The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,149

need fire! Hurry! And someone give me your shirt!”

Several men rushed off as Kal elevated the leg. One of the men hurriedly handed over his shirt. Kal knew where to pinch to cut off the artery; the tourniquet slipped, but his fingers did not. He held that artery closed, pressing the shirt on the rest of the wound until Valama came back with a candle’s flame.

They’d already begun heating a knife. Good. Kal took the knife, burning it into the wound, releasing the sharply pungent smell of scorched flesh. A cool wind blew across them, carrying it away.

Kal’s hands stopped shaking. He knew what to do. He moved with skill that surprised even him, perfectly cauterizing, as his training took control. He still needed to tie off the artery—a cauterization might not hold on an artery this large—but the two together should work.

When he was done, the bleeding had stopped. He sat back, smiling. And then he noticed that Miasal’s head wound wasn’t bleeding either. Her chest wasn’t moving.

“No!” Harl fell to his knees. “No! Do something!”

“I…” Kal said. He’d stopped the bleeding. He’d…

He’d lost her.

He didn’t know what to say, how to respond. A deep, terrible, sickness washed over him. Harl shoved him aside, wailing, Kal fell backward. He found himself shaking again as Harl clutched the corpse.

Around them, the crowd was silent.

An hour later, Kal sat on the steps in front of the surgery room, crying. It was a soft thing, his grief. A shake here. A few persistent tears, slipping down his cheeks.

He sat with knees up, arms wrapped around his legs, trying to figure out how to stop hurting. Was there a salve to take away this pain? A bandage to stop the flow from his eyes? He should have been able to save her.

Footsteps approached, and a shadow fell on him. Lirin knelt down beside him. “I inspected your work, son. You did well. I’m proud.”

“I failed,” Kal whispered. His clothing was stained red. Before he’d washed the blood free of his hands, it had been scarlet. But soaked into his clothing, it was a duller reddish brown.

“I’ve known men who practiced for hours and hours, yet still froze when confronted by a wounded person. It’s harder when it takes you by surprise. You didn’t freeze, you went to her, administered help. And you did it well.”

“I don’t want to be a surgeon,” Kal said. “I’m terrible at it.”

Lirin sighed, rounding the steps, sitting down beside his son. “Kal, this happens. It’s unfortunate, but you couldn’t have done more. That little body lost blood too quickly.”

Kal didn’t reply.

“You have to learn when to care, son,” Lirin said softly. “And when to let go. You’ll see. I had similar problems when I was younger. You’ll grow calluses.”

And this is a good thing? Kal thought, another tear trickling down his cheek. You have to learn when to care…and when to let go….

In the distance, Harl continued to wail.

One need only look at the aftermath of his brief visit to Sel to see proof of what I say.

Kaladin didn’t want to open his eyes. If he opened his eyes, he’d be awake. And if he were awake, that pain—the burning in his side, the aching of his legs, the dull throb in his arms and shoulders—wouldn’t be just a nightmare. It would be real. And it would be his.

He stifled a groan, rolling onto his side. It all ached. Every length of muscle, every inch of skin. His head pounded. It seemed that his very bones were sore. He wanted to lie motionless and throbbing until Gaz was forced to come and tow him out by his ankles. That would be easy. Didn’t he deserve to do what was easy, for once?

But he couldn’t. To stop moving, to give up, would be the same as dying, and he could not let that happen. He’d made his decision already. He would help the bridgemen.

Curse you, Hav, he thought. You can boot me out of my bunk even now. Kaladin threw off his blanket, forcing himself to stand. The door to the barrack was cracked open to let in fresh air.

He felt worse standing up, but the life of a bridgeman wouldn’t wait for him to recover. You either kept up or you got crushed. Kaladin steadied himself, hand against the unnaturally smooth, Soulcast rock of the barrack wall. Then he took a deep breath and crossed the room. Oddly, more than a few of the men were awake and