“The darkness becomes a palace. Let it rule! Let it rule!”

—Kakevah 1173, 22 seconds pre-death. A darkeyed Selay man of unknown profession.

“You think one of those will save us?” Moash asked, scowling as he looked at the prayer tied about Kaladin’s upper right arm.

Kaladin glanced to the side. He stood at parade rest as Sadeas’s soldiers crossed their bridge. The chilly spring air felt good, now that he’d started working. The sky was bright, cloudless, and the stormwardens promised that no highstorm was near.

The prayer tied on his arms was simple. Three glyphs: wind, protection, beloved. A prayer to Jezerezeh—the Stormfather—to protect loved ones and friends. It was the straightforward type his mother had preferred. For all her subtlety and wryness, whenever she’d knitted or written a prayer, it had been simple and heartfelt. Wearing it reminded him of her.

“I can’t believe you paid good money for that,” Moash said. “If there are Heralds watching, they don’t pay any mind to bridgemen.”

“I’ve been feeling nostalgic lately, I guess.” The prayer was probably meaningless, but he’d had reason to start thinking more about religion lately. The life of a slave made it difficult for many to believe that anyone, or anything, was watching. Yet many bridgemen had grown more religious during their captivity. Two groups, opposite reactions. Did that mean some were stupid and others were callous, or something else entirely?

“They’re going to see us dead, you know,” Drehy said from behind. “This is it.” The bridgemen were exhausted. Kaladin and his team had been forced to work the chasms all night. Hashal had put strict requirements on them, demanding an increased amount of salvage. In order to meet the quota, they’d forgone training to scavenge.

And then today they’d been awakened for a morning chasm assault after only three hours of sleep. They were drooping as they stood in line, and they hadn’t even reached the contested plateau yet.

“Let it come,” Skar said quietly from the other side of the line. “They want us dead? Well, I’m not going to back down. We’ll show them what courage is. They can hide behind our bridges while we charge.”

“That’s no victory,” Moash said. “I say we attack the soldiers. Right now.”

“Our own troops?” Sigzil said, turning his dark-skinned head and looking down the line of men.

“Sure,” Moash said, eyes still forward. “They’re going to kill us anyway. Let’s take a few of them with us. Damnation, why not charge Sadeas? His guard won’t expect it. I’ll bet we could knock down a few and grab their spears, then be on to killing lighteyes before they cut us down.”

A couple of bridgemen murmured their assent as the soldiers continued to cross.

“No,” Kaladin said. “It wouldn’t accomplish anything. They’d have us dead before we could so much as inconvenience Sadeas.”

Moash spat. “And this will accomplish something? Damnation, Kaladin, I feel like I’m already dangling from the noose!”

“I have a plan,” Kaladin said.

He waited for the objections. His other plans hadn’t worked.

No one offered a complaint.

“Well then,” Moash said. “What is it?”

“You’ll see today,” Kaladin said. “If it works, it will buy us time. If it fails, I’ll be dead.” He turned to look down the line of faces. “In that case, Teft has orders to lead you on an escape attempt tonight. You’re not ready, but at least you’ll have a chance.” That was far better than attacking Sadeas as he crossed.

Kaladin’s men nodded, and Moash seemed content. As contrary as he’d been originally, he had grown equally loyal. He was hotheaded, but he was also the best with the spear.

Sadeas approached, riding his roan stallion, wearing his red Shardplate, helm on but visor up. By chance, he crossed on Kaladin’s bridge, though—as always—he had twenty to choose from. Sadeas didn’t give Bridge Four so much as a glance.

“Break and cross,” Kaladin ordered after Sadeas was over. The bridgemen crossed their bridge, and Kaladin gave the orders for them to pull it behind them, then lift.

