the battlefield.”
To the side, Teft snorted quietly.
Kaladin turned to Moash. “Why do they treat us so, Moash? Because they know they should be better than they are. Because they see discipline in bridgemen, and it embarrasses them. Rather than bettering themselves, they take the easier road of jeering at us.”
“Dalinar Kholin’s soldiers don’t act like that,” Skar said from just behind Kaladin. “His men march in straight ranks. There is order in their camp. If they’re on duty, they don’t leave their coats unbuttoned or lounge about.”
Men had spoken that way of Amaram. How easy it was to ignore a blackened heart if you dressed it in a pressed uniform and a reputation for honesty.
Several hours later, the sweaty and exhausted group of bridgemen tramped up the incline to the lumberyard. They dumped their bridge in its resting place. It was getting late; Kaladin would have to purchase food immediately if they were going to have supplies for the evening stew. He wiped his hands on his towel as the members of Bridge Four lined up.
“You’re dismissed for evening activities,” he said. “We have chasm duty early tomorrow. Morning bridge practice will have to be moved to late afternoon.”
The bridgemen nodded, then Moash raised a hand. As one, the bridgemen raised their arms and crossed them, wrists together, hands in fists. It had the look of a practiced effort. After that, they trotted away.
Kaladin raised an eyebrow, tucking his towel into his belt. Teft hung back, smiling.
“What was that?” Kaladin asked.
“The men wanted a salute,” Teft said. “We can’t use a regular military salute-not with the spearmen already thinking we’re too bigheaded. So I taught them my old squad salute.”
“When?”
“This morning. While you were getting our schedule from Hashal.”
Kaladin smiled. Odd, how he could still do that. Nearby, the other nineteen bridge crews on today’s run dropped off their bridges, one by one. Had Bridge Four once looked like them, with those ragged beards and haunted expressions? None of them spoke to one another. Some few glanced at Kaladin as they passed, but they looked down as soon as they saw he was watching. They’d stopped treating Bridge Four with the contempt they’d once shown. Curiously, they now seemed to regard Kaladin’s crew as they did everyone else in camp-as people above them. They hastened to avoid his notice.
“I know that look, lad,” Teft said. “Why is it you always have to help everyone?”
“Bah,” Kaladin said. “I can’t even protect Bridge Four. Here, let me look at that arm of yours.”
“It’s not that bad.”
Kaladin grabbed his arm anyway, peeling away the blood-crusted bandage. The cut was long, but shallow.
“We need antiseptic on this,” Kaladin said, noting a few red rotspren crawling around on the wound. “I should probably sew it up.”
“It’s not that bad!”
“Still,” Kaladin said, waving for Teft to follow as he approached one of the rain barrels alongside the lumberyard. The wound was shallow enough that Teft would probably be able to show the others spear thrusts and blocks tomorrow during chasm duty, but that was no excuse for leaving it alone to fester or scar.
At the rain barrel, Kaladin washed out the wound, then called for Lopen-who was standing in the shade beside the barrack-to bring his medical equipment. The Herdazian man gave that salute again, though he did it with one arm, and sauntered away to get the pack.
“So, lad,” Teft said. “How do you feel? Any odd experiences lately?”
Kaladin frowned, looking up from the arm. “Storm it, Teft! That’s the fifth time in two days you’ve asked me that. What are you getting at?”
“Nothing, nothing!”
“It
“Gancho,” Lopen said, walking up, carrying the medical supply pack over his shoulder. “Here you go.”
Kaladin glanced at him, then reluctantly accepted the pack. He pulled the drawstrings open. “We’ll want to-”
A quick motion came from Teft. Like a punch being thrown.
Kaladin moved by reflex, taking in a sharp breath, moving to a defensive stance, arms up, one hand a fist, the other back to block.
Something blossomed within Kaladin. Like a deep breath drawn in, like a burning liquor injected directly into his blood. A powerful wave pulsed through his body. Energy, strength, awareness. It was like the body’s natural alert response to danger, only it was a hundredfold more intense.
Kaladin caught Teft’s fist, moving blurringly quick. Teft froze.
“What are you doing?” Kaladin demanded.
Teft was smiling. He stepped back, pulling his fist free. “Kelek,” he said, shaking his hand. “That’s some grip you’ve got.”
“Why did you try to strike me?”
“I wanted to see something,” Teft said. “You’re holding that pouch of spheres Lopen gave you, you see, and your own pouch with what we’ve gathered lately. More Stormlight than you’ve probably ever carried, at least recently.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Kaladin demanded. What was that heat inside of him, that burning in his veins?
“Gancho,” Lopen said, his voice awed. “You’re glowing.”
Kaladin frowned.
And then he noticed it. It was very faint, but it was there, wisps of luminescent smoke curling up from his skin. Like steam coming off a bowl of hot water on a cold winter night.
Shaking, Kaladin put the medical pack on the broad rim of the water barrel. He felt a moment of coldness on his skin. What was that? Shocked, he raised his other hand, looking at the wisps streaming off of it.
“What did you do to me?” he demanded, looking up at Teft.
The older bridgeman was still smiling.
“Answer me!” Kaladin said, stepping forward, grabbing the front of Teft’s shirt.
“I didn’t do anything, lad,” Teft said. “You’ve been doing this for a while now. I caught you feeding off Stormlight when you were sick.”
Stormlight. Kaladin hastily released Teft, fishing at the pouch of spheres in his pocket. He yanked it free and pulled it open.
It was dark inside. All five gemstones had been drained. The white light streaming from Kaladin’s skin faintly illuminated the inside of the bag.
“Now that’s something,” Lopen said from the side. Kaladin spun to find the Herdazian man bending down and looking at the medical pack. Why was that so important?
Then Kaladin saw it. He thought he’d set the pack on the rim of the barrel, but in his haste he’d just pressed it against the side of the barrel. The pack now clung to the wood. Stuck there, hanging as if from an invisible hook. Faintly streaming light, just like Kaladin. As Kaladin watched, the light faded, and the pack slumped free and fell to the ground.
Kaladin raised a hand to his forehead, looking from the surprised Lopen to the curious Teft. Then he glanced around the lumberyard, frantic. Nobody else was looking at them; in the sunlight, the vapors were too faint to see from a distance.
He caught sight of a familiar shape above. Syl moved like a blown leaf, tossed this way and that, leisurely, faint.
