its bulk had scraped everything away.
“I didn’t think they came this close to the warcamps,” Kaladin said. “Maybe we shouldn’t train the lads down here for a while, just in case.”
The others nodded.
“Is gone now,” Rock said. “Otherwise, we’d have been eaten. Is obvious. So, back to training.”
Kaladin nodded, though those gouges haunted him as he practiced.
* * *
A few hours later, they led a tired group of former bridgemen back into their barrack block. Exhausted as they looked, the men of Bridge Seventeen seemed more lively than they’d been before going down into the chasm. They perked up even more when they reached their barrack and found one of Rock’s apprentice chefs fixing them a big pot of stew.
It was dark by the time Kaladin and Teft got back to Bridge Four’s own barrack. Another of Rock’s apprentices was fixing the stew here, Rock himself—having gotten back a little earlier than Kaladin—tasting and giving criticism. Shen moved behind Rock, stacking bowls.
Something was wrong.
Kaladin stopped just outside the light of the firepit, and Teft froze beside him. “Something is off,” Teft said.
“Yeah,” Kaladin agreed, scanning the men. They were clumped together on one side of the fire, some seated, others standing in a group. Their laughter forced, their postures nervous. When you trained men for war, they started to use combat stances whenever they were uncomfortable. Something on the other side of that fire was a threat.
Kaladin stepped into the light and found a man sitting there in a nice uniform, hands down at his side, head bowed. Renarin Kholin. Oddly, he was rocking back and forth with a small motion, staring at the ground.
Kaladin relaxed. “Brightlord,” Kaladin said, stepping over to him. “Is there something you need?”
Renarin scrambled to his feet and saluted. “I would like to serve under your command, sir.”
Inside, Kaladin groaned. “Let’s talk away from the fire, Brightlord.” He took the spindly prince by the arm, leading him away from the ears of the others.
“Sir,” Renarin said, speaking softly, “I want—”
“You shouldn’t call me sir,” Kaladin whispered. “You’re lighteyed. Storms, you’re the son of the most powerful man in eastern Roshar.”
“I want to be in Bridge Four,” Renarin said.
Kaladin rubbed his forehead. During his time as a slave, dealing with much larger problems, he had forgotten about the headaches of dealing with highborn lighteyes. Once, he might have assumed he’d heard the most outlandish of their ridiculous demands. Not so, it seemed.
“You can’t be in Bridge Four. We’re bodyguards for your own family. What are you going to do? Guard yourself?”
“I won’t be a liability, sir. I’ll work hard.”
“I don’t doubt you would, Renarin. Look, why do you want to be in Bridge Four?”
“My father and my brother,” Renarin said softly, face shadowed, “they’re warriors. Soldiers. I’m not, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Yes. Something about . . .”
“Physical ailments,” Renarin said. “I’ve a blood weakness.”
“That’s a folk description of many different conditions,” Kaladin said. “What do you really have?”
“I’m epileptic,” Renarin said. “It means—”
“Yes, yes. Is it idiopathic or symptomatic?”
Renarin stood absolutely still in the darkness. “Uh . . .”
“Was it caused by a specific brain injury,” Kaladin asked, “or is it something that just started happening for no reason?”
“I’ve had it since I was a kid.”
“How bad are the seizures?”
“They’re fine,” Renarin said quickly. “It’s not as bad as everyone says. It’s not like I fall to the ground or froth like everyone thinks. My arm will jerk a few times, or I’ll twitch uncontrollably for a few moments.”
“You retain consciousness?”
“Yeah.”
“Myoclonic, probably,” Kaladin said. “You’ve been given bitterleaf to chew?”
“I . . . Yes. I don’t know if it helps. The jerking isn’t the whole problem. A lot of times, when it’s happening, I get really weak. Particularly along one side of my body.”
“Huh,” Kaladin said. “I suppose that could fit with the seizures. Have you ever had any persistent relaxation of the muscles, an inability to smile on one side of your face, for example?”
“No. How do you know these things? Aren’t you a soldier?”
“I know some field medicine.”
“Field medicine . . . for epilepsy?”
Kaladin coughed into his hand. “Well, I can see why they didn’t want you going into battle. I’ve seen men with wounds that caused similar symptoms, and the surgeons always dismissed those men from duty. It’s no shame to not be fit enough for battle, Brightlord. Not every man is needed for fighting.”
“Sure,” Renarin said bitterly. “Everyone tells me that. Then they all go back to fighting. The ardents, they claim