It felt heavier than it ever had before. The bridgemen broke into a trot, rounding the army column and hustling to reach the next chasm. In the distance behind, a second army—one in blue—was following them, crossing using some of Sadeas’s other bridge crews. It looked like Dalinar Kholin had given up his bulky mechanical bridges, and was now using Sadeas’s own bridge crews to cross. So much for his “honor” and not sacrificing bridgeman lives.

In his pouch, Kaladin carried a large number of infused spheres, obtained from the moneychangers in exchange for a greater quantity of dun spheres. He hated taking that loss, but he needed the Stormlight.

They reached the next chasm quickly. It would be the next-to-last one, according to the word he’d gotten from Matal, Hashal’s husband. The soldiers began checking their armor, stretching, anticipationspren rising in the air like small streamers.

The bridgemen set their bridge and stepped back. Kaladin noted Lopen and silent Dabbid approaching with their stretcher, waterskins and bandages inside. Lopen had hitched the stretcher to a hook at his waist, making up for his missing arm. The two moved among the members of Bridge Four, giving them water.

As he passed Kaladin, Lopen nodded toward the large bulge at the stretcher’s center. The armor. “When do you want it?” Lopen asked softly, lowering the litter, then handing Kaladin a waterskin.

“Right before we run the assault,” Kaladin replied. “You did well, Lopen.”

Lopen winked. “A one-armed Herdazian is still twice as useful as a no-brained Alethi. Plus, so long as I’ve got one hand, I can still do this.” He covertly made a rude gesture toward the marching soldiers.

Kaladin smiled, but was growing too nervous to feel mirth. It had been a long time since he’d gotten jitters going into a battle. He thought Tukks had beaten that out of him years ago.

“Hey,” a sudden voice called, “I need some of that.”

Kaladin spun to see a soldier walking over. He was exactly the type of man Kaladin had known to avoid back in Amaram’s army. Darkeyed but of modest rank, he was naturally large, and had probably gotten promoted by sheer virtue of size. His armor was well maintained but the uniform beneath was stained and wrinkled, and he kept the sleeves rolled up, exposing hairy arms.

At first, Kaladin assumed that the man had seen Lopen’s gesture. But the man didn’t seem mad. He shoved Kaladin aside, then pulled the waterskin away from Lopen. Nearby, the soldiers waiting to cross had noticed. Their own water crews were much slower, and more than a few of the waiting men eyed Lopen and his waterskins.

It would set a terrible precedent to let the soldiers take their water—but that was a tiny problem compared with the greater one. If those soldiers swarmed around the litter to get water, they’d discover the sack full of armor.

Kaladin moved quickly, snatching the waterskin from the soldier’s hand. “You have your own water crews.”

The soldier looked at Kaladin, as if completely unable to believe that a bridgeman was standing up to him. He scowled darkly, lowering his spear to his side, its butt against the ground. “I don’t want to wait.”

“How unfortunate,” Kaladin said, stepping right up to the man, meeting him eye to eye. Silently, he cursed the idiot. If it turned into a scuffle…

The soldier hesitated, even more astonished to see such an aggressive threat from a bridgeman. Kaladin wasn’t as thick-armed as this man, but he was a finger or two taller. The soldier’s uncertainty showed in his face.

Just back down, Kaladin thought.

But no. Backing down from a bridgeman while his squad was watching? The man made a fist, knuckles cracking.

Within seconds, the entire bridge crew was there. The soldier blinked as Bridge Four formed around Kaladin in an aggressive inverted wedge pattern, moving naturally—smoothly—as Kaladin had trained them. Each one made fists, giving the soldier ample chance to see that the heavy lifting had trained these men to a physical level beyond that of the average soldier.

The man glanced back at his squad, as if looking for support.

“Do you want to spark a fight now, friend?” Kaladin asked softly. “If you hurt the bridgemen, I wonder who Sadeas will make run this bridge.”

The man glanced back at Kaladin, was silent for a moment, then scowled, cursed, and stalked away. “Probably full of crem anyway,” he muttered, rejoining his team.

