Chapter 12

I was not with them. I did not know of their quest.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth , page 10

K aladin and Syl flew high above Urithiru, where he—pack on his back, ready to go—could face to the west, toward the setting sun.

He hovered, wind in his hair, armor spren alighting on his shoulders and head, glowing as pinpricks of light, the shape they always took now. This was it. Almost time to go. The highstorm was passing beneath Urithiru, black clouds rumbling with lightning. He felt an urgency to get to Azimir ahead of its arrival there, so he could catch it and be on his way.

Before that, he needed to say farewell to Bridge Four.

He hovered. Delaying. Perhaps he’d been delaying this all day. He’d been forced to say goodbye to Teft and Rock, the first two who had believed in him. The next to believe had been Dunny, dead for almost two years now. Did Kaladin really have to say goodbye to the rest?

He thought again of his conversation with Wit. What the Wind continued to push him to do. Syl drifted past, glancing at him as he stared out over the many mountains toward the west—and distant Shinovar, where few Easterners had ever walked.

He nodded to Syl, and together they made a quick trip to arrange for something. Then they visited Teft’s statue before continuing on to the tavern where the party was happening. Kaladin reached the doorway, and he saw most of Bridge Four as he’d hoped—only Drehy was missing, as he’d gone to fetch Adolin and Shallan. There was even a framed sketch of Teft by the wall, with a mug of sow’s milk in front of it.

The group was cheering Rlain, who stood—holding flatbread stuffed with salted paste, as eaten at celebrations—looking awkward, but smiling regardless. He had his spren at last. Not the expected one—he was a Truthwatcher, not a Windrunner—but they celebrated anyway, and laughterspren buzzed through the room. Kaladin watched from the doorway and let himself appreciate how far they’d come. The Windrunners accepting one singer among them didn’t change everything—Kaladin knew, from chats with Rlain, that he worried they didn’t accept his people, just him. But it was progress.

Kaladin was soon noticed, and he stepped in, causing a different kind of celebration, as everyone wanted to hug him or slap him on the arm. He accepted it—in part because he knew that they needed it. As some of the others started distributing mugs of lightly alcoholic wine, Kaladin found his chance to step up to Rlain and give him a salute. “Congratulations.”

“I feel out of place even more, sir,” Rlain told him softly, his voice laced with the rhythmic singer way of speaking. “I’m not a Windrunner. Yet they celebrate me.”

“Not a Windrunner,” Kaladin said. “But still Bridge Four. Still and always, Rlain.”

“We don’t know what Sja-anat’s touch will do,” Rlain said. “I … I like my spren, but …”

“You’ll figure it out, you and Renarin,” Kaladin said. “I trust you both.” He paused. “Thank you.”

“Sir?”

“For staying with us,” Kaladin said. “I know you must have wanted to return to your people, now that more listeners have been found—nobody would blame you, least of all me. But I’m proud to know you, and glad to serve beside you.”

“That … means a lot, sir,” Rlain said. “Truly.”

Soon everyone had their drinks, and many of them turned toward Kaladin. Did they suspect? He saw Syl flitting around, whispering to them and their spren. Likely hinting that he wanted to say something to them all. Kaladin felt embarrassed for taking the stage at Rlain’s celebration, but it really was the best time.

They finally quieted. Kaladin searched among them, finding so many familiar faces—and painfully feeling the lack of others. Teft, Maps, Dunny, Rock …

Not Moash. He no longer missed Moash. Kaladin’s hatred had eased—he’d accepted there would always be those he couldn’t protect—but he had not given up his right to take Moash to task. Kaladin would see that Teft got a chance to spit on Moash in the afterlife, if such a thing actually existed.

“Sir?” Hobber asked at last. “You all right?”

“He doesn’t like to be called ‘sir’ anymore,” Lopen said, nudging him. “Please don’t be forgetting his orders, Hobber, even if he doesn’t call them orders!”

“Oh, right,” Hobber said, with a gap-toothed grin.

Kaladin smiled, remembering the pure joy in Hobber’s face when his legs had been healed by Stormlight. “It’s okay, Hobber,” Kaladin said, bathed in warm diamond light and surrounded by friends. “I’m fine. Just … making sure you all know how proud I am of you.”

They grew more solemn as he said that. Something about his tone perhaps.

“I’m proud,” Kaladin repeated, drawing gloryspren. “Proud of who you are and what you’ve become. I don’t think there’s a captain all the world over who could feel more joy than I do right now, seeing you all. I started this two years ago in an effort to get a handful of sorry men to look up for a change. Little did I know they’d end up taking to the skies.”

