He nodded toward the light of the day outside the chasm.

“If I can, I’ll tell him what I can do. I will believe that at least one lighteyes won’t try to take everything from me. Like Roshone did. Like Amaram did. Like Sadeas did.”

“And that is what it will take?” she asked.

“I warned you that I was broken, Syl.”

“No. You’ve been reforged. It can happen to men.”

“To other men, yes,” Kaladin said, raising his hand, feeling the scars on his forehead. Why had the Stormlight never healed those? “I’m not certain about myself yet. But I will protect Dalinar Kholin with everything I have. I will learn who he is, who he really is. Then, maybe… we’ll give him his Knights Radiant.”

“And Amaram? What of him?”

Pain. Tien. “Him I’m going to kill.”

“Kaladin,” she said, hands clasped before her, “don’t let this destroy you.”

“It can’t,” he said, Stormlight running out. His uniform coat began to fall backward, toward the ground, as did his hair. “Amaram already took care of that.”

The ground below fully reasserted itself, and Kaladin fell backward away from her. He sucked in Stormlight, twisting in the air as his veins flared back to life. He landed feet-first in a rush of power and Light.

The other three remained silent for a few moments as he stood up straight.

“That,” Rock said, “was very fast way to get down. Ha! But it did not include falling on face, which would be fun. So you get only soft clap.” He proceeded to clap. It was indeed soft. Lopen, however, cheered and Sigzil nodded with a wide grin.

Kaladin snorted, grabbing a waterskin. “The king’s railing was cut with a Shardblade, Sigzil.” He took a drink. “And no, it wasn’t the Assassin in White. That attempt on Elhokar’s life was too crude.”

Sigzil nodded.

“What’s more,” Kaladin said, “the railing must have been cut after the highstorm that night. Otherwise, the wind would have blown the railing out of shape. So our saboteur, a Shardbearer, somehow got out onto the balcony after the storm.”

Lopen shook his head, catching the waterskin as Kaladin threw it back. “We’re supposed to believe that one of the camp’s Shardbearers snuck through the palace and got onto that balcony, gon? And nobody noticed him?”

“Could someone else do this thing?” Rock said, gesturing to the wall. “Walk up it?”

“I doubt it,” Kaladin said.

“A rope,” Sigzil said.

They looked to him.

“If I wanted to sneak a Shardbearer in, I’d bribe some servant to let down a rope.” Sigzil shrugged. “One could be smuggled out onto the railing easily, perhaps wrapped around the servant’s body under their clothing. The saboteur and maybe some friends could climb up the rope, cut the railing and dig at the mortar, then climb back down. The accomplice then cuts the rope and goes back inside.”

Kaladin nodded slowly.

“So,” Rock said, “we find out who went on balcony after storm, and we find accomplice. Easy! Ha. Maybe you are not airsick, Sigzil. No. Probably just a little.”

Kaladin felt unsettled. Moash had been out on that balcony between the storm and the king’s near fall.

“I’ll ask around,” Sigzil said, rising.

“No,” Kaladin said quickly. “I’ll do it. Don’t speak a word of this to anyone else. I want to see what I can find.”

“All right,” Sigzil said. He nodded toward the wall. “Can you do that again?”

“More tests?” Kaladin asked with a sigh.

“We have time,” Sigzil said. “Besides, I believe Rock wants to see if you fall on your face.”

“Ha!”

“All right,” Kaladin said. “But I’m going to have to drain some of those spheres we’re using for light.” He glanced toward them sitting in little piles on the too-clean ground. “By the way, why did you clear away the rubble in this area?”

“Clear it away?” Sigzil asked.

“Yeah,” Kaladin said. “There was no need to go moving remains around, even if they are just skeletons. It…”

He trailed off as Sigzil picked up a sphere and held it up toward the wall, exposing something Kaladin had missed before. Deep gouges where the moss had been scraped off, the rock scored.

Chasmfiend. One of the massive greatshells had passed through the area, and its bulk had scraped everything away.

“I didn’t think they came this close to the warcamps,” Kaladin said. “Maybe we shouldn’t train the lads down here for a while, just in case.”

The others nodded.

“Is gone now,” Rock said. “Otherwise, we’d have been eaten. Is obvious. So, back to training.”

Kaladin nodded, though those gouges haunted him as he practiced.

* * *

A few hours later, they led a tired group of former bridgemen back into their barrack block. Exhausted as they looked, the men of Bridge Seventeen seemed more lively than they’d been before going down into the chasm. They perked up even more when they reached their barrack and found one of Rock’s apprentice chefs fixing them a big pot of stew.

It was dark by the time Kaladin and Teft got back to Bridge Four’s own barrack. Another of Rock’s apprentices was fixing the stew here, Rock himself—having gotten back a little earlier than Kaladin—tasting and giving criticism. Shen moved behind Rock, stacking bowls.

Something was wrong.

Kaladin stopped just outside the light of the firepit, and Teft froze beside him. “Something is off,” Teft said.

“Yeah,” Kaladin agreed, scanning the men. They were clumped together on one side of the fire, some seated, others standing in a group. Their laughter forced, their postures nervous. When you trained men for war, they started to use combat stances whenever they were uncomfortable. Something on the other side of that fire was a threat.

Kaladin stepped into the light and found a man sitting there in a nice uniform, hands down at his side, head bowed. Renarin Kholin. Oddly, he was rocking back and forth with a small motion, staring at the ground.

Kaladin relaxed. “Brightlord,” Kaladin said, stepping over to him. “Is there something you need?”

Renarin scrambled to his feet and saluted. “I would like to serve under your command, sir.”

Inside, Kaladin groaned. “Let’s talk away from the fire, Brightlord.” He took the spindly prince by the arm, leading him away from the ears of the others.

“Sir,” Renarin said, speaking softly, “I want—”

“You shouldn’t call me sir,” Kaladin whispered. “You’re lighteyed. Storms, you’re the son of the most powerful man in eastern Roshar.”

“I want to be in Bridge Four,” Renarin said.

Kaladin rubbed his forehead. During his time as a slave, dealing with much larger problems, he had forgotten about the headaches of dealing with highborn lighteyes. Once, he might have assumed he’d heard the most outlandish of their ridiculous demands. Not so, it seemed.

“You can’t be in Bridge Four. We’re bodyguards for your own family. What are you going to do? Guard yourself?”