The members of Bridge Four relaxed, though they received more than a few appreciative looks from the other soldiers in line. For once, there was something other than scowls. Hopefully they wouldn’t realize that a squad of bridgemen had quickly and accurately made a battle formation commonly used in spear fighting.

Kaladin waved for his men to stand down, nodding his thanks. They fell back, and Kaladin tossed the recovered waterskin back to Lopen.

The shorter man smirked wryly. “I’ll keep a tighter grip on these things from now on, gancho.” He eyed the soldier who had tried to take the water.

“What?” Kaladin asked.

“Well, I’ve got a cousin in the water crews, you see,” Lopen said. “And I’m thinking that he might owe me a favor on account of this one time I helped his sister’s friend escape a guy looking for her….”

“You do have a lot of cousins.”

“Never enough. You bother one of us, you bother us all. That’s something you strawheads never seem to get. No offense or anything, gancho.”

Kaladin raised an eyebrow. “Don’t make trouble for the soldier. Not today.” I’ll make enough of that myself here soon.

Lopen sighed, but nodded. “All right. For you.” He held up a waterskin. “You sure you don’t want any?”

Kaladin didn’t; his stomach was too unsettled. But he made himself take the waterskin back and drink a few mouthfuls.

Before long, the time came to cross and pull the bridge up for the last run. The assault. Sadeas’s soldiers were forming ranks, lighteyes riding back and forth, calling orders. Matal waved Kaladin’s crew forward. Dalinar Kholin’s army had fallen behind, coming more slowly because of his larger numbers.

Kaladin took his place at the very front of his bridge. Ahead, the Parshendi were lined up with bows on the edge of their plateau, staring down the oncoming assault. Were they singing already? Kaladin thought he could hear their voices.

Moash was on Kaladin’s right, Rock on his left. Only three on the deathline, because of how shorthanded they were. He’d put Shen in the very back, so he wouldn’t see what Kaladin was about to do.

“I’m going to duck out from underneath once we start moving,” Kaladin told them. “Rock, you take over. Keep them running.”

“Very well,” Rock said. “It will be hard to carry without you. We have so few men, and we are very weak.”

“You’ll manage. You’ll have to.”

Kaladin couldn’t see Rock’s face, not positioned under the bridge as they were, but his voice sounded troubled. “This thing you will try, is dangerous?”

“Perhaps.”

“Can I help?”

“I’m afraid not, my friend. But it strengthens me to hear you ask.”

Rock didn’t get a chance to reply. Matal yelled for the bridge crews to go. Arrows shot overhead to distract the Parshendi. Bridge Four broke into a run.

And Kaladin ducked down and dashed out in front of them. Lopen was waiting to the side, and he tossed Kaladin the sack of armor.

Matal screamed at Kaladin in a panic, but the bridge crews were already in motion. Kaladin focused on his goal, protecting Bridge Four, and sucked in sharply. Stormlight flooded him from the pouch at his waist, but he didn’t draw too much. Just enough to give him a jolt of energy.

Syl zipped in front of him, a ripple in the air, nearly invisible. Kaladin whipped the tie off the sack, pulling out the vest and throwing it awkwardly over his head. He ignored the ties at the side, getting on the helm as he leaped over a small rock formation. The shield came last, clattering with red Parshendi bones in a crisscross pattern on the front.

Even while donning the armor, Kaladin easily stayed far ahead of the heavily laden bridge crews. His Stormlight-infused legs were quick and sure.

The Parshendi archers directly ahead of him abruptly stopped singing. Several of them lowered their bows, and though it was too distant to make out their faces, he could sense their outrage. Kaladin had expected this. He’d hoped for it.

The Parshendi left their dead. Not because they were uncaring, but because they found it a terrible offense to move them. Merely touching the dead seemed a sin. If that was the case, a man desecrating corpses and wearing them into battle would be far, far worse.

As Kaladin grew closer, a different song started among the Parshendi archers. A quick, violent song, more chant than melody. Those who had lowered their bows raised them.

