What had happened to the Laral he’d known, the girl with the loose yellow and black hair who liked climbing on rocks and running through fields? Now she was wrapped up in sleek yellow silk, a stylish lighteyed woman’s dress, her neatly coiffed hair dyed black to hide the blond. Her left hand was hidden modestly in her sleeve. Laral looked like a lighteyes.
Wistiow’s wealth—what was left of it—had gone to her. And when Roshone had been given authority over Hearthstone and granted the mansion and surrounding lands, Highprince Sadeas had given Laral a dowry in compensation.
“You,” Rillir said, nodding to Kal and speaking in a smooth, city accent. “Be a good lad and fetch us some supper. We’ll take it here in the nook.”
“I’m not a kitchen servant.”
“So?”
Kal flushed.
“If you’re expecting some kind of tip or reward for just fetching me a meal…”
“I’m not—I mean—” Kal looked to Laral. “Tell him, Laral.”
She looked away. “Well, go on, boy,” she said. “Do as you’re told. We’re hungry.”
Kal gaped at her, then felt his face redden even more. “I’m…I’m not going to fetch you anything!” he managed to say. “I wouldn’t do it no matter how many spheres you offer me. I’m not an errand boy, I’m a surgeon.”
“Oh, you’re that one’s son.”
“I am,” Kal said, surprised at how proudly he felt those words. “I’m not going to be bullied by you, Rillir Roshone. Just like my father isn’t bullied by yours.”
Except, they are making a deal right now….
“Father didn’t mention how amusing you were,” Rillir said, leaning back against the wall. He seemed a decade older than Kal, not a mere two years. “So you find it shameful to fetch a man his meal? Being a surgeon makes you that much better than the kitchen staff?”
“Well, no. It’s just not my Calling.”
“Then what is your Calling?”
“Making sick people well.”
“And if I don’t eat, won’t I be sick? So couldn’t you call it your duty to see me fed?”
Kal frowned. “It’s…well, it’s not the same thing at all.”
“I see it as being very similar.”
“Look, why don’t you just go get yourself some food?”
“It’s not my Calling.”
“Then what is your Calling?” Kal returned, throwing the man’s own words back at him.
“I’m cityheir,” Rillir said. “My duty is to lead—to see that jobs get done and that people are occupied in productive work. And as such, I give important tasks to idling darkeyes to make them useful.”
Kal hesitated, growing angry.
“You see how his little mind works,” Rillir said to Laral. “Like a dying fire, burning what little fuel it has, pumping out smoke. Ah, and look, his face grows red from the heat of it.”
“Rillir, please,” Laral said, laying her hand on his arm.
Rillir glanced at her, then rolled his eyes. “You’re as provincial as my father sometimes, dear.” He stood up straight and—with a look of resignation—led her past the nook and into the kitchen proper.
Kal sat back down hard, nearly bruising his legs on the bench with the force of it. A serving boy brought him his food and set it on the table, but that only reminded Kal of his childishness. So he didn’t eat it; he just stared at it until, eventually, his father walked into the kitchen. Rillir and Laral were gone by then.
Lirin walked to the alcove and surveyed Kal. “You didn’t eat.”
Kal shook his head.
“You should have. It was free. Come on.”
They walked in silence from the mansion into the dark night. The carriage awaited them, and soon Kal again sat facing his father. The driver climbed into place, making the vehicle quiver, and a snap of his whip set the horses in motion.
“I want to be a surgeon,” Kal said suddenly.
His father’s face—hidden in shadow—was unreadable. But when he spoke, he sounded confused. “I know that, son.”
“No. I want to be a surgeon. I don’t want to run away to join the war.”
Silence in the darkness.
“You were considering that?” Lirin asked.
“Yes,” Kal admitted. “It was childish. But I’ve decided for myself that I want to learn surgery instead.”
“Why? What made you change?”
“I need to know how they think,” Kal said, nodding back toward the mansion. “They’re trained to speak their sentences in knots, and I have to be able to face them and talk back at them. Not fold like…” He hesitated.
“Like I did?” Lirin asked with a sigh.
Kal bit his lip, but had to ask. “How many spheres did you agree to give him? Will I still have enough to go to Kharbranth?”
“I didn’t give him a thing.”
“But—”
“Roshone and I talked for a time, arguing over amounts. I pretended to grow hotheaded and left.”
“Pretended?” Kal asked, confused.
His father leaned forward, whispering to make certain the driver couldn’t hear. With the bouncing and the noise of the wheels on the stone, there was little danger of that. “He has to think that I’m willing to bend. Today’s meeting was about giving the appearance of desperation. A strong front at first, followed by frustration, letting him think that he’d gotten to me. Finally a retreat. He’ll invite me again in a few months, after letting me ‘sweat.’”
