inside his bandage. The camp surgeons had done a good job with that; his father would have been pleased.
The camp outside felt too quiet. After showering him with praise and enthusiasm, the men of Bridge Four had gone to join the army for its expedition, along with all of the other bridge crews, who would be carrying bridges for the army. Only a small force from Bridge Four would remain behind to guard the king.
Kaladin reached out in the darkness, feeling beside the wall until he found his spear. He took hold, then propped himself up and stood. The leg flared with immediate pain, and he gritted his teeth, but it wasn’t so bad. He’d taken fathom bark for the pain, and it was working. He’d refused the firemoss the surgeons had tried to give him. His father had hated using the addictive stuff.
Kaladin forced his way to the door of his small room, then shoved it open and stepped into the sunlight. He shaded his eyes and scanned the sky. No clouds yet. The Weeping, the worst part of the year, would roll in sometime tomorrow. Four weeks of ceaseless rain and gloom. It was a Light Year, so not even a highstorm in the middle. Misery.
Kaladin longed for the storm within. That would have awakened his mind, made him feel like moving.
“Hey, gancho?” Lopen said, popping up from where he sat beside the firepit. “You need something?”
“Let’s go watch the army leave.”
“You’re not supposed to be walking, I think. . . .”
“I’ll be fine,” Kaladin said, hobbling with difficulty.
Lopen rushed over to help him, getting up under Kaladin’s arm, lifting weight off the bad leg. “Why don’t you glow a bit, gon?” Lopen asked softly. “Heal that problem?”
He’d prepared a lie: something about not wanting to alert the surgeons by healing too quickly. He couldn’t force it out. Not to a member of Bridge Four.
“I’ve lost the ability, Lopen,” he said softly. “Syl has left me.”
The lean Herdazian fell unusually silent. “Well,” he finally said, “maybe you should buy her something nice.”
“Buy something nice? For a spren?”
“Yeah. Like . . . I don’t know. A nice plant, maybe, or a new hat. Yes, a hat. Might be cheap. She’s small. If a tailor tries to charge you full price for a hat that small, you thump him real good.”
“That’s the most ridiculous piece of advice I’ve ever been given.”
“You should rub yourself with curry and go prancing through the camp singing Horneater lullabies.”
Kaladin looked at Lopen, incredulous. “What?”
“See? Now the bit about the hat is only the second most ridiculous piece of advice you’ve ever been given, so you should try it. Women like hats. I have this cousin who makes them. I can ask her. You might not even need the actual hat. Just the spren of the hat. That’ll make it even cheaper.”
“You’re a very special kind of weird, Lopen.”
“Of course I am, gon. There’s only one of me.”
They continued through the empty camp. Storms, the place seemed hollow. They passed empty barrack after empty barrack. Kaladin walked with care, glad for Lopen’s help, but even this was draining. He shouldn’t be moving on the leg. Father’s words, the words of a surgeon, floated up from the depths of his mind.
Torn muscles. Bind the leg, ward against infection, and keep the subject from putting weight on it. Further tearing could lead to a permanent limp, or worse.
“You want to get a palanquin?” Lopen asked.
“Those are for women.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with being a woman, gancho,” Lopen said. “Some of my relatives are women.”
“Of course they . . .” He trailed off at Lopen’s grin. Storming Herdazian. How much of what he said was to deliberately sound obtuse? Well, Kaladin had heard men telling jokes about how stupid Herdazians were, but Lopen could talk rings around those men. Of course, half of Lopen’s own jokes were about Herdazians. He seemed to find those extra funny.
As they approached the plateaus, the dead silence gave way to the low roar of thousands of people assembled in a limited area. Kaladin and Lopen finally broke free of the barrack rows, emerging onto the natural terrace just above the parade grounds that debouched onto the Shattered Plains. Thousands of soldiers were gathered there. Spearmen in huge blocks, lighteyed archers in thinner ranks, officers prancing on horseback in gleaming armor.
Kaladin gasped softly.
“What?” Lopen asked.
“It’s what I always thought I’d find.”
“What? Today?”
“As a young man in Alethkar,” Kaladin said, unexpectedly emotional. “When I dreamed