Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson
She cocked her head at his outburst.
“Maybe you’re right, and I am a tyrant! Maybe letting my armies into your city is a terrible risk. But maybe you don’t have good options! Maybe all the good men are dead, so all you have is me! Spitting into the storm isn’t going to change that, Fen. You can risk possibly being conquered by the Alethi, or you can definitely fall to the Voidbringer assault alone!”
Curiously, Fen crossed her arms and raised her left hand to her chin, inspecting Dalinar. She didn’t seem the least bit fazed by his shouting.
Dalinar stepped past a squat man who was slowly—as if through tar—turning toward where they’d once been seated. “Fen,” Dalinar said. “You don’t like me. Fine. You tell me to my face that trusting me is worse than a Desolation.”
She studied him, aged eyes thoughtful. What was wrong? What had he said?
“Fen,” he tried again. “I—”
“Where was this passion earlier?” she asked. “Why didn’t you speak like this in your letters to me?”
“I … Fen, I was being diplomatic.”
She sniffed. “That made it sound like I was talking to a committee. It’s what one always assumes anyway, when communicating via spanreed.”
“So?”
“So compared to that, it’s good to hear some honest shouting.” She eyed the people standing around them. “And this is exceptionally creepy. Can we get away from this?”
Dalinar found himself nodding, mostly to buy some time to think. Fen seemed to think his anger was … a good thing? He gestured at a path through the crowd and Fen joined him, walking away from the bonfire.
“Fen,” he said, “you say you expected to talk to a committee through the spanreed. What’s wrong with that? Why would you want me to shout at you instead?”
“I don’t want you to shout at me, Kholin,” she said. “But storms, man. Don’t you know what has been said about you these last few months?”
“No.”
“You’ve been the hottest topic on the spanreed informant networks! Dalinar Kholin, the Blackthorn, has gone mad! He claims to have killed the Almighty! One day he refuses to fight, then the next day he marches his armies off on an insane quest into the Shattered Plains. He says he’s going to enslave the Voidbringers!”
“I didn’t say—”
“Nobody expects every report to be true, Dalinar, but I had extremely good information claiming you’d lost your mind. Refounding the Knights Radiant? Raving about a Desolation? You seized the throne of Alethkar in all but title, but refused to fight the other highprinces, and instead ran your armies off into the Weeping. Then you told everyone a new storm was coming. That was enough to convince me that you really were mad.”
“But then the storm came,” Dalinar said.
“But then the storm came.”
The two walked down the quiet street, light from behind flooding across them, making their shadows lengthen. To their right, a calm blue light shone between buildings—the Radiant, who fought monsters in slowed time.
Jasnah could probably learn something from these buildings, with their old architecture. These people wearing unfamiliar clothing. He’d have expected everything in the past to be crude, but it wasn’t. The doors, the buildings, the clothing. It was well made, just … lacking something he couldn’t define.
“The Everstorm proved I wasn’t mad?” Dalinar asked.
“It proved that something was happening.”
Dalinar suddenly stopped. “You think I’m working with them! You think that explains my behavior, my foreknowledge. You think I’ve been acting erratically because I’ve been in contact with the Voidbringers!”
“All I knew,” Fen said, “was that the voice on the other end of the spanreed was not the Dalinar Kholin I’d expected. The words were too polite, too calm, to be trusted.”
“And now?” Dalinar asked.
Fen turned. “Now … I’ll consider. Can I see the rest of it? I want to know what happens to the little girl.”
Dalinar followed her gaze and saw—for the first time—little Seeli sitting, huddled with some other children near the fire. She had a haunted cast to her eyes. He could imagine her horror as Fen ran away, Taffa—the child’s mother—screaming as she was ripped apart.
Seeli suddenly lurched into motion, turning her head to stare with a hollow gaze at a woman who knelt beside her, offering something to drink. The Stormfather had restored the vision’s normal speed.
Dalinar backed up, letting Fen rejoin the people and experience the end of the vision. As he folded his arms to watch, he noted a shimmering in the air beside him.
