* * *

Kaladin stopped at the entrance to the lighteyed training grounds, rainwater streaming off his umbrella’s waxed cloth, surprised at what he saw. In preparation for a storm, the ardents normally swept and shoveled the sand into covered trenches at the edges of the ground to keep it from being blown away.

He had expected to see something similar during the Weeping. Instead, they had left the sand out, but had then placed a short wooden barrier across the gateway in. It plugged the front of the sparring grounds, allowing them to fill up with water. A small cascade of rainwater poured over the lip of the barrier and into the roadway.

Kaladin regarded the small lake that now filled the courtyard, then sighed and reached down, undoing his laces, then pulling off both boots and socks. When he stepped in, the cold water came up to his calves.

Soft sand squished between his toes. What was the purpose of this? He crossed the courtyard, crutch under his arm, boots joined by the laces and slung over his shoulder. The chill water numbed his wounded foot, which actually felt nice, though his leg still hurt with each step. It seemed that the two weeks of healing hadn’t done much for his wounds. His continued insistence that he walk so much probably wasn’t helping.

He’d been spoiled by his abilities; a soldier with such a wound normally would take months to recover. Without Stormlight, he’d just have to be patient and heal like everyone else.

He had expected to find the training grounds as abandoned as most of the camp. Even the markets were relatively empty, people preferring to remain indoors during the Weeping. Here, however, he found the ardents laughing and chatting as they sat in chairs in the raised arcades framing the sparring grounds. They sewed leather practice jerkins, cups of auburn wine on tables at their sides. That area rose enough above the yard floor to stay dry.

Kaladin walked along, searching among them, but didn’t find Zahel. He even peeked in the man’s room, but it was empty.

“Up above, bridgeman!” one of the ardents called. The bald woman pointed toward the stairwell at the corner, where Kaladin had often sent guards to secure the roof when Adolin and Renarin practiced.

Kaladin waved in thanks, then hobbled over and awkwardly made his way up the steps. He had to close his umbrella to fit. Rain fell on his head as he poked it out of the opening in the roof, where the stairwell ended. The roof was made of tile set into hardened crem, and Zahel lay there in a hammock he’d strung between two poles. Kaladin thought they might be lightning rods, which didn’t strike him as safe. A tarp hung above the hammock and kept Zahel almost dry.

The ardent swung gently, eyes closed, holding a square bottle of hard honu, a type of lavis grain liquor. Kaladin inspected the rooftop, judging his ability to cross those sloped tiles without toppling off and breaking his neck.

“Ever been to the Purelake, bridgeman?” Zahel asked.

“No,” Kaladin said. “One of my men talks about it, though.”

“What have you heard?”

“It’s an ocean that’s so shallow, you can wade across it.”

“It’s ridiculously shallow,” Zahel said. “Like an endless bay, mere feet deep. Warm water. Calm breezes. Reminds me of home. Not like this cold, damp, godsforsaken place.”

“So why aren’t you there instead of here?”

“Because I can’t stand being reminded of home, idiot.”

Oh. “Why are we talking about it, then?”

“Because you were wondering why we made our own little Purelake down below.”

“I was?”

“Of course you were. Damnation boy. I know you well enough by now to know that questions bother you. You don’t think like a spearman.”

“Spearmen can’t be curious?”

“No. Because if they are, they either get killed or they end up showing someone in charge how smart they are. Then they get put somewhere more useful.”

Kaladin raised an eyebrow, waiting for more explanation. Finally, he sighed, and asked, “Why have you blocked off the courtyard below?”

“Why do you think?”

“You are a really annoying person, Zahel. Do you realize that?”

“Sure do.” He took a drink of his honu.

“I assume,” Kaladin said, “that you blocked off the front of the practice grounds so that the rain wouldn’t wash the sand away.”

“Excellent deduction,” Zahel said. “Like fresh blue paint on a wall.”

“Whatever that means. The problem is, why is it necessary to keep the sand in the courtyard? Why not just put it away, like you do before highstorms?”

“Did you know,” Zahel said, “that rains during the Weeping don’t drop crem?”

“I…” Did he know that? Did it matter?

“Good thing too,” Zahel said, “or our entire camp here would end up clogged with the stuff. Anyway, rain like this, it’s great for washing.”

“You’re telling me that you’ve turned the floor of the dueling grounds into a bath?”

“Sure did.”

“You wash in that?”

“Sure do. Not ourselves, of course.”

“Then what?”

“Sand.”

Kaladin frowned, then peered over the side, looking at the pool below.

“Every day,” Zahel said, “we go in there and stir it up. The sand settles back down to the bottom, and all the yuck floats away, carried by the rain in little streams out of the camp. Did you ever consider that sand might need washing?”

“No, actually.”

“Well it does. After a year’s worth of being kicked by stinky bridgeman feet and equally stinky—but far more refined—lighteyes feet, after a year of having people like me spill food on it, or having animals find their way in here to do business, the sand needs cleaning.”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“Because it’s important,” Zahel said, taking a drink. “Or something. I don’t know. You came to me, kid, interrupting my vacation. That means you have to listen to me blab.”

“You’re supposed to say something profound.”

“Did you miss the part about me being on vacation?”

Kaladin stood in the rain. “Do you know where the King’s Wit is?”

“That fool, Dust? Not here, blessedly. Why?”

Kaladin needed someone to talk to, and had spent the better part of the day searching for Wit. He hadn’t found the man, though he had broken down and bought some chouta from a lonely street vendor.

It had tasted good. That hadn’t helped his mood.

So, he’d given up on finding Wit and had come to Zahel instead. That appeared to have been a mistake. Kaladin sighed, turning back down the stairs.

“What was it you wanted?” Zahel called to him. The man had cracked an eye, looking toward Kaladin.

“Have you ever had to choose between two equally distasteful choices?”

“Every day I choose to keep breathing.”

“I worry something awful is going to happen,” Kaladin said. “I can prevent it, but the awful thing… it might be best for everyone if it does happen.”

“Huh,” Zahel said.

“No advice?” Kaladin asked.

“Choose the option,” Zahel said, rearranging his pillow, “that makes it easiest for you to sleep at night.” The old ardent closed his eyes and settled back. “That’s what I wish I’d done.”