The men sat quietly. “Stormfather,” youthful Dunny finally said, “you think we did the right thing? I mean, the way he complains and all…”
“I think it was perfect,” Teft said. “Just give the big lout some time to recover.”
“Sorry we didn’t get you nothin’, sir,” Maps said to Kaladin. “We didn’t know you’d be awake and all.”
“It’s all right,” Kaladin said.
“Well,” Skar said. “Is someone going to serve that stew, or will we all just sit here hungry until it burns?”
Dunny jumped up, grabbing the ladle. The men gathered around the pot, jostling one another as Dunny served. Without Rock there to snap at them and keep them in line, it was something of a melee. Only Sigzil did not join in. The quiet, dark-skinned man sat to the side, eyes reflecting the flames.
Kaladin rose. He was worried—terrified, really—that he might become that wretch again. The one who had given up on caring because he saw no alternative. So he sought conversation, walking over toward Sigzil. His motion disturbed Syl, who sniffed and buzzed up onto his shoulder. She still held the form of a flickering flame; having that on his shoulder was even more distracting. He didn’t say anything; if she knew it bothered him, she’d be likely to do it more. She was still a windspren, after all.
Kaladin sat down next to Sigzil. “Not hungry?”
“They are more eager than I,” Sigzil said. “If previous evenings are a reliable guide, there will still be enough for me once they have filled their bowls.”
Kaladin nodded. “I appreciated your analysis out on the plateau today.”
“I am good at that, sometimes.”
“You’re educated. You speak like it and you act like it.”
Sigzil hesitated. “Yes,” he finally said. “Among my people, it is not a sin for a male to be keen of mind.”
“It isn’t a sin for Alethi either.”
“My experience is that you care only about wars and the art of killing.”
“And what have you seen of us besides our army?”
“Not much,” Sigzil admitted.
“So, a man of education,” Kaladin said thoughtfully. “In a bridge crew.”
“My education was never completed.”
“Neither was mine.”
Sigzil looked at him, curious.
“I apprenticed as a surgeon,” Kaladin said.
Sigzil nodded, thick dark hair falling around his shoulders. He’d been one of the only bridgemen who bothered shaving. Now that Rock had a razor, maybe that would change. “A surgeon,” he said. “I cannot say that is surprising, considering how you handled the wounded. The men say that you’re secretly a lighteyes of very high rank.”
“What? But my eyes are dark brown!”
“Pardon me,” Sigzil said. “I didn’t speak the right word—you don’t have the right word in your language. To you, a lighteyes is the same as a leader. In other kingdoms, though, other things make a man a…curse this Alethi language. A man of high birth. A brightlord, only without the eyes. Anyway, the men think you must have been raised outside of Alethkar. As a leader.”
Sigzil looked back at the others. They were beginning to sit back down, attacking their stew with vigor. “It’s the way you lead so naturally, the way you make others want to listen to you. These are things they associate with lighteyes. And so they have invented a past for you. You will have a difficult time disabusing them of it now.” Sigzil eyed him. “Assuming it is a fabrication. I was there in the chasm the day you used that spear.”
“A spear,” Kaladin said. “A darkeyed soldier’s weapon, not a lighteyes’s sword.”
“To many bridgemen, the difference is minimal. All are so far above us.”
“So what is your story?”
Sigzil smirked. “I wondered if you were going to ask. The others mentioned that you have pried into their origins.”
“I like to know the men I lead.”
“And if some of us are murderers?” Sigzil asked quietly.
“Then I’m in good company,” Kaladin said. “If it was a lighteyes you killed, then I might buy you a drink.”
“Not a lighteyes,” Sigzil said. “And he is not dead.”
“Then you’re not a murderer,” Kaladin said.
“Not for want of trying.” Sigzil’s eyes grew distant. “I thought for certain I had succeeded. It was not the wisest choice I made. My master…” He trailed off.
“Is he the one you tried to kill?”
“No.”
Kaladin waited, but no more information was forthcoming. A scholar, he thought. Or at least a man of learning. There has to be a way to use this.
Find a way out of this death trap, Kaladin. Use what you have. There has to be a way.
“You were right about the bridgemen,” Sigzil said. “We are sent to die. It is the only reasonable explanation. There is a place in the world. Marabethia. Have you heard of it?”
“No,” Kaladin said.
“It is beside the sea, to the north, in the Selay lands. The people are known for their great fondness for debate. At each intersection in the city they have small pedestals on which a man can stand and proclaim his arguments. It is said that everyone in Marabethia carries a pouch with an overripe fruit just in case they pass a proclaimer with whom they disagree.”
Kaladin frowned. He hadn’t heard so many words from Sigzil in all the time they’d been bridgemen together.
“What you said earlier, on the plateau,” Sigzil continued, eyes forward, “it made me think of the Marabethians. You see, they have a curious way of treating condemned criminals. They dangle them over the seaside cliff near the city, down near the water at high tide, with a cut sliced in each cheek. There is a particular species of greatshell in the depths there. The creatures are known for their succulent flavor, and of course they have gemhearts. Not nearly as large as the ones in these chasmfiends, but still nice. So the criminals, they become bait. A criminal may demand execution instead, but they say if you hang there for a week and are not eaten, then you can go free.”
“And does that often happen?” Kaladin asked.
Sigzil shook his head. “Never. But the prisoners almost always take the chance. The Marabethians have a saying for someone who refuses to see the truth of a situation. ‘You have eyes of red and blue,’ they say. Red for the blood dripping. Blue for the water. It is said that these two things are all the prisoners see. Usually they are attacked within one day. And yet, most still wish to take that chance. They prefer the false hope.”
Eyes of red and blue, Kaladin thought, imagining the morbid picture.
“You do a good work,” Sigzil said, rising, picking up his bowl. “At first, I hated you for lying to the men. But I have come to see that a false hope makes them happy. What you do is like giving medicine to a sick man to ease his pain until he dies. Now these men can spend their last days in laughter. You are a healer indeed, Kaladin Stormblessed.”
Kaladin wanted to object, to say that it wasn’t a false hope, but he couldn’t. Not with his heart in his stomach. Not with what he knew.
A moment later, Rock burst from the barrack. “I feel like a true alil’tiki’i again!” he proclaimed, holding aloft his razor. “My friends, you cannot know what you have done! Someday, I will take you to the Peaks and show you the hospitality of kings!”