“We’ll want to send her more of these,” Dalinar said to the Stormfather. “We can only be served by more people knowing the truths the Almighty left behind. Can you bring in only one person per storm, or can we accelerate that somehow? And can you bring two people into two different visions at once?”
The Stormfather rumbled. I do not like to be ordered about.
“And you prefer the alternative? Letting Odium win? How far will your pride push you, Stormfather?”
It is not pride, the Stormfather said, sounding stubborn. I am not a man. I do not bend or cower. I do what is in my nature, and to defy that is pain.
The Radiant finished off the last of the midnight creatures and stepped up to the gathered people, then looked at Fen. “Your upbringing might be humble, but your talent for leadership is impressive. I have rarely seen a man—king or commander—organize people for defense as well as you did here today.”
Fen cocked her head.
“No words for me, I see,” the knight said. “Very well. But should you wish to learn true leadership, come to Urithiru.”
Dalinar turned to the Stormfather. “That’s almost exactly what the knight said to me last time.”
By design, certain things always happen in the visions, the Stormfather replied. I do not know Honor’s every intention, but I know he wished you to interact with Radiants and know that men could join them.
“All who resist are needed,” the Radiant said to Fen. “Indeed, any who have a desire to fight should be compelled to come to Alethela. We can teach you, help you. If you have the soul of a warrior, that passion could destroy you, unless you are guided. Come to us.”
The Radiant strode off, then Fen jumped as Seeli stood up and started talking to her. The girl’s voice was too quiet for Dalinar to hear, but he could guess what was happening. At the end of each vision, the Almighty himself spoke through one of the people, passing along wisdom that—at first—Dalinar had assumed was interactive.
Fen seemed troubled by what she heard. As well she should be. Dalinar remembered the words.
This is important, the Almighty had said. Do not let strife consume you. Be strong. Act with honor, and honor will aid you.
Except Honor was dead.
At the end of it, Fen turned toward Dalinar, her eyes measuring.
She still does not trust you, the Stormfather said.
“She wonders if I created this vision with the power of the Voidbringers. She no longer thinks I’m mad, but she does continue to wonder if I’ve joined the enemy.”
So you’ve failed again.
“No,” Dalinar said. “Tonight she listened. And I think she’ll end up taking the gamble of coming to Urithiru.”
The Stormfather rumbled, sounding confused. Why?
“Because,” Dalinar said, “I know how to talk to her now. She doesn’t want polite words or diplomatic phrases. She wants me to be myself. I’m fairly certain that’s something I can deliver.”
You think yourself so clever, but my eyes are not those of some petty noble, to be clouded by a false nose and some dirt on the cheeks.
Someone bumped Sigzil’s cot, waking him from a dream. He yawned, and Rock’s breakfast bell began ringing in the next room.
He’d been dreaming in Azish. He’d been back home, studying for the governmental service tests. Passing would have qualified him to enter a real school, with a shot
at becoming a clerk to someone important. Only, in the dream, he’d been panicked to realize he’d forgotten how to read.
After so many years away, thinking of his mother tongue felt strange. He yawned again, settling on his cot, back to the stone wall. They had three small barracks and a common room in the center.
Out there, everyone pushed, ramble-scramble, up to the breakfast table. Rock had to shout at them—yet again—to organize themselves. Months in Bridge Four, now apprentice Knights Radiant, and the lot of them still couldn’t figure out how to line up properly. They wouldn’t last a day in Azir, where queuing in an orderly way wasn’t only expected, it was practically a mark of national pride.
Sigzil rested his head against the wall, remembering. He’d been the first from his family in generations with a real shot at passing the exams. A silly dream. Everyone in Azir talked about how even the humblest man could become Prime, but the son of a laborer had so little time to study.
He shook his head, then washed with a basin of water he’d fetched the night before. He took a comb to his hair, and inspected himself in a polished length of steel. His hair was growing far too long; the tight black curls had a tendency to stick straight out.
