SEVEN AND A HALF YEARS AGO
“He wants to send me to Kharbranth,” Kal said, perched atop his rock. “To train to become a surgeon.”
“What, really?” Laral asked, as she walked across the edge of the rock just in front of him. She had golden streaks in her otherwise black hair. She wore it long, and it streamed out behind her in a gust of wind as she balanced, hands out to the sides.
The hair was distinctive. But, of course, her eyes were more so. Bright, pale green. So different from the browns and blacks of the townspeople. There really was something different about being a lighteyes.
“Yes, really,” Kal said with a grunt. “He’s been talking about it for a couple of years now.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
Kal shrugged. He and Laral were atop a low ridge of boulders to the east of Hearthstone. Tien, his younger brother, was picking through rocks at the base. To Kal’s right, a grouping of shallow hillsides rolled to the west. They were sprinkled with lavis polyps, a planting halfway to being harvested.
He felt oddly sad as he looked over those hillsides, filled with working men. The dark brown polyps would grow like melons filled with grain. After being dried, that grain would feed the entire town and their
highprince’s armies. The ardents who passed through town were careful to explain that the Calling of a farmer was a noble one, one of the highest save for the Calling of a soldier. Kal’s father whispered under his breath that he saw far more honor in feeding the kingdom than he did in fighting and dying in useless wars.
“Kal?” Laral said, voice insistent. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if Father was serious or not. So I didn’t say anything.”
That was a lie. He’d known his father was serious. Kal just hadn’t wanted to mention leaving to become a surgeon, particularly not to Laral.
She placed her hands on her hips. “I thought you were going to go become a soldier.”
Kal shrugged.
She rolled her eyes, hopping down off her ridge onto a stone beside him. “Don’t you want to become a lighteyes? Win a Shardblade?”
“Father says that doesn’t happen very often.”
She knelt down before him. “I’m sure you could do it.” Those eyes, so bright and alive, shimmering green, the color of life itself.
More and more, Kal found that he liked looking at Laral. Kal knew, logically, what was happening to him. His father had explained the process of growing with the precision of a surgeon. But there was so much feeling involved, emotions that his father’s sterile descriptions hadn’t explained. Some of those emotions were about Laral and the other girls of the town. Other emotions had to do with the strange blanket of melancholy that smothered him at times when he wasn’t expecting.
“I…” Kal said.
“Look,” Laral said, standing up again and climbing atop her rock. Her fine yellow dress ruffled in the wind. One more year, and she’d start wearing a glove on her left hand, the mark that a girl had entered adolescence. “Up, come on. Look.”
Kal hauled himself to his feet, looking eastward. There, snarlbrush grew in dense thickets around the bases of stout markel trees.
“What do you see?” Laral demanded.
“Brown snarlbrush. Looks like it’s probably dead.”
“The Origin is out there,” she said, pointing. “This is the stormlands. Father says we’re here to be a windbreak for more timid lands to the west.” She turned to him. “We’ve got a noble heritage, Kal, darkeyes and light-
eyes alike. That’s why the best warriors have always been from Alethkar. Highprince Sadeas, General Amaram…King Gavilar himself.”
“I suppose.”
She sighed exaggeratedly. “I hate talking to you when you’re like this, you know.”
“Like what?”
“Like you are now. You know. Moping around, sighing.” “You’re the one who just sighed, Laral.”
“You know what I mean.”
She stepped down from the rock, walking over to go pout. She did that sometimes. Kal stayed where he was, looking eastward. He wasn’t sure how he felt. His father really wanted him to be a surgeon, but he wavered. It wasn’t just because of the stories, the excitement and wonder of them. He felt that by being a soldier, he could change things. Really change them. A part of him dreamed of going to war, of protecting Alethkar, of fighting alongside heroic lighteyes. Of doing good someplace other than a little town that nobody important ever visited.
