The Way of Kings

Maps cleared his throat. “It’s a good night, a special night, and all. We’ve got our bridgeleader back.”

Several of the men clapped. Kaladin tried not to show how sick he felt inside.

“We’ve got good food coming,” Maps said. He eyed Rock. “It is coming, ain’t it, Rock?”

“Is coming,” Rock said, stirring.

“You’re sure about that? We could go on another bridge run. Give you a little extra time, you know, five or six more hours…”

Rock gave him a fierce look. The men laughed, several banging their bowls with their spoons. Maps chuckled, then he reached to the ground behind the stone he was using for a seat. He pulled out a paper-wrapped package and tossed it to Rock.

Surprised, the tall Horneater barely caught it, nearly dropping it into the stew.

“From all of us,” Maps said, a little awkwardly, “for making us stew each night. Don’t think we haven’t noticed how hard you work on it. We relax while you cook. And you always serve everyone else first. So we bought you something to thank you.” He wiped his nose on his arm, spoiling the moment slightly, and sat back down. Several of the other bridgemen thumped him on the back, complimenting his speech.

Rock unwrapped the package and stared into it for a long while. Kaladin leaned forward, trying to get a look at the contents. Rock reached in and held the item up. It was a straight razor of gleaming silvery steel; there was a length of wood covering the sharp side. Rock pulled this off, inspecting the blade. “You airsick fools,” he said softly. “Is beautiful.”

“There’s a piece of polished steel too,” said Peet. “For a mirror. And some beard soap and a leather strop for sharpening.”

Amazingly, Rock grew teary-eyed. He turned away from the pot, bearing his gifts. “Stew is ready,” he said. Then he ran into the barrack building.

The men sat quietly. “Stormfather,” youthful Dunny finally said, “you think we did the right thing? I mean, the way he complains and all…”

“I think it was perfect,” Teft said. “Just give the big lout some time to recover.”

“Sorry we didn’t get you nothin’, sir,” Maps said to Kaladin. “We didn’t know you’d be awake and all.”

“It’s all right,” Kaladin said.

“Well,” Skar said. “Is someone going to serve that stew, or will we all just sit here hungry until it burns?”

Dunny jumped up, grabbing the ladle. The men gathered around the pot, jostling one another as Dunny served. Without Rock there to snap at them and keep them in line, it was something of a melee. Only Sigzil did not join in. The quiet, dark-skinned man sat to the side, eyes reflecting the flames.

Kaladin rose. He was worried – terrified, really – that he might become that wretch again. The one who had given up on caring because he saw no alternative. So he sought conversation, walking over toward Sigzil. His motion disturbed Syl, who sniffed and buzzed up onto his shoulder. She still held the form of a flickering flame; having that on his shoulder was even more distracting. He didn’t say anything; if she knew it bothered him, she’d be likely to do it more. She was still a windspren, after all.

Kaladin sat down next to Sigzil. “Not hungry?”

“They are more eager than I,” Sigzil said. “If previous evenings are a reliable guide, there will still be enough for me once they have filled their bowls.”

Kaladin nodded. “I appreciated your analysis out on the plateau today.”

“I am good at that, sometimes.”

“You’re educated. You speak like it and you act like it.”

Sigzil hesitated. “Yes,” he finally said. “Among my people, it is not a sin for a male to be keen of mind.”

“It isn’t a sin for Alethi either.”

“My experience is that you care only about wars and the art of killing.”

“And what have you seen of us besides our army?”

“Not much,” Sigzil admitted.

“So, a man of education,” Kaladin said thoughtfully. “In a bridge crew.”

“My education was never completed.”

“Neither was mine.”

Sigzil looked at him, curious.

“I apprenticed as a surgeon,” Kaladin said.

Sigzil nodded, thick dark hair falling around his shoulders. He’d been one of the only bridgemen who bothered shaving. Now that Rock had a razor, maybe that would change. “A surgeon,” he said. “I cannot say that is surprising, considering how you handled the wounded. The men say that you’re secretly a lighteyes of very high rank.”

“What? But my eyes are dark brown!”

“Pardon me,” Sigzil said. “I didn’t speak the right word – you don’t have the right word in your language. To you, a lighteyes is the same as a leader. In other kingdoms, though, other things make a man a… curse this Alethi language. A man of high birth. A brightlord, only without the eyes. Anyway, the men think you must have been raised outside of Alethkar. As a leader.”