He set out a sphere to use its light for a shave—he had acquired his own razor. Soon after he started, however, he nicked himself. He sucked in a breath at the pain, and his sphere winked out. What …
His skin started glowing, letting off a faint luminescent smoke. Oh, right. Kaladin was back.
Well, that was going to solve so many problems. He got out another sphere, and did his best not to eat this one as he finished shaving. Afterward, he pressed his hand against his forehead. Once, he’d had slave brands there. The Stormlight had healed those, though his Bridge Four tattoo remained.
He rose and put on his uniform. Kholin blue, sharp and neat. He slid his new hogshide notebook into his pocket, then stepped out into the common room—and stopped short as Lopen’s face swung down right in front of him. Sigzil almost slammed into the Herdazian, who was stuck by the bottoms of his feet to the storming ceiling.
“Hey,” Lopen said, bowl of morning porridge held upside down—or, well, right-side up, but upside down to Lopen—in front of him. The Herdazian tried to take a bite, but the porridge slipped off his spoon and splatted to the ground.
“Lopen, what are you doing?”
“Practicing. I’ve got to show them how good I am, hooch. It’s like with women, only it involves sticking yourself to the ceiling and learning not to spill food on the heads of people you like.”
“Move, Lopen.”
“Ah, you have to ask the right way. I’m not one-armed anymore! I can’t be shoved around. Say, do you know how to get two armed Herdazians to do what you want?”
“If I did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Well, you take away both of their spears, obviously.” He grinned. A few feet away, Rock laughed with a loud “Ha!”
Lopen wiggled his fingers at Sigzil, as if to taunt him, fingernails glistening. Like all Herdazians, he had fingernails that were dark brown and hard as crystal. A bit reminiscent of carapace.
He still had a tattoo on his head too. Though so far only a few of Bridge Four had learned to draw in Stormlight, each of those had kept their tattoos. Only Kaladin was different; his tattoo had melted off once he took in Stormlight, and his scars refused to heal.
“Remember that one for me, hooch,” Lopen said. He never would explain what “hooch” meant, or why he used it only to refer to Sigzil. “I’ll need, sure, lots and lots of new jokes. Also sleeves. Twice as many of those, except on vests. Then the same number.”
“How did you even manage to get up there, so you could stick your feet … no, don’t start. I don’t actually want to know.” Sigzil ducked under Lopen.
The men were still scrambling for food, laughing and shouting in complete disarray. Sigzil shouted to get their attention. “Don’t forget! The captain wanted us up and ready for inspection by second bell!”
Sigzil could barely be heard. Where was Teft? They actually listened when he gave orders. Sigzil shook his head, weaving his way toward the door. Among his people, he was of average height—but he’d gone and moved among the Alethi, who were practically giants. So here, he was a few inches shorter than most.
He slipped out into the hallway. The bridge crews occupied a sequence of large barracks on the tower’s first floor. Bridge Four were gaining Radiant powers, but there were hundreds more men in the battalion who were still ordinary infantry. Perhaps Teft had gone to inspect the other crews; he’d been given responsibility for training them. Hopefully it wasn’t the other thing.
Kaladin bunked in his own small suite of rooms at the end of the hallway. Sigzil made his way there, going over his scribbles in the notebook. He used Alethi glyphs, as was acceptable for a man out here, and had never learned their actual writing system. Storms, he’d been away so long, the dream was probably right. He might have trouble writing in the Azish script.
What would life be like if he hadn’t turned into a failure and a disappointment? If he’d passed the tests, instead of getting into trouble, needing to be rescued by the man who had become his master?
The list of problems first, he decided, reaching Kaladin’s door and knocking.
“Come!” the captain’s voice said from inside.
Sigzil found Kaladin doing morning push-ups on the stone floor. His blue jacket was draped over a chair.
“Sir,” Sigzil said.
“Hey, Sig,” Kaladin said, grunting as he continued his push-ups. “Are the men up and mustered?”
“Up, yes,” Sigzil said. “When I left them, they seemed bordering on a food fight, and only half were in uniform.”