He sat down. Sometimes he dreamed like that. Other times, he found it hard to care about anything. His dreary feelings were like a black eel, coiled inside of him. The snarlbrush out there survived the storms by growing together densely about the bases of the mighty markel trees. Their bark was coated with stone, their branches thick as a man’s leg. But now the snarlbrush was dead. It hadn’t survived. Pulling together hadn’t been enough for it.
“Kaladin?” a voice asked from behind him.
He turned to find Tien. Tien was ten years old, two years Kal’s junior, though he looked much younger. While other kids called him a runt, Lirin said that Tien just hadn’t hit his height yet. But, well, with those round, flushed cheeks and that slight build, Tien did look like a boy half his age. “Kaladin,” he said, eyes wide, hands cupped together. “What are you looking at?”
“Dead weeds,” Kal said.
“Oh. Well, you need to see this.” “What is it?”
Tien opened his hands to reveal a small stone, weathered on all sides but with a jagged break on the bottom. Kal picked it up, looking it over. He couldn’t see anything distinctive about it at all. In fact, it was dull.
“It’s just a rock,” Kal said.
“Not just a rock,” Tien said, taking out his canteen. He wetted his thumb, then rubbed it on the flat side of the stone. The wetness darkened the stone, and made visible an array of white patterns in the rock. “See?” Tien asked, handing it back.
The strata of the rock alternated white, brown, black. The pattern was remarkable. Of course, it was still just a rock. But for some reason, Kal found himself smiling. “That’s nice, Tien.” He moved to hand the rock back.
Tien shook his head. “I found it for you. To make you feel better.”
“I…” It was just a stupid rock. Yet, inexplicably, Kal did feel better. “Thanks. Hey, you know what? I’ll bet there’s a lurg or two hiding in these rocks somewhere. Want to see if we can find one?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Tien said. He laughed and began moving down the rocks. Kal moved to follow, but paused, remembering something his father had said.
He poured some water on his hand from his own canteen and flung it at the brown snarlbrush. Wherever sprayed droplets fell, the brush grew instantly green, as if he were throwing paint. The brush wasn’t dead; it just dried out, waiting for the storms to come. Kal watched the patches of green slowly fade back to tan as the water was absorbed.
“Kaladin!” Tien yelled. He often used Kal’s full name, even though Kal had asked him not to. “Is this one?”
Kal moved down across the boulders, pocketing the rock he’d been given. As he did so, he passed Laral. She was looking westward, toward her family’s mansion. Her father was the citylord of Hearthstone. Kal found his eyes lingering on her again. That hair of hers was beautiful, with the two stark colors.
She turned to Kal and frowned.
“We’re going to hunt some lurgs,” he explained, smiling and gesturing toward Tien. “Come on.”
“You’re cheerful suddenly.” “I don’t know. I feel better.”
“How does he do that? I wonder.” “Who does what?”
“Your brother,” Laral said, looking toward Tien. “He changes you.”
Tien’s head popped up behind some stones and he waved eagerly, bouncing up and down with excitement.
“It’s just hard to be gloomy when he’s around,” Kal said. “Come on.
Do you want to watch the lurg or not?”
“I suppose,” Laral said with a sigh. She held out a hand toward him. “What’s that for?” Kal asked, looking at her hand.
“To help me down.”
“Laral, you’re a better climber than me or Tien. You don’t need help.” “It’s polite, stupid,” she said, proffering her hand more insistently. Kal
sighed and took it, then she proceeded to hop down without even leaning on it or needing his help. She, he thought, has been acting very strange lately.
The two of them joined Tien, who jumped down into a hollow between some boulders. The younger boy pointed eagerly. A silky patch of white grew in a crevice on the rock. It was made of tiny threads spun together into a ball about the size of a boy’s fist.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Tien asked. “That is one?”
Kal lifted the flask and poured water down the side of the stone onto the patch of white. The threads dissolved in the simulated rainwater, the cocoon melting to reveal a small creature with slick brown and green skin. The lurg had six legs that it used to grip the stone, and its eyes were in the center of its back. It hopped off the stone, searching for insects. Tien laughed, watching it bounce from rock to rock, sticking to the stones. It left behind patches of mucus wherever it landed.
