You have accused me of arrogance in my quest. You have accused me of perpetuating my grudge against Rayse and Bavadin. Both accusations are true.

Kaladin stood up in the wagon bed, scanning the landscape outside the camp as Rock and Teft put his plan—such as it was—into action.

Back home, the air had been drier. If you went about on the day before a highstorm, everything seemed desolate. After storms, plants soon pulled back into their shells, trunks, and hiding places to conserve water. But here in the moister climate, they lingered. Many rockbuds never quite pulled into their shells completely. Patches of grass were common. The trees Sadeas harvested were concentrated in a forest to the north of the warcamps, but a few strays grew on this plain. They were enormous, broadtrunked things that grew with a westward slant, their thick, fingerlike roots clawing into the stone and—over the years—cracking and breaking the ground around them.

Kaladin hopped down from the cart. His job was to hoist up stones and place them on the bed of the vehicle. The other bridgemen brought them to him, laying them in heaps nearby.

Bridgemen worked across the broad plain, moving among rockbuds, patches of grass, and bunches of weeds that poked out from beneath boulders. Those grew most heavily on the west side, ready to pull back into their boulder’s shadow if a highstorm approached. It was a curious effect, as if each boulder were the head of an aged man with tufts of green and brown hair growing out from behind his ears.

Those tufts were extremely important, for hidden among them were thin reeds known as knobweed. Their rigid stalks were topped with delicate fronds that could retract into the stem. The stems themselves were immobile, but they were fairly safe growing behind boulders. Some would be pulled free in each storm—perhaps to attach themselves in a new location once the winds abated.

Kaladin hoisted a rock, setting it on the bed of the wagon and rolling it beside some others. The rock’s bottom was wet with lichen and crem.

Knobweed wasn’t rare, but neither was it as common as other weeds. A quick description had been enough to send Rock and Teft searching with some success. The breakthrough, however, had happened when Syl had joined the hunt. Kaladin glanced to the side as he stepped down for another stone. She zipped around, a faint, nearly invisible form leading Rock from one stand of reeds to another. Teft didn’t understand how the large Horneater could consistently find so many more than he did, but Kaladin didn’t feel inclined to explain. He still didn’t understand why Rock could see Syl in the first place. The Horneater said it was something he’d been born with.

A pair of bridgemen approached, youthful Dunny and Earless Jaks towing a wooden sled bearing a large stone. Sweat trickled down the sides of their faces. As they reached the wagon, Kaladin dusted off his hands and helped them lift the boulder. Earless Jaks scowled at him, muttering under his breath.

“That’s a nice one,” Kaladin said, nodding to the stone. “Good work.”

Jaks glared at him and stalked off. Dunny gave Kaladin a shrug, then hurried after the older man. As Rock had guessed, getting the crew assigned to stone-gathering duty had not helped Kaladin’s popularity. But it had to be done. It was the only way to help Leyten and the other wounded.

Once Jaks and Dunny left, Kaladin nonchalantly climbed into the wagon bed and knelt down, pushing aside a tarp and uncovering a large pile of knobweed stems. They were about as long as a man’s forearm. He made as if he were moving stones around in the bed, but instead tied a large double handful of the reeds into a bundle using thin rockbud vines.

He dropped the bundle over the side of the wagon. The wagon driver had gone to chat with his counterpart on the other wagon. That left Kaladin alone, save for the chull that sat hunkered down in its rock shell, watching the sun with beady crustacean eyes.

Kaladin hopped down from the wagon and placed another rock in the bed. Then, he knelt as if to pull a large stone out from under the wagon. With deft hands, however, he tied the reeds into place underneath the bed right beside two other bundles. The wagon had a large open space to the side of the axle, and a wood dowel there provided an excellent place for mounting the bundles.

Jezerezeh send that nobody thinks to check the bottom as we roll back into camp.

The apothecary said one drop came per stem. How many reeds would Kaladin need? He felt he knew the answer to that question without even giving it much thought.

He’d need every drop he could get.

