Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,173

seemed to feel. Not cured, by any means. But better.

Kaladin rose and approached the ardent, who had settled down on a stone bench that was part of the balcony. The man had put on his spectacles, and was staring at Noril.

“He’s talking,” the ardent said. “We haven’t been able to get more than a grunt out of him.”

“That’s not surprising,” Kaladin said. “When you’re like him, it’s hard to feel like doing anything—even talking. Storms … when it’s bad for me, I think I want anything but someone to talk to. I’m wrong though. While you can’t force it, having someone to talk to usually helps. You should be letting him meet with others who feel like he does.”

“That’s not in the book of treatments,” the ardent said. “It says we should keep lunatics away from each other. Talking together would make them feed off one another’s melancholy.”

“I could see that happening,” Kaladin said. “But do you really know for certain? Have you tried it?”

“No,” the ardent said. Seeming embarrassed, he glanced away from Kaladin. “I know you’re angry at us, Brightlord. But we do what we can. Most people, they want to ignore men like him. They shove them off to the ardents. You might think us callous, but we’re the only ones who care. Who try.”

“I don’t think you’re callous,” Kaladin said. “I think you’re simply approaching this wrong. In surgery, we know that a man in shock should be repositioned so that his feet are up, his head down. But someone who has a wound to the back or neck should never be moved, not until we determine the extent of the damage. Different ailments, different wounds, can require severely different treatments. Tell me, what treatments do you give a person with melancholia?”

“We…” The ardent swallowed. “Keep them away from anything that might aggravate or disturb them. Keep them clean. Let them be in peace.”

“And someone with aggressive tendencies?” Kaladin asked.

“The same,” the ardent admitted.

“Battle shock? Seeing hallucinations?”

“You know my answer already, Brightlord.”

“Someone needs to do better for these people,” Kaladin said. “Someone needs to talk to them, try different treatments, see what they think works. What actually helps.” Storms, he sounded like his father. “We need to study their responses, use an empirical approach to treatment instead of just assuming someone who has suffered mental trauma is permanently broken.”

“That all sounds great, Brightlord,” the ardent said. “But do you realize how much of a fight it would be to change the minds of the head ardents? Do you realize how much money and time it would cost to do what you’re suggesting? We don’t have the resources for that.”

He looked to Noril, who had tipped his head back, his eyes closed, feeling the sunlight on his skin. Syl had landed on the chair beside him and was studying him as one might a grand painting.

Kaladin felt a stirring deep within him. He’d worried that working with his father wouldn’t be truly fulfilling. He’d worried that he wouldn’t be able to protect people, as his oaths drove him to do. That he would make an inferior surgeon.

But if there was one thing he understood that most ardents and surgeons—even his father—did not, it was this.

“Release this man to my care,” Kaladin said. “And warn your superiors I will be coming for others. The ardents can complain all the way to Brightness Navani if they want. They’ll get the same answer from her that I’m giving you now: We’re going to try something new.”

The deaths of both Devotion and Dominion trouble me greatly, as I had not realized this immense power we held was something that could be broken in such a way. On my world, the power always gathered and sought a new Vessel.

The fourth day of the trip, Shallan was truly enjoying herself. The closest they’d come to danger was when they’d spotted a pair of Fused soaring past in the distance three days ago. The humans had quickly scrambled into their hiding place—the tarp stretched between two piles of goods at the rear of the barge—but they needn’t have worried. The Fused hadn’t deviated in the barge’s direction.

Other than that one event, she’d been able to spend her time in carefree drawing. Except, of course, when the Cryptics found her.

They loved to watch her draw. Currently, all four of them—Pattern, plus the three bonded to her agents—surrounded her. As a group, they hummed and buzzed and bounced up and down, watching as she tried to