"Hold this with your hands," Kaladin instructed. "And don't walk on it. I'll check on you before we march back to camp."

"How…" the man said. He didn't have even a hint of an accent. Kaladin had expected him to be Azish because of the dark skin. "How will I get back if I can't walk on the leg?"

"We will carry you," Kaladin said.

The man looked up, obviously shocked. "I…" Tears formed in his eyes. "Thank you."

Kaladin nodded curtly, turning as Rock and Moash brought over another wounded man. Teft had a fire growing; it smelled of pungent wet rockbud. The new man had hit his head and had a long gash in his arm. Kaladin held out a hand for his thread.

"Kaladin, lad," Teft said with a soft voice, handing him the thread and kneeling. "Now, don't mark this as complaining, because it ain't. But how many men can we really carry back with us?"

"We've done three before," Kaladin said. "Lashed to the top of the bridge. I'll bet we could fit three more and carry another in the water litter."

"And if we have more than seven?"

"If we bandage them right, some might be able to walk."

"And if there are still more?"

"Storm it, Teft," Kaladin said, beginning to sew. "Then we bring the ones we can and haul the bridge back out again to fetch those we left behind. We'll bring Gaz with us if the soldiers worry that we'll run away."

Teft was silent, and Kaladin steeled himself for incredulity. Instead, however, the grizzled soldier smiled. He actually seemed a little watery-eyed. "Kelek's breath. It's true. I never thought…"

Kaladin frowned, looking up at Teft and holding a hand to the wound to stanch the bleeding. "What was that?"

"Oh, nothing." He scowled. "Get back to work! That lad needs you."

Kaladin turned back to his sewing.

"You still carrying a full pouch of spheres with you, like I told you?" Teft asked.

"I can't very well leave them behind in the barracks. But we'll need to spend them soon."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Teft said. "Those spheres are luck, you hear me? Keep them with you and always keep them infused."

Kaladin sighed. "I think there's something wrong with this batch. They won't hold their Stormlight. They fall dun after just a few days, every time. Perhaps it's something to do with the Shattered Plains. It has happened to the other bridgemen too."

"Odd, that," Teft said, rubbing his chin. "This was a bad approach. Three bridges down. Lots of bridgemen dead. Interesting how we didn't lose anyone."

"We lost Dunny."

"But not on the approach. You always run point, and the arrows always seem to miss us. Odd, eh?"

Kaladin looked up again, frowning. "What are you saying, Teft?"

"Nothing. Get back to that sewing! How many times do I have to tell you?"

Kaladin raised an eyebrow, but turned back to his work. Teft had been acting very strange lately. Was it the stress? A lot of people were superstitious about spheres and Stormlight.

Rock and his team brought three more wounded, then said that was all they'd found. Bridgemen who fell often ended up like Dunny, getting trampled. Well, at least Bridge Four wouldn't have to make a return trip to the plateau.

The three had bad arrow wounds, and so Kaladin left the man with the gash on his arm to them, instructing Skar to keep pressure on the unfinished sewing job. Teft heated a dagger for cauterization; these newcomers had obviously lost a lot of blood. One probably wouldn't make it.

So much of the world is at war, he thought as he worked. The dream had highlighted what others already spoke of. Kaladin hadn't known, growing up in remote Hearthstone, how fortunate his town had been to avoid battle.

The entire world warred, and he struggled to save a few impoverished bridgemen. What good did it do? And yet he continued searing flesh, sewing, saving lives as his father had taught him. He began to understand the sense of futility he'd seen in his father's eyes on those occasional darkened nights when Lirin had turned to his wine in solitude.

You're trying to make up for failing Dunny, Kaladin thought. Helping these others won't bring him back.

He lost the one he'd suspected would die, but saved the other four, and the one who'd taken a knock to the head was beginning to wake up. Kaladin sat back on his knees, weary, hands covered in blood. He washed them off with a stream of water from Lopen's waterskins, then reached up, finally remembering his own wound, where the arrow had sliced his cheek.

He froze. He prodded at his skin, but couldn't find the wound. He had felt blood on his cheek and chin. He'd felt the arrow slice him, hadn't he?

He stood up, feeling a chill, and raised his hand to his forehead. What was happening?

Someone stepped up beside him. Moash's now-clean-shaven face exposed a faded scar along his chin. He studied Kaladin. "About Dunny…"

"You were right to do what you did," Kaladin said. "You probably saved my life. Thank you."

Moash nodded slowly. He turned to look at the four wounded men; Lopen and Dabbid were giving them drinks of water, asking their names "I was wrong about you," Moash said suddenly, holding out a hand to Kaladin.

Kaladin took the hand, hesitant. "Thank you."

"You're a fool and an instigator. But you're an honest one." Moash chuckled to himself. "If you get us killed, it won't be on purpose. Can't say that for some I've served under. Anyway, let's get these men ready for moving." "The burdens of nine become mine. Why must I carry the madness of them all? Oh, Almighty, release me." -Dated Palaheses, 1173, unknown seconds pre-death. Subject: a wealthy lighteyes. Sample collected secondhand. The cold night air threatened that a stretch of winter might soon be coming. Dalinar wore a long, thick uniform coat over trousers and shirt. It buttoned stiffly up the chest and to the collar, and was long in the back and on the sides, coming down to his ankles, flowing at the waist like a cloak. In earlier years, it might have been worn with a takama, though Dalinar had never liked the skirtlike garments.

The purpose of the uniform was not fashion or tradition, but to distinguish him easily for those who followed him. He wouldn't have nearly the problem with the other lighteyes if they would at least wear their colors.

He stepped onto the king's feasting island. Stands had been set up at the sides where the braziers normally stood, each one bearing one of those new fabrials that gave off heat. The stream between the islands had slowed to a trickle; ice had stopped melting in the highlands.

Attendance at the feast tonight was small, though that was mostly manifest on the four islands that were not the king's. Where there was access to Elhokar and the highprinces, people would attend even if the feast were held in the middle of a highstorm. Dalinar walked down the central pathway, and Navani-sitting at a women's dining table-caught his eyes. She turned away, perhaps still remembering his abrupt words to her at their last meeting.

Wit wasn't at his customary place insulting those who walked onto the king's island; in fact, he wasn't to be seen at all. Not surprising, Dalinar thought. Wit didn't like to grow predictable; he'd spent several recent feasts on his pedestal doling out insults. Likely he felt he'd played out that tactic.

All nine other highprinces were in attendance. Their treatment of Dalinar had grown stiff and cold since refusing his requests to fight together. As if they were offended by the mere offer. Lesser lighteyes made alliances, but the highprinces were like kings themselves. Other highprinces were rivals, to be kept at arm's length.

Dalinar sent a servant to fetch him food and sat down at the table. His arrival had been delayed while he took reports from the companies he'd called back, so he was one of the last to eat. Most of the others had turned to mingling. To the right, an officer's daughter was playing a serene flute melody to a group of onlookers. To the left, three women had set up sketchpads and were each drawing the same man. Women were known to challenge each other to duels in the way of men with Shardblades, though they rarely used the word. These were always "friendly competitions" or "games of talent."