Kaladin knelt beside the corpse, rolled it over.
And found it weeping.
“I… I’m… sorry,” Hobber said, overcome with emotion and barely able to speak. “I’m sorry, Kaladin.”
“Hobber!” Kaladin said. “You’re alive!” Then he noticed that the legs of Hobber’s uniform had been sliced through at midthigh. Beneath the fabric, Hobber’s legs were darkened and grey, dead, as Kaladin’s arm had been.
“I didn’t even see him,” Hobber said. “He cut me down, then stabbed Beld straight through. I listened to you fighting. I thought you’d all died.”
“It’s all right,” Kaladin said. “You’re all right.”
“I can’t feel my legs,” Hobber said. “They’re gone. I’m no soldier anymore, sir. I’m useless now. I—”
“No,” Kaladin said firmly. “You’re still Bridge Four. You’re always Bridge Four.” He forced himself to smile. “We’ll just have Rock teach you how to cook. How are you with stew?”
“Awful, sir,” Hobber said. “I can burn broth.”
“Then you’ll fit right in with most military cooks. Come on, let’s get you back to the others.” Kaladin strained, getting his arms under Hobber, trying to lift him.
His body would have none of it. He let out an involuntary groan, putting Hobber back down.
“It’s all right, sir,” Hobber said.
“No,” Kaladin said, sucking in the Light of one of the spheres in the lamp. “It’s not.” He heaved again, lifting Hobber, then carried him back toward the others.
34. Blossoms and Cake
Our gods were born splinters of a soul,
Of one who seeks to take control,
Destroys all lands that he beholds, with spite.
They are his spren, his gift, his price.
But the nightforms speak of future life,
A challenged champion. A strife even he must requite.
From the Listener Song of Secrets, final stanza
Highprince Valam might be dead, Brightness Tyn, the spanreed wrote. Our informants are uncertain. He was never in the best of health, and now there are rumors that his illness finally overcame him. His forces are gearing up to seize Vedenar, however, so if he’s dead, his bastard son is likely pretending he is not.
Shallan sat back, though the reed continued writing. It moved seemingly of its own volition, paired to an identical reed used by Tyn’s associate somewhere in Tashikk. They’d set up regular camp following the highstorm, Shallan joining Tyn in her magnificent tent. The air still smelled of rain, and the floor of the tent let some water leak through, wetting Tyn’s rug. Shallan wished she’d worn her oversized boots instead of slippers.
What would it mean for her family if the highprince was dead? He had been one of her father’s main problems in the latter days of his life, and her house had gone into debt securing allies to win the highprince’s ear or perhaps—instead—to try to unseat him. A succession war could pressure the people who held her family’s debts, and that might make them come to her brothers demanding payments. Or, instead, the chaos could cause the creditors to forget about Shallan’s brothers and their insignificant house. And what of the Ghostbloods? Would the succession war make them more or less likely to come, demanding their Soulcaster?
Stormfather! She needed more information.
The reed continued to move, listing the names of those who were making a play for the throne of Jah Keved. “Do you know any of these people personally?” Tyn asked, arms crossed contemplatively as she stood beside the writing table. “What’s happening might offer us some opportunities.”
“I wasn’t important enough for those types,” Shallan said with a grimace. It was true.
“We might want to make our way to Jah Keved, regardless,” Tyn said. “You know the culture, the people. That’ll be useful.”
“It’s a war zone!”
“War means desperation, and desperation is our mother’s milk, kid. Once we follow your lead at the Shattered Plains—maybe pick up another member or two for our team—we probably will want to go visit your homeland.”
Shallan felt an immediate stab of guilt. From what Tyn said, the stories she told, it had become clear that she often chose to have someone like Shallan under her wing. An acolyte, someone to nurture. Shallan suspected that was at least partly because Tyn liked having someone around to impress.
Her life must be so lonely, Shallan thought. Always moving, always taking whatever she can get, but never giving. Except once in a while, to a young thief she can foster…
A strange shadow moved across the wall of the tent. Pattern, though Shallan only noticed him because she knew what to look for. He could be practically invisible when he wanted to be, though unlike some spren he could not vanish completely.
The spanreed continued to write, giving Tyn a longer rundown of conditions in various countries. After that, it produced a curious statement.
I have checked with informants at the Shattered Plains, the pen wrote. The ones you asked after are, indeed, wanted men. Most are former members of the army of Highprince Sadeas. He is not forgiving of deserters.
“What’s this?” Shallan asked, rising from her stool and going to look more closely at what the pen wrote.
“I implied earlier we’d have to discuss this,” Tyn said, changing the paper for the spanreed. “As I keep explaining, the life we lead requires doing some harsh things.”
The leader, whom you call Vathah, is worth a bounty of four emerald broams, the pen wrote. The rest, two broams each.
“Bounty?” Shallan demanded. “I gave promises to these men!”
“Hush!” Tyn said. “We’re not alone in this camp, fool child. If you want us dead, all you need to do is let them overhear this conversation.”
“We’re not turning them in for money,” Shallan said more softly. “Tyn, I gave my word.”
“Your word?” Tyn said, laughing. “Kid, what do you think we are? Your word?”
Shallan blushed. On the table, the spanreed continued to write, oblivious to the fact they weren’t paying attention. It was saying something about a job Tyn had done before.
“Tyn,” Shallan said, “Vathah and his men can be useful.”
Tyn shook her head, walking over to the side of the tent, pouring herself a cup of wine. “You should be proud of what you did here. You have barely any experience, yet you took over three separate groups, convincing them to put you—practically sphereless and completely without authority—in charge. Brilliant!
“But here’s the thing. The lies we tell, the dreams we create, they’re not real. We can’t let them be real. This might be the hardest lesson you have to learn.” She turned to Shallan, her expression having gone hard, all sense of relaxed playfulness gone. “When a good con woman dies, it’s usually because she starts believing her own lies. She finds something good and wants it to continue. She keeps it going, thinking she can juggle it. One day more, she tells herself. One day more, and then…”
Tyn dropped the cup. It hit the ground, the wine splashing bloodred across the tent floor and Tyn’s rug.