The Way of Kings

Yet another difficult decision. Well then, she thought, it’s a good thing Jasnah is so determined to train me in how to deal with those. By the time all this is done, I should be quite the expert…

40 Eyes of Red and Blue

“Death upon the lips. Sound upon the air. Char upon the skin.”

– From “The Last Desolation” by Ambrian, line 335.

Kaladin stumbled into the light, shading his eyes against the burning sun, his bare feet feeling the transition from cold indoor stone to sun-warmed stone outside. The air was lightly humid, not muggy as it had been in previous weeks.

He rested his hand on the wooden doorframe, his legs quivering rebelliously, his arms feeling as if he’d carried a bridge for three days straight. He breathed deeply. His side should have blazed with pain, but he felt only a residual soreness. Some of his deeper cuts were still scabbed over, but the smaller ones had vanished completely. His head was surprisingly clear. He didn’t even have a headache.

He rounded the side of the barrack, feeling stronger with each step, though he kept his hand on the wall. Lopen followed behind; the Herdazian had been watching over Kaladin when he awoke.

I should be dead, Kaladin thought. What is going on?

On the other side of the barrack he was surprised to find the men carrying their bridge in daily practice. Rock ran at the front center, giving the marching beat as Kaladin had once done. They reached the other side of the lumberyard and turned around, charging back. Only when they were almost past the barrack did one of the men in front – Moash – notice Kaladin. He froze, nearly causing the entire bridge crew to trip.

“What is wrong with you?” Torfin yelled from behind, head enveloped by the wood of the bridge.

Moash didn’t listen. He ducked out from under the bridge, looking at Kaladin with wide eyes. Rock gave a hasty shout for the men to put down the bridge. More saw him, adopting the same reverent expressions as Moash. Hobber and Peet, their wounds sufficiently healed, had started practicing with the others. That was good. They’d be drawing pay again.

The men walked up to Kaladin, silent in their leather vests. They kept their distance, hesitant, as if he were fragile. Or holy. Kaladin was bare-chested, his nearly healed wounds exposed, and wore only his knee-length bridgeman’s trousers.

“You really need to practice what to do if one of you trips or stumbles, men,” Kaladin said. “When Moash stopped abruptly, you all about fell over. That could be a disaster on the field.”

They stared at him, incredulous, and he couldn’t help but smile. In a moment, they crowded around him, laughing and thumping him on the back. It wasn’t an entirely appropriate welcome for a sick man, particularly when Rock did it, but Kaladin did appreciate their enthusiasm.

Only Teft didn’t join in. The aging bridgeman stood at the side, arms folded. He seemed concerned. “Teft?” Kaladin asked. “You all right?”

Teft snorted, but showed a hint of a grin. “I just figure those lads don’t bathe often enough for me to want to get close enough for a hug. No offense.”

Kaladin laughed. “I understand.” His last “bath” had been the highstorm.

The highstorm.

The other bridgemen continued to laugh, asking how he felt, proclaiming that Rock would have to fix something extra special for their nightly fireside meal. Kaladin smiled and nodded, assuring them he felt well, but he was remembering the storm.

He recalled it distinctly. Holding to the ring atop the building, his head down and eyes closed against the pelting torrent. He remembered Syl, standing protectively before him, as if she could turn back the storm itself. He couldn’t see her about now. Where was she?

He also remembered the face. The Stormfather himself? Surely not. A delusion. Yes… yes, he’d certainly been delusional. Memories of deathspren were blended with relived parts of his life – and both mixed with strange, sudden shocks of strength – icy cold, but refreshing. It had been like the cold air of a crisp morning after a long night in a stuffy room, or like rubbing the sap of gulket leaves on sore muscles, making them feel warm and cold at the same time.

He could remember those moments so clearly. What had caused them? The fever?

“How long?” he said, checking over the bridgemen, counting them. Thirty-three, counting Lopen and the silent Dabbid. Almost all were accounted for. Impossible. If his ribs were healed, then he must have been unconscious for three weeks, at least. How many bridge runs?

“Ten days,” Moash said.

“Impossible,” Kaladin said. “My wounds–”

“Is why we’re so surprised to see you up and walking!” Rock said, laughing. “You must have bones like granite. Is my name you should be having!”