Anyway, rain like this, it’s great for washing.”
“You’re telling me that you’ve turned the floor of the dueling grounds into a bath?”
“Sure did.”
“You wash in that?”
“Sure do. Not ourselves, of course.”
“Then what?”
“Sand.”
Kaladin frowned, then peered over the side, looking at the pool below.
“Every day,” Zahel said, “we go in there and stir it up. The sand settles back down to the bottom, and all the yuck floats away, carried by the rain in little streams out of the camp. Did you ever consider that sand might need washing?”
“No, actually.”
“Well it does. After a year’s worth of being kicked by stinky bridgeman feet and equally stinky—but far more refined—lighteyes feet, after a year of having people like me spill food on it, or having animals find their way in here to do business, the sand needs cleaning.”
“Why are we talking about this?”
“Because it’s important,” Zahel said, taking a drink. “Or something. I don’t know. You came to me, kid, interrupting my vacation. That means you have to listen to me blab.”
“You’re supposed to say something profound.”
“Did you miss the part about me being on vacation?”
Kaladin stood in the rain. “Do you know where the King’s Wit is?”
“That fool, Dust? Not here, blessedly. Why?”
Kaladin needed someone to talk to, and had spent the better part of the day searching for Wit. He hadn’t found the man, though he had broken down and bought some chouta from a lonely street vendor.
It had tasted good. That hadn’t helped his mood.
So, he’d given up on finding Wit and had come to Zahel instead. That appeared to have been a mistake. Kaladin sighed, turning back down the stairs.
“What was it you wanted?” Zahel called to him. The man had cracked an eye, looking toward Kaladin.
“Have you ever had to choose between two equally distasteful choices?”
“Every day I choose to keep breathing.”
“I worry something awful is going to happen,” Kaladin said. “I can prevent it, but the awful thing . . . it might be best for everyone if it does happen.”
“Huh,” Zahel said.
“No advice?” Kaladin asked.
“Choose the option,” Zahel said, rearranging his pillow, “that makes it easiest for you to sleep at night.” The old ardent closed his eyes and settled back. “That’s what I wish I’d done.”
Kaladin continued down the steps. Below, he didn’t get out his umbrella. He was already soaked anyway. Instead, he poked through the racks at the side of the practice grounds until he found a spear—real, not practice. Then he set down his crutch and hobbled out into the water.
There, he fell into a spearman’s stance and closed his eyes. Rain fell around him. It splattered in the water of the pool, sprinkled the rooftop, pattered the streets outside. Kaladin felt drained, like his blood had been sucked from him. The gloom made him want to sit still.
Instead, he started dancing with the rain. He went through spear forms, doing his best to avoid putting weight on his wounded leg. He splashed in the waters. He sought peace and purpose in the comfortable forms.
He didn’t find either.
His balance was off, and his leg screamed. The rain didn’t accompany him; it just annoyed him. Worse, the wind didn’t blow. The air felt stale.
Kaladin stumbled over his own feet. He twisted the spear about him, then dropped it clumsily. It spun away to splash into the pool. As he fetched it, he noticed the ardents watching him with looks ranging from befuddled to amused.
He tried again. Simple spear forms. No spinning the weapon, no showing off. Step step thrust.
The spear’s shaft felt wrong in his fingers. Off balance. Storms. He’d come here seeking solace, but he only grew more and more frustrated as he tried to practice.
How much of his ability with the spear had come from his powers? Was he nothing without them?
He dropped the spear again after trying a simple twist and thrust. He reached for it, and found a rainspren sitting next to it in the water, looking upward, unblinking.
He snatched the spear with a growl, then looked up toward the sky. “He deserves it!” he bellowed at those clouds.
Rain pelted him.
“Give me a reason why he doesn’t!” Kaladin yelled, uncaring if the ardents heard. “It might not be his fault, and he might be trying, but he’s still failing.”
Silence.
“It’s right to remove the wounded limb,” Kaladin whispered. “This is what we have to do. To . . . To . . .”
To stay alive.
Where had those words come from?
Gotta do what you can to stay alive, son. Turn