Kal’s father snorted. He ducked into the room. Kal cried out, moving back as Lirin threw open the cabinet where he kept the spheres. He grabbed the large glass goblet that he stored them in; it was covered with a black cloth.

“You want them?” Lirin called, walking to the doorway, passing Kal.

“Father?” Kal said, panicked.

“You want the light for yourself?” Lirin’s voice grew louder. “Here!”

He pulled the cloth free. The goblet exploded with fiery radiance, the brightness nearly blinding. Kal raised his arm. His father was a shadowed silhouette that seemed to hold the sun itself in its fingers.

The large goblet shone with a calm light. Almost a cold light. Kal blinked away tears, his eyes adjusting. He could see the men outside clearly now. Where dangerous shadows had once loomed, cringing men now raised hands. They didn’t seem so intimidating; in fact, the cloths over their faces looked ridiculous.

Where Kal had been afraid, he now felt strangely confident. For a moment, it wasn’t light his father held, but understanding itself. That’s Luten, Kal thought, noticing a man who limped. It was easy to distinguish him, despite the mask. Kal’s father had operated on that leg; it was because of him that Luten could still walk. He recognized others too. Horl was the one with the wide shoulders, Balsas the man wearing the nice new coat.

Lirin didn’t say anything to them at first. He stood with that light blazing, illuminating the entire stone square outside. The men seemed to shrink down, as if they knew he recognized them.

“Well?” Lirin said. “You’ve threatened violence against me. Come. Hit me. Rob me. Do it knowing I’ve lived among you almost my entire life. Do it knowing that I’ve healed your children. Come in. Bleed one of your own!”

The men faded into the night without a word.

“They lived high atop a place no man could reach, but all could visit. The tower city itself, crafted by the hands of no man.”

—Though The Song of the Last Summer is a fanciful tale of romance from the third century after the Recreance, it is likely a valid reference in this case. See page 27 of Varala’s translation, and note the undertext.

They got better at carrying the bridge on its side. But not much better. Kaladin watched Bridge Four pass, moving awkwardly, maneuvering the bridge at their sides. Fortunately, there were plenty of handles on the bridge’s underside, and they’d found how to grip them in the right way. They had to carry it at less steep an angle than he’d wanted. That would expose their legs, but may be he could train them to adjust to it as the arrows flew.

As it was, their carry was slow, and the bridgemen were so bunched up that if the Parshendi managed to drop a man, the others would stumble over him. Lose just a few men, and the balance would be upset so they’d drop it for certain.

This will have to be handled very carefully, Kaladin thought.

Syl fluttered along behind the bridge crew as a flurry of nearly translucent leaves. Beyond her, something caught Kaladin’s eye: a uniformed soldier leading a ragged group of men in a despondent clump. Finally, Kaladin thought. He’d been waiting for another group of recruits. He waved curtly to Rock. The Horneater nodded; he’d take over training. It was time for a break anyway.

Kaladin jogged up the short incline at the rim of the lumberyard, arriving just as Gaz intercepted the newcomers.

“What a sorry batch,” Gaz said. “I thought we’d been sent the dregs last time, but this lot…”

Lamaril shrugged. “They’re yours now, Gaz. Split them up how you like.” He and his soldiers departed, leaving the unfortunate conscripts. Some wore decent clothing; they’d be recently caught criminals. The rest had slave brands on their foreheads. Seeing them brought back feelings that Kaladin had to force down. He still stood on the very top of a steep slope; one wrong step could send him tumbling back down into that despair.

“In a line, you cremlings,” Gaz snapped at the new recruits, pulling free his cudgel and waving it. He eyed Kaladin, but said nothing.

The group of men hastily lined up.

Gaz counted down the line, picking out the taller members. “You five men, you’re in Bridge Six. Remember that. Forget it, and I’ll see you get a whipping.” He counted off another group. “You six men, you’re in Bridge Fourteen. You four at the end, Bridge Three. You, you, and you, Bridge One. Bridge Two doesn’t need any…You four, Bridge Seven.”

That was all of them.

“Gaz,” Kaladin said, folding his arms. Syl landed on his shoulder, her small tempest of leaves forming into a young woman.

Gaz turned to him.

“Bridge Four is down to thirty fighting members.”

“Bridge Six and Bridge Fourteen have fewer than that.”

“They each had twenty-nine and you just gave them both a big helping of new members. And Bridge One is at thirty-seven, and you sent them three new men.”

“You barely lost anyone on the last run, and—”

Kaladin caught Gaz’s arm as the sergeant tried to walk away. Gaz flinched, lifting his cudgel.

Try it, Kaladin thought, meeting Gaz’s eyes. He almost wished that the sergeant would.

Gaz gritted his teeth. “Fine. One man.”

“I pick him,” Kaladin said.

“Whatever. They’re all worthless anyway.”

Kaladin turned to the group of new bridgemen. They’d gathered into clusters by which bridge crew Gaz had put them in. Kaladin immediately turned his attention to the taller men. By slave standards, they appeared well fed. Two of them looked like they’d—

“Hey, gancho!” a voice said from another group. “Hey! You want me, I think.”

Kaladin turned. A short, spindly man was waving to him. The man had only one arm. Who would assign him to be a bridgeman?

He’d stop an arrow, Kaladin thought. That’s all some bridgemen are good for, in the eyes of the uppers.

The man had brown hair and deep tan skin just a shade too dark to be Alethi. The fingernails on his hand were slate-colored and crystalline—he was a Herdazian, then. Most of the newcomers shared the same defeated look of apathy but this man was smiling, though he wore a slave’s mark on his head.

That mark is old, Kaladin thought. Either he had a kind master before this, or he has somehow resisted being beaten down. The man obviously didn’t understand what awaited him as a bridgeman. No person would smile if they understood that.

“You can use me,” the man said. “We Herdazians are great fighters, gon.” He pronounced that last word like “gone” and it appeared to refer to Kaladin. “You see, this one time, I was with, sure, three men and they were drunk and all but I still beat them.” He spoke at a very quick pace, his thick accent slurring the words together.

He’d make a terrible bridgeman. He might be able to run with the bridge on his shoulders, but not maneuver it. He even looked a little flabby around the waist. Whatever bridge crew got him would put him right in the front and let him take an arrow, then be rid of him.

Gotta do what you can to stay alive, a voice from his past seemed to whisper. Turn a liability into an advantage….

Tien.

“Very well,” Kaladin said, pointing. “I’ll take the Herdazian at the back.”