Words of Radiance

What happened to your honorspren when you confronted them with a choice like this? A broken vow either way.

Idiot, Kaladin thought at himself. It seemed he couldn’t make any right choices these days.

“What do I do, Syl?” he whispered.

She flitted up until she was standing in the air just before him, eyes meeting his. “You must speak the Words.”

“I don’t know them.”

“Find them.”

She looked toward the sky. “Find them soon, Kaladin. And no, simply telling Moash you won’t help isn’t going to work. We’ve gone too far for that. You need to do what your heart needs to do.” She rose upward toward the sky.

“Stay with me, Syl,” he whispered after her, standing. “I’ll figure this out. Just… don’t lose yourself. Please. I need you.”

Nearby, gears on Dalinar’s bridge mechanism turned as soldiers twisted levers, and the entire thing started to unfold.

“Stop, stop, stop!” Shallan Davar jogged up, a flurry of red hair and blue silk, a large floppy hat on her head to keep off the sun. Two of her guards jogged after her, but neither was Gaz.

Kaladin spun about, alarmed at her tone, searching for signs of the Assassin in White.

Shallan, puffing, raised her safehand to her chest. “Storms, what is wrong with palanquin porters? They absolutely refuse to move quickly. ‘It’s not stately,’ they say. Well, I don’t really do stately. All right, give me a minute, then you can continue.”

She settled down on a rock near the bridge. The baffled soldiers regarded her as she dug out her drawing pad, then started sketching. “All right,” she said. “Continue. I’ve been trying all day

to get a progressive sketch of that bridge as it unfolds. Storming porters.”

What a bizarre woman.

The soldiers hesitantly continued positioning the bridge, unfolding it beneath the watchful eyes of three of Dalinar’s engineers—widowed wives of his fallen officers. Several carpenters were also on hand to work at their orders if the bridge got stuck or a piece snapped.

Kaladin gripped his spear, trying to sort through his emotions regarding Syl, and the promises he’d made. Surely he could work this out somehow. Couldn’t he?

Seeing this bridge intruded on his mind with thoughts of bridge runs, and he found that a welcome distraction. He could see why Sadeas had preferred the simple, if brutal, method of the bridge crews. Those bridges were faster, cheaper, and less prone to problems. These massive things were ponderous, like big ships trying to maneuver in a bay.

Armored bridge runners is the natural solution, Kaladin thought. Men with shields, with full support from the army to get them into position. You could have fast, mobile bridges, but also not leave men to be slaughtered.

Of course, Sadeas had wanted the bridgemen killed, as bait to keep arrows away from his soldiers.

One of the carpenters helping with the bridge—examining one of the wooden steadying pins and talking about carving a new one—was familiar to Kaladin. The stout man had a birthmark across his forehead, shaded by the carpenter’s cap he wore.

Kaladin knew that face. Had the man been one of Dalinar’s soldiers, one of those who had lost the will to fight following the slaughter on the Tower? Some of those had switched to other duties in camp.

He was distracted as Moash walked over, raising a hand toward Bridge Four, who cheered him. Moash’s brilliant Shardplate—which he’d had repainted blue with red accents at the points—looked surprisingly natural on him. It hadn’t even been a week yet, but Moash walked in the armor easily.

He stepped up to Kaladin, then knelt down on one knee, Plate clinking. He saluted, arm across chest.

His eyes… they were

lighter in color; tan instead of deep brown as they’d once been. He wore his Shardblade strapped across his back in a guarded sheath. Only one more day until he had it bonded.

“You don’t need to salute me, Moash,” Kaladin said. “You’re lighteyed now. You outrank me by a mile or two.”

“I’ll never outrank you, Kal,” Moash said, faceplate of his helm up. “You’re my captain. Forever.” He grinned. “But I can’t tell you how much storming fun it is to watch the lighteyes try to figure out how to deal with me.”

“Your eyes are really changing.”

“Yeah,” Moash said. “But I’m not one of them, you hear me? I’m one of us. Bridge Four. I’m our… secret weapon.”

“Secret?” Kaladin asked, raising an eyebrow. “They’ve probably heard about you all the way in Iri by now, Moash. You’re the first darkeyed man to be given a Blade and Plate in over a lifetime.”

Dalinar had even granted Moash lands and a stipend from them, a lavish sum, and not just by bridgeman standards. Moash still stopped by for stew some nights, but not all. He was too busy arranging his new quarters.