"Yes, Brightness."

"Well, out with it."

"Just that your conversation with the king was not entirely fair."

"Oh?"

"Because of his, well, you know. His limited capacity. He did quite remarkably, but didn't make the arguments that someone more versed in Vorin theology might have."

"And what arguments might such a one have made?"

"Well, I'm not very well trained in that area myself. But I do think that you ignored, or at least minimized, one vital part of the discussion."

"Which is?"

Shallan tapped at her breast. "Our hearts, Brightness. I believe because I feel something, a closeness to the Almighty, a peace that comes when I live my faith."

"The mind is capable of projecting expected emotional responses."

"But didn't you yourself argue that the way we act-the way we feel about right and wrong-was a defining attribute of our humanity? You used our innate morality to prove your point. So how can you discard my feelings?"

"Discard them? No. Regard them with skepticism? Perhaps. Your feelings, Shallan-however powerful-are your own. Not mine. And what I feel is that spending my life trying to earn the favor of an unseen, unknown, and unknowable being who watches me from the sky is an exercise in sheer futility." She pointed at Shallan with her pen. "But your rhetorical method is improving. We'll make a scholar of you yet."

Shallan smiled, feeling a surge of pleasure. Praise from Jasnah was more precious than an emerald broam.

But…I'm not going to be a scholar. I'm going to steal the Soulcaster and leave.

She didn't like to think about that. That was something else she'd have to get over; she tended to avoid thinking about things that made her uncomfortable.

"Now hurry and be about the king's sketch," Jasnah said, lifting a book. "You still have a great deal of real work to do once you are done drawing."

"Yes, Brightness," Shallan said.

For once, however, she found sketching difficult, her mind too troubled to focus. "They were suddenly dangerous. Like a calm day that became a tempest." -This fragment is the origin of a Thaylen proverb that was eventually reworked into a more common derivation. I believe it may reference the Voidbringers. See Ixsix's Emperor, fourth chapter. Kaladin walked from the cavernous barrack into the pure light of first morning. Bits of quartz in the ground sparkled before him, catching the light, as if the ground were sparking and burning, ready to burst from within.

A group of twenty-nine men followed him. Slaves. Thieves. Deserters. Foreigners. Even a few men whose only sin had been poverty. Those had joined the bridge crews out of desperation. The pay was good when compared with nothing, and they were promised that if they survived a hundred bridge runs, they would be promoted. Assignment to a watch post-which, in the mind of a poor man, sounded like a life of luxury. Being paid to stand and look at things all day? What kind of insanity was that? It was like being rich, almost.

They didn't understand. Nobody survived a hundred bridge runs. Kaladin had been on two dozen, and he was already one of the most experienced living bridgemen.

Bridge Four followed him. The last of the holdouts-a thin man named Bisig-had given in yesterday. Kaladin preferred to think that the laughter, the food, and the humanity had finally gotten to him. But it had probably been a few glares or under-the-breath threats from Rock and Teft.

Kaladin turned a blind eye to those. He'd eventually need the men's loyalty, but for now, he'd settle for obedience.

He guided them through the morning exercises he'd learned his very first day in the military. Stretches followed by jumping motions. Carpenters in brown work overalls and tan or green caps passed on their way to the lumberyard, shaking their heads in amusement. Soldiers on the short ridge above, where the camp proper began, looked down and laughed. Gaz watched from beside a nearby barrack, arms folded, single eye dissatisfied.

Kaladin wiped his brow. He met Gaz's eye for a long moment, then turned back to the men. There was still time to practice hauling the bridge before breakfast. Gaz had never gotten used to having just one eye. Could a man get used to that? He'd rather have lost a hand or a leg than that eye. He couldn't stop feeling that something hid in that darkness he couldn't see, but others could. What lurked there? Spren that would drain his soul from his body? The way a rat could empty an entire wineskin by chewing the corner?

His companions called him lucky. "That blow could have taken your life." Well, at least then he wouldn't have had to live with that darkness. One of his eyes was always closed. Close the other, and the darkness swallowed him.

Gaz glanced left, and the darkness scuttled to the side. Lamaril stood leaning against a post, tall and slim. He was not a massive man, but he was not weak. He was all lines. Rectangular beard. Rectangular body. Sharp. Like a knife.

Lamaril waved Gaz over, so he reluctantly approached. Then he took a sphere out of his pouch and passed it over. A topaz mark. He hated losing it. He always hated losing money.

"You owe me twice as much as this," Lamaril noted, raising the sphere up to look through it as it sparkled in the sunlight.

"Well, that's all you'll get for now. Be glad you get anything."

"Be glad I've kept my mouth shut," Lamaril said lazily, leaning back against his post. It was one that marked the edge of the lumberyard.

Gaz gritted his teeth. He hated to pay, but what else could he do? Storms take him. Raging storms take him!

"You have a problem, it seems," Lamaril said.

At first, Gaz thought he meant the half payment. The lighteyed man nodded toward Bridge Four's barracks.

Gaz eyed the bridgemen, unsettled. The youthful bridgeleader barked an order, and the bridgemen raced the span of the lumberyard in a jog. He already had them running in time with one another. That one change meant so much. It sped them up, helped them think like a team.

Could this boy actually have military training, as he'd once claimed? Why would he be wasted as a bridgeman? Of course, there was that shash brand on his forehead…

"I don't see a problem," Gaz said with a grunt. "They're fast. That's good."

"They're insubordinate."

"They follow orders."

"His orders, perhaps." Lamaril shook his head. "Bridgemen exist for one purpose, Gaz. To protect the lives of more valuable men."

"Really? And here I thought their purpose was to carry bridges."

Lamaril gave him a sharp look. He leaned forward. "Don't try me, Gaz. And don't forget your place. Would you like to join them?"

Gaz felt a spike of fear. Lamaril was a very lowly lighteyes, one of the landless. But he was Gaz's immediate superior, a liaison between bridge crews and the higher-ranked lighteyes who oversaw the lumberyard.

Gaz looked down at the ground. "I'm sorry, Brightlord."

"Highprince Sadeas holds an edge," Lamaril said, leaning back against his post. "He maintains it by pushing us all. Hard. Each man in his place." He nodded toward the members of Bridge Four. "Speed is not a bad thing. Initiative is not a bad thing. But men with initiative like that boy's are not often happy in their position. The bridge crews function as they are, without need for modification. Change can be unsettling."

Gaz doubted that any of the bridgemen really understood their place in Sadeas's plans. If they knew why they were worked as pitilessly as they were-and why they were forbidden shields or armor-they likely would just cast themselves into the chasm. Bait. They were bait. Draw the Parshendi attention, let the savages think they were doing some good by felling a few bridges' worth of bridgemen every assault. So long as you took plenty of men, that didn't matter. Except to those who were slaughtered.