A sea of faces grinned at the words. Old friends like Lopen, newer ones like Lyn, and even Renarin—who, like Rlain, was still Bridge Four despite his diverging path.

“Dalinar has given me orders,” Kaladin explained. “I’ll be going west, to Shinovar, so I won’t be here for whatever is coming. But … please remember: the enemy can kill spren now. I won’t have any more of your bonded friends falling to these new weapons.”

“No dying,” Bisig said. “Is that an order, sir?”

“You’re storming right it is,” Kaladin said, with a smile. “I simply want to say … I want to say that I trust you all. If you get a chance today, stop and take a look in a mirror, acknowledge what you’ve become. I don’t care about heritage or legacy. I care about what we are. The Windrunners are, and will remain, a force for good. Remember that is our purpose. Protect those who cannot protect themselves. That is who you are. Keep your ranks open for anyone who shares that ideal.”

“Sir?” Laran asked, earning a light smack on the back of the head from Lopen. “I mean, um, Kal? It sounds like you’re saying goodbye. Like … a long goodbye.”

“I might be,” he admitted. “Wit says … well, it’s not important. Less than nine days left, and I don’t think any of us know for sure what happens then. So I wanted to leave you with some words … in case it’s a while.”

Those in the group began to nod quietly, as if they understood. Then, one at a time, arms rose to tap wrists. The Bridge Four salute. Solemnly, without cheers. Kaladin returned it. And storms, seeing them, he couldn’t keep those tears back anymore.

As he looked to the doorway, he saw the person he’d talked to earlier—a tattoo artist, paid to come here with tools. The others parted, then hushed, realizing what this must mean. Long ago, they’d all gotten tattoos on their foreheads. Covering up brands for many of them, done in solidarity by the rest. Kaladin hadn’t been able to get one then, as his body had refused the ink.

It hadn’t yet been ready to move beyond his brands. Those were healed now, and as Kaladin settled down in a chair, the others gathered around and cheered as the tattoo artist started the proper glyphs on his head.

Bridge Four.

This time, the tattoo took.

When it was done, he stood up and accepted their cheers, tears in his eyes. Somehow he’d done well with this group. Once, acknowledging that might have concerned him—might have made him worry that seeing the good would prompt some terrible fate to swoop in and punish them.

Today he could admit it without fear. He’d done a good job. Storms, he’d turned away from the Honor Chasm in the rain, determined to save them … and he’d done it.

He’d storming done it.

He loved them for being willing to let him.

Hugs and handshakes followed. “You take care,” Lyn whispered in his ear, “and don’t be too stupid.”

“I’ll try,” he said.

Then he sent them back to enjoy drinks and celebrate Rlain. They went as he asked, returning to the bar for food and songs, until it was just Kaladin, Sigzil, Skar, and Lopen.

“It was a good speech, Kal,” Sigzil told him.

“Do you remember,” Kaladin said, with a smile, “when you were one of my biggest detractors?”

“I remember, ” Sigzil said, “being a voice of reason and rationality when a crazy man started saying we should practice carrying bridges in our spare time.”

“We hated the bridges so much we couldn’t let them rest, eh gancho?” Lopen said with a laugh. “That’s how you teach them their place. Make those bridges work!”

“You weren’t even there then,” Sigzil said.

“I was there in spirit,” Lopen said solemnly. “I would dream to myself, ‘Someday, Lopen, you will carry bridges. Or maybe only water, while others carry bridges, but regardless it will be grand. Because you will be able to annoy Sigzil all day long. You do not know him yet, but he deserves it.’”

Sigzil gave Kaladin a glance that seemed to say, You realize what you’ve stuck me with, right?

“You three,” Kaladin said, “are all that’s left of our original command structure. You … well, you are among the best friends I have. I wanted to say thank you. Lopen, for your enthusiasm. Skar, for your support. Sigzil, for your concern.”

“Always, Kal,” Sigzil said.

Skar saluted.

Kaladin embraced them, and when he pulled away, Sigzil was crying.

“Sir,” Sigzil said. “Kal. I … I don’t think I can do this. Lead them.”

“You’ve been doing it for weeks now.”

“Temporarily,” Sigzil said. “You were coming back. I … assumed that right up until just now. Is it true? Are you done?”

“I don’t know,” Kaladin said. “But if I do come back, I get a feeling it will be different. They’re yours now, Sig. Lead them well.”

“I can’t,” Sigzil said. “I’m not the man you are. I don’t belong here—not only in this position. I don’t know that I belong as a Radiant. I … I …”

Kaladin gripped Sigzil on the shoulder, grateful that for once, Lopen didn’t interject with some silly comment. Maybe he was learning.

