supposed to avoid antagonizing the lighteyes?”
Kaladin looked away from the Shardbearers. Distracted, he’d spoken thoughtlessly. “You’re right,” he said. “Thanks for the reminder.”
Moash nodded.
“I want you by the gate,” Kaladin said, pointing. A group of parshmen came in, bearing boxes, probably foodstuffs. Those wouldn’t be dangerous. Would they? “Pay particularly close attention to servants, sword runners, or anyone else seemingly innocuous who approaches Highprince Dalinar’s sons. A knife to the side from someone like that would be one of the best ways to pull off an assassination.”
“Fine. But tell me something, Kal. Who is this Amaram fellow?”
Kaladin turned sharply toward Moash.
“I see how you look at him,” Moash said. “I see how your face gets when the other bridgemen mention him. What did he do to you?”
“I was in his army,” Kaladin said. “The last place I fought, before . . .”
Moash gestured to Kaladin’s forehead. “That’s his work, then?”
“Yeah.”
“So he’s not the hero people say he is,” Moash said. He seemed pleased by that fact.
“His soul is as dark as any I’ve ever known.”
Moash took Kaladin by the arm. “We are going to get back at them somehow. Sadeas, Amaram. The ones who have done these things to us?” Angerspren boiled up around him, like pools of blood in the sand.
Kaladin met Moash’s eyes, then nodded.
“Good enough for me,” Moash said, shouldering his spear and jogging off toward the position Kaladin had indicated, the spren vanishing.
“He’s another who needs to learn to smile more,” Syl whispered. Kaladin hadn’t noticed her flitting nearby, and now she settled down on his shoulder.
Kaladin turned to walk around the perimeter of the practice grounds, noting each entrance. Perhaps he was being overly cautious. He just liked doing jobs well, and it had been a lifetime since he’d had a job other than saving Bridge Four.
Sometimes, though, it seemed like his job was impossible to do well. During the highstorm last week, someone had again sneaked into Dalinar’s rooms, scrawling a second number on the wall. Counting it down, it pointed at the same date a little over a month away.
The highprince didn’t seem worried, and wanted the event kept quiet. Storms . . . was he writing the glyphs himself while he had fits? Or was it some kind of spren? Kaladin was sure nobody could have gotten past him this time to get in.
“Do you want to talk about the thing that is bothering you?” Syl asked from her perch.
“I’m worried about what’s happening during the highstorms with Dalinar,” Kaladin said. “Those numbers . . . something is wrong. You still seeing those spren about?”
“Red lightning?” she asked. “I think so. They’re hard to spot. You haven’t seen them?”
Kaladin shook his head, hefting his spear and walking over onto the walkway around the sands. Here, he peeked into a storage room. Wooden practice swords, some the size of Shardblades, and sparring leathers lined the wall.
“Is that all that’s bothering you?” Syl asked.
“What else would be?”
“Amaram and Dalinar.”
“It’s not a big deal. Dalinar Kholin is friends with one of the worst murderers I’ve ever met. So? Dalinar is lighteyed. He’s probably friends with a lot of murderers.”
“Kaladin . . .” Syl said.
“Amaram’s worse than Sadeas, you know,” Kaladin said, walking around the storage room, checking for doorways. “Everyone knows that Sadeas is a rat. He’s straight with you. ‘You’re a bridgeman,’ he told me, ‘and I’m going to use you up until you die.’ Amaram, though . . . He promised to be more, a brightlord like those in the stories. He told me he’d protect Tien. He feigned honor. That’s worse than any depth Sadeas could ever reach.”
“Dalinar’s not like Amaram,” Syl said. “You know he’s not.”
“People say the same things about him that they did of Amaram. That they still do of Amaram.” Kaladin stepped back out into the sunlight and continued his circuit of the grounds, passing dueling lighteyes who kicked up sand as they grunted, sweated, and clacked wooden swords against one another.
Each pair was attended by a half-dozen darkeyed servants carrying towels and canteens—and many had a parshman or two bring them chairs to sit on when they rested. Stormfather. Even in something routine like this, the lighteyes had to be pampered.
Syl zipped out into the air in front of Kaladin, coming down like a storm. Literally like a storm. She stopped in the air right in front of him, a cloud boiling from beneath her feet, flashing with lightning. “You can honestly say,” she demanded, “that you