And yet, she was terribly reluctant. Kabsal was part of that, but he wasn’t the main reason. The truth was that, despite her occasional complaints, she loved learning to be a scholar. Even after Jasnah’s philosophical training, even after spending days reading book after book. Even with the confusion and the stress, Shallan often felt fulfilled in a way she’d never been before. Yes, Jasnah had been wrong to kill those men, but Shallan wanted to know enough about philosophy to cite the correct reasons why. Yes, digging through historical records could be tedious, but Shallan appreciated the skills and patience she was learning; they were sure to be of value when she got to do her own deep research in the future.
Days spent learning, lunches spent laughing with Kabsal, evenings chatting and debating with Jasnah. That was what she wanted. And those were the parts of her life that were complete lies.
Troubled, she picked up the basket of bread and jam, then made her way back to the Conclave and Jasnah’s suite. An envelope addressed to her sat in the waiting bin. Shallan frowned, breaking the seal to look inside.
Lass, it read. We got your message. The Wind’s Pleasure will soon be at port in Kharbranth again. Of course we’ll give you passage and return to your estates. It would be my pleasure to have you aboard. We are Davar men, we are. Indebted to your family.
We’re making a quick trip over to the mainland, but will hurry to Kharbranth next. Expect us in one week’s time to pick you up.
—Captain Tozbek
The undertext, written by Tozbek’s wife, read even more clearly. We’d happily give you free passage, Brightness, if you’re willing to do some scribing for us during the trip. The ledgers badly need to be rewritten.
Shallan stared at the note for a long time. She’d wanted to know where he was and when he was planning to return, but he’d apparently taken her letter as a request to come and pick her up.
It seemed a fitting deadline. That would put her departure at three weeks after stealing the Soulcaster, as she’d told Nan Balat to expect. If Jasnah hadn’t reacted to the Soulcaster switch by then, Shallan would have to take it to mean that she wasn’t under suspicion.
One week. She would be on that ship. It made her break inside to realize it, but it had to be done. She lowered the paper and left the guest hallway, her steps taking her through the twisting corridors into the Veil.
Shortly, she stood outside Jasnah’s alcove. The princess sat at her desk, reed scratching at a notebook. She glanced up. “I thought I told you that you could do whatever you want today.”
“You did,” Shallan said. “And I realized that what I want to do is study.”
Jasnah smiled in a sly, understanding way. Almost a self-satisfied way. If she only knew. “Well, I’m not going to chide you for that,” Jasnah said, turning back to her research.
Shallan sat, offering the bread and jam to Jasnah, who shook her head and continued researching. Shallan cut herself another slice and topped it with jam. Then she opened a book and sighed in satisfaction.
In one week, she’d have to leave. But in the meantime, she would let herself pretend a little while longer.
“They lived out in the wilds, always awaiting the Desolation—or sometimes, a foolish child who took no heed of the night’s darkness.”
—A child’s tale, yes, but this quote from Shadows Remembered seems to hint at the truth I seek. See page 82, the fourth tale.
Kaladin awoke to a familiar feeling of dread.
He’d spent much of the night lying awake on the hard floor, staring up into the dark, thinking. Why try? Why care? There is no hope for these men.
He felt like a wanderer seeking desperately for a pathway into the city to escape wild beasts. But the city was atop a steep mountain, and no matter how he approached, the climb was always the same. Impossible. A hundred different paths. The same result.
Surviving his punishment would not save his men. Training them to run faster would not save them. They were bait. The efficiency of the bait did not change its purpose or its fate.
Kaladin forced himself to his feet. He felt ground down, like a millstone used far too long. He still didn’t understand how he’d survived. Did you preserve me, Almighty? Save me so that I could watch them die?
You were supposed to burn prayers to send them to the Almighty, who waited for his Heralds to recapture the Tranquiline Halls. That had never made sense to Kaladin. The Almighty was supposed to be able to see all and know all. So why did he need a prayer burned before he would do anything? Why did he need people to fight for him in the first place?
Kaladin left the barrack, stepping into the light. Then he froze.
The men were lined up, waiting. A ragged bunch of bridgemen, wearing brown leather vests and short trousers that only reached their knees. Dirty shirts, sleeves rolled to the elbows, lacing down the front. Dusty skin, mops of ragged hair. And yet now, because of Rock’s gift, they all had neatly trimmed beards or clean-shaven faces. Everything else about them was worn. But their faces were clean.
Kaladin raised a hesitant hand to his face, touching his unkempt black beard. The men seemed to be waiting for something. “What?” he asked.
The men shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the lumberyard. They were waiting for him to lead them in practice, of course. But practice was futile. He opened his mouth to tell them that, but hesitated as he saw something approaching. Four men, carrying a palanquin. A tall, thin man in a violet lighteyes’s coat walked beside it.
The men turned to look. “What’s this?” Hobber asked, scratching at his thick neck.
“It will be Lamaril’s replacement,” Kaladin said, gently pushing his way through the line of bridgemen. Syl flitted down and landed on his shoulder as the palanquin bearers stopped before Kaladin and turned to the side, revealing a dark-haired woman wearing a sleek violet dress decorated with golden glyphs. She lounged on her side, resting on a cushioned couch, her eyes a pale blue.
“I am Brightness Hashal,” she said, voice lightly touched by a Kholinar accent. “My husband, Brightlord Matal, is your new captain.”
Kaladin held his tongue, biting back a remark. He had some experience with lighteyes who got “promoted” to positions like this one. Matal himself said nothing, simply standing with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He was tall—nearly as tall as Kaladin—but spindly. Delicate hands. That sword hadn’t seen much practice.
“We have been advised,” Hashal said, “that this crew has been troublesome.” Her eyes narrowed, focusing on Kaladin. “It seems that you have survived the Almighty’s judgment. I bear a message for you from your betters. The Almighty has given you another chance to prove yourself as a bridgeman. That is all. Many are trying to read too much into what happened, so Highprince Sadeas has forbidden gawkers to come see you.
“My husband does not intend to run the bridge crews with his predecessor’s laxness. My husband is a well-respected and honored associate of Highprince Sadeas himself, not some near-darkeyed mongrel like Lamaril.”
“Is that so?” Kaladin said. “Then how did he end up in this latrine pit of a job?”
Hashal didn’t display a hint of anger at the comment. She flicked her fingers to the side, and one of the soldiers stepped forward and rammed the butt of his spear toward Kaladin’s stomach.