He looked out of place in the sparring yard, and that itself was probably enough to indicate he wasn’t an assassin. The best assassins never stood out.
Still, the man had a robust build and a scar on his cheek. So he’d seen fighting. Best to check on him. The man watched Renarin and Adolin intently and, from this angle, Kaladin couldn’t see if his eyes were light or dark.
As Kaladin got close, his foot audibly scraped the sand. The man spun immediately, and Kaladin leveled his spear by instinct. He could see the man’s eyes now—they were brown—but Kaladin had trouble placing his age. Those eyes seemed old somehow, but the man’s skin didn’t seem wrinkled enough to match them. He could have been thirty-five. Or he could have been seventy.
Too young, Kaladin thought, though he couldn’t say why.
Kaladin lowered his spear. “Sorry, I’m a little jumpy. First few weeks on the job.” He tried to say it disarmingly.
It didn’t work. The man looked him up and down, still showing the chained menace of a warrior deciding whether or not to strike. Finally, he turned away from Kaladin and relaxed, watching Adolin and Renarin.
“Who are you?” Kaladin asked, stepping up beside the man. “I’m new, as I said. I’m trying to learn everyone’s names.”
“You’re the bridgeman. The one who saved the highprince.”
“I am,” Kaladin said.
“You don’t need to keep prying,” the man said. “I’m not going to hurt your Damnation prince.” He had a low, grinding voice. Scratchy. Strange accent too.
“He’s not my prince,” Kaladin said. “Just my responsibility.” He looked the man over again, noticing something. The light clothing, tied with ropes, was very similar to what some of the ardents were wearing. The full head of hair had thrown Kaladin off.
“You’re a soldier,” Kaladin guessed. “Ex-soldier, I mean.”
“Yeah,” the man said. “They call me Zahel.”
Kaladin nodded, the irregularities clicking into place. Occasionally, a soldier retired to the ardentia, if he had no other life to return to. Kaladin would have expected them to require the man to at least shave his head.
I wonder if Hav is in one of these monasteries somewhere, Kaladin thought idly. What would he think of me now? He’d probably be proud. He always had seen guard duty as the most respectable of a soldier’s assignments.
“What are they doing?” Kaladin asked Zahel, nodding toward Renarin and Adolin—who, despite the encumbrance of their Shardplate, had seated themselves on the ground before the elder ardents.
Zahel grunted. “The younger Kholin has to be chosen by a master. For training.”
“Can’t they just pick whichever one they want?”
“Doesn’t work that way. It’s kind of an awkward situation, though. Prince Renarin, he’s never practiced much with a sword.” Zahel paused. “Being chosen by a master is a step that most lighteyed boys of suitable rank take by the time they’re ten.”
Kaladin frowned. “Why didn’t he ever train?”
“Health problems of some sort.”
“And they’d really turn him down?” Kaladin asked. “The highprince’s own son?”
“They could, but they probably won’t. Not brave enough.” The man narrowed his eyes as Adolin stood up and gestured. “Damnation. I knew it was suspicious that he waited for this until I got back.”
“Swordmaster Zahel!” Adolin called. “You aren’t sitting with the others!”
Zahel sighed, then gave Kaladin a resigned glance. “I’m probably not brave enough either. I’ll try not to hurt him too much.” He walked around the railing and jogged over. Adolin clasped Zahel’s hand eagerly, then pointed to Renarin. Zahel looked distinctly out of place among the other ardents with their bald heads, neatly trimmed beards, and cleaner clothing.
“Huh,” Kaladin said. “Did he seem odd to you?”
“You all seem odd to me,” Syl said lightly. “Everyone but Rock, who is a complete gentleman.”
“He thinks you’re a god. You shouldn’t encourage him.”
“Why not? I am a god.”
He turned his head, looking at her flatly as she sat on his shoulder. “Syl . . .”
“What? I am!” She grinned and held up her fingers, as if pinching something very small. “A little piece of one. Very, very little. You have permission to bow to me now.”
“Kind of hard to do when you’re sitting on my shoulder,” he mumbled. He noticed Lopen and Shen arriving at the gate, likely bearing the daily reports from Teft. “Come on. Let’s see if Teft has anything he needs from me, then we’ll do a circuit and check on Drehy and Moash.”
Dullform dread, with the mind most lost.
The lowest, and one not bright.
To find this form, one need banish the cost.
It finds you