And they tried with everything they had to kill him.

Arrows flew at him. Dozens of them. They weren’t fired in careful waves. They flew individually, rapidly, wildly, each archer loosing at Kaladin as quickly as he could. A swarm of death bore down on him.

Pulse racing, Kaladin ducked to the left, leaping off a small outcropping. Arrows sliced the air around him, dangerously close. But while infused with the Stormlight, his muscles reacted quickly. He dodged between arrows, then turned in the other direction, moving erratically.

Behind, Bridge Four came into range, and not a single arrow was fired at them. Other bridge crews were ignored as well, many of the archers focusing on Kaladin. The arrows came more swiftly, spraying around him, bouncing off his shield. One sliced open his arm as it shot past; another snapped against his helm, nearly knocking it free.

The arm wound leaked Light, not blood, and to Kaladin’s amazement it slowly began to seal up, frost crystallizing on his skin and Stormlight draining from him. He drew in more, infusing himself to the cusp of glowing visibly. He ducked, he dodged, he jumped, he ran.

His battle-trained reflexes delighted in the newfound speed, and he used the shield to knock arrows out of the air. It was as if his body had longed for this ability, as if it had been born to take advantage of the Stormlight. During the earlier part of his life, he had lived sluggish and impotent. Now he was healed. Not acting beyond his capacities—no, finally reaching them.

A flock of arrows sought his blood, but Kaladin spun between them, taking another slice on the arm but deflecting the others with shield or breastplate. The flight came, and he brought his shield up, worried that he was going to be too slow. However, the arrows changed course, arcing toward his shield, slamming into it. Drawn to it.

I’m pulling them to it! He remembered dozens of bridge runs, with arrows slamming into the wood near where his hands had clung to the support bars. Always just missing him.

How long have I been doing this? Kaladin thought. How many arrows did I draw to the bridge, pulling them away from me?

He didn’t have time to think about that. He kept moving, dodging. He felt arrows whish through the air, heard them zip, felt the splinters as they hit stone or shield and broke. He’d hoped that he would distract some of the Parshendi from firing on his men, but he’d had no idea how strong a reaction he’d get.

Part of him exulted in the thrill of ducking, dodging, and blocking the hail of arrows. He started to slow, however. He tried to suck in Stormlight, but none came. His spheres were drained. He panicked, still dodging, but then the arrowfalls began to slacken.

With a start, Kaladin realized that the bridge crews had parted around him, leaving a space for him to keep dodging while they passed him and set their burdens. Bridge Four was in place, cavalry charging across to attack the archers. Despite that, some of the Parshendi continued to fire on Kaladin, enraged. The soldiers cut these Parshendi down easily, sweeping the ground of them and making room for Sadeas’s foot soldiers.

Kaladin lowered his shield. It bristled with arrows. He barely had time to take a fresh breath of air as the bridgemen reached him, calling out with joy, nearly tackling him in their excitement.

“You fool!” Moash said. “You storming fool! What was that? What were you thinking?”

“Was incredible,” Rock said.

“You should be dead!” Sigzil said, though his normally stern face was split by a smile.

“Stormfather,” Moash added, pulling an arrow from Kaladin’s vest at the shoulder. “Look at these.”

Kaladin looked down, shocked to find a dozen arrow holes in the sides of his vest and shirt where he’d narrowly avoided being hit. Three arrows stuck from the leather.

“Stormblessed,” Skar said. “That’s all there is too it.”

Kaladin shrugged off their praise, his heart still pounding. He was numb. Amazed that he’d survived, cold from the Stormlight he’d consumed, exhausted as if he’d run a rigorous obstacle course. He looked to Teft, raising an eyebrow, nodding toward the pouch at his waist.

Teft shook his head. He’d watched; the Stormlight rising from Kaladin hadn’t been visible to those observing, not in the light of day. Still, the way Kaladin had dodged would have looked incredible, even without the obvious light. If there had been stories about him before, they would grow greatly following this.

