Hobber nodded eagerly and Kaladin moved to Dabbid. The youthful bridgeman looked just as he had the day before, staring forward, eyes unfocused.

"He was sitting like that when I fell asleep too, sir," Hobber said. "It's like he hasn't moved all night. Gives me the chills, it does."

Kaladin snapped his fingers in front of Dabbid's eyes. The man jumped at the sound, focusing on the fingers, following them as Kaladin moved his hand.

"He's been hit in the head, I think," Hobber said.

"No," Kaladin said. "It's battle shock. It will wear off." I hope.

"If you say so, sir," Hobber said, scratching at the side of his head.

Kaladin stood and pushed the door open all the way, lighting the room. It was a clear day, the sun just barely over the horizon. Already, sounds drifted from the warcamp, a blacksmith working early, hammer on metal. Chulls trumpeting in the stables. The air was cool, chilly, clinging to the vestiges of night. It smelled clean and fresh. Spring weather.

You got up, Kaladin told himself. Might as well get on with it. He forced himself to go out and do his stretches, body complaining at each motion. Then he checked his own wound. It wasn't too bad, though infection could make it worse.

Stormwinds take that apothecary! he thought, fetching a ladle full of water from the bridgeman barrel, using it to wash his wound.

He immediately regretted the bitter thought against the elderly apothecary. What was the man to do? Give Kaladin the antiseptic for free? It was Highprince Sadeas he should be cursing. Sadeas was responsible for the wound, and was also the one who had forbidden the surgeon's hall to give supplies to bridgemen, slaves, and servants of the lesser nahns.

By the time he finished stretching, a handful of bridgemen had risen to get something to drink. They stood around the barrel, regarding Kaladin.

There was only one thing to do. Setting his jaw, Kaladin crossed the lumber grounds and located the plank he'd carried the day before. The carpenters hadn't yet added it to their bridge, so Kaladin picked it up and walked back to the barracks. Then he began practicing the same way he had yesterday.

He couldn't go as fast. In fact, much of the time, he could only walk. But as he worked, his aches soothed. His headache faded. His feet and shoulders still hurt, and he had a deep, latent exhaustion. But he didn't embarrass himself by falling over.

In his practice, he passed the other bridgeman barracks. The men in front of them were barely distinguishable from those in Bridge Four. The same dark, sweat-stained leather vests over bare chests or loosely tied shirts. There was the occasional foreigner, Thaylens or Vedens most often. But they were unified in their scraggly appearances, unshaven faces, and haunted eyes. Several groups watched Kaladin with outright hostility. Were they worried that his practice would encourage their own bridgeleaders to work them?

He had hoped that some members of Bridge Four might join his work-out. They'd obeyed him during the battle, after all, even going so far as to help him with the wounded. His hope was in vain. While some bridgemen watched, others ignored him. None took part.

Eventually, Syl flitted down and landed on the end of his plank, riding like a queen on her palanquin. "They're talking about you," she said as he passed the Bridge Four barrack again.

"Not surprising," Kaladin said between puffs.

"Some think you've gone mad," she said. "Like that man who just sits and stares at the floor. They say the battle stress broke your mind."

"Maybe they're right. I didn't consider that."

"What is madness?" she asked, sitting with one leg up against her chest, vaporous skirt flickering around her calves and vanishing into mist.

"It's when men don't think right," Kaladin said, glad for the conversation to distract him.

"Men never seem to think right."

"Madness is worse than normal," Kaladin said with a smile. "It really just depends on the people around you. How different are you from them? The person that stands out is mad, I guess."

"So you all just…vote on it?" she asked, screwing up her face.

"Well, not so actively. But it's the right idea."

She sat thoughtfully for a time longer. "Kaladin," she finally said. "Why do men lie? I can see what lies are, but I don't know why people do it."

"Lots of reasons," Kaladin said, wiping the sweat from his brow with his free hand, then using it to steady the plank.

"Is it madness?"

"I don't know if I'd say that. Everyone does it."

"So maybe you're all a little mad."

He chuckled. "Yes, perhaps."

"But if everyone does it," she said, leaning her head on her knee, "then the one who doesn't would be the one who is mad, right? Isn't that what you said earlier?"

"Well, I guess. But I don't think there's a person out there who hasn't ever lied."

"Dalinar."

"Who?"

"The king's uncle," Syl said. "Everyone says he never lies. Your bridgemen even talk about it sometimes."

That's right. The Blackthorn. Kaladin had heard of him, even in his youth. "He's a lighteyes. That means he lies."

"But-"

"They're all the same, Syl. The more noble they look, the more corrupt they are inside. It's all an act." He fell quiet, surprised at the vehemence of his bitterness. Storm you, Amaram. You did this to me. He'd been burned too often to trust the flame.

"I don't think men were always this way," she said absently, getting a far-off look in her face. "I…"

Kaladin waited for her to continue, but she didn't. He passed Bridge Four again; many of the men relaxed, backs to the barrack wall, waiting for the afternoon shade to cover them. They rarely waited inside. Perhaps staying inside all day was too gloomy, even for bridgemen.

"Syl?" he finally prompted. "Were you going to say something?"

"It seems I've heard men talk about times when there were no lies."

"There are stories," Kaladin said, "about the times of the Heraldic Epochs, when men were bound by honor. But you'll always find people telling stories about supposedly better days. You watch. A man joins a new team of soldiers, and the first thing he'll do is talk about how wonderful his old team was. We remember the good times and the bad ones, forgetting that most times are neither good nor bad. They just are."

He broke into a jog. The sun was growing warm overhead, but he wanted to move.

"The stories," he continued between puffs, "they prove it. What happened to the Heralds? They abandoned us. What happened to the Knights Radiant? They fell and became tarnished. What happened to the Epoch Kingdoms? They crashed when the church tried to seize power. You can't trust anyone with power, Syl."

"What do you do, then? Have no leaders?"

"No. You give the power to the lighteyes and leave it to corrupt them. Then try to stay as far from them as possible." His words felt hollow. How good a job had he done staying away from lighteyes? He always seemed to be in the thick of them, caught in the muddy mire they created with their plots, schemes, and greed.

Syl fell silent, and after that last jog, he decided to stop his practicing. He couldn't afford to strain himself again. He returned the plank. The carpenters scratched their heads, but didn't complain. He made his way back to the bridgemen, noticing that a small group of them-including Rock and Teft-were chatting and glancing at Kaladin.

"You know," Kaladin said to Syl, "talking to you probably doesn't do anything for my reputation of being insane."

"I'll do my best to stop being so interesting," Syl said, alighting on his shoulder. She put her hands on her hips, then plopped down to a sitting position, smiling, obviously pleased with her comment.

Before Kaladin could get back to the barrack, he noticed Gaz hustling across the lumberyard toward him. "You!" Gaz said, pointing at Kaladin. "Hold a season."