“They’ll be ready,” Kaladin said. “Was there something you wanted, Sig?”
Sigzil settled down in the chair next to Kaladin’s coat and opened his notebook. “A lot of things, sir. Not the least of which is the fact that you should have a real scribe, not … whatever I am.”
“You’re my clerk.”
“A poor one. We’ve a full battalion of fighting men with only four lieutenants and no official scribes. Frankly, sir, the bridge crews are a mess. Our finances are in shambles, requisition orders are piling up faster than Leyten can deal with them, and there’s an entire host of problems requiring an officer’s attention.”
Kaladin grunted. “The fun part of running an army.”
“Exactly.”
“That was sarcasm, Sig.” Kaladin stood up and wiped his brow with a towel. “All right. Go ahead.”
“We’ll start with something easy,” Sigzil said. “Peet is now officially betrothed to the woman he’s been seeing.”
“Ka? That’s wonderful. Maybe she could help you with scribe duties.”
“Perhaps. I believe that you were looking into requisitioning housing for men with families?”
“Yeah. That was before the whole mess with the Weeping, and the expedition onto the Shattered Plains, and … And I should go back to Dalinar’s scribes about it, shouldn’t I?”
“Unless you expect the married couples to share a bunk in the standard barracks, then I’d say that yes, you should.” Sigzil looked to the next page in his book. “I believe that Bisig is close to being betrothed as well.”
“Really? He’s so quiet. I never know what’s going on behind those eyes of his.”
“Not to mention Punio, who I found out recently is already married. His wife drops off food for him.”
“I thought that was his sister!”
“He wanted to fit in, I believe,” Sigzil said. “His broken Alethi already makes that hard. And then there’s the matter of Drehy…”
“What matter?”
“Well, he’s been courting a man, you see…”
Kaladin threw on his coat, chuckling. “I did know about that one. You only now noticed?”
Sigzil nodded.
“It’s Dru he’s been seeing, still? F
rom the district quartermaster’s offices?”
“Yes, sir.” Sigzil looked down. “Sir, I … Well, it’s just that…”
“Yes?”
“Sir, Drehy hasn’t filled out the proper forms,” Sigzil said. “If he wants to court another man, he needs to apply for social reassignment, right?”
Kaladin rolled his eyes. So, there were no forms for that in Alethkar.
Sigzil couldn’t say he was surprised, as the Alethi didn’t have proper procedures for anything. “Then how do you apply for social reassignment?”
“We don’t.” Kaladin frowned. “Is this really that big a problem to you, Sig? Maybe—”
“Sir, it’s not this specifically. Right now, there are four religions represented in Bridge Four.”
“Four?”
“Hobber follows the Passions, sir. Four, even if you don’t count Teft, who I can’t figure out rightly. And now there’s all this talk of Brightlord Dalinar claiming the Almighty is dead, and … Well, I feel responsible, sir.”
“For Dalinar?” Kaladin frowned.
“No, no.” He took a deep breath. There had to be a way to explain this.
What would his master do?
“Now,” Sigzil said, scrambling at an idea, “everybody knows that Mishim—the third moon—is the most clever and wily of the moons.”
“All right … And this is relevant, why?”
“Because of a story,” Sigzil said. “Hush. Uh, I mean, please listen, sir. You see, there are three moons, and the third moon is the cleverest. And she doesn’t want to be in the sky, sir. She wants to escape.
“So one night, she tricked the queen of the Natan people—this was a long time ago, so they were still around. I mean, they’re still around now, but they were more around then, sir. And the moon tricked her, and then they traded places until they stopped. And now the Natan people have blue skin. Does that make sense?”
Kaladin blinked. “I have no idea what you just said.”
“Um, well,” Sigzil said. “It’s obviously fanciful. Not the real reason that the Natan people have blue skin. And, um…”
“It was supposed to explain something?”
“It’s how my master always did things,” Sigzil said, looking at his feet. “He’d tell a story anytime someone was confused, or when people were angry at him. And, well, it changed everything. Somehow.” He looked to Kaladin.
