The Way of Kings

“I’m working on that,” Kaladin said.

“Work fast, then,” Moash said, glancing at Kaladin’s torch, rammed between two rocks at the side of the chasm. “We’ll need to head back up soon.”

Kaladin opened his hand and rolled the emerald sphere between his fingers. How? “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” Moash asked, staring at the emerald.

“It’s just a sphere,” Kaladin said absently. “A tool. I once held a goblet full of a hundred diamond broams and was told they were mine. Since I never got to spend them, they were as good as worthless.”

“A hundred diamonds?” Moash asked. “Where… how?”

Kaladin closed his mouth, cursing himself. I shouldn’t keep mentioning things like that. “Go on,” he said, tucking the emerald broam back into the black pouch. “We need to be quick.”

Moash sighed, but Rock thumped him on the back good-naturedly and they joined the rest of the bridgemen. Rock and Lopen – using Syl’s directions – had led them to a large mass of corpses in red-and-brown uniforms. He didn’t know which highprince’s men they were, but the bodies were pretty fresh. There were no Parshendi among them.

Kaladin glanced to the side, where Shen – the parshman bridgeman – worked. Quiet, obedient, stalwart. Teft still didn’t trust him. A part of Kaladin was glad for that. Syl landed on the wall beside him, standing with her feet planted against the surface and looking up at the sky.

Think, Kaladin told himself. How do we keep these spheres? There has to be a way. But each possibility seemed too much of a risk. If they were caught stealing, they’d probably be given a different work detail. Kaladin wasn’t willing to risk that.

Silent green lifespren began to fade into existence around him, bobbing around the moss and haspers. A few frillblooms opened up fronds of red and yellow beside his head. Kaladin had thought again and again about Dunny’s death. Bridge Four was not safe. True, they’d lost a remarkably small number of men lately, but they were still dwindling. And each bridge run was a chance for total disaster. All it took was one time, with the Parshendi focusing on them. Lose three or four men, and they’d topple. The waves of arrows would redouble, cutting every one of them down.

It was the same old problem, the one Kaladin had beaten his head against day after day. How did you protect bridgemen when everyone wanted them exposed and endangered?

“Hey Sig,” Maps said, walking by carrying an armload of spears. “You’re a Worldsinger, right?” Maps had grown increasingly friendly in the last few weeks, and had proven good at getting the others talking. The balding man reminded Kaladin of an innkeeper, always quick to make his patrons feel at ease.

Sigzil – who was pulling the boots off a line of corpses – gave Kaladin a straight-lipped glance that seemed to say, “This is your fault.” He didn’t like that others had discovered he was a Worldsinger.

“Why don’t you give us a tale?” Maps said, setting down his armload. “Help us pass the time.”

“I am not a foolish jester or storyteller,” Sigzil said, yanking off a boot. “I do not ‘give tales.’ I spread knowledge of cultures, peoples, thoughts, and dreams. I bring peace through understanding. It is the holy charge my order received from the Heralds themselves.”

“Well why not start spreading then?” Maps said, standing and wiping his hands on his trousers.

Sigzil signed audibly. “Very well. What is it you wish to hear about?”

“I don’t know. Something interesting.”

“Tell us about Brightking Alazansi and the hundred-ship fleet,” Leyten called.

“I am not a storyteller!” Sigzil repeated. “I speak of nations and peoples, not tavern stories. I–”

“Is there a place where people live in gouges in the ground?” Kaladin said. “A city built in an enormous complex of lines, all set into the rock as if carved there?”

“Sesemalex Dar,” Sigzil said, nodding, pulling off another boot. “Yes, it is the capital of the kingdom of Emul, and is one of the most ancient cities in the world. It is said that the city – and, indeed, the kingdom – were named by Jezrien himself.”

“Jezrien?” Malop said, standing and scratching his head. “Who’s that?” Malop was a thick-haired fellow with a bushy black beard and a glyphward tattoo on each hand. He also wasn’t the brightest sphere in the goblet, so to speak.

“You call him the Stormfather, here in Alethkar,” Sigzil said. “Or Jezerezeh’Elin. He was king of the Heralds. Master of the storms, bringer of water and life, known for his fury and his temper, but also for his mercy.”

“Oh,” Malop said.

“Tell me more of the city,” Kaladin said.

“Sesemalex Dar. It is, indeed, built in giant troughs. The pattern is quite amazing. It protects against highstorms, as each trough has a lip at the side, keeping water from streaming in off the stone plain around it. That, mixed with a drainage system of cracks, protects the city from flooding.