The Way of Kings

If I get rid of it, I’ll go back to being normal. For what purpose… so I can die with the others?

He continued to walk in the darkness, passing lights above that made vague, faint shadows on the stones in front of him. The tendrils of fingermoss, clumped in bunches. Their shadows seemed arms.

He thought often about saving the bridgemen. And yet, as he considered, he realized that he often framed saving them in terms of saving himself. He told himself he wouldn’t let them die, because he knew what it would do to him if they did. When he lost men, the wretch threatened to take over because of how much Kaladin hated failing.

Was that it? Was that why he searched for reasons why he might be cursed? To explain his failure away? Kaladin began to walk more quickly.

He was doing something good in helping the bridgemen – but he also was doing something selfish. The powers had unsettled him because of the responsibility they represented.

He broke into a jog. Before long, he was sprinting.

But if it wasn’t about him – if he wasn’t helping the bridgemen because he loathed failure, or because he feared the pain of watching them die – then it would be about them. About Rock’s affable gibes, about Moash’s intensity, about Teft’s earnest gruffness or Peet’s quiet dependability. What would he do to protect them? Give up his illusions? His excuses?

Seize whatever opportunity he could, no matter how it changed him? No matter how it unnerved him, or what burdens it represented?

He dashed up the incline to the lumberyard.

Bridge Four was making their evening stew, chatting and laughing. The nearly twenty wounded men from other crews sat eating gratefully. It was gratifying, how quickly they had lost their hollow-eyed expressions and begun laughing with the other men.

The smell of spicy Horneater stew was thick in the air. Kaladin slowed his jog, coming to a stop beside the bridgemen. Several looked concerned as they saw him, panting and sweating. Syl landed on his shoulder.

Kaladin sought out Teft. The aging bridgeman sat alone below the barrack’s eaves, staring down at the rock in front of him. He hadn’t noticed Kaladin yet. Kaladin gestured for the others to continue, then walked over to Teft. He squatted down before the man.

Teft looked up in surprise. “Kaladin?”

“What do you know?” Kaladin said quietly, intense. “And how do you know it?”

“I–” Teft said. “When I was a youth, my family belonged to a secret sect that awaited the return of the Radiants. I quit when I was just a youth. I thought it was nonsense.”

He was holding things back; Kaladin could tell from the hesitation in his voice.

Responsibility. “How much do you know about what I can do?”

“Not much,” Teft said. “Just legends and stories. Nobody really knows what the Radiants could do, lad.”

Kaladin met his eyes, then smiled. “Well, we’re going to find out.”

58 The Journey

“ReShephir, the Midnight Mother, giving birth to abominations with her essence so dark, so terrible, so consuming. She is here! She watches me die!”

– Dated Shashabev, 1173, 8 seconds pre-death. Subject: a darkeyed dock-worker in his forties, father of three.

“I have a serious loathing of being wrong.” Adolin reclined in his chair, one hand resting leisurely on the crystal-topped table, the other swirling wine in his cup. Yellow wine. He wasn’t on duty today, so he could indulge just a tad.

Wind ruffled his hair; he was sitting with a group of other young lighteyes at the outdoor tables of an Outer Market wineshop. The Outer Market was a collection of buildings that had grown up near the king’s palace, outside the warcamps. An eclectic mix of people passed on the street below their terraced seating.

“I should think that everyone shares your dislike, Adolin,” Jakamav said, leaning with both elbows on the table. He was a sturdy man, a lighteyes of the third dahn from Highprince Roion’s camp. “Who likes being wrong?”

“I’ve known a number of people who prefer it,” Adolin said thoughtfully. “Of course, they don’t admit that fact. But what else could one presume from the frequency of their error?”

Inkima – Jakamav’s accompaniment for the afternoon – gave a tinkling laugh. She was a plump thing with light yellow eyes who dyed her hair black. She wore a red dress. The color did not look good on her.