“Maybe you’re right, and I am a tyrant! Maybe letting my armies into your city is a terrible risk. But maybe you don’t have good options! Maybe all the good men are dead, so all you have is me! Spitting into the storm isn’t going to change that, Fen. You can risk possibly being conquered by the Alethi, or you can definitely fall to the Voidbringer assault alone!”
Curiously, Fen crossed her arms and raised her left hand to her chin, inspecting Dalinar. She didn’t seem the least bit fazed by his shouting.
Dalinar stepped past a squat man who was slowly—as if through tar—turning toward where they’d once been seated. “Fen,” Dalinar said. “You don’t like me. Fine. You tell me to my face that trusting me is worse than a Desolation.”
She studied him, aged eyes thoughtful. What was wrong? What had he said?
“Fen,” he tried again. “I—”
“Where was this passion earlier?” she asked. “Why didn’t you speak like this in your letters to me?”
“I … Fen, I was being diplomatic.”
She sniffed. “That made it sound like I was talking to a committee. It’s what one always assumes anyway, when communicating via spanreed.”
“So?”
“So compared to that, it’s good to hear some honest shouting.” She eyed the people standing around them. “And this is exceptionally creepy. Can we get away from this?”
Dalinar found himself nodding, mostly to buy some time to think. Fen seemed to think his anger was … a good thing? He gestured at a path through the crowd and Fen joined him, walking away from the bonfire.
“Fen,” he said, “you say you expected to talk to a committee through the spanreed. What’s wrong with that? Why would you want me to shout at you instead?”
“I don’t want you to shout at me, Kholin,” she said. “But storms, man. Don’t you know what has been said about you these last few months?”
“No.”
“You’ve been the hottest topic on the spanreed informant networks! Dalinar Kholin, the Blackthorn, has gone mad! He claims to have killed the Almighty! One day he refuses to fight, then the next day he marches his armies off on an insane quest into the Shattered Plains. He says he’s going to enslave the Voidbringers!”
“I didn’t say—”
“Nobody expects every report to be true, Dalinar, but I had extremely good information claiming you’d lost your mind. Refounding the Knights Radiant? Raving about a Desolation? You seized the throne of Alethkar in all but title, but refused to fight the other highprinces, and instead ran your armies off into the Weeping. Then you told everyone a new storm was coming. That was enough to convince me that you really were mad.”
“But then the storm came,” Dalinar said.
“But then the storm came.”
The two walked down the quiet street, light from behind flooding across them, making their shadows lengthen. To their right, a calm blue light shone between buildings—the Radiant, who fought monsters in slowed time.
Jasnah could probably learn something from these buildings, with their old architecture. These people wearing unfamiliar clothing. He’d have expected everything in the past to be crude, but it wasn’t. The doors, the buildings, the clothing. It was well made, just … lacking something he couldn’t define.
“The Everstorm proved I wasn’t mad?” Dalinar asked.
“It proved that something was happening.”
Dalinar suddenly stopped. “You think I’m working with them! You think that explains my behavior, my foreknowledge. You think I’ve been acting erratically because I’ve been in contact with the Voidbringers!”
“All I knew,” Fen said, “was that the voice on the other end of the spanreed was not the Dalinar Kholin I’d expected. The words were too polite, too calm, to be trusted.”
“And now?” Dalinar asked.
Fen turned. “Now … I’ll consider. Can I see the rest of it? I want to know what happens to the little girl.”
Dalinar followed her gaze and saw—for the first time—little Seeli sitting, huddled with some other children near the fire. She had a haunted cast to her eyes. He could imagine her horror as Fen ran away, Taffa—the child’s mother—screaming as she was ripped apart.
Seeli suddenly lurched into motion, turning her head to stare with a hollow gaze at a woman who knelt beside her, offering something to drink. The Stormfather had restored the vision’s normal speed.