He climbed out and lifted another stone into the wagon. Rock was approaching; the large, tan-skinned Horneater carried an oblong stone that would have been too large for most of the bridgemen to handle alone. Rock shuffled forward slowly, Syl zipping around his head and occasionally landing on the rock to watch him.

Kaladin climbed down and trotted across the uneven ground to help. Rock nodded in thanks. Together they hauled the stone to the wagon and set it down on the bed. Rock wiped his brow, turning his back to Kaladin. Sprouting from his pocket was a handful of reeds. Kaladin swiped them and tucked them beneath the tarp.

“What do we do if someone notices this thing we are doing?” Rock asked casually.

“Explain that I’m a weaver,” Kaladin said, “and that I thought I’d weave myself a hat to keep off the sun.”

Rock snorted.

“I might do just that,” Kaladin said. He wiped his brow. “It would be nice in this heat. But best nobody sees. The mere fact that we want the reeds would probably be enough to make them deny them to us.”

“This thing is true,” Rock said, stretching and glancing upward as Syl zipped over in front of him. “I miss the Peaks.”

Syl pointed, and Rock bowed his head in reverence before following after her. Once she had him going in the right direction, however, she flitted back to Kaladin, bobbing up into the air as a ribbon, then falling down to the side of the wagon and re-forming her womanly shape, her dress fluttering around her.

“I,” she declared, raising a finger, “like him very much.”

“Who? Rock?”

“Yes,” she said, folding her arms. “He is respectful. Unlike others.”

“Fine,” Kaladin said, lifting another stone into the wagon. “You can follow him around instead of bothering me.” He tried not to show worry as he said it. He had grown accustomed to her company.

She sniffed. “I can’t follow him. He’s too respectful.”

“You just said you liked that.”

“I do. Also, I detest it.” She said that with unaffected frankness, as if oblivious of the contradiction. She sighed, sitting down on the side of the wagon. “I led him to a patch of chull dung as a prank. He didn’t even yell at me! He just looked at it, as if trying to figure out some hidden meaning.” She grimaced. “That’s not normal.”

“I think the Horneaters must worship spren or something,” Kaladin said, wiping his brow.

“That’s silly.”

“People believe much sillier things. In some ways, I guess it makes sense to revere the spren. You are kind of odd and magical.”

“I’m not odd!” she said, standing up. “I’m beautiful and articulate.” She planted her hands on her hips, but he could see in her expression that she wasn’t really mad. She seemed to be changing by the hour, growing more and more …

More and more what? Not exactly humanlike. More individual. Smarter.

Syl fell silent as another bridgeman—Natam—approached. The long-faced man was carrying a smaller stone, obviously trying not to strain himself.

“Ho, Natam,” Kaladin said, reaching down to take the stone. “How goes the work?”

Natam shrugged.

“Didn’t you say you were once a farmer?”

Natam rested beside the wagon, ignoring Kaladin.

Kaladin set down the rock, moving it into place. “I’m sorry to make us work like this, but we need the good will of Gaz and the other bridge crews.”

Natam didn’t respond.

“It will help keep us alive,” Kaladin said. “Trust me.”

Natam just shrugged yet again, then wandered away.

Kaladin sighed. “This would be a lot easier if I could pin the duty change on Gaz.”

“That wouldn’t be very honest,” Syl said, affronted.

“Why do you care so much about honesty?”

“I just do.”

“Oh?” Kaladin said, grunting as he moved back to his work. “And leading men to piles of dung? How honest is that?”

“That’s different. It was a joke.”

“I fail to see how …”

He trailed off as another bridgeman approached. Kaladin doubted anyone else had Rock’s strange ability to see Syl, and didn’t want to be seen talking to himself.

The short, wiry bridgeman had said his name was Skar, though Kaladin couldn’t see any obvious scars on his face. He had short dark hair and angular features. Kaladin tried to engage him in conversation too, but got no response. The man even went so far as to give Kaladin a rude gesture before tromping back out.

“I’m doing something wrong,” Kaladin said, shaking his head and hopping down from the sturdy wagon.

“Wrong?” Syl stepped up to the lip of the wagon, watching him.

“I thought that seeing me rescue those three might give them hope. But they’re still indifferent.”