Kal leaned back against the stone, watching his brother, remembering days—not so long ago—when chasing lurgs had been more exciting.
“So,” Laral said, folding her arms. “What are you going to do? If your father tries to send you to Kharbranth?”
“I don’t know,” Kal said. “The surgeons won’t take anyone before their sixteenth Weeping, so I’ve got time to think.” The best surgeons and healers trained in Kharbranth. Everyone knew that. The city was said to have more hospitals than taverns.
“It sounds like your father is forcing you to do what he wants, not what you want,” Laral said.
“That’s the way everyone does it,” Kal said, scratching his head. “The other boys don’t mind becoming farmers because their fathers were farmers, and Ral just became the new town carpenter. He didn’t mind that it was what his father did. Why should I mind being a surgeon?”
“I just—” Laral looked angry. “Kal, if you go to war and find a Shardblade, then you’d be a lighteyes…. I mean…Oh, this is useless.” She settled back, folding her arms even more tightly.
Kal scratched his head. She really was acting oddly. “I wouldn’t mind going to war, winning honor and all that. Mostly, I’d like to travel. See what other lands are like.” He’d heard tales of exotic animals, like enormous crustaceans or eels that sang. Of Rall Elorim, City of Shadows, or Kurth, City of Lightning.
He’d spent a lot of time studying these last few years. Kal’s mother said he should be allowed to have a childhood, rather than focusing so much on his future. Lirin argued that the tests to be admitted by the Kharbranthian surgeons were very rigorous. If Kal wanted a chance with them, he’d have to begin learning early.
And yet, to become a soldier…The other boys dreamed of joining the army, of fighting with King Gavilar. There was talk of going to war with Jah Keved, once and for all. What would it be like, to finally see some of the heroes from stories? To fight with Highprince Sadeas, or Dalinar the Blackthorn?
Eventually, the lurg realized that it had been tricked. It settled down on a rock to spin its cocoon again. Kal grabbed a small, weathered stone off the ground, then laid a hand on Tien’s shoulder, stopping the boy from prodding the tired amphibian. Kal moved forward and nudged the lurg with two fingers, making it hop off the boulder and onto his stone. He handed this to Tien, who watched with wide eyes as the lurg spun its cocoon, spitting out the wet silk and using tiny hands to shape it. That cocoon would be watertight from the inside, sealed by dried mucus, but rainwater outside would dissolve the sack.
Kal smiled, then lifted the flask and drank. This was cool, clean water, which had already had the crem settled out. Crem—the sludgy brown material that fell with rainwater—could make a man sick. Everybody knew that, not just surgeons. You always let water sit for a day, then poured off the fresh water on top and used the crem to make pottery.
The lurg eventually finished its cocoon. Tien immediately reached for the flask.
Kal held the flask high. “It’ll be tired, Tien. It won’t jump around anymore.”
“Oh.”
Kal lowered the flask, patting his brother’s shoulder. “I put it on that stone so you could carry it around. You can get it out later.” He smiled. “Or you could drop it in Father’s bathwater through the window.”
Tien grinned at that prospect. Kal ruffled the boy’s dark hair. “Go see if you can find another cocoon. If we catch two, you’ll have one to play with and one to slip into the bathwater.”
Tien carefully set the rock aside, then scampered up over the boulders. The hillside here had broken during a highstorm several months back. Shattered, as if it had been hit by the fist of some enormous creature. People said that it could have been a home that got destroyed. They burned prayers of thanks to the Almighty while at the same time whispering of dangerous things that moved in the darkness at full storm. Were the Voidbringers behind the destruction, or had it been the shades of the Lost Radiants?
Laral was looking toward the mansion again. She smoothed her dress nervously—lately she took far more care, not getting her clothes dirty as she once had.
“You still thinking about war?” Kal asked. “Um. Yes. I am.”
“Make sense,” he said. An army had come through recruiting just a few weeks back and had picked up a few of the older boys, though only after Citylord Wistiow had given permission. “What do you think broke the rocks here, during the highstorm?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Kal looked eastward. What sent the storms? His father said no ship had ever sailed for the Origin of Storms and returned safely. Few ships ever even left the coast. Being caught on the open seas during a storm meant death, so the stories said.