Dalinar backed up, letting Fen rejoin the people and experience the end of the vision. As he folded his arms to watch, he noted a shimmering in the air beside him.
“We’ll want to send her more of these,” Dalinar said to the Stormfather. “We can only be served by more people knowing the truths the Almighty left behind. Can you bring in only one person per storm, or can we accelerate that somehow? And can you bring two people into two different visions at once?”
The Stormfather rumbled. I do not like to be ordered about.
“And you prefer the alternative? Letting Odium win? How far will your pride push you, Stormfather?”
It is not pride, the Stormfather said, sounding stubborn. I am not a man. I do not bend or cower. I do what is in my nature, and to defy that is pain.
The Radiant finished off the last of the midnight creatures and stepped up to the gathered people, then looked at Fen. “Your upbringing might be humble, but your talent for leadership is impressive. I have rarely seen a man—king or commander—organize people for defense as well as you did here today.”
Fen cocked her head.
“No words for me, I see,” the knight said. “Very well. But should you wish to learn true leadership, come to Urithiru.”
Dalinar turned to the Stormfather. “That’s almost exactly what the knight said to me last time.”
By design, certain things always happen in the visions, the Stormfather replied. I do not know Honor’s every intention, but I know he wished you to interact with Radiants and know that men could join them.
“All who resist are needed,” the Radiant said to Fen. “Indeed, any who have a desire to fight should be compelled to come to Alethela. We can teach you, help you. If you have the soul of a warrior, that passion could destroy you, unless you are guided. Come to us.”
The Radiant strode off, then Fen jumped as Seeli stood up and started talking to her. The girl’s voice was too quiet for Dalinar to hear, but he could guess what was happening. At the end of each vision, the Almighty himself spoke through one of the people, passing along wisdom that—at first—Dalinar had assumed was interactive.
Fen seemed troubled by what she heard. As well she should be. Dalinar remembered the words.
This is important, the Almighty had said. Do not let strife consume you. Be strong. Act with honor, and honor will aid you.
Except Honor was dead.
At the end of it, Fen turned toward Dalinar, her eyes measuring.
She still does not trust you, the Stormfather said.
“She wonders if I created this vision with the power of the Voidbringers. She no longer thinks I’m mad, but she does continue to wonder if I’ve joined the enemy.”
So you’ve failed again.
“No,” Dalinar said. “Tonight she listened. And I think she’ll end up taking the gamble of coming to Urithiru.”
The Stormfather rumbled, sounding confused. Why?
“Because,” Dalinar said, “I know how to talk to her now. She doesn’t want polite words or diplomatic phrases. She wants me to be myself. I’m fairly certain that’s something I can deliver.”
You think yourself so clever, but my eyes are not those of some petty noble, to be clouded by a false nose and some dirt on the cheeks.
Someone bumped Sigzil’s cot, waking him from a dream. He yawned, and Rock’s breakfast bell began ringing in the next room.
He’d been dreaming in Azish. He’d been back home, studying for the governmental service tests. Passing would have qualified him to enter a real school, with a shot
After so many years away, thinking of his mother tongue felt strange. He yawned again, settling on his cot, back to the stone wall. They had three small barracks and a common room in the center.
Out there, everyone pushed, ramble-scramble, up to the breakfast table. Rock had to shout at them—yet again—to organize themselves. Months in Bridge Four, now apprentice Knights Radiant, and the lot of them still couldn’t figure out how to line up properly. They wouldn’t last a day in Azir, where queuing in an orderly way wasn’t only expected, it was practically a mark of national pride.
Sigzil rested his head against the wall, remembering. He’d been the first from his family in generations with a real shot at passing the exams. A silly dream. Everyone in Azir talked about how even the humblest man could become Prime, but the son of a laborer had so little time to study.
He shook his head, then washed with a basin of water he’d fetched the night before. He took a comb to his hair, and inspected himself in a polished length of steel. His hair was growing far too long; the tight black curls had a tendency to stick straight out.
