Kabsal flushed. He moved to gather up his things.

Jasnah waved for the parshman to place her books on the table. "Can that plate reproduce a cymatic pattern corresponding to Urithiru, priest? Or do you only have patterns for the standard four cities?"

Kabsal looked at her, obviously shocked to realize that she knew exactly what the plate was for. He picked up his book. "Urithiru is just a fable."

"Odd. One would think that your type would be used to believing in fables."

His face grew redder. He finished packing his things, then nodded curtly to Shallan and walked hastily from the room.

"If I may say so, Brightness," Shallan said, "that was exceptionally rude of you."

"I'm prone to such bouts of incivility," Jasnah said. "I'm certain he has heard what I'm like. I simply wanted to make sure he got what he expected."

"You haven't acted that way toward other ardents in the Palanaeum."

"The other ardents in the Palanaeum haven't been working to turn my ward against me."

"He wasn't…" Shallan trailed off. "He was simply worried about my soul."

"Has he asked you to try to steal my Soulcaster yet?"

Shallan felt a sudden spike of shock. Her hand went to the pouch at her waist. Did Jasnah know? No, Shallan told herself. No, listen to the question. "He didn't."

"Watch," Jasnah said, opening a book. "He will eventually. I've experience with his type." She looked at Shallan, and her expression softened. "He's not interested in you. Not in any of the ways you think. In particular, this isn't about your soul. It's about me."

"That is somewhat arrogant of you," Shallan said, "don't you think?"

"Only if I'm wrong, child," Jasnah said, turning back to her book. "And I rarely am." "I walked from Abamabar to Urithiru." -This quote from the Eighth Parable of The Way of Kings seems to contradict Varala and Sinbian, who both claim the city was inaccessible by foot. Perhaps there was a way constructed, or perhaps Nohadon was being metaphorical. Bridgemen aren't supposed to survive…

Kaladin's mind felt fuzzy. He knew that he hurt, but other than that, he floated. As if his head were detached from his body and bouncing off the walls and ceilings.

"Kaladin!" a concerned voice whispered. "Kaladin, please. Please don't be hurt anymore."

Bridgemen aren't supposed to survive. Why did those words bother him so much? He remembered what had happened, using the bridge as a shield, throwing the army off, dooming the assault. Stormfather, he thought, I'm an idiot!

"Kaladin?"

It was Syl's voice. He risked opening his eyes and looked out on an upside-down world, sky extending below him, familiar lumberyard in the air above him.

No. He was upside down. Hanging against the side of Bridge Four's barrack. The Soulcast building was fifteen feet tall at its peak, with a shallowly slanted roof. Kaladin was tied by his ankles to a rope, which would-in turn-be affixed to a ring set into the slanted roof. He'd seen it happen to other bridgemen. One who had committed a murder in camp, another who had been caught stealing for the fifth time.

His back was to the wall so that he faced eastward. His arms were free, hanging down at his sides, and they almost touched the ground. He groaned again, hurting everywhere.

As his father had trained him, he began to prod his side to check for broken ribs. He winced as he found several that were tender, at least cracked. Probably broken. He felt at his shoulder too, where he feared that his collarbone was broken. One of his eyes was swollen. Time would show if he'd sustained any serious internal damage.

He rubbed his face, and flakes of dried blood cracked free and fluttered toward the ground. Gash on his head, bloodied nose, split lip. Syl landed on his chest, feet planted on his sternum, hands clasped before her. "Kaladin?"

"I'm alive," he mumbled, words slurred by his swollen lip. "What happened?"

"You were beaten by those soldiers," she said, seeming to grow smaller. "I've gotten back at them. I made one of them trip three times today." She looked concerned.

He found himself smiling. How long could a man hang like this, blood going to his head?

"There was a lot of yelling," Syl said softly. "I think several men were demoted. The soldier, Lamaril, he…"

"What?"

"He was executed," Syl said, even more quietly. "Highprince Sadeas did it himself, the hour the army got back from the plateau. He said something about the ultimate responsibility falling on the lighteyes. Lamaril kept screaming that you had promised to absolve him, and that Gaz should be punished instead."

Kaladin smirked ruefully. "He shouldn't have had me beaten senseless. Gaz?"

"They left him in his position. I don't know why."

"Right of responsibility. In a disaster like this, the lighteyes are supposed to take most of the blame. They like to make a show of obeying old precepts like that, when it suits them. Why am I still alive?"

"Something about an example," Syl said, wrapping her translucent arms around herself. "Kaladin, I feel cold."

"You can feel temperature?" Kaladin said, coughing.

"Not usually. I can now. I don't understand it. I…I don't like it."

"It'll be all right."

"You shouldn't lie."

"Sometimes it's all right to lie, Syl."

"And this is one of those times?"

He blinked, trying to ignore his wounds, the pressure in his head, trying to clear his mind. He failed on all counts. "Yes," he whispered.

"I think I understand."

"So," Kaladin said, resting his head back, the parietal knob of his skull resting against the wall, "I'm to be judged by the highstorm. They'll let the storm kill me."

Hanging here, Kaladin would be exposed directly to the winds and everything they would throw at him. If you were prudent and took appropriate action, it was possible to survive outside in a highstorm, though it was a miserable experience. Kaladin had done it on several occasions, hunkered down, taking shelter in the lee of a rock formation. But hanging on a wall facing directly stormward? He'd be cut to ribbons and crushed by stones.

"I'll be right back," Syl said, dropping off his chest, taking the form of a falling stone, then changing into windblown leaves near the ground and fluttering away, curving to the right. The lumberyard was empty. Kaladin could smell the crisp, chill air, the land bracing for a highstorm. The lull, it was called, when the wind fell still, the air cold, the pressure dropping, the humidity rising right before a storm.

A few seconds later, Rock poked his head around the wall, Syl on his shoulder. He crept up to Kaladin, a nervous Teft following. They were joined by Moash; despite the latter's protests that he didn't trust Kaladin, he looked almost as concerned as the other two.

"Lordling?" Moash said. "You awake?"

"I'm conscious," Kaladin croaked. "Everyone get back from the battle all right?"

"All of our men, sure enough," Teft said, scratching at his beard. "But we lost the battle. It was a disaster. Over two hundred bridgemen dead. Those who survived were only enough to carry eleven bridges."

Two hundred men, Kaladin thought. That's my fault. I protected my own at the cost of others. I was too hasty.

Bridgemen aren't supposed to survive. There's something about that. He wouldn't be able to ask Lamaril. That man had gotten what he deserved, though. If Kaladin had the ability to choose, such would be the end of all lighteyes, the king included.

"We wanted to say something," Rock said. "Is from all of the men. Most wouldn't come out. Highstorm coming, and-"

"It's all right," Kaladin whispered.

Teft nudged Rock to continue.

"Well, is this. We will remember you. Bridge Four, we won't go back to how we were. Maybe all of us will die, but we'll show the new ones. Fires at night. Laughter. Living. We'll make a tradition out of it. For you." Rock and Teft knew about the knobweed. They could keep earning extra money to pay for things.