He took another sip from his flask, then capped it, saving the rest in case Tien found another lurg. Distant men worked the fields, wearing overalls, laced brown shirts, and sturdy boots. It was worming season. A single worm could ruin an entire polyp’s worth of grain. It would incubate inside, slowly eating as the grain grew. When you finally opened up the polyp in the fall, all you’d find was a big fat slug the size of two men’s hands. And so they searched in the spring, going over each polyp. Where they found a burrow, they’d stick in a reed tipped with sugar, which the worm would latch on to. You pulled it out and squished it under your heel, then patched the hole with crem.
It could take weeks to properly worm a field, and farmers usually went over their hills three or four times, fertilizing as they went. Kal had heard the process described a hundred times over. You didn’t live in a town like Hearthstone without listening to men gripe about worms.
Oddly, he noticed a group older boys gathering at the foot of one of the hills. He recognized all of them, of course. Jost and Jest, brothers. Mord, Tift, Naget, Khav, and others. They each had solid, Alethi darkeyes names. Not like Kaladin’s own name. It was different.
“Why aren’t they worming?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Laral said, shifting her attention to the boys. She got an odd look in her eyes. “Let’s go see.” She started down the hillside before Kal had a chance to object.
He scratched his head, looking toward Tien. “We’re going down to the hillside there.”
A youthful head popped up behind a boulder. Tien nodded energetically, then turned back to his searching. Kal slipped off the boulder and walked down the slope after Laral. She reached the boys, and they regarded her with uncomfortable expressions. She’d never spent much time with them, not like she had with Kal and Tien. Her father and his were pretty good friends, for all that one was lighteyed and the other dark.
Laral took a perch on a nearby rock, waiting and saying nothing. Kal walked up. Why had she wanted to come down here, if she wasn’t going to talk to the other boys?
“Ho, Jost,” Kal said. Senior among the boys at fourteen, Jost was nearly a man—and he looked it too. His chest was broad beyond his years, his legs thick and stocky, like those of his father. He was holding a length of wood from a sapling that had been shaved into a rough approximation of a quarterstaff. “Why aren’t you worming?”
It was the wrong thing to say, and Kal knew it immediately. Several of the boys’ expressions darkened. It was a sore point to them that Kal never had to work the hills. His protests—that he spent hours upon hours memorizing muscles, bones, and cures—fell on uncaring ears. All they saw was a boy who got to spend his days in the shade while they toiled in the burning sun.
“Old Tarn found a patch of polyps that ain’t growing right,” Jost finally said, shooting a glance at Laral. “Let us go for the day while they
talked over whether to try another planting there, or just let them grow and see what comes of it.”
Kal nodded, feeling awkward as he stood before the nine boys. They were sweaty, the knees of their trousers stained with crem and patched from rubbing stone. But Kal was clean, wearing a fine pair of trousers his mother had purchased just a few weeks before. His father had sent him and Tien out for the day while he tended to something at the citylord’s manor. Kal would pay for the break with late-night studying by Stormlight, but no use explaining that to the other boys.
“So, er,” Kal said, “what were you all talking about?”
Rather than answering, Naget said, “Kal, you know things.” Light haired and spindly, he was the tallest of the bunch. “Don’t you? About the world and the like?”
“Yeah,” Kal said, scratching his head. “Sometimes.”
“You ever heard of a darkeyes becoming a lighteyes?” Naget asked.
“Sure,” Kal said. “It can happen, Father says. Wealthy darkeyed merchants marry lowborn lighteyes and join their family. Then maybe have lighteyed children. That sort of thing.”
“No, not like that,” Khav said. He had low eyebrows and always seemed to have a perpetual scowl on his face. “You know. Real darkeyes. Like us.”
Not like you, the tone seemed to imply. Kal’s family were the only one of second nahn in the town. Everyone else was fourth or fifth, and Kal’s rank made them uncomfortable around him. His father’s strange profession didn’t help either.
