It had still been a cell.

That was the disturbance I heard, Kaladin thought, on that day, early after I was imprisoned. Adolin came and shut himself in.

Kaladin jogged up to the man. “Why?”

“Didn’t seem right, you in here,” Adolin said, eyes forward.

“I ruined your chance to duel Sadeas.”

“I’d be crippled or dead without you,” Adolin said. “So I wouldn’t have had the chance to fight Sadeas anyway.” The prince stopped in the hallway, and looked at Kaladin. “Besides. You saved Renarin.”

“It’s my job,” Kaladin said.

“Then we need to pay you more, bridgeboy,” Adolin said. “Because I don’t know if I’ve ever met another man who would jump, unarmored, into a fight among six Shardbearers.”

Kaladin frowned. “Wait. Are you wearing cologne? In prison?”

“Well, there was no need to be barbaric, just because I was incarcerated.”

“Storms, you’re spoiled,” Kaladin said, smiling.

“I’m refined, you insolent farmer,” Adolin said. Then he grinned. “Besides, I’ll have you know that I had to use cold water for my baths while here.”

“Poor boy.”

“I know.” Adolin hesitated, then held out a hand.

Kaladin clasped it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For ruining the plan.”

“Bah, you didn’t ruin it,” Adolin said. “Elhokar did that. You think he couldn’t have simply ignored your request and proceeded, letting me expand on my challenge to Sadeas? He threw a tantrum instead of taking control of the crowd and pushing forward. Storming man.”

Kaladin blinked at the audacious tone, then glanced toward the jailer, who stood a distance behind, obviously trying to look inconspicuous.

“The things you said about Amaram,” Adolin said. “Were they true?”

“Every one.”

Adolin nodded. “I’ve always wondered what that man was hiding.” He continued walking.

“Wait,” Kaladin said, jogging to catch up, “you believe me?”

“My father,” Adolin said, “is the best man I know, perhaps the best man alive. Even he loses his temper, makes bad judgment calls, and has a troubled past. Amaram never seems to do anything wrong. If you listen to the stories about him, it’s like everyone expects him to glow in the dark and piss nectar. That stinks, to me, of someone who works too hard to maintain his reputation.”

“Your father says I shouldn’t have tried to duel him.”

“Yeah,” Adolin said, reaching the door at the end of the hallway. “Dueling is formalized in a way I suspect you just don’t get. A darkeyes can’t challenge a man like Amaram, and you certainly shouldn’t have done it like you did. It embarrassed the king, like spitting on a gift he’d given you.” Adolin hesitated. “Of course, that shouldn’t matter to you anymore. Not after today.”

Adolin pushed open the door. Beyond, most of the men of Bridge Four crowded into a small room where the jailers obviously spent their days. A table and chairs had been shoved to the corner to make room for the twenty-something men who saluted Kaladin as the door opened. Their salutes dissolved immediately as they started to cheer.

That sound . . . that sound quashed the darkness until it vanished completely. Kaladin found himself smiling as he stepped out to meet them, taking hands, listening to Rock make a wisecrack about his beard. Renarin was there in his Bridge Four uniform, and he immediately joined his brother, speaking to him quietly in a jovial way, though he had out his little box that he liked to fidget with.

Kaladin glanced to the side. Who were those men beside the wall? Members of Adolin’s retinue. Was that one of Adolin’s armorers? They carried some items draped with sheets. Adolin stepped into the room and loudly clapped his hands, quieting Bridge Four.

“It turns out,” Adolin said, “that I’m in possession of not one, but two new Shardblades and three sets of Plate. The Kholin princedom now owns a quarter of the Shards in all of Alethkar, and I’ve been named dueling champion. Not surprising, considering Relis was on a caravan back to Alethkar the night after our duel, sent by his father in an attempt to hide the shame of being beaten so soundly.

“One complete set of those Shards is going to General Khal, and I’ve ordered two of the sets of Plate given to appropriate lighteyes of rank in my father’s army.” Adolin nodded toward the sheets. “That leaves one full set. Personally, I’m curious to know if the stories are true. If a darkeyes bonds a Shardblade, will his eyes change color?”

Kaladin felt a moment of sheer panic. Again. It was happening again.

The armorers removed the sheets, revealing a shimmering silvery Blade. Edged on both sides, a pattern of twisting vines ran up its center. At their feet, the armorers uncovered a set of Plate, painted orange, taken from one of the men Kaladin had helped defeat.

Take these Shards, and everything changed. Kaladin immediately felt sick, almost cripplingly so. He turned back to Adolin. “I can do with these as I wish?”

“Take them,” Adolin said, nodding. “They are yours.”

“Not anymore,” Kaladin said, pointing toward one of the members of Bridge Four. “Moash. Take these. You’re now a Shardbearer.”

