Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive 3)

“Bridge Four will be protected by their power.”

“And the enemy? They will not have power?” He stepped closer. “Surely I do not wish to dampen Kaladin Stormblessed when he is optimistic, but nobody is ever perfectly safe. This is sad truth, my friend.”

“Maybe,” Kaladin admitted. He got a distant look on his face. “Your people only let younger sons go to war, right?”

“Only tuanalikina, fourth son and younger, can be wasted in war. First, second, and third sons are too valuable.”

“Fourth son and younger. So hardly ever.”

“Ha! You do not know the size of Horneater families.”

“Still, it has to mean fewer men dying in battle.”

“Peaks are different place,” Lunamor said, smiling at Sylphrena as she rose off Kaladin’s shoulder and started dancing on the nearby winds. “And not just because we have right amount of air for brains to work. To attack another peak is costly and difficult, requiring much preparation and time. We speak of this thing more than we do him.”

“It sounds nice.”

“You will visit with me someday!” Lunamor said. “You and all Bridge Four, as you are family now.”

“Ground,” Lopen insisted, “I will still love you. I’m not attracted to anyone the way I am to you. Whenever I leave, I’ll come right back!”

Kaladin glanced at Lunamor.

“Perhaps,” Lunamor noted, “when that one is away from too much toxic air, he will be less…”

“Lopen?”

“Though upon consideration, this thing would be sad.”

Kaladin chuckled, handing Lunamor his cup. Then he leaned in. “What happened to your brother, Rock?”

“My two brothers are well, so far as I know.”

“And the third brother?” Kaladin said. “The one who died, moving you from fourth to third, and making you a cook instead of a soldier? Don’t deny it.”

“Is sad story,” Lunamor said. “And today is not day for sad stories. Today is day for laughter, stew, flight. These things.”

And hopefully … hopefully something even grander.

Kaladin patted him on the shoulder. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here.”

“That is good to know. Though today, I believe someone else wishes to talk.” Lunamor nodded toward someone crossing a bridge onto their plateau. A figure in a stiff blue uniform, with a silver circlet on his head. “The king has been eager to speak with you. Ha! Asked us several times if we knew when you would return. As if we are appointment keepers for our glorious flying leader.”

“Yes,” Kaladin said. “He came to see me the other day.” Kaladin braced himself visibly, setting his jaw, then walked to the king, who had just marched onto the plateau, trailed by a cluster of guards from Bridge Eleven.

Lunamor positioned himself working on the soup where he could listen, as he was curious.

“Windrunner,” Elhokar said, nodding to Kaladin. “It seems you are right, your men have had their powers restored. How soon will they be ready?”

“They’re in fighting shape already, Your Majesty. But to master their powers … well, I can’t say, honestly.”

Lunamor sipped his soup and didn’t turn toward the king, but stirred and listened.

“Have you given thought to my request?” Elhokar said. “Will you fly me to Kholinar, so we can reclaim the city?”

“I’ll do as my commander tells me.”

“No,” Elhokar said. “I’m asking you, personally. Will you come? Will you help me reclaim our homeland?”

“Yes,” Kaladin said softly. “Give me some time, a few weeks at least, to train my men. I’d prefer to bring a few squire Windrunners with us—and if we’re lucky, I might be able to leave a full Radiant behind to lead if something happens to me. But either way … yes, Elhokar. I’ll go with you to Alethkar.”

“Good. We have some time, as Uncle wishes to try contacting people in Kholinar using his visions. Perhaps twenty days? Can you train your squires in that time?”

“I’ll have to, Your Majesty.”

Lunamor glanced at the king, who folded his arms, watching the Windrunners, prospective and current. He seemed to have come not just to speak with Kaladin, but to watch the training. Kaladin walked back to the scouts—his god following in the air after him—so Lunamor brought the king something to drink. Then he hesitated beside the bridge that Elhokar had crossed to reach this plateau.

Their old bridge, from the bridge runs, had been repurposed for moving people around these plateaus closest to Narak. Permanent bridges were still being reconstructed. Lunamor patted the wood. They’d thought this lost, but a salvage party had discovered it wedged in a chasm a short distance away. Dalinar had agreed to have it hauled up, at Teft’s request.

Considering what it had been through, the old bridge was in good shape. It was made of tough wood, Bridge Four was. He looked beyond it, and was unsettled by the sight of the next plateau over—or the rubble of it. A stump of a plateau, made of broken rock that extended only twenty feet or so from the chasm floor. Rlain said that had been an ordinary plateau, before the meeting of Everstorm and highstorm at the Battle of Narak.

During that terrible cataclysm when storms met, entire plateaus had been ripped up and shattered. Though the Everstorm had returned several times, the two storms had not again met over a populated area. Lunamor patted the old bridge, then shook his head, walking back toward his cooking station.

They could have trained at Urithiru, perhaps, but none of the bridgemen had complained at coming here. The Shattered Plains were far better than the lonesome plain before the tower. This place was just as barren, but it was also theirs.

They also hadn’t questioned when Lunamor had decided to bring along his cauldrons and supplies to make lunch. It was inefficient, true, but a hot meal would make up for it—and beyond that, there was an unspoken rule. Though Lunamor, Dabbid, and Hobber didn’t participate in the training or sparring, they were still Bridge Four. They went where the others went.

He had Huio add the meat—with a strict charge to ask before changing any spices. Dabbid continued to stir placidly. He seemed content, though it was hard to tell with that one. Lunamor washed his hands in a pot, then got to work on the bread.

Cooking was like warfare. You had to know your enemy—though his “enemies” in this contest were his friends. They came to each meal expecting greatness, and Lunamor fought to prove himself time and time again. He waged war with breads and soups, sating appetites and satisfying stomachs.

As he worked, hands deep within the dough, he could hear his mother’s humming. Her careful instructions. Kaladin was wrong; Lunamor hadn’t become a cook. He’d always been one, since he could toddle up the stepstool to the counter and stick his fingers in the sticky dough. Yes, he’d once trained with a bow. But soldiers needed to eat, and nuatoma guards each did several jobs, even guards with his particular heritage and blessings.

He closed his eyes, kneading and humming his mother’s song to a beat he could almost, barely, just faintly hear.

A short time later, he heard soft footsteps crossing the bridge behind. Prince Renarin stopped beside the cauldron, his duty of transferring people through the Oathgate finished for now. On the plateau, more than a third of Bridge Four had figured out how to draw in Stormlight, but none of the newcomers had managed it, despite Kaladin’s coaching.