He set out a sphere to use its light for a shave—he had acquired his own razor. Soon after he started, however, he nicked himself. He sucked in a breath at the pain, and his sphere winked out. What …
His skin started glowing, letting off a faint luminescent smoke. Oh, right. Kaladin was back.
Well, that was going to solve so many problems. He got out another sphere, and did his best not to eat this one as he finished shaving. Afterward, he pressed his hand against his forehead. Once, he’d had slave brands there. The Stormlight had healed those, though his Bridge Four tattoo remained.
He rose and put on his uniform. Kholin blue, sharp and neat. He slid his new hogshide notebook into his pocket, then stepped out into the common room—and stopped short as Lopen’s face swung down right in front of him. Sigzil almost slammed into the Herdazian, who was stuck by the bottoms of his feet to the storming ceiling.
“Hey,” Lopen said, bowl of morning porridge held upside down—or, well, right-side up, but upside down to Lopen—in front of him. The Herdazian tried to take a bite, but the porridge slipped off his spoon and splatted to the ground.
“Lopen, what are you doing?”
“Practicing. I’ve got to show them how good I am, hooch. It’s like with women, only it involves sticking yourself to the ceiling and learning not to spill food on the heads of people you like.”
“Move, Lopen.”
“Ah, you have to ask the right way. I’m not one-armed anymore! I can’t be shoved around. Say, do you know how to get two armed Herdazians to do what you want?”
“If I did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Well, you take away both of their spears, obviously.” He grinned. A few feet away, Rock laughed with a loud “Ha!”
Lopen wiggled his fingers at Sigzil, as if to taunt him, fingernails glistening. Like all Herdazians, he had fingernails that were dark brown and hard as crystal. A bit reminiscent of carapace.
He still had a tattoo on his head too. Though so far only a few of Bridge Four had learned to draw in Stormlight, each of those had kept their tattoos. Only Kaladin was different; his tattoo had melted off once he took in Stormlight, and his scars refused to heal.
“Remember that one for me, hooch,” Lopen said. He never would explain what “hooch” meant, or why he used it only to refer to Sigzil. “I’ll need, sure, lots and lots of new jokes. Also sleeves. Twice as many of those, except on vests. Then the same number.”
“How did you even manage to get up there, so you could stick your feet … no, don’t start. I don’t actually want to know.” Sigzil ducked under Lopen.
The men were still scrambling for food, laughing and shouting in complete disarray. Sigzil shouted to get their attention. “Don’t forget! The captain wanted us up and ready for inspection by second bell!”
Sigzil could barely be heard. Where was Teft? They actually listened when he gave orders. Sigzil shook his head, weaving his way toward the door. Among his people, he was of average height—but he’d gone and moved among the Alethi, who were practically giants. So here, he was a few inches shorter than most.
He slipped out into the hallway. The bridge crews occupied a sequence of large barracks on the tower’s first floor. Bridge Four were gaining Radiant powers, but there were hundreds more men in the battalion who were still ordinary infantry. Perhaps Teft had gone to inspect the other crews; he’d been given responsibility for training them. Hopefully it wasn’t the other thing.
Kaladin bunked in his own small suite of rooms at the end of the hallway. Sigzil made his way there, going over his scribbles in the notebook. He used Alethi glyphs, as was acceptable for a man out here, and had never learned their actual writing system. Storms, he’d been away so long, the dream was probably right. He might have trouble writing in the Azish script.
What would life be like if he hadn’t turned into a failure and a disappointment? If he’d passed the tests, instead of getting into trouble, needing to be rescued by the man who had become his master?
The list of problems first, he decided, reaching Kaladin’s door and knocking.
“Come!” the captain’s voice said from inside.
Sigzil found Kaladin doing morning push-ups on the stone floor. His blue jacket was draped over a chair.
“Sir,” Sigzil said.
“Hey, Sig,” Kaladin said, grunting as he continued his push-ups. “Are the men up and mustered?”
“Up, yes,” Sigzil said. “When I left them, they seemed bordering on a food fight, and only half were in uniform.”