“Some watched you run earlier,” Syl said, “when you were practicing with the plank.”

“They watched,” Kaladin said. “But they don’t care about helping the wounded. Nobody besides Rock, that is—and he’s only doing it because he has a debt to me. Even Teft wasn’t willing to share his food.”

“They’re selfish.”

“No. I don’t think that word can apply to them.” He lifted a stone, struggling to explain how he felt. “When I was a slave … well, I’m still a slave. But during the worst parts, when my masters were trying to beat out of me the ability to resist, I was like these men. I didn’t care enough to be selfish. I was like an animal. I just did what I did without thinking.”

Syl frowned. Little wonder—Kaladin himself didn’t understand what he was saying. Yet, as he spoke, he began to work out what he meant. “I’ve shown them that we can survive, but that doesn’t mean anything. If those lives aren’t worth living, then they aren’t ever going to care. It’s like I’m offering them piles of spheres, but not giving them anything to spend their wealth on.”

“I guess,” Syl said. “But what can you do?”

He looked back across the plain of rock, toward the warcamp. The smoke of the army’s many cookfires rose from the craters. “I don’t know. But I think we’re going to need a lot more reeds.”

That night, Kaladin, Teft, and Rock walked the makeshift streets of Sadeas’s warcamp. Nomon—the middle moon—shone with his pale, blue-white light. Oil lanterns hung in front of buildings, indicating taverns or brothels. Spheres could provide more consistent, renewable light, but you could buy a bundle of candles or a pouch of oil for a single sphere. In the short run, it was often cheaper to do that, particularly if you were hanging your lights in a place they could be stolen.

Sadeas didn’t enforce a curfew, but Kaladin had learned that a lone bridgeman had best remain in the lumberyard at night. Half-drunken soldiers in stained uniforms sauntered past, whispering in the ears of whores or boasting to their friends. They called insults at the bridgemen, laughing riotously. The streets felt dark, even with the lanterns and the moonlight, and the haphazard nature of the camp—some stone structures, some wooden shanties, some tents—made it feel disorganized and dangerous.

Kaladin and his two companions stepped aside for a large group of soldiers. Their coats were unbuttoned, and they were only mildly drunk. A soldier eyed the bridgemen, but the three of them together—one of them being a brawny Horneater—were enough to dissuade the soldier from doing more than laughing and shoving Kaladin as he passed.

The man smelled of sweat and cheap ale. Kaladin kept his temper. Fight back, and he’d be docked pay for brawling.

“I don’t like this,” Teft said, glancing over his shoulder at the group of soldiers. “I’m going back to the camp.”

“You will be staying,” Rock growled.

Teft rolled his eyes. “You think I’m scared of a lumbering chull like you? I’ll go if I want to, and—”

“Teft,” Kaladin said softly. “We need you.”

Need. That word had strange effects on men. Some ran when you used it. Others grew nervous. Teft seemed to long for it. He nodded, muttering to himself, but stayed with them as they went on.

They soon reached the wagonyard. The fenced-off square of rock was near the western side of the camp. It was deserted for the night, the wagons sitting in long lines. Chulls lay slumbering in the nearby pen, looking like small hills. Kaladin crept forward, wary of sentries, but apparently nobody worried about something as large as a wagon being stolen from the middle of the army.

Rock nudged him, then pointed to the shadowy chull pens. A lone boy sat upon a pen post, staring up at the moon. Chulls were valuable enough to watch over. Poor lad. How often was he required to wait up nights guarding the sluggish beasts?

Kaladin crouched down beside a wagon, the other two mimicking him. He pointed down one row, and Rock moved off. Kaladin pointed the other direction, and Teft rolled his eyes, but did as asked.

Kaladin sneaked down the middle row. There were about thirty wagons, ten per row, but checking was quick. A brush of the fingers against the back plank, looking for the mark he’d made there. After just a few minutes, a shadowed figure entered Kaladin’s row. Rock. The Horneater gestured to the side and held up five fingers. Fifth wagon from the top. Kaladin nodded and moved off.

