Renarin watched with flushed cheeks. He’d obviously run to get here once released from his other duty, but now he was hesitant. Elhokar had set up to watch near some rocks, and Renarin stepped toward him, as if sitting at the side and watching was his place too.

“Hey!” Lunamor said. “Renarin!”

Renarin jumped. The boy wore his blue Bridge Four uniform, though his seemed somehow … neater than the others.

“I could use some help with this bread,” Lunamor said.

Renarin smiled immediately. All the youth ever wanted was to be treated like the rest of them. Well, that attitude benefited a man. Lunamor would have the highprince himself kneading dough, if he could get away with it. Dalinar seemed like he could use a good session of making bread.

Renarin washed his hands, then sat on the ground across from Lunamor and followed his lead. Lunamor ripped off a piece of dough about as wide as his hand, flattened it, then slapped it against one of the large stones he’d put to warm by the fire. The dough stuck to the stone, where it would cook until one peeled it off.

Lunamor didn’t push Renarin to talk. Some people you wanted to press, draw them out. Others you wanted to let move at their own pace. Like the difference between a stew you brought to a boil and one you kept at a simmer.

But where is his god? Lunamor could see all spren. Prince Renarin had bonded one, except Lunamor had never been able to spot it. He bowed when Renarin wasn’t looking, just in case, and made a sign of reverence to the hidden god.

“Bridge Four is doing well,” Renarin finally said. “He’ll have them all drinking Stormlight soon.”

“Likely so,” Lunamor said. “Ha! But they have much time until they catch up to you. Truthwatcher! Is good name. More people should watch truth, instead of lies.”

Renarin blushed. “I … I suppose it means I can’t be in Bridge Four anymore, doesn’t it?”

“Why not?”

“I’m a different order of Radiant,” Renarin said, eyes down as he formed a perfectly round piece of dough, then carefully set it onto a stone.

“You have power to heal.”

“The Surges of Progression and Illumination. I’m not sure how to make the second one work though. Shallan has explained it seven times, but I can’t create even the smallest illusion. Something’s wrong.”

“Still, only healing for now? This thing will be very useful to Bridge Four!”

“I can’t be Bridge Four anymore.”

“That is nonsense. Bridge Four is not Windrunners.”

“Then what is it?”

“It is us,” Lunamor sad. “It is me, it is them, it is you.” He nodded toward Dabbid. “That one, he will never hold spear again. He will not fly, but he is Bridge Four. I am forbidden to fight, but I am Bridge Four. And you, you might have fancy title and different powers.” He leaned forward. “But I know Bridge Four. And you, Renarin Kholin, are Bridge Four.”

Renarin smiled widely. “But Rock, don’t you ever worry that you aren’t the person everyone thinks you are?”

“Everyone thinks I am loud, insufferable lout!” Lunamor said. “So to be something else would not be bad thing.”

Renarin chuckled.

“You think this about yourself?” Lunamor said.

“Maybe,” Renarin said, making another perfectly round piece of dough. “I don’t know what I am most days, Rock, but I seem to be the only one. Since I could walk, everyone was saying, ‘Look how bright he is. He should be an ardent.’ ”

Lunamor grunted. Sometimes, even if you were loud and insufferable, you knew when not to say anything.

“Everyone thinks it’s so obvious. I have a mind for figures, don’t I? Yes, join the ardents. Of course, nobody says I’m much less of a man than my brother, and nobody points out that it sure would be nice for the succession if the sickly, strange younger brother were safely tucked away in a monastery.”

“When you say these things, you are almost not bitter!” Lunamor said. “Ha! Much practice must have been required.”

“A lifetime.”

“Tell me,” Lunamor said. “Why do you wish to be man who fights, Renarin Kholin?”

“Because it’s what my father always wanted,” Renarin said immediately. “He may not realize it, but it’s there, Rock.”

Lunamor grunted. “Perhaps this is stupid reason, but it is reason, and I can respect that. But tell me, why do you not want to become ardent or stormwarden?”

“Because everyone assumes I will be!” Renarin said, slapping bread down on the heated stones. “If I go and do it, I’m giving in to what they all say.” He looked for something to fidget with, and Lunamor tossed him more dough.

“I think,” Lunamor said, “your problem is different than you say. You claim you are not the person everyone thinks you are. Maybe you worry, instead, that you are that person.”

“A sickly weakling.”

“No,” Lunamor said, leaning in. “You can be you without this being bad thing. You can admit you act and think differently from your brother, but can learn not to see this as flaw. It is just Renarin Kholin.”

Renarin started kneading the dough furiously.

“Is good,” Lunamor said, “that you learn to fight. Men do well learning many different skills. But men also do well using what the gods have given them. In the Peaks, a man may not have such choices. Is privilege!”

“I suppose. Glys says … Well, it’s complicated. I could talk to the ardents, but I’m hesitant to do anything that would make me stand out from the other bridgemen, Rock. I’m already the oddest one in this bunch.”

“Is that so?”

“Don’t deny it, Rock. Lopen is … well, Lopen. And you’re obviously … um … you. But I’m still the strange one. I’ve always been the strangest one.”

Lunamor slapped dough onto a rock, then pointed toward where Rlain—the Parshendi bridgeman they used to call Shen—sat on a rock near his squad, watching quietly as the others laughed at Eth having accidentally stuck a stone to his hand. He wore warform, and so was taller and stronger than he had been before—but the humans seemed to have completely forgotten that he was there.

“Oh,” Renarin said. “I don’t know if he counts.”

“This thing is what everyone always tells him,” Lunamor said. “Over and over again.”

Renarin stared for a long time while Lunamor continued to make bread. Finally, Renarin stood up and dusted off his uniform, walked across the stone plateau, and settled down beside Rlain. Renarin fidgeted and didn’t say anything, but Rlain seemed to appreciate the company anyway.

Lunamor smiled, then finished the last of the bread. He rose and set up the shiki drink with a stack of wooden cups. He took another drink himself, then shook his head and glanced at Huio, who was harvesting the bread. The Herdazian man was glowing faintly—clearly, he’d already learned how to draw in Stormlight.

Airsick Herdazian. Lunamor raised a hand and Huio tossed him a flatbread, which Lunamor bit. He chewed the warm bread, thoughtful. “More salt in the next batch?”

The Herdazian just kept harvesting the bread.

Tags: Brandon Sanderson The Stormlight Archive Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net