It all left Kal feeling distinctly out-of-place.
“You know how it can happen,” Kal said. “Ask Laral. She was just talking about it. If a man wins a Shardblade on the battlefield, his eyes become light.”
“That’s right,” Laral said. “Everybody knows it. Even a slave could become a lighteyes if he won a Shardblade.”
The boys nodded; they all had brown, black, or other dark-colored eyes. Winning a Shardblade was one of the main reasons common men went to war. In Vorin kingdoms, everyone had a chance to rise. It was, as Kal’s father would say, a fundamental tenet of their society.
“Yeah,” Naget said impatiently. “But have you ever heard of it happening? Not just in stories, I mean. Does it happen for real?”
“Sure,” Kal said. “It must. Otherwise, why would so many men go to war?”
“Because,” Jest said, “we’ve gotta prepare men to fight for the Tranquiline Halls. We’ve gotta send soldiers to the Heralds. The ardents are always talking of it.”
“In the same breaths that they tell us it’s all right to be a farmer too,” Khav said. “Like, farming’s some lonely second place or something.”
“Hey,” Tift said. “My fah’s a farmer, and he’s right good at it. It’s a noble Calling! All your fahs are farmers.”
“All right, fine,” Jost said. “But we ain’t talking of that. We’re talking of Shardbearers. You go to war, you can win a Shardblade and become a light-eyes. My fah, see, he should have been given that Shardblade. But the man who was with him, he took it while my fah was knocked out. Told the officer that he’d been the one to kill the Shardbearer, so he got the Blade, and my fah—”
He was cut off by Laral’s tinkling laughter. Kal frowned. That was a different kind of laughter than he normally heard from her, much more subdued and kind of annoying. “Jost, you’re claiming your father won a Shardblade?” she said.
“No. It was taken from him,” the larger boy said.
“Didn’t your father fight in the wastescum skirmishes up north?” Laral said. “Tell him, Kaladin.”
“She’s right, Jost. There weren’t any Shardbearers there—just Reshi raiders who thought they’d take advantage of the new king. They’ve never had any Shardblades. If your father saw one, he must be remembering incorrectly.”
“Remembering incorrectly?” Jost said.
“Er, sure,” Kal said quickly. “I’m not saying he’s lying, Jost. He just might have some trauma-induced hallucinations, or something like that.”
The boys grew silent, looking at Kal. One scratched his head.
Jost spat to the side. He seemed to be watching Laral from the corner of his eye. She pointedly looked at Kal and smiled at him.
“You always got to make a man feel like an idiot, don’t you, Kal?” Jost
said.
“What? No, I—”
“You want to make my fah sound like a fool,” Jost said, face red. “And
you want to make me sound stupid. Well, some of us ain’t lucky enough to
spend our days eating fruit and laying about. We’ve got to work.” “I don’t—”
Jost tossed the quarterstaff to Kal. He caught it awkwardly. Then Jost took the other staff from his brother. “You insult my fah, you get a fight. That’s honor. You have honor, lordling?”
“I’m no lordling,” Kal spat. “Stormfather, Jost, I’m only a few nahn higher than you are.”
Jost’s eyes grew angrier at the mention of nahn. He held up his quarterstaff. “You going to fight me or not?” Angerspren began to appear in small pools at his feet, bright red.
Kal knew what Jost was doing. It wasn’t uncommon for the boys to look for a way to make themselves look better than him. Kal’s father said it had to do with their insecurity. He’d have told Kal to just drop the quarterstaff and walk away.
But Laral was sitting right there, smiling at him. And men didn’t become heroes by walking away. “All right. Sure.” Kal held up his quarterstaff.
Jost swung immediately, more quickly than Kal had anticipated. The other boys watched with a mixture of glee, shock, and amazement. Kal barely managed to get his staff up. The lengths of wood cracked together, sending a jolt up Kal’s arms.
