different. Very different.”
“It looked ordinary to me. Well, as ordinary as a Shardblade can.”
“It was different,” she repeated. “I feel I should know why. Something about the amount of Light he was consuming . . .”
Kaladin rose, then walked down the side corridor, holding up his lamp. It bore sapphires, turning the walls blue. The assassin had cut that hole with his Blade, entered the corridor, and killed Beld. But Kaladin had sent two men on ahead.
Yes, another body. Hobber, one of the first men Kaladin had saved in Bridge Four. Storms take that assassin! Kaladin remembered saving this man after he had been left by everyone else to die on the plateau.
Kaladin knelt beside the corpse, rolled it over.
And found it weeping.
“I . . . I’m . . . sorry,” Hobber said, overcome with emotion and barely able to speak. “I’m sorry, Kaladin.”
“Hobber!” Kaladin said. “You’re alive!” Then he noticed that the legs of Hobber’s uniform had been sliced through at midthigh. Beneath the fabric, Hobber’s legs were darkened and grey, dead, as Kaladin’s arm had been.
“I didn’t even see him,” Hobber said. “He cut me down, then stabbed Beld straight through. I listened to you fighting. I thought you’d all died.”
“It’s all right,” Kaladin said. “You’re all right.”
“I can’t feel my legs,” Hobber said. “They’re gone. I’m no soldier anymore, sir. I’m useless now. I—”
“No,” Kaladin said firmly. “You’re still Bridge Four. You’re always Bridge Four.” He forced himself to smile. “We’ll just have Rock teach you how to cook. How are you with stew?”
“Awful, sir,” Hobber said. “I can burn broth.”
“Then you’ll fit right in with most military cooks. Come on, let’s get you back to the others.” Kaladin strained, getting his arms under Hobber, trying to lift him.
His body would have none of it. He let out an involuntary groan, putting Hobber back down.
“It’s all right, sir,” Hobber said.
“No,” Kaladin said, sucking in the Light of one of the spheres in the lamp. “It’s not.” He heaved again, lifting Hobber, then carried him back toward the others.
Our gods were born splinters of a soul,
Of one who seeks to take control,
Destroys all lands that he beholds, with spite.
They are his spren, his gift, his price.
But the nightforms speak of future life,
A challenged champion. A strife even he must requite.
—From the Listener Song of Secrets, final stanza
Highprince Valam might be dead, Brightness Tyn, the spanreed wrote. Our informants are uncertain. He was never in the best of health, and now there are rumors that his illness finally overcame him. His forces are gearing up to seize Vedenar, however, so if he’s dead, his bastard son is likely pretending he is not.
Shallan sat back, though the reed continued writing. It moved seemingly of its own volition, paired to an identical reed used by Tyn’s associate somewhere in Tashikk. They’d set up regular camp following the highstorm, Shallan joining Tyn in her magnificent tent. The air still smelled of rain, and the floor of the tent let some water leak through, wetting Tyn’s rug. Shallan wished she’d worn her oversized boots instead of slippers.
What would it mean for her family if the highprince was dead? He had been one of her father’s main problems in the latter days of his life, and her house had gone into debt securing allies to win the highprince’s ear or perhaps—instead—to try to unseat him. A succession war could pressure the people who held her family’s debts, and that might make them come to her brothers demanding payments. Or, instead, the chaos could cause the creditors to forget about Shallan’s brothers and their insignificant house. And what of the Ghostbloods? Would the succession war make them more or less likely to come, demanding their Soulcaster?
Stormfather! She needed more information.
The reed continued to move, listing the names of those who were making a play for the throne of Jah Keved. “Do you know any of these people personally?” Tyn asked, arms crossed contemplatively as she stood beside the writing table. “What’s happening might offer us some opportunities.”
“I wasn’t important enough for those types,” Shallan said with a grimace. It was true.
“We might want to make our way to Jah Keved, regardless,” Tyn said. “You know the culture, the people. That’ll be useful.”
“It’s a war zone!”
“War means desperation, and desperation is our mother’s milk, kid. Once we follow your lead at the Shattered Plains—maybe pick up another member or two for our team—we probably will want to go visit your homeland.”
Shallan felt an immediate stab of