The Way of Kings (The Stormlight Archive 1)

But this was a parshman.

Gotta do what you can to stay alive….

“No,” Kaladin said. “Shen is one of us now. I don’t care what he was before. I don’t care what any of you were. We’re Bridge Four. So is he.”

“But—” Skar began.

“No,” Kaladin said. “We not going to treat him like the lighteyes treat us, Skar. That’s all there is to it. Rock, find him a vest and sandals.”

The bridgemen split up, all save Teft. “What about…our plans?” Teft asked quietly.

“We proceed,” Kaladin said.

Teft looked uncomfortable about that.

“What’s he going to do, Teft?” Kaladin asked. “Tell on us? I’ve never heard a parshman say more than a single word at a time. I doubt he could act as a spy.”

“I don’t know,” Teft grumbled. “But I’ve never liked them. They seem to be able to talk to each other, without making any sounds. I don’t like the way they look.”

“Teft,” Kaladin said flatly, “if we rejected bridgemen based on their looks, we’d have kicked you out weeks ago for that face of yours.”

Teft grunted. Then he smiled.

“What?” Kaladin asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just…for a moment, you reminded me of better days. Afore this storm came crashing down on me. You realize the odds, don’t you? Fighting our way free, escaping a man like Sadeas?”

Kaladin nodded solemnly.

“Good,” Teft said. “Well, since you aren’t inclined to do it, I’ll keep an eye on our friend ‘Shen’ over there. You can thank me after I stop him from sticking a knife in your back.”

“I don’t think we have to worry.”

“You’re young,” Teft said. “I’m old.”

“That makes you wiser, presumably?”

“Damnation no,” Teft said. “The only thing it proves is that I’ve more experience staying alive than you. I’ll watch him. You just train the rest of this sorry lot to…” He trailed off, looking around. “To keep from tripping over their own feet the moment someone threatens them. You understand?”

Kaladin nodded. That sounded much like something one of Kaladin’s old sergeants would say. Teft was insistent on not talking about his past, but he never had seemed as beaten down as most of the others.

“All right,” Kaladin said, “make sure the men take care of their equipment.”

“What will you be doing?”

“Walking,” Kaladin said. “And thinking.”

An hour later, Kaladin still wandered Sadeas’s warcamp. He’d need to return to the lumberyard soon; his men were on chasm duty again, and had been given only a few free hours to care for equipment.

As a youth, he hadn’t understood why his father had often gone walking to think. The older Kaladin grew, the more he found himself imitating his father’s habits. Walking, moving, it did something to his mind. The constant passing of tents, colors cycling, men bustling—it created a sense of change, and it made his thoughts want to move as well.

Don’t hedge bets with your life, Kaladin, Durk had always said. Don’t put in a chip when you have a pocket full of marks. Bet them all or leave the table.

Syl danced before him, jumping from shoulder to shoulder in the crowded street. Occasionally she’d land on the head of someone passing in the other direction and sit there, legs crossed, as she passed Kaladin. All his spheres were on the table. He was determined to help the bridgemen. But something itched at him, a worry that he couldn’t yet explain.

“You seem troubled,” Syl said, landing on his shoulder. She wore a cap and jacket over her usual dress, as if imitating nearby shop keepers. They passed the apothecary’s shop. Kaladin barely bothered to glance at it. He had no knobweed sap to sell. He’d run out of supplies soon.

He’d told his men that he’d train them to fight, but that would take time. And once they were trained, how would they get spears out of the chasms to use in the escape? Sneaking them out would be tough, considering how they were searched. They could just start fighting at the search itself, but that would only put the entire warcamp on alert.

Problems, problems. The more he thought, the more impossible his task seemed.

He made way for a couple of soldiers in forest-green coats. Their brown eyes marked them as common citizens, but the white knots on their shoulders meant they were citizen officers. Squadleaders and sergeants.

“Kaladin?” Syl asked.

“Getting the bridgemen out is as large a task as I’ve ever faced. Much more difficult than my other escape attempts as a slave, and I failed at each of those. I can’t help wondering if I’m setting myself up for another disaster.”

“It will be different this time, Kaladin,” Syl said. “I can feel it.”

“That sounds like something Tien would have said. His death proves that words don’t change anything, Syl. Before you ask, I’m not sinking into despair again. But I can’t ignore what has happened to me. It started with Tien. Since that moment, it seems that every time I’ve specifically picked people to protect, they’ve ended up dead. Every time. It’s enough to make me wonder if the Almighty himself hates me.”

She frowned. “I think you’re being foolish. Besides, if anything, he’d hate the people who died, not you. You lived.”

“I suppose it’s self-centered to make it all about me. But, Syl, I survive, every time, when almost nobody else does. Over and over again. My old spearman’s squad, the first bridge crew I ran with, numerous slaves I tried to help escape. There’s a pattern. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore.”

“Maybe the Almighty is preserving you,” Syl said.”

Kaladin hesitated on the street; a passing soldier cursed and shoved him aside. Something about this whole conversation was wrong. Kaladin moved over beside a rain barrel set between two sturdy stone-walled shops.

“Syl,” he said. “You mentioned the Almighty.”

“You did first.”

“Ignore that for now. Do you believe in the Almighty? Do you know if he really exists?”

Syl cocked her head. “I don’t know. Huh. Well, there are a lot of things I don’t know. But I should know this one. I think. Maybe?” She seemed very perplexed.

“I’m not sure if I believe,” Kaladin said, looking out at the street. “My mother did, and my father always spoke of the Heralds with reverence. I think he believed too, but maybe just because of the traditions of healing that are said to have come from the Heralds. The ardents ignore us bridgemen. They used to visit the soldiers, when I was in Amaram’s army, but I haven’t seen a single one in the lumberyard. I haven’t given it much thought. Believing never seemed to help any of the soldiers.”

“So if you don’t believe, then there’s no reason to think that the Almighty hates you.”

“Except,” Kaladin said, “if there is no Almighty, there might be something else. I don’t know. A lot of the soldiers I knew were superstitious. They’d talk about things like the Old Magic and the Nightwatcher, things that could bring a man bad luck. I scoffed at them. But how long can I continue to ignore that possibility? What if all of these failures can be traced to something like that?”