“He did more than that,” Kaladin growled softly, ignoring Syl’s gesturing that he should remain quiet. “He killed my friends, Moash. Right before my eyes. He’s a murderer.”

“Then something has to be done.”

“It does,” Kaladin asked. “But what? You think I should go to the authorities?”

Moash laughed. “What are they going to do? You have to get the man into a duel, Kaladin. Bring him down, man against man. Until you do it, something’s going to feel wrong to you, deep down in your gut.”

“You sound like you know what this feels like.”

“Yeah.” Moash gave a little half smile. “I have some Voidbringers in my past too. Maybe that’s why I understand you. Maybe that’s why you understand me.”

“Then what—”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Moash said.

“We’re Bridge Four,” Kaladin said, “like you said. Your problems are mine.” What did the king do to your family, Moash?

“Suppose that’s true,” Moash said, turning away. “I just… Not tonight. Tonight, I just want to relax.”

“Moash!” Teft called from nearer the fire. “You coming?”

“I am,” Moash called back. “What about you, Lopen? You ready?”

Lopen grinned, standing up and stretching beside the fire. “I am the Lopen, which means I am ready for anything at any time. You should know this by now.”

Nearby, Drehy snorted and flipped a chunk of stewed longroot at Lopen. It splatted against the Herdazian’s face.

Lopen kept right on talking. “As you can see, I was perfectly ready for that, as shown by the poise I display as I make this decidedly rude gesture.”

Teft chuckled as he, Peet, and Sigzil walked over to join Lopen. Moash moved to go with them, then hesitated. “You coming, Kal?”

“Where?” Kaladin asked.

“Out,” Moash said, shrugging. “Visit a few taverns, play some rings, get something to drink.”

Out. The bridgemen had rarely done such things in Sadeas’s army, at least not as a group, with friends. At first, they had been too beaten down to care for anything other than sticking their noses in drink. Later, lack of funds and the general prejudice against them among the troops had worked to keep the bridgemen to themselves.

That wasn’t the case any longer. Kaladin found himself stammering. “I… probably ought to stay… uh, to go look in at the fires of the other crews…”

“Come on, Kal,” Moash said. “You can’t always work.”

“I’ll go with you another time.”

“Fine.” Moash jogged over to join the others.

Syl left the fire, where she’d been dancing with a flamespren, and zipped over to Kaladin. She hung in the air, watching the group walk off into the evening.

“Why didn’t you go?” she asked him.

“I can’t live that life anymore, Syl,” Kaladin said. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

“But—”

Kaladin walked away and got himself a bowl of stew.

42. Mere Vapors

But as for Ishi’Elin, his was the part most important at their inception; he readily understood the implications of Surges being granted to men, and caused organization to be thrust upon them; as having too great power, he let it be known that he would destroy each and every one, unless they agreed to be bound by precepts and laws.

From Words of Radiance, chapter 2, page 4

Shallan awoke to humming. She opened her eyes, finding herself snuggled into the luxurious bed in Sebarial’s manor. She’d fallen asleep in her clothing.

The humming was Pattern on the comforter beside her. He looked almost like lace embroidery. The window shades had been drawn—she didn’t remember doing that—and it was dark outside. The evening of the day she’d arrived at the Plains.

“Did someone come in?” she asked Pattern, sitting up, pushing stray locks of red hair from her eyes.

“Mmm. Someones. Gone now.”

Shallan rose and wandered into her sitting room. Ash’s eyes, she almost didn’t want to walk on the pristine white carpeting. What if she left tracks and ruined it?

Pattern’s “someones” had left food on the table. Suddenly ravenous, Shallan sat down on the sofa, lifting the lid off the tray to find flatbread that had been baked with sweet paste in the center, along with dipping sauces.

“Remind me,” she said, “to thank Palona in the morning. That woman is divine.”

“Mmm. No. I think she is… Ah… Exaggeration?”

“You catch on quickly,” Shallan said as Pattern became a three-dimensional mass of twisting lines, a ball hanging in the air above the seat beside her.

“No,” he said. “I am too slow. You prefer some food and not others. Why?”

“The taste,” Shallan said.

“I should understand this word,” Pattern said. “But I do not, not really.”

Storms. How did you describe taste? “It’s like color… you see with your mouth.” She grimaced. “And that was an awful metaphor. Sorry. I have trouble being insightful on an empty stomach.”

“You say you are ‘on’ the stomach,” Pattern said. “But I know you do not mean this. Context allows me to infer what you truly mean. In a way, the very phrase is a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” Shallan said, “if everyone understands and knows what it means.”

“Mm. Those are some of the best lies.”

“Pattern,” Shallan said, breaking off a piece of flatbread, “sometimes you’re about as intelligible as a Bavlander trying to quote ancient Vorin poetry.”

A note beside the food said that Vathah and her soldiers had arrived, and had been quartered in a tenement nearby. Her slaves had been incorporated into the manor’s staff for the time being.

Chewing on the bread—it was delightful—Shallan went over to her trunks with the intent of unpacking. When she opened the first, however, she was confronted by a blinking red light. Tyn’s spanreed.

Shallan stared at it. That would be the person who relayed Tyn’s information. Shallan assumed it was a woman, though since the information relay station was in Tashikk, they might not even be Vorin. It could be a man.

She knew so little. She was going to have to be very careful… storms, she might get herself killed even if she was careful. Shallan was tired, however, of being pushed around.

These people knew something about Urithiru. It was, dangerous or not, Shallan’s best lead. She took out the spanreed, prepared its board with paper, and placed the reed. Once she turned the dial to indicate she had set up, the pen remained hanging there, immobile, but did not immediately start writing. The person trying to contact her had stepped away—the pen could have been in there blinking for hours. She’d have to wait until the person on the other side returned.

“Inconvenient,” she said, then smiled at herself. Was she really complaining about waiting a few minutes for instantaneous communication across half the world?

I will need to find a way to contact my brothers, she thought. That would be distressingly slow, without a spanreed. Could she arrange a message through one of these relay stations in Tashikk using a different intermediary, perhaps?