said. “You’re one of the best soldiers I’ve ever had the privilege of leading. You fight with passion and dedication. You single-handedly built up what has become the most important wing of my military—and did all this while living through the worst nightmare I could imagine. You are an inspiration to everyone who meets you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Dalinar nodded, then put his hand on Kaladin’s shoulder. “It’s time that I relieved you of duty, son. I’m sorry.”
A jolt went through Kaladin. Like the shock of being stabbed—or the feeling of suddenly coming awake in an unfamiliar place, frightened by a sudden noise. A visceral clenching of the stomach. A sudden racing of the heart. Every piece of you alert, looking for the fight.
“No,” he whispered. “Sir, I know how it seems.”
“How does it seem?” Dalinar asked. “Diagnose yourself, Kaladin. Tell me what you see.”
Kaladin closed his eyes. No.
Dalinar gripped his shoulder tighter. “I’m no surgeon, but I can tell you what I see. A soldier who has been on the front lines for far, far too long. A man who has survived so many horrors, he now finds himself staring at nothing, his mind going numb so he doesn’t have to remember. I see a soldier who can’t sleep, who snaps at those who love him. He’s a soldier who pretends he can still function. But he can’t. He knows it.”
Kaladin knocked Dalinar’s hand away, snapping open his eyes. “You can’t do this. I built the Windrunners. They’re my team. You can’t take that from me.”
“I will because I have to,” Dalinar said. “Kaladin, if you were anyone else, I’d have pulled you from active duty months ago. But you’re you, and I kept telling myself we needed every Windrunner.”
“That’s true!”
“We need every functional Windrunner. I’m sorry. There was a point where if I’d removed you from command, it would have destroyed the momentum of the entire team. We’re safely past that now. You will still be with us … but you won’t be going on any more missions.”
A growling sound escaped Kaladin’s throat, one a piece of him refused to believe he was making. He sucked in Stormlight.
He would not be beaten down again. He would not let some lighteyed blowhard take everything from him again. “I can’t believe this!” Kaladin said, angerspren pooling underneath him. “You were supposed to be different. You—”
“Why?” Dalinar asked, standing calmly.
“Why what?” Kaladin snapped.
“Why am I different?”
“Because you don’t throw us away!” Kaladin shouted. “Because you … Because…”
Because you care about your men.
Kaladin deflated. He suddenly felt small. A child standing before a stern parent. He wavered, putting his back to the nearest building. Syl hung beside him, looking concerned, confused. She didn’t speak up to contradict Dalinar. Why didn’t she stick up for Kaladin?
He glanced to the side. He’d brought most of what had been Bridge Four with him; the Windrunners he’d left to protect the airship had once been Bridge Thirteen and their squires.
So he saw a lot of friendly faces standing in the distant Narak courtyard. Rock and Teft. Renarin. Sigzil, Lyn, Lopen. Leyten and Peet, Skar and Drehy. Laran, newly forged as a full Radiant. None had yet spoken the Fourth Ideal. He liked to think that it was as hard for them as it was for him, and none had yet cracked it. But … but could they be restraining themselves because of him? Out of some misguided respect?
He turned back to Dalinar. “What if I’m not there?” he pled. One final complaint. “What if something happens when they’re out fighting? What if one of them dies because I couldn’t protect them?”
“Kaladin,” Dalinar said softly, “what if something happens because you are with them? What if one of them dies because they expect your help, but you freeze again?”
Kaladin breathed in sharply. He turned aside and squeezed his eyes shut, feeling tears leak out. What if …
Storms, Dalinar was right.
He was right.
“I…” he whispered. What were the Words?
You couldn’t say the Words, he thought. You needed to. A year ago, when Dalinar could have died. You needed to speak the Words. You crumpled instead.
Kaladin would never say them, would he? He was finished at the Third Ideal. Other spren had said … said that many Radiants never spoke the later oaths.
Kaladin took a deep breath and forced his eyes open. “What … what do I do now?”
“You aren’t being demoted,” Dalinar said firmly. “I want you training, teaching, and helping us fight this war. Don’t be ashamed, son. You fought well. You survived things no man should have to. That sort of experience leaves scars, same as any wound. It’s all right to admit to them.”
Kaladin brushed his fingers at his forehead and the scars he still bore. Unhealed, despite all of his powers, years after he’d been branded.
Dalinar cleared his throat, seeming uncomfortable. Perhaps, upon remembering Kaladin’s wound, he thought the mention of scars to be in poor taste. It wasn’t. The metaphor was particularly sound.