Kal was knocked off balance. Jost moved quickly, stepping to the side and swinging his staff down and hitting Kal in the foot. Kal cried out as a flash of agony lanced up his leg, and he released the staff with one hand and reached down.
Jost swung his staff around and hit Kal’s side. Kal gasped, letting the staff clatter to the stones and grabbing his side as he fell to his knees. He breathed out in huffing breaths, straining against the pain. Small, spindly painspren—glowing pale orange hand shapes, like stretching sinew or muscles—crawled from the stone around him.
Kal dropped one hand to the stones, leaning forward as he held his side. You’d better not have broken any of my ribs, you cremling, he thought.
To the side, Laral pursed her lips. Kal felt a sudden, overpowering shame.
Jost lowered his staff, looking abashed. “Well,” he said. “You can see that my fah trained me right good. Maybe that will show you. The things he says are true, and—”
Kal growled in anger and pain, snatching his quarterstaff from the ground and leaping at Jost. The older boy cursed, stumbling backward as he raised his weapon. Kal bellowed, slamming his weapon forward.
Something changed in that moment. Kal felt an energy as he held the weapon, an excitement that washed away his pain. He spun, smashing the staff into one of Jost’s hands.
Jost let go with that hand, screaming. Kal brought his weapon around and slammed it into the boy’s side. Kal had never held a weapon before, never been in a fight any more dangerous than a wrestling match with Tien. But the length of wood felt right in his fingers. He was amazed by how wonderful the moment felt.
Jost grunted, stumbling again, and Kal brought his weapon back around, preparing to smash Jost’s face. He raised his staff, but then froze. Jost was bleeding from the hand Kal had hit. Just a little, but it was blood.
He’d hurt someone.
Jost growled and lurched upright. Before Kal could protest, the larger boy swept Kal’s legs from underneath him, sending him to the ground, knocking the breath from his lungs. That set afire the wound in his side, and the painspren scampered across the ground, latching on to Kal’s side, looking like an orange scar as they fed on Kal’s agony.
Jost stepped back. Kal lay on his back, breathing. He didn’t know what to feel. Holding the staff in that moment had felt wonderful. Incredible. At the same time, he could see Laral to the side. She stood up and, instead of kneeling to help him, turned and walked away, toward her father’s mansion.
Tears welled in Kal’s eyes. With a shout, he rolled over and grabbed the quarterstaff again. He would not give in!
“None of that now,” Jost said from behind. Kal felt something hard on his back, a boot shoving him down to the stone. Jest took the staff from Kal’s fingers.
I failed. I…lost. He hated the feeling, hated it far more than the pain.
“You did well,” Jost said grudgingly. “But leave off. I don’t want to have to hurt you for real.”
Kal bowed his head down, letting his forehead rest on the warm, sunlit rock. Jost removed his foot, and the boys withdrew, chatting, their boots scraping on rock. Kal forced himself to his hands and knees, then up onto his feet.
Jost turned back, wary, holding his quarterstaff in one hand.
“Teach me,” Kal said.
Jost blinked in surprise. He glanced at his brother.
“Teach me,” Kal pled, stepping forward. “I’ll worm for you, Jost. My father gives me two hours off each afternoon. I’ll do your work then if you’ll teach me, in the evenings, what your father is teaching you with that staff.”
He had to know. Had to feel the weapon in his hands again. Had to see if that moment he’d felt had been a fluke. Jost considered, then finally shook his head. “Can’t. Your fah would kill me. Get those surgeon’s hands of yours all covered with calluses? Wouldn’t be right.” He turned away. “You go be what you are, Kal. I’ll be what I am.”
Kal stood for a long while, watching them go. He sat down on the rock. Laral’s figure was growing distant. There were some servants coming down the hillside to fetch her. Should he chase after her? His side still hurt, and he was annoyed at her for leading him down to the others in the first place. And, above all, he was still embarrassed.
He lay back down, emotions welling inside of him. He had trouble sorting through them.
“Kaladin?”
He turned, ashamed to find tears in his eyes, and saw Tien sitting on the ground behind him. “How long have you been there?” Kal snapped.
