sickly, he’d assumed he’d gone back to the moss. In that moment, he’d hated himself.
Then he’d seen Dabbid and Rlain. When he saw their joy—more heard it in Rlain’s case—Teft knew he couldn’t truly hate himself. This was where the oaths had brought him. His self-loathing was, day by day, fading away. Sometimes it surged again. But he was stronger than it was.
The others loved him. So, whatever he’d done, he would get up and make it right. That was the oath he’d taken, and by the Almighty’s tenth name, he would keep it.
For them.
Then he’d found out the truth. He hadn’t broken. He hadn’t taken up the moss. It wasn’t his fault. For once in his storming excuse for a life, he had been kicked to the gutter and woken up with a headache—and it hadn’t been due to his own weakness.
A few days of healing later, he still found it remarkable. His streak held strong. Almost seven months with no moss. Damnation. He had an urge for some moss now, honestly. It would take the edge off his pounding headache.
But Damnation. Seven months. That was the longest he’d gone without touching the stuff since … well, since joining the army. Thirty years.
Never count those years, Teft, he told himself as Dabbid brought him some soup. Count the ones you’ve been with friends.
The soup had some meat in it, finally. What did they think would happen if he ate something proper? He’d been out for a few days, not a few years. That wasn’t enough time to turn into some kind of invalid.
In fact, he seemed to have weathered it better than Kaladin. Stormblessed sat on the floor—refused to take the bench because it was “Teft’s.” Had a haunted look to him and was a little shrunken, like he’d been hollowed out with a spoon. Whatever he’d seen when suffering those fevers, it hadn’t done him any good.
Teft had felt that way before. Right now he was mostly aches, but he’d felt that way too.
“And we were supposed to be off storming duty,” Teft grumbled, eating the cold soup. “Civvies. This is how we end up? Fate can be a bastard, eh, Kal?”
“I’m just glad to hear your voice,” Kaladin said, taking a bowl of soup from Dabbid. “Wish I could hear hers…”
His spren. He’d lost her somehow, in the fighting when he’d gotten wounded.
Teft glanced to the side, to where Phendorana sat primly on the edge of his bench. He’d needed to reach to summon her, and she said she didn’t remember anything that had happened since he went unconscious. She’d been … sort of unconscious herself.
Phendorana manifested as an older human woman, with mature features and no-nonsense Thaylen-style clothing, a skirt and a blouse. Her hair blew free as if in a phantom wind. Unlike Syl or some of the other honorspren, Phendorana preferred to manifest at the same size as a human.
She glanced at Teft, and he nodded toward Kaladin. Phendorana drew in a breath and sighed pointedly. Then—judging by how Kaladin’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth—she let the others in the room see her.
“Your Surgebinding still works?” Phendorana asked Kaladin.
“Not as well as it did before the last fight,” Kaladin said. “But I can draw in Stormlight, stick things together.”
It was the same for Teft, but they’d found that if Lift didn’t show up and do her little Regrowth thing to him every ten hours or so, he’d start to slip back into a coma. Something was definitely strange about that kid.
“If you can Surgebind,” Phendorana said, “your bond is intact. The Ancient Daughter might have lost herself through separation—it is difficult for us to exist fully in this realm. However, I suspect she will stay close by instinct. If you can get to where you lost her, you should be fine.”
“Should be,” Kaladin said softly, then started eating again. He nodded in thanks as Dabbid brought him a drink.
They hadn’t pushed Dabbid too hard on the fact that he could talk. It wasn’t a lie, keeping quiet like he had. Not a betrayal. They each fought their own personal Voidbringers, and they each chose their own weapons. When it had come time to face the storm, Dabbid had done right by Teft and Kaladin. That was what mattered. That was what it meant to be Bridge Four.
A man could choose not to talk if he didn’t want to. Wasn’t no law against it. Teft knew a handful of people who should maybe try