All of the color drained from Moash’s face. Kaladin prepared himself. Last time . . . He flinched as Adolin grabbed him by the shoulder, but the tragedy of Amaram’s army did not repeat. Instead, Adolin yanked Kaladin back into the hallway, holding up a hand to stop the bridgemen from talking.

“Just a second,” Adolin said. “Nobody move.” Then, in a quieter voice, he hissed to Kaladin. “I’m giving you a Shardblade and Shardplate.”

“Thank you,” Kaladin said. “Moash will use them well. He’s been training with Zahel.”

“I didn’t give them to him. I gave them to you.”

“If they’re really mine, then I can do with them as I wish. Or are they not really mine?”

“What’s wrong with you?” Adolin said. “This is the dream of every soldier, darkeyed or light. Is this out of spite? Or . . . is it . . .” Adolin seemed completely baffled.

“It’s not out of spite,” Kaladin said, speaking softly. “Adolin, those Blades have killed too many people I love. I can’t look at them, can’t touch them, without seeing blood.”

“You’d be lighteyed,” Adolin whispered. “Even if it didn’t change your eye color, you’d count as one. Shardbearers are immediately of the fourth dahn. You could challenge Amaram. Your whole life would change.”

“I don’t want my life to change because I’ve become a lighteyes,” Kaladin said. “I want the lives of people like me . . . like I am now . . . to change. This gift is not for me, Adolin. I’m not trying to spite you or anyone else. I just don’t want a Shardblade.”

“That assassin is going to come back,” Adolin said. “We both know it. I’d rather have you there with Shards to back me up.”

“I’ll be more useful without them.”

Adolin frowned.

“Let me give the Shards to Moash,” Kaladin said. “You saw, on that field, that I can handle myself fine without a Blade and Plate. If we Shard-up one of my best men, there will be three of us to fight him, not just two.”

Adolin looked into the room, then skeptically back at Kaladin. “You are crazy, you realize.”

“I’ll accept that.”

“Fine,” Adolin said, striding back into the room. “You. Moash, was it? I guess those Shards are yours, now. Congratulations. You now outrank ninety percent of Alethkar. Pick yourself a family name and ask to join one of the houses under Dalinar’s banner, or start your own if you are inclined.”

Moash glanced at Kaladin for confirmation. Kaladin nodded.

The tall bridgeman walked to the side of the room, reaching out a hand to rest his fingers on the Shardblade. He ran those fingers all the way down to the hilt, then seized it, lifting the Blade in awe. Like most, it was enormous, but Moash held it easily in one hand. The heliodor set into the pommel flashed with a burst of light.

Moash looked to the others of Bridge Four, a sea of wide eyes and speechless mouths. Gloryspren rose around him, a spinning mass of at least two dozen spheres of light.

“His eyes,” Lopen said. “Shouldn’t they be changing?”

“If it happens,” Adolin said, “it might not be until he’s bonded the thing. That takes a week.”

“Put the Plate on me,” Moash said to the armorers. Urgent, as if he feared it would be taken from him.

“Enough of this!” Rock said as the armorers began to work, his voice filling the room like captive thunder. “We have party to give! Great Captain Kaladin, Stormblessed and dweller in prisons, you will come eat my stew now. Ha! I have been cooking it as long as you were locked away.”

Kaladin let the bridgemen usher him out into the sunlight, where a crowd of soldiers waited—including many of the bridgemen from other crews. These cheered, and Kaladin caught sight of Dalinar waiting off to the side. Adolin moved to join his father, but Dalinar watched Kaladin. What did that look mean? So pensive. Kaladin looked away, accepting the greetings of bridgemen as they clasped his hand and clapped him on the back.

“What did you say, Rock?” Kaladin said. “You cooked a stew for each day I was locked in prison?”

“No,” Teft said, scratching his beard. “The storming Horneater has been cooking a single pot, letting it simmer for weeks now. He won’t let us try it, and insists on getting up at night and tending it.”

“Is celebratory stew,” Rock said, folding his arms. “Must simmer long time.”

“Well, let’s get to it, then,” Kaladin said. “I could certainly use something better than prison food.”

The men cheered, piling off toward their barrack. As they moved, Kaladin grabbed Teft by the arm. “How did the men take it?” he asked. “My imprisonment?”

“There was talk of breaking you out,” Teft admitted softly. “I beat some sense into them. Ain’t no good soldier who hasn’t spent a day or two locked up. It’s part of the job. They didn’t demote you, so they just wanted to slap your wrist a little. The men saw the truth of it.”

Kaladin nodded.

Teft glanced at the others. “There’s quite a lot of anger among them about this Amaram fellow. And a lot of interest. Anything about your past gets them talking, you know.”

“Lead them back to the barrack,” Kaladin said. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

“Don’t take too long,” Teft said. “The lads have been guarding this doorway for three weeks now. You owe them their celebration.”