Just as he reached the indicated wagon, he heard a soft yelp from the direction Teft had gone. Kaladin flinched, then peeked up toward the sentry. The boy was still watching the moon, kicking his toes absently against the post next to him.

A moment later, Rock and a sheepish Teft scurried up to Kaladin. “Sorry,” Teft whispered. “The walking mountain startled me.”

“If I am being a mountain,” Rock grumbled, “then why weren’t you hearing me coming? Eh?”

Kaladin snorted, feeling the back of the indicated wagon, fingers brushing the X mark in the wood. He took a breath, then climbed under the wagon on his back.

The reeds were still there, tied in twenty bundles, each about as thick as a handspan. “Ishi, Herald of Luck be praised,” he whispered, untying the first bundle.

“All there, eh?” Teft said, leaning down, scratching at his beard in the moonlight. “Can’t believe we found so many. Must have pulled up every reed on the entire plain.”

Kaladin handed him the first bundle. Without Syl, they wouldn’t have found a third this many. She had the speed of an insect in flight, and she seemed to have a sense of where to find things. Kaladin untied the next bundle, handing it out. Teft tied it to the other, making a larger bundle.

As Kaladin worked, a flurry of small white leaves blew under the wagon and formed into Syl’s figure. She slid to a stop beside his head. “No guards anywhere I could see. Just a boy in the chull pens.” Her whiteblue translucent figure was nearly invisible in the darkness.

“I hope these reeds are still good,” Kaladin whispered. “If they dried out too much …”

“They’ll be fine. You worry like a worrier. I found you some bottles.”

“You did?” he asked, so eager that he nearly sat up. He caught himself before smacking his head.

Syl nodded. “I’ll show you. I couldn’t carry them. Too solid.”

Kaladin quickly untied the rest of the bundles, handing them out to the nervous Teft. Kaladin scooted out, then took two of the larger, tied-together bundles of three. Teft took two of the others, and Rock managed three by tucking one under his arm. They’d need a place to work where they wouldn’t be interrupted. Even if the knobweed seemed worthless, Gaz would find a way to ruin the work if he saw what was happening.

Bottle first, Kaladin thought. He nodded to Syl, who led them out of the wagonyard and to a tavern. It looked to have been hastily built from second-rate lumber, but that didn’t stop the soldiers inside from enjoying themselves. Their rowdiness made Kaladin worry about the entire building collapsing.

Behind it, in a splintery half-crate, lay a pile of discarded liquor bottles. Glass was precious enough that whole bottles would be reused, but these had cracks or broken tops. Kaladin set down his bundles, then selected three nearly whole bottles. He washed them in a nearby water barrel before tucking them into a sack he’d brought for the purpose.

He picked up his bundles again, nodding to the others. “Try to look like you’re doing something monotonous,” he said. “Bow your heads.” The other two nodded, and they walked out into a main road, carrying the bundles as if on some work detail. They drew far less attention than they had before.

They avoided the lumberyard proper, crossing the open field of rock used as the army’s staging area before walking down the slope of rock leading to the Shattered Plains. A sentry saw them, and Kaladin held his breath, but he said nothing. He probably assumed from their postures that they had a reason to be doing what they were. If they tried to leave the warcamp, it would be a different story, but this section down near the first few chasms wasn’t off limits.

Before long, they approached the place where Kaladin had nearly killed himself. What a difference a few days could make. He felt like a different person—a strange hybrid of the man he had once been, the slave he’d become, and the pitiful wretch he still had to fight off. He remembered standing on the edge of the chasm, looking down. That darkness still terrified him.

If I fail to save the bridgemen, that wretch will take control again. This time he’ll get his way. … That gave Kaladin a shiver. He set his bundles down beside the chasm ledge, then sat. The other two followed more hesitantly.

“We’re going to toss them into the chasm?” Teft asked, scratching his beard. “After all that work?”

“Of course not,” Kaladin said. He hesitated; Nomon was bright, but it was still night. “You don’t have any spheres, do you?”

“Why?” Teft asked, suspicious.

“For light, Teft.”

Teft grumbled, pulling out a handful of garnet chips. “Was going to spend these tonight. …” he said. They glowed in his palm.

