Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive 3)

Skar flopped backward, looking up. Lopen was walking around on the ceiling of the room. Storming Herdazian.

“Drehy, you used a quarter of a Basic Lashing, by Kaladin’s terminology?” Sigzil continued, still making notes.

“Yeah,” Drehy said. “I … I know the precise amount, Sig. Strange.”

“Which made you half as heavy as usual, when we put you on the scale back in the rooms. But why does a quarter Lashing make you half as heavy? Shouldn’t it make you twenty-five percent as heavy?”

“Does it matter?” Drehy asked.

Sigzil looked at him as if he were crazy. “Of course it does!”

“I want to try a Lashing at an angle next,” Drehy said. “See if I can make it feel like I’m running downhill, no matter which direction I go. Might not need it. Holding Stormlight … it made me feel like I could run forever.”

“Well, it’s a new record…” Sigzil mumbled, still writing. “You beat Lopen’s time.”

“Did he beat mine?” Leyten called from the side of the small room where he was inspecting the tiling on the floor.

“You stopped for food on the way, Leyten,” Sigzil said. “Even Rock beat your time, and he was skipping like a girl the last third.”

“Was Horneater dance of victory,” Rock said from near Leyten. “Is very manly.”

“Manly or not, it threw off my test,” Sigzil said. “At least Skar is willing to pay attention to proper procedure.”

Skar remained lying on the ground as the others chatted—Kaladin was supposed to come and transport them to the Shattered Plains, and Sigzil had decided to run some tests. Kaladin, as usual, was late.

Teft sat down next to Skar, inspecting him with dark green eyes with bags underneath. Kaladin had named the two of them lieutenants, along with Rock and Sigzil, but their roles had never really settled into that ranking. Teft was the perfect definition of a platoon sergeant.

“Here,” Teft said, handing over a chouta—meatballs wrapped in flatbread, Herdazian style. “Leyten brought food. Eat something, lad.”

Skar forced himself to sit up. “I’m not that much younger than you, Teft. I’m hardly a lad.”

Teft nodded to himself, chewing on his own chouta. Finally, Skar started into his. It was good, not spicy like a lot of Alethi food, but still good. Flavorful.

“Everyone keeps telling me that I’ll ‘get it soon,’ ” Skar said. “But what if I don’t? There won’t be room in the Windrunners for a lieutenant who has to walk everywhere. I’ll end up cooking lunch with Rock.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with being on the support team.”

“Pardon, Sarge, but storm that! Do you know how long I waited to hold a spear?” Skar picked up the weapon from beside his pack and laid it across his lap. “I’m good at it. I can fight. Only…”

Lopen left the ceiling, rotating to get his legs under him and floating gently to the floor. He laughed as Bisig in turn tried flying up to the ceiling and crashed headfirst into it. Bisig hopped to his feet, looking down at them all, embarrassed. But what did he have to be embarrassed about? He was standing on the ceiling!

“You were in the military before,” Teft guessed.

“No, but not for lack of trying. You heard of the Blackcaps?”

“Aladar’s personal guards.”

“Let’s just say they didn’t think much of my application.”

Yes, we let darkeyes in. But not runts.

Teft grunted, chewing on his chouta.

“Said they might reconsider if I equipped myself,” Skar said. “Do you know how much armor costs? I was a stupid rocksplitter with visions of battlefield glory.”

It used to be they’d never speak about their pasts. That had changed, though Skar couldn’t specify exactly when. It came out, as part of the catharsis of having become something greater.

Teft was an addict. Drehy had struck an officer. Eth had been caught planning to desert with his brother. Even simple Hobber had been part of a drunken brawl. Knowing Hobber, he’d probably only gone along with what his squad was doing, but a man had ended up dead.

“You’d think,” Teft said, “that our high and mighty leader would have gotten here by now. I swear, Kaladin acts more like a lighteyes every day.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Skar said.

“I’ll say what I want,” Teft snapped. “If that boy’s not going to come, maybe I should be going. I have things to do.”

Skar hesitated, glancing up at Teft.

“Not that,” Teft growled. “I’ve barely touched the stuff in days. You’d think a man had never had a wild night out, the way you’re all treating me.”

“Didn’t say a thing, Teft.”

“Knowing what we’ve suffered, it’s insane to think that we wouldn’t need something to get us through the day. The moss isn’t the problem. It’s the storming world going all crazy. That’s the problem.”

“Sure is, Teft.”

Teft eyed him, then studied his chouta roll intently. “So … how long have the men known? I mean, did anyone…”

“Not long,” Skar said quickly. “Nobody’s even thinking about it.”

Teft nodded, and didn’t see through the lie. Truth was, most of them had noticed Teft sneaking off to grind a little moss now and then. It wasn’t uncommon in the army. But doing what he’d done—missing duty, selling his uniform, ending up in an alley—that was different. It was the sort of thing that could get you discharged, at best. At worst … well, it might get you assigned to bridge duty.

Trouble was, they weren’t common soldiers anymore. They weren’t lighteyes either. They were something strange, something that nobody understood.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Teft said. “Look, weren’t we discussing how to get you to glow? That’s the problem at hand.”

Before he could press further, Kaladin Stormblessed finally deigned to arrive, bringing with him the scouts and hopefuls from other bridge crews who had been trying to draw in Stormlight. So far, nobody except men from Bridge Four had managed it, but that included a few that had never actually run bridges: Huio and Punio—Lopen’s cousins—and men like Koen from the old Cobalt Guard, who had been recruited into Bridge Four a couple months back. So there was still hope that others could manage it.

Kaladin had brought roughly thirty people beyond those who had already been training with the team. Judging by their uniform patches, this thirty had come from other divisions—and some were lighteyed. Kaladin had mentioned asking General Khal to round up the most promising potential recruits from throughout the Alethi army.

“All here?” Kaladin said. “Good.” He strode to the side of the single-roomed control building, a sack of glowing gemstones slung over his shoulder. His magnificent Shardblade appeared in his hand, and he slid it into the keyhole in the chamber wall.

Kaladin engaged the ancient mechanism, pushing the sword—and the entire inner wall, which could rotate—toward a specific point marked by murals. The floor began to glow, and outside, Stormlight rose in a swirl around the entire stone plateau.