Sigzil looked up at Kaladin. Shorter than many of the other bridgemen, he also seemed younger than them. Not merely because of the height, but something in that round face, those eager eyes, that incredible weight of sincerity. Buried deep beneath a veneer of cynicism. That crust had attached itself to any man who found himself in the bridge crews.

“Sig,” Kaladin said, “do you remember what you said way back when we were first discovering our powers, and I wondered if you’d be better off as a scribe?”

“I told you I wanted to fly,” Sigzil said. “What if I’m wrong, Kal? Scribing is what I’m good at doing. As a leader, I keep saying the wrong things. Talking about essays I’ve read when the troops want inspiration.”

“I’m sure Lopen can give the speeches.”

“Waiting,” Lopen said from behind, “with sharpened wit at the ready. Will you be wanting, sure, the joke about the chull who could talk, or the one about the former bridgeleader with the bad haircut. Oh, wait. Those are the same joke, aren’t they?”

Kaladin sighed, then looked back at Sigzil. “Do you want to give up the sky, Sig?”

“No,” he said, fervent. “But that doesn’t mean I should be leading. You should give it to Skar.”

“I need to be with the new recruits,” Skar said. “You know I have to oversee training.”

“You’re the right one, Sig,” Kaladin said. “I need the person who will keep them the safest. In this case, that’s the man who cares the most, who knows the most, and whose judgment I respect. You. If you don’t trust yourself, trust me.

“I’ve seen you speak in meetings with queens and emperors, and you stood up for what was right. You listen when you find out you were wrong. Your battle plans are immaculate, and you know the reports like nobody else in the company—even Ka complains she can’t keep up with you. More, I know the concern you show for each soldier. You’re the person for this position. And you’re going to do a storming fine job of it. Sigzil. Commander of the Windrunners.”

Having said it like that, Kaladin felt the final separation, and found peace in it. He’d always be Bridge Four. But he was not their leader. The future was no longer a held breath waiting for his possible return. They needed this, in order to move on.

“Thank you,” Sigzil said. “I’ll … try.”

“I’ll help, Sig,” Skar said. “It won’t be so bad.”

“And I,” Lopen said, putting his hands on both of their shoulders, “will be available to you as a resource for various important functions including, but not limited to, levity when seriousness is required, the opposite as well, providing snacks and water breaks to hungry bridgemen, providing spears in the nether parts of hungry enemies, any task requiring two arms, any task requiring one arm, and any task requiring no arms but a solid nap.”

“How long have you been working on that?” Kaladin asked.

“Only during your conversation, gancho,” Lopen said. “The list actually includes twelve other things, but on account of personal soul-seeking and revelations—and on account of Huio literally never letting me catch a storming break—I am learning restraint and personal accountability. I am certain these mature traits will make me irresistible to all the ladies who have remarkably held themselves back so far.”

“I’m sure they’ll be along at any moment,” Skar said.

“Aaaany moment,” Lopen said.

Sigzil, looking determined, trotted off first, with Skar trailing after. Before moving to follow, Lopen floated a little into the air. “Hey,” he said. “Just wanted to say, I’ve never had a gancho like you, Kal.”

“One with, apparently, a bad haircut?” Kaladin said.

“Nah,” Lopen said. “One inspiring enough to make me, of all people, into a gancho.” He gave one last salute—one-armed with a nod and a smile—then he was gone. It was done.

Kaladin and Syl flew out of Urithiru to the plateau. It had sheer stone cliffs at the sides and ten separate platforms running along it, each offering a portal to a different city around Roshar. Pavilions had been set up at the base of each of these Oathgates, and inside one he found Szeth and got approval to transfer. The three of them moved through the darkness to the center of the platform. Here they found the small building to control transfers.

“It is time,” Szeth said, landing in the doorway. “I assume? You don’t have any other errands?”

“No,” Kaladin said. “Shallan, Adolin, and Drehy will be returning via Azimir. I can see them there before we catch the highstorm. I’m ready to go.”

“Finally,” Szeth whispered. “I return to my homeland. Once rejected and told I lacked Truth, I return with knowledge that I was right all along. We have reached the end of days, and I hunger for something I cannot describe.”

Pancakes? the black sword—strapped to Szeth’s back—said in their minds. Szeth, I think it might be pancakes.

“Justice or reconciliation,” the man said. “Condemnation or salvation. I don’t know yet.”

Ooohhhhh. Metaphorical hunger. Yeah, I understand. It paused. Can I have your pancakes then?

Kaladin smiled, then—using his Blade—activated the transfer. Leaving Urithiru behind.