Tien smiled, then set a rock on the ground. He climbed to his feet and hurried away, not stopping when Kal called after him. Grumbling, Kal forced himself to his feet and walked over to pick up the rock.
It was another dull, ordinary stone. Tien had a habit of finding those and thinking they were incredibly precious. He had an entire collection of them back in the house. He knew where he’d found each one, and could tell you what was special about it.
With a sigh, Kal began walking back toward the town.
You go be what you are. I’ll be what I am.
His side smarted. Why hadn’t he hit Jost when he’d had the chance? Could he train himself out of freezing in battle like that? He could learn to hurt. Couldn’t he?
Did he want to?
You go be what you are.
What did a man do if he didn’t know what he was? Or even what he wanted to be?
Eventually, he reached Hearthstone proper. The hundred or so buildings were set in rows, each one shaped like a wedge with the low side pointing stormward. The roofs were of thick wood, tarred to seal out the rain. The northern and southern sides of the buildings rarely had windows, but the fronts—facing west away from the storms—were nearly all window. Like the plants of the stormlands, the lives of men here were dominated by the highstorms.
Kal’s home was near the outskirts. It was larger than most, built wide to accommodate the surgery room, which had its own entrance. The door was ajar, so Kal peeked in. He’d expected to see his mother cleaning, but instead found that his father had returned from Brightlord Wistiow’s manor. Lirin sat on the edge of the operating table, hands in his lap, bald head bowed. He held his spectacles in his hand, and he looked exhausted.
“Father?” Kal asked. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” Lirin looked up. His face was somber, distant.
“Father?” Kal asked, growing more concerned. “Brightlord Wistiow has been carried by the winds.”
“He’s dead?” Kal was so shocked he forgot his side. Wistiow had always been there. He couldn’t be gone. What of Laral? “He was healthy just last week!”
“He has always been frail, Kal,” Lirin said. “The Almighty calls all men back to the Spiritual Realm eventually.”
“You didn’t do anything?” Kal blurted out; he regretted the words immediately.
“I did all I could,” his father said, rising. “Perhaps a man with more training than I…Well, there is no use in regrets.” He walked to the side of the room, removing the black covering from the goblet lamp filled with diamond spheres. It lit the room immediately, blazing like a tiny sun.
“We have no citylord then,” Kal said, raising a hand to his head. “He had no son….”
“Those in Kholinar will appoint us a new citylord,” Lirin said. “Almighty send them wisdom in the choice.” He looked at the goblet lamp. Those were the citylord’s spheres. A small fortune.
Kal’s father put the covering right back on the goblet, as if he hadn’t just removed it. The motion plunged the room back into darkness, and Kal blinked as his eyes adjusted.
“He left these to us,” Kal’s father said.
Kal started. “What?”
“You’re to be sent to Kharbranth when you turn sixteen. These spheres will pay your way—Brightlord Wistiow requested it be done, a last act to care for his people. You will go and become a true master surgeon, then return to Hearthstone.”
In that moment, Kal knew his fate had been sealed. If Brightlord Wistiow had demanded it, Kal would go to Kharbranth. He turned and walked from the surgery room, passing out into the sunlight, not saying another word to his father.
He sat down on the steps. What did he want? He didn’t know. That was the problem. Glory, honor, the things Laral had said…none of those really mattered to him. But there had been something there when he’d held the quarterstaff. And now, suddenly, the decision had been taken from him.
The rocks Tien had given him were still in his pocket. He pulled them out, then took his canteen off his belt and washed them with water. The first one he’d been given showed the white swirls and strata. It appeared the other one had a hidden design too.
It looked like a face, smiling at him, made of white bits in the rock. Kal smiled despite himself, though it quickly faded. A rock wasn’t going to solve his problems.
Unfortunately, though he sat for a long while thinking, it didn’t look like anything would solve his problems. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be a surgeon, and he felt suddenly constricted by what life was forcing him to become.
But that one moment holding the quarterstaff sang to him. A single moment of clarity in an otherwise confusing world.