“All right,” Kaladin said, slipping out a reed. What had his father said about these? Hesitantly, Kaladin broke off the furry top of the reed, exposing the hollow center. He took the reed by the other end and ran his fingers down its length, squeezing it tight. Two drops of milky white liquid dripped into the empty liquor bottle.

Kaladin smiled in satisfaction, then squeezed his fingers along the length again. Nothing came out this time, so he tossed the reed into the chasm. For all his talk of hats, he didn’t want to leave evidence.

“I thought you said we aren’t throwing them in!” Teft accused.

Kaladin held up the liquor bottle. “Only after we have this out.”

“What is it?” Rock leaned closer, squinting.

“Knobweed sap. Or, rather, knobweed milk—I don’t think it’s really sap. Anyway, it’s a powerful antiseptic.”

“Anti … what?” Teft asked.

“It scares away rotspren,” Kaladin said. “They cause infection. This milk is one of the best antiseptics there is. Spread it on a wound that’s already infected, and it will still work.” That was good, because Leyten’s wounds had begun to turn an angry red, rotspren crawling all over.

Teft grunted, then glanced at the bundles. “There are a lot of reeds here.”

“I know,” Kaladin said, handing over the other two bottles. “That’s why I’m glad I don’t have to milk them all on my own.”

Teft sighed, but sat down and untied a bundle. Rock did so without the complaining, sitting with his knees bent to the sides, feet pressed together to hold the bottle as he worked.

A faint breeze blew up, rattling some of the reeds. “Why do you care about them?” Teft finally asked.

“They’re my men.”

“That’s not what being bridgeleader means.”

“It means whatever we decide,” Kaladin said, noting that Syl had come over to listen. “You, me, the others.”

“You think they’ll let you do that?” Teft asked. “The lighteyes and the captains?”

“You think they’ll pay enough attention to even notice?”

Teft hesitated, then grunted, milking another reed.

“Perhaps they will,” Rock said. There was a surprising level of delicacy to the large man’s motions as he milked the reeds. Kaladin hadn’t thought those thick fingers would be so careful, so precise. “Lighteyes, they are often noticing those things that you wish they would not.”

Teft grunted again, agreeing.

“How did you come here, Rock?” Kaladin asked. “How does a Horneater end up leaving his mountains and coming to the lowlands?”

“You shouldn’t ask those kinds of things, son,” Teft said, wagging a finger at Kaladin. “We don’t talk about our pasts.”

“We don’t talk about anything,” Kaladin said. “You two didn’t even know each other’s names.”

“Names are one thing,” Teft grumbled. “Backgrounds, they’re different. I—”

“Is all right,” Rock said. “I will speak of this thing.”

Teft muttered to himself, but he did lean forward to listen when Rock spoke.

“My people have no Shardblades,” Rock said in his low, rumbling voice.

“That’s not unusual,” Kaladin said. “Other than Alethkar and Jah Keved, few kingdoms have many Blades.” It was a matter of some pride among the armies.

“This thing is not true,” Rock said. “Thaylenah has five Blades and three full suits of Plate, all held by the royal guards. The Selay have their share of both suits and Blades. Other kingdoms, such as Herdaz, have a single Blade and set of Plate—this is passed down through the royal line. But the Unkalaki, we have not a single Shard. Many of our nuatoma—this thing, it is the same as your lighteyes, only their eyes are not light—”

“How can you be a lighteyes without light eyes?” Teft said with a scowl.

“By having dark eyes,” Rock said, as if it were obvious. “We do not pick our leaders this way. Is complicated. But do not interrupt story.” He milked another reed, tossing the husk into a pile beside him. “The nuatoma, they see our lack of Shards as great shame. They want these weapons very badly. It is believed that the nuatoma who first obtains a Shardblade would become king, a thing we have not had for many years. No peak would fight another peak where a man held one of the blessed Blades.”

“So you came to buy one?” Kaladin asked. No Shardbearer would sell his weapon. Each was a distinctive relic, taken from one of the Lost Radiants after their betrayal.