“They’ll be ready,” Kaladin said. “Was there something you wanted, Sig?”
Sigzil settled down in the chair next to Kaladin’s coat and opened his notebook. “A lot of things, sir. Not the least of which is the fact that you should have a real scribe, not … whatever I am.”
“You’re my clerk.”
“A poor one. We’ve a full battalion of fighting men with only four lieutenants and no official scribes. Frankly, sir, the bridge crews are a mess. Our finances are in shambles, requisition orders are piling up faster than Leyten can deal with them, and there’s an entire host of problems requiring an officer’s attention.”
Kaladin grunted. “The fun part of running an army.”
“Exactly.”
“That was sarcasm, Sig.” Kaladin stood up and wiped his brow with a towel. “All right. Go ahead.”
“We’ll start with something easy,” Sigzil said. “Peet is now officially betrothed to the woman he’s been seeing.”
“Ka? That’s wonderful. Maybe she could help you with scribe duties.”
“Perhaps. I believe that you were looking into requisitioning housing for men with families?”
“Yeah. That was before the whole mess with the Weeping, and the expedition onto the Shattered Plains, and … And I should go back to Dalinar’s scribes about it, shouldn’t I?”
“Unless you expect the married couples to share a bunk in the standard barracks, then I’d say that yes, you should.” Sigzil looked to the next page in his book. “I believe that Bisig is close to being betrothed as well.”
“Really? He’s so quiet. I never know what’s going on behind those eyes of his.”
“Not to mention Punio, who I found out recently is already married. His wife drops off food for him.”
“I thought that was his sister!”
“He wanted to fit in, I believe,” Sigzil said. “His broken Alethi already makes that hard. And then there’s the matter of Drehy…”
“What matter?”
“Well, he’s been courting a man, you see…”
Kaladin threw on his coat, chuckling. “I did know about that one. You only now noticed?”
Sigzil nodded.
“It’s Dru he’s been seeing, still? F
“Yes, sir.” Sigzil looked down. “Sir, I … Well, it’s just that…”
“Yes?”
“Sir, Drehy hasn’t filled out the proper forms,” Sigzil said. “If he wants to court another man, he needs to apply for social reassignment, right?”
Kaladin rolled his eyes. So, there were no forms for that in Alethkar.
Sigzil couldn’t say he was surprised, as the Alethi didn’t have proper procedures for anything. “Then how do you apply for social reassignment?”
“We don’t.” Kaladin frowned. “Is this really that big a problem to you, Sig? Maybe—”
“Sir, it’s not this specifically. Right now, there are four religions represented in Bridge Four.”
“Four?”
“Hobber follows the Passions, sir. Four, even if you don’t count Teft, who I can’t figure out rightly. And now there’s all this talk of Brightlord Dalinar claiming the Almighty is dead, and … Well, I feel responsible, sir.”
“For Dalinar?” Kaladin frowned.
“No, no.” He took a deep breath. There had to be a way to explain this.
What would his master do?
“Now,” Sigzil said, scrambling at an idea, “everybody knows that Mishim—the third moon—is the most clever and wily of the moons.”
“All right … And this is relevant, why?”
“Because of a story,” Sigzil said. “Hush. Uh, I mean, please listen, sir. You see, there are three moons, and the third moon is the cleverest. And she doesn’t want to be in the sky, sir. She wants to escape.
“So one night, she tricked the queen of the Natan people—this was a long time ago, so they were still around. I mean, they’re still around now, but they were more around then, sir. And the moon tricked her, and then they traded places until they stopped. And now the Natan people have blue skin. Does that make sense?”
Kaladin blinked. “I have no idea what you just said.”
“Um, well,” Sigzil said. “It’s obviously fanciful. Not the real reason that the Natan people have blue skin. And, um…”
“It was supposed to explain something?”
“It’s how my master always did things,” Sigzil said, looking at his feet. “He’d tell a story anytime someone was confused, or when people were angry at him. And, well, it changed everything. Somehow.” He looked to Kaladin.