He turned to look at the passing troops. As he did, he realized something. He still had to deal with Matal. “Fall into line, men,” he said.

They obeyed reluctantly, falling into place around him in a double rank. Ahead, Matal stood beside their bridge. He looked concerned, as well he should. Sadeas was riding up. Kaladin steeled himself, remembering how his previous victory—when they’d run with the bridge on its side—had been turned on its head. He hesitated, then hurried over toward the bridge where Sadeas was going to ride past Matal. Kaladin’s men followed.

Kaladin arrived as Matal bowed to Sadeas, who wore his glorious red Shardplate. Kaladin and the bridgemen bowed as well.

“Avarak Matal,” Sadeas said. He nodded toward Kaladin. “This man looks familiar.”

“He is the one from before, Brightlord,” Matal said, nervous. “The one who…”

“Ah yes,” Sadeas said. “The ‘miracle.’ And you sent him forward as a decoy like that? One would think that you would be hesitant to dare such measures.”

“I take full responsibility, Brightlord,” Matal said, putting the best face on it.

Sadeas regarded the battlefield. “Well, luckily for you, it worked. I suppose I’ll have to promote you now.” He shook his head. “Those savages practically ignored the assault force. All twenty bridges set, most with nary a casualty. It seems like a waste, somehow. Consider yourself commended. Most remarkable, the way that boy dodged…” He kicked his horse into motion, leaving Matal and the bridgemen behind.

It was the most backhanded promotion Kaladin had ever heard, but that would do. Kaladin smiled broadly as Matal turned to him, eyes enraged.

“You—” Matal sputtered. “You could have gotten me executed!”

“Instead I got you promoted,” Kaladin said, Bridge Four forming around him.

“I should see you strung up anyway.”

“It’s been tried,” Kaladin said. “Didn’t work. Besides, you know that from now on Sadeas is going to expect me to be out there distracting the archers. Good luck getting any other bridgeman to try that.”

Matal’s face grew red. He turned and stalked away to check on the other bridge crews. The two nearest—Bridge Seven and Bridge Eighteen—stood looking toward Kaladin and his team. All twenty bridges had been set? Hardly any casualties?

Stormfather, Kaladin thought. How many archers were firing at me?

“You did it, Kaladin!” Moash exclaimed. “You found the secret. We need to make this work. Expand it.”

“I’ll bet I could dodge those arrows, if that were all I was doing,” Skar said. “With enough armor…”

“We should have more than one,” Moash agreed. “Five or so, running around drawing the Parshendi attacks.”

“The bones,” Rock said, folding his arms. “This is what made it work. The Parshendi were so mad that they ignored bridge crew. If all five wear the bones of Parshendi…”

That made Kaladin consider something. He looked back, searching through the bridgemen. Where was Shen?

There. He was sitting on the rocks, distant, staring forward. Kaladin approached with the others. The parshman looked up at him, face a mask of pain, tears streaking his cheeks. He looked at Kaladin and shuddered visibly, turning away, closing his eyes.

“He sat down like that the moment he saw what you’d done, lad,” Teft said, rubbing his chin. “Might not be good for bridge runs anymore.”

Kaladin pulled the carapacetied helm off his head, then ran his fingers through his hair. The carapace stuck to his clothing stank faintly, even though he’d washed it off down below. “We’ll see,” Kaladin said, feeling a twist of guilt. Not nearly enough to overshadow the victory of protecting his men, but enough to dampen it, at least. “For now, there are still many bridge crews that got fired upon. You know what to do.”

The men nodded, trotting off to search for the wounded. Kaladin set one man to watch over Shen—he wasn’t sure what else to do with the parshman—and tried not to show his exhaustion as he put his sweaty, carapace-covered cap and vest in Lopen’s litter. He knelt down to go through his medical equipment, in case it was needed, and found that his hand was shaking and quivering. He pressed it down against the ground to still it, breathing in and out.

