The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,297

“Teft, I’ve spent hours and hours trying to find a way out, but there isn’t one! Sadeas wants us dead. Lighteyes get what they want; that’s the way the world works.”

“So?”

Kaladin ignored him, turning back to his work, pulling at the boot on a soldier whose fibula looked to have been shattered in three different places. That made it storming awkward to get the boot off.

“Well, maybe we will die,” Teft said. “But maybe this isn’t about surviving.”

Why was Teft—of all people—trying to cheer him up? “If survival isn’t the point, Teft, then what is?” Kaladin finally got the boot off. He turned to the next body in line, then froze.

It was a bridgeman. Kaladin didn’t recognize him, but that vest and those sandals were unmistakable. He lay slumped against the wall, arms at his sides, mouth slightly open and eyelids sunken. The skin on one of the hands had slipped free and pulled away.

“I don’t know what the point is,” Teft grumbled. “But it seems pathetic to give up. We should keep fighting. Right until those arrows take us. You know, ‘journey before destination.’”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Teft said, looking down quickly. “Just something I heard once.”

“It’s something the Lost Radiants used to say,” Sigzil said, walking past.

Kaladin glanced to the side. The soft-spoken Azish man set a shield on a pile. He looked up, brown skin dark in the torchlight. “It was their motto. Part of it, at least. ‘Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination.’”

“Lost Radiants?” Skar said, carrying an armful of boots. “Who’s bringing them up?”

“Teft did,” Moash said.

“I did not! That was just something I heard once.”

“What does it even mean?” Dunny asked.

“I said I don’t know!” Teft said.

“It was supposedly one of their creeds,” Sigzil said. “In Yulay, there are groups of people who talk of the Radiants. And wish for their return.”

“Who’d want them to return?” Skar said, leaning back against the wall, folding his arms. “They betrayed us to the Voidbringers.”

“Ha!” Rock said. “Voidbringers! Lowlander nonsense. Is campfire tale told by children.”

“They were real,” Skar said defensively. “Everyone knows that.”

“Everyone who listens to campfire stories!” Rock said with a laugh. “Too much air! Makes your minds soft. Is all right, though—you are still my family. Just the dumb ones!”

Teft scowled as the others continued to talk about the Lost Radiants.

“Journey before destination,” Syl whispered on Kaladin’s shoulder. “I like that.”

“Why?” Kaladin asked, kneeling down to untie the dead bridgeman’s sandals.

“Because,” she replied, as if that were explanation enough. “Teft is right, Kaladin. I know you want to give up. But you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t.”

“We’re assigned to chasm duty from now on,” Kaladin said. “We won’t be able to collect any more reeds to make money. That means no more bandages, antiseptic, or food for the nightly meals. With all of these bodies, we’re bound to run into rotspren, and the men will grow sick—assuming chasmfiends don’t eat us or a surprise highstorm doesn’t drown us. And we’ll have to keep running those bridges until Damnation ends, losing man after man. It’s hopeless.”

The men were still talking. “The Lost Radiants helped the other side,” Skar argued. “They were tarnished all along.”

Teft took offense at that. The wiry man stood up straight, pointing at Skar. “You don’t know anything! It was too long ago. Nobody knows what really happened.”

“Then why do all the stories say the same thing?” Skar demanded. “They abandoned us. Just like the lighteyes are abandoning us right now. Maybe Kaladin’s right. Maybe there is no hope.”

Kaladin looked down. Those words haunted him. Maybe Kaladin is right…maybe there is no hope….

He’d done this before. Under his last own er, before being sold to Tvlakv and being made a bridgeman. He’d given up on a quiet night after leading Goshel and the other slaves in rebellion. They’d been slaughtered. But somehow he’d survived. Storm it all, why did he always survive? I can’t do it again, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. I can’t help them.

Tien. Tukks. Goshel. Dallet. The nameless slave he’d tried to heal in Tvlakv’s slave wagons. All had ended up the same. Kaladin had the touch of failure. Sometimes he gave them hope, but what was hope except another opportunity for failure? How many times could a man fall before he no longer stood back up?

“I just think we’re ignorant,” Teft grumbled. “I don’t like listening to what the lighteyes say about the past. Their women write all the histories, you know.”

“I can’t