Rock laughed. “Ha! Buy? No, we are not so foolish as this. But my nuatoma, he knew of your tradition, eh? It says that if a man kills a Shardbearer, he may take the Blade and Plate as his own. And so my nuatoma and his house, we made a grand procession, coming down to find and kill one of your Shardbearers.”

Kaladin almost laughed. “I assume it proved more difficult than that.”

“My nuatoma was not a fool,” Rock said, defensive. “He knew this thing would be difficult, but your tradition, it gives us hope, you see? Occasionally, a brave nuatoma will come down to duel a Shardbearer. Someday, one will win, and we will have Shards.”

“Perhaps,” Kaladin said, tossing an empty reed into the chasm. “Assuming they agree to duel you in a bout to the death.”

“Oh, they always duel,” Rock said, laughing. “The nuatoma brings many riches and promises all of his possessions to the victor. Your lighteyes, they cannot pass by a pond so warm! To kill an Unkalaki with no Shardblade, they do not see this thing as difficult. Many nuatoma have died. But is all right. Eventually, we will win.”

“And have one set of Shards,” Kaladin said. “Alethkar has dozens.”

“One is a beginning,” Rock said, shrugging. “But my nuatoma lost, so I am bridgeman.”

“Wait,” Teft said. “You came all of this way with your brightlord, and once he lost, you up and joined a bridge crew?”

“No, no, you do not see,” Rock said. “My nuatoma, he challenged Highprince Sadeas. Is well known that there are many Shardbearers here on Shattered Plains. My nuatoma thought it easier to fight man with only Plate first, then win Blade next.”

“And?” Teft said.

“Once my nuatoma lost to Brightlord Sadeas, all of us became his.”

“So you’re a slave?” Kaladin asked, reaching up and feeling the marks on his forehead.

“No, we do not have this thing,” Rock said. “I was not a slave of my nuatoma. I was his family.”

“His family?” Teft said. “Kelek! You’re a lighteyes!”

Rock laughed again, loud and full-bellied. Kaladin smiled despite himself. It seemed like so long since he’d heard someone laugh like that. “No, no. I was only umarti’a—his cousin, you would say.”

“Still, you were related to him.”

“On the Peaks,” Rock said, “the relatives of a brightlord are his servants.”

“What kind of system is that?” Teft complained. “You have to be a servant to your own relatives? Storm me! I’d rather die, I think I would.”

“It is not so bad,” Rock said.

“You don’t know my relatives,” Teft said, shivering.

Rock laughed again. “You would rather serve someone you do not know? Like this Sadeas? A man who is no relation to you?” He shook his head. “Lowlanders. You have too much air here. Makes your minds sick.”

“Too much air?” Kaladin asked.

“Yes,” Rock said.

“How can you have too much air? It’s all around.”

“This thing, it is difficult to explain.” Rock’s Alethi was good, but he sometimes forgot to add in common words. Other times, he remembered them, speaking his sentences precisely. The faster he spoke, the more words he forgot to put in.

“You have too much air,” Rock said. “Come to the Peaks. You will see.”

“I guess,” Kaladin said, shooting a glance at Teft, who just shrugged. “But you’re wrong about one thing. You said that we serve someone we don’t know. Well, I do know Brightlord Sadeas. I know him well.”

Rock raised an eyebrow.

“Arrogant,” Kaladin said, “vengeful, greedy, corrupt to the core.”

Rock smiled. “Yes, I think you are right. This man is not among the finest of lighteyes.”

“There are no ‘finest’ among them, Rock. They’re all the same.”

“They have done much to you, then?”

Kaladin shrugged, the question uncovering wounds that weren’t yet healed. “Anyway, your master was lucky.”

“Lucky to be slain by a Shardbearer?”

“Lucky he didn’t win,” Kaladin said, “and discover how he’d been tricked. They wouldn’t have let him walk away with Sadeas’s Plate.”

“Nonsense,” Teft broke in. “Tradition—”

“Tradition is the blind witness they use to condemn us, Teft,” Kaladin said. “It’s the pretty box they use to wrap up their lies. It makes us serve them.”