Cold, clammy skin, he thought. Nausea. Weakness. He was in shock.

“You all right, lad?” Teft asked, kneeling down beside Kaladin. He still wore a bandage on his arm from the wound he’d taken a few bridge runs back, but it wasn’t enough to stop him from carrying. Not when there were too few as it was.

“I’ll be fine,” Kaladin said, taking out a waterskin, holding it in a quivering hand. He could barely get the top off.

“You don’t look—”

“I’ll be fine,” Kaladin said again, drinking, then lowering the water. “What’s important is that the men are safe.”

“You going to do this every time. Whenever we go to battle?”

“Whatever keeps them safe.”

“You’re not immortal, Kaladin,” Teft said softly. “The Radiants, they could be killed, just like any man. Sooner or later, one of those arrows will find your neck instead of your shoulder.”

“The Stormlight heals.”

“The Stormlight helps your body heal. That’s different, I’m thinking.” Teft laid a hand on Kaladin’s shoulder. “We can’t lose you, lad. The men need you.”

“I’m not going to avoid putting myself in danger, Teft. And I’m not going to leave the men to face a storm of arrows if I can do something about it.”

“Well,” Teft said, “you are going to let a few of us go out there with you. The bridge can manage with twenty-five, if it has to. That leaves us a few extra, just like Rock said. And I’ll bet some of those wounded from the other crews we saved are well enough to begin helping carry. They won’t dare send them back to their own crews, not so long as Bridge Four is doing what you did today, and helping the whole assault work.”

“I…” Kaladin trailed off. He could imagine Dallet doing something like this. He’d always said that as sergeant, part of his job was to keep Kaladin alive. “All right.”

Teft nodded, rising.

“You were a spearman, Teft,” Kaladin said. “Don’t try to deny it. How did you end up here, in these bridge crews?”

“It’s where I belong.” Teft turned away to supervise the search for wounded.

Kaladin sat down, then lay back, waiting for the shock to wear off. To the south, the other army—flying the blue of Dalinar Kholin—had arrived. They crossed to an adjacent plateau.

Kaladin closed his eyes to recover. Eventually, he heard something and opened his eyes. Syl sat cross-legged on his chest. Behind her, Dalinar Kholin’s army had begun an assault onto the battlefield, and they managed to do so without getting fired on. Sadeas had the Parshendi cut off.

“That was amazing,” Kaladin said to Syl. “What I did with the arrows.”

“Still think you’re cursed?”

“No. I know I’m not.” He looked up at the overcast sky. “But that means the failures were all just me. I let Tien die, I failed my spearmen, the slaves I tried to rescue, Tarah…” He hadn’t thought of her in some time. His failure with her had been different from the others, but a failure it was nonetheless. “If there’s no curse or bad luck, no god above being angry at me—I have to live with knowing that with a little more eff ort—a little more practice or skill—I could have saved them.”

Syl frowned more deeply. “Kaladin, you need to get over this. Those things aren’t your fault.”

“That’s what my father always used to say.” He smiled faintly. “‘Overcome your guilt, Kaladin. Care, but not too much. Take responsibility, but don’t blame yourself.’ Protect, save, help—but know when to give up. They’re such precarious ledges to walk. How do I do it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know any of this, Kaladin. But you’re ripping yourself apart. Inside and out.”

Kaladin stared at the sky above. “It was wondrous. I was a storm, Syl. The Parshendi couldn’t touch me. The arrows were nothing.”

“You’re too new to this. You pushed yourself too hard.”

“‘Save them,’” Kaladin whispered. “‘Do the impossible, Kaladin. But don’t push yourself too hard. But also don’t feel guilty if you fail.’ Precarious ledges, Syl. So narrow…”

Some of his men returned with a wounded man, a square-faced Thaylen fellow with an arrow in the shoulder. Kaladin went to work. His hands were still shaking slightly, but not nearly as badly as they had been.

