The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,363

lad needs you.”

Kaladin turned back to his sewing.

“You still carrying a full pouch of spheres with you, like I told you?” Teft asked.

“I can’t very well leave them behind in the barracks. But we’ll need to spend them soon.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Teft said. “Those spheres are luck, you hear me? Keep them with you and always keep them infused.”

Kaladin sighed. “I think there’s something wrong with this batch. They won’t hold their Stormlight. They fall dun after just a few days, every time. Perhaps it’s something to do with the Shattered Plains. It has happened to the other bridgemen too.”

“Odd, that,” Teft said, rubbing his chin. “This was a bad approach. Three bridges down. Lots of bridgemen dead. Interesting how we didn’t lose anyone.”

“We lost Dunny.”

“But not on the approach. You always run point, and the arrows always seem to miss us. Odd, eh?”

Kaladin looked up again, frowning. “What are you saying, Teft?”

“Nothing. Get back to that sewing! How many times do I have to tell you?”

Kaladin raised an eyebrow, but turned back to his work. Teft had been acting very strange lately. Was it the stress? A lot of people were superstitious about spheres and Stormlight.

Rock and his team brought three more wounded, then said that was all they’d found. Bridgemen who fell often ended up like Dunny, getting trampled. Well, at least Bridge Four wouldn’t have to make a return trip to the plateau.

The three had bad arrow wounds, and so Kaladin left the man with the gash on his arm to them, instructing Skar to keep pressure on the unfinished sewing job. Teft heated a dagger for cauterization; these newcomers had obviously lost a lot of blood. One probably wouldn’t make it.

So much of the world is at war, he thought as he worked. The dream had highlighted what others already spoke of. Kaladin hadn’t known, growing up in remote Hearthstone, how fortunate his town had been to avoid battle.

The entire world warred, and he struggled to save a few impoverished bridgemen. What good did it do? And yet he continued searing flesh, sewing, saving lives as his father had taught him. He began to understand the sense of futility he’d seen in his father’s eyes on those occasional darkened nights when Lirin had turned to his wine in solitude.

You’re trying to make up for failing Dunny, Kaladin thought. Helping these others won’t bring him back.

He lost the one he’d suspected would die, but saved the other four, and the one who’d taken a knock to the head was beginning to wake up. Kaladin sat back on his knees, weary, hands covered in blood. He washed them off with a stream of water from Lopen’s waterskins, then reached up, finally remembering his own wound, where the arrow had sliced his cheek.

He froze. He prodded at his skin, but couldn’t find the wound. He had felt blood on his cheek and chin. He’d felt the arrow slice him, hadn’t he?

He stood up, feeling a chill, and raised his hand to his forehead. What was happening?

Someone stepped up beside him. Moash’s now-clean-shaven face exposed a faded scar along his chin. He studied Kaladin. “About Dunny…”

“You were right to do what you did,” Kaladin said. “You probably saved my life. Thank you.”

Moash nodded slowly. He turned to look at the four wounded men; Lopen and Dabbid were giving them drinks of water, asking their names “I was wrong about you,” Moash said suddenly, holding out a hand to Kaladin.

Kaladin took the hand, hesitant. “Thank you.”

“You’re a fool and an instigator. But you’re an honest one.” Moash chuckled to himself. “If you get us killed, it won’t be on purpose. Can’t say that for some I’ve served under. Anyway, let’s get these men ready for moving.”

“The burdens of nine become mine. Why must I carry the madness of them all? Oh, Almighty, release me.”

—Dated Palaheses, 1173, unknown seconds pre-death. Subject: a wealthy lighteyes. Sample collected secondhand.

The cold night air threatened that a stretch of winter might soon be coming. Dalinar wore a long, thick uniform coat over trousers and shirt. It buttoned stiffly up the chest and to the collar, and was long in the back and on the sides, coming down to his ankles, flowing at the waist like a cloak. In earlier years, it might have been worn with a takama, though Dalinar had never liked the skirtlike garments.

The purpose of the uniform was not fashion or tradition, but to distinguish him easily for those who