“But you won’t bend then, either?” Kal whispered.
“No. Giving him any of the spheres would make him greedy for the rest. These lands don’t produce as they used to, and Roshone is nearly broke from losing political battles. I still don’t know which highlord was behind sending him here to torment us, though I wish I had him for a few moments in a dark room….”
The ferocity with which Lirin said that shocked Kal. It was the closest he’d ever heard his father come to threatening real violence.
“But why go through this in the first place?” Kal whispered. “You said that we can keep resisting him. Mother thinks so too. We won’t eat well, but we won’t starve.”
His father didn’t reply, though he looked troubled.
“You need to make him think that we’re capitulating,” Kal said. “Or that we’re close to doing so. So that he’ll stop looking for ways to undermine us? So he’ll focus his attention on making a deal and not—”
Kal froze. He saw something unfamiliar in his father’s eyes. Something like guilt. Suddenly it made sense. Cold, terrible sense.
“Stormfather,” Kal whispered. “You did steal the spheres, didn’t you?”
His father remained silent, riding in the old carriage, shadowed and black.
“That’s why you’ve been so tense since Wistiow died,” Kal whispered. “The drinking, the worrying…You’re a thief! We’re a family of thieves.”
The carriage turned, and the violet light of Salas illuminated Lirin’s face. He didn’t look half so ominous from that angle—in fact, he looked fragile. He clasped his hands before him, eyes reflecting moonlight. “Wistiow was not lucid during the final days, Kal,” he whispered. “I knew that, with his death, we would lose the promise of a union. Laral had not reached her day of majority, and the new citylord wouldn’t let a darkeyes take her inheritance through marriage.”
“So you robbed him?” Kal felt himself shrinking.
“I made certain that promises were kept. I had to do something. I couldn’t trust to the generosity of the new citylord. Wisely, as you can see.”
All of this time, Kal had assumed that Roshone was persecuting them out of malice and spite. But it turned out he was justified. “I can’t believe it.”
“Does it change so much?” Lirin whispered. His face looked haunted in the dim light. “What is different now?”
“Everything.”
“And yet nothing. Roshone still wants those spheres, and we still deserve them. Wistiow, if he’d been fully lucid, would have given us those spheres. I’m certain.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No.”
Things were the same, yet different. One step, and the world flipped upside down. The villain became the hero, the hero the villain. “I—” Kal said. “I can’t decide if what you did was incredibly brave or incredibly wrong.”
Lirin sighed. “I know how you feel.” He sat back. “Please, don’t tell Tien what we’ve done.” What we’ve done. Hesina had helped him. “When you are older, you’ll understand.”
“Maybe,” Kal said, shaking his head. “But one thing hasn’t changed. I want to go to Kharbranth.”
“Even on stolen spheres?”
“I’ll find a way to pay them back. Not to Roshone. To Laral.”
“She’ll be a Roshone before too long,” Lirin said. “We should expect an engagement between her and Rillir before the year is out. Roshone will not let her slip away, not now that he’s lost political favor in Kholinar. She represents one of the few chances his son has for an alliance with a good house.”
Kal felt his stomach turn at the mention of Laral. “I have to learn. Perhaps I can…”
Can what, he thought. Come back and convince her to leave Rillir for me? Ridiculous.
He looked up suddenly at his father, who had bowed his head, looking sorrowful. He was a hero. A villain too. But a hero to his family. “I won’t tell Tien,” Kal whispered. “And I’m going to use the spheres to travel to Kholinar and study.”
His father looked up.
“I want to learn to face lighteyes, like you do,” Kal said. “Any of them can make a fool of me. I want to learn to talk like them, think like them.”
“I want you to learn so that you can help people, son. Not so you can get back at the lighteyes.”
“I think I can do both. If I can learn to be clever enough.”
Lirin snorted. “You’re plenty clever, son. You’ve got enough of your mother in you to talk circles around a lighteyes. The university will show you how, Kal.”
“I want to start going by my full name,” he replied, surprising himself. “Kaladin.” It was a man’s name. He’d always disliked how it sounded like the name of a lighteyes. Now it seemed to fit.
He wasn’t a darkeyed farmer, but he wasn’t a lighteyed lord either. Something in between. Kal had been a child who wanted to join the army because it was what other boys dreamed of. Kaladin would be a man who learned surgery and all the ways of the lighteyes. And someday he would return to this town and prove to Roshone, Rillir, and Laral herself that they had been wrong to dismiss him.
“Very well,” Lirin said. “Kaladin.”
“Born from the darkness, they bear its taint still, marked upon their bodies much as the fire marks their souls.”