The bridgemen clustered around, watching. He’d started training Rock, Drehy, and Skar already, but with all of them watching, Kaladin found himself explaining. “If you put pressure here, you can slow the blood flow. This isn’t too dangerous a wound, though it probably doesn’t feel too good…”—the patient grimaced his agreement—“…and the real problem will come from infection. Wash the wound to make sure there aren’t any slivers of wood or bits of metal left, then sew it. The muscles and skin of the shoulder here are going to get worked, so you need a strong thread to hold the wound together. Now…”

“Kaladin,” Lopen said, sounding worried.

“Wha?” Kaladin said, distracted, still working.

“Kaladin!”

Lopen had called him by his name, rather than saying gancho. Kaladin stood up, turning to see the short Herdazian man standing at the back of the crowd, pointing at the chasm. The battle had moved farther north, but a group of Parshendi had punched through Sadeas’s line. They had bows.

Kaladin watched, stunned, as the group of Parshendi fell into formation and nocked. Fifty arrows, all pointed at Kaladin’s crew. The Parshendi didn’t seem to care that they were exposing themselves to attack from behind. They seemed focused on only one thing.

Destroying Kaladin and his men.

Kaladin screamed the alarm, but he felt so sluggish, so tired. The bridgemen around him turned as the archers drew. Sadeas’s men normally defended the chasm to keep Parshendi from pushing over the bridges and cutting off their escape. But this time, noticing that the archers weren’t trying to drop the bridges, the soldiers didn’t hasten to stop them. They left the bridgemen to die, instead cutting off the Parshendi route to the bridges themselves.

Kaladin’s men were exposed. Perfect targets. No, Kaladin thought. No! It can’t happen like this. Not after—

A force crashed into the Parshendi line. A single figure in slate-grey armor, wielding a sword as long as many men were tall. The Shardbearer swept through the distracted archers with urgency, slicing into their ranks. Arrows flew toward Kaladin’s team, but they were loosed too early, aimed poorly. A few came close as the bridgemen ducked for cover, but nobody was hit.

Parshendi fell before the sweeping Blade of the Shardbearer, some toppling into the chasm, others scrambling back. The rest died with burned-out eyes. In seconds, the squad of fifty archers had been reduced to corpses.

The Shardbearer’s honor guard caught up with him. He turned, armor seeming to glow as he raised his Blade in a salute of respect toward the bridgemen. Then he charged off in another direction.

“That was him,” Drehy said, standing up. “Dalinar Kholin. The king’s uncle!”

“He saved us!” Lopen said.

“Bah.” Moash dusted himself off. “He just saw a group of undefended archers and took the chance to strike. Lighteyes don’t care about us. Right, Kaladin?”

Kaladin stared at the place where the archers had stood. In one moment, he could have lost it all.

“Kaladin?” Moash said.

“You’re right,” Kaladin found himself saying. “Just an opportunity taken.”

Except, why raise the Blade toward Kaladin?

“From now on,” Kaladin said, “we pull back farther after the soldiers cross. They used to ignore us after the battle began, but they won’t any longer. What I did today—what we’re all going to be doing soon—will make them mighty angry. Angry enough to be stupid, but also angry enough to see us dead. For now, Leyten, Narm, find good scouting points and watch the field. I want to know if any Parshendi make moves toward that chasm. I’ll get this man bandaged and we’ll pull back.”

The two scouts ran off, and Kaladin turned back to the man with the wounded shoulder.

Moash knelt beside him. “An assault against a prepared foe without any bridges lost, a Shardbearer coincidentally coming to our rescue, Sadeas himself complimenting us. You almost make me think I should get one of those armbands.”

Kaladin glanced down at the prayer. It was stained with blood from a slice on his arm that the vanishing Stormlight hadn’t quite been able to heal.

“Wait to see if we escape.” Kaladin finished his stitching. “That’s the real test.”