Teft set his jaw. “I’ve lived a lot longer than you, son. I know things. If a common man killed an enemy Shardbearer, he’d become a lighteyes. That’s the way of it.”

He let the argument lapse. If Teft’s illusions made him feel better about his place in this mess of a war, then who was Kaladin to dissuade him? “So you were a servant,” Kaladin said to Rock. “In a brightlord’s retinue? What kind of servant?” He struggled for the right word, remembering back to the times he’d interacted with Wistiow or Roshone. “A footman? A butler?”

Rock laughed. “I was cook. My nuatoma would not come down to the lowlands without his own cook! Your food here, it has so many spices that you cannot taste anything else. Might as well be eating stones powdered with pepper!”

“You should talk about food,” Teft said, scowling. “A Horneater?”

Kaladin frowned. “Why do they call your people that, anyway?”

“Because they eat the horns and shells of the things they catch,” Teft said. “The outsides.”

Rock smiled, with a look of longing. “Ah, but the taste is so good.”

“You actually eat the shells?” Kaladin asked.

“We have very strong teeth,” Rock said proudly. “But there. You now know my story. Brightlord Sadeas, he wasn’t certain what he should do with most of us. Some were made soldiers, others serve in his household. I fixed him one meal and he sent me to bridge crews.” Rock hesitated. “I may have, uh, enhanced the soup.”

“Enhanced?” Kaladin asked, raising an eyebrow.

Rock seemed to grow embarrassed. “You see, I was quite angry about my nuatoma’s death. And I thought, these lowlanders, their tongues are all scorched and burned by the food they eat. They have no taste, and …”

“And what?” Kaladin asked.

“Chull dung,” Rock said. “It apparently has stronger taste than I assumed.”

“Wait,” Teft said. “You put chull dung in Highprince Sadeas’s soup?”

“Er, yes,” Rock said. “Actually, I put this thing in his bread too. And used it as a garnish on the pork steak. And made a chutney out of it for the buttered garams. Chull dung, it has many uses, I found.”

Teft laughed, his voice echoing. He fell on his side, so amused that Kaladin was afraid he’d roll right into the chasm. “Horneater,” Teft finally said, “I owe you a drink.”

Rock smiled. Kaladin shook his head to himself, amazed. It suddenly made sense.

“What?” Rock said, apparently noticing his expression.

“This is what we need,” Kaladin said. “This! It’s the thing I’ve been missing.”

Rock hesitated. “Chull dung? This is the thing you need?”

Teft burst into another round of laughter.

“No,” Kaladin said. “It’s … well, I’ll show you. But first we need this knobweed sap.” They’d barely made their way through one of the bundles, and already his fingers were aching from the milking.

“What of you, Kaladin?” Rock asked. “I have been telling you my story. You will tell me yours? How did you come to those marks on your forehead?”

“Yeah,” Teft said, wiping his eyes. “Whose food did you trat in?”

“I thought you said it was taboo to ask about a bridgeman’s past,” Kaladin said.

“You made Rock share, son,” Teft said. “It’s only fair.”

“So if I tell my story, that means you’ll tell yours?”

Teft scowled immediately. “Now look, I ain’t going to—”

“I killed a man,” Kaladin said.

That quieted Teft. Rock perked up. Syl, Kaladin noticed, was still watching with interest. That was odd for her; normally, her attention wavered quickly.

“You killed a man?” Rock said. “And after this thing, they made you a slave? Is not the punishment for murder usually death?”

“It wasn’t murder,” Kaladin said softly, thinking of the scraggly bearded man in the slave wagon who had asked him these same questions. “In fact, I was thanked for it by someone very important.”

He fell silent.

“And?” Teft finally asked.

“And …” Kaladin said, looking down at a reed. Nomon was setting in the west, and the small green disk of Mishim—the final moon—was rising in the east. “And it turns out that lighteyes don’t react very well when you turn down their gifts.”

The others waited for more, but Kaladin fell silent, working on his reeds. It shocked him, how painful it still was to remember those events back in Amaram’s army.

Either the others sensed his mood, or they felt what he’d said was enough, for they each turned back to their work and prodded no further.