“There are many professions open to men with a good mind and training. If you really wished to study all the arts, you could become an ardent. Or perhaps a stormwarden.”
Stormwarden. He reached by reflex for the prayer sewn to his left sleeve, waiting for the day he’d need to burn it for aid. “They seek to predict the future.”
“It’s not the same thing. You’ll see. There are so many things to explore, so many places your mind could go. The world is changing. My family’s most recent letter describes amazing fabrials, like pens that can write across great distances. It might not be long before men are taught to read.”
“I’d never want to learn something like that,” Kaladin said, aghast, glancing at Tien. Was their own mother really saying these things? But then, she’d always been like this. Free, both with her mind and her tongue.
Yet, to become a stormwarden…They studied the highstorms, predicted them—yes—but learned about them and their mysteries. They studied the winds themselves.
“No,” Kaladin said. “I want to be a surgeon. Like my father.”
Hesina smiled. “If that’s what you choose, then—as I said—we will be proud of you. But father and I just want you to know that you can choose.”
They sat like that for some time, letting rainwater soak them. Kaladin kept searching those grey clouds, wondering what it was that Tien found so interesting in them. Eventually, he heard splashing below, and Lirin’s face appeared at the side of the house.
“What in the…” he said. “All three of you? What are you doing up here?”
“Feasting,” Kaladin’s mother said nonchalantly.
“On what?”
“On irregularity, dear,” she said.
Lirin sighed. “Dear, you can be very odd, you know.”
“And didn’t I just say that?”
“Point. Well, come on. There’s a gathering in the square.”
Hesina frowned. She rose and walked down the slope of the roof. Kaladin glanced at Tien, and the two of them stood. Kaladin stuffed the wooden horse in his pocket and picked his way down, careful on the slick rock, his shoes squishing. Cool water ran down Kaladin’s cheeks as he stepped off onto the ground.
They followed Lirin toward the square. Kaladin’s father looked worried, and he walked with the beaten-down slouch he was prone to lately. Maybe it was an affectation to fool Roshone, but Kaladin suspected there was some truth to it. His father didn’t like having to give up those spheres, even if it was part of a ruse. It was too much like giving in.
Ahead, a crowd was gathering at the town square, everyone holding umbrellas or wearing cloaks.
“What is it, Lirin?” Hesina asked, sounding anxious.
“Roshone is going to put in an appearance,” Lirin said. “He asked Waber to gather everyone. Full town meeting.”
“In the rain?” Kaladin asked. “Couldn’t he have waited for Lightday?”
Lirin didn’t reply. The family walked in silence, even Tien growing solemn. They passed some rainspren standing in puddles, glowing with a faint blue light, shaped like ankle-high melting candles with no flame. They rarely appeared except during the Weeping. They were said to be the souls of raindrops, glowing blue rods, seeming to melt but never growing smaller, a single blue eye at their tops.
The townspeople were mostly assembled, gossiping in the rain, by the time Kaladin’s family arrived. Jost and Naget were there, though neither waved to Kaladin; it had been years since they’d been anything resembling friends. Kaladin shivered. His parents called this town home, and his father refused to leave, but it felt less and less like “home” by the day.
I’ll be leaving it soon, he thought, eager to walk out of Hearthstone and leave these small-minded people behind. To go to a place where lighteyes were men and women of honor and beauty, worthy of the high station given them by the Almighty.
Roshone’s carriage approached. It had lost much of its luster during his years in Hearthstone, the golden paint flaking off, the dark wood chipped by road gravel. As the carriage pulled into the square, Waber and his boys finally got a small canopy erected. The rain had strengthened, and drops hit the cloth with a hollow drumming sound.
The air smelled different with all of these people around. Up on the roof, it had been fresh and clean. Now it seemed muggy and humid. The carriage door opened. Roshone had gained more weight, and his lighteyes’s suit had been retailored to fit his increased girth. He wore a wooden peg on his right stump, hidden by the cuff of his trouser, and his gait was stiff as he climbed out of the carriage and ducked beneath the canopy, grumbling.
He hardly seemed the same person, with that beard and wet, stringy hair. But his eyes, they were the same. More beady now because of the fuller cheeks, but still seething as he studied the crowd. As if he had been hit with a rock when he wasn’t looking, and now searched for the culprit.
Was Laral inside the carriage? Someone else moved inside, climbing out, but it turned out to be a lean man with a clean-shaven face and light tan eyes. The dignified man wore a neatly pressed, green formal military uniform and had a sword at his hip. Highmarshal Amaram? He certainly looked impressive, with that strong figure and square face. The difference between him and Roshone was striking.
Finally, Laral did appear, wearing a light yellow dress of an antique fashion, with a flaring skirt and thick bodice. She glanced up at the rain, then waited for a footman to hurry over with an umbrella. Kaladin felt his heart thumping. They hadn’t spoken since the day she’d humiliated him in Roshone’s mansion. And yet, she was gorgeous. As she had grown through her adolescence, she had gotten prettier and prettier. Some might find that dark hair sprinkled with foreigner blond to be unappealing for its indication of mixed blood, but to Kaladin it was alluring.
Beside Kaladin, his father stiffened, cursing softly.
“What?” Tien asked from beside Kaladin, craning to see.
“Laral,” Kaladin’s mother said. “She’s wearing a bride’s prayer on her sleeve.”
Kaladin started, seeing the white cloth with its blue glyphpair sewn onto the sleeve of her dress. She’d burn it when the engagement was formally announced.
But…who? Rillir was dead!
“I’d heard rumors of this,” Kaladin’s father said. “It appears Roshone wasn’t willing to part with the connections she offers.”
“Him?” Kaladin asked, stunned. Roshone himself was marrying her? Others in the crowd had begun speaking as they noticed the prayer.
“Lighteyes marry much younger women all the time,” Kaladin’s mother said. “For them, marriages are often about securing house loyalty.”
“Him?” Kaladin asked again, incredulous, stepping forward. “We have to stop it. We have to—”
“Kaladin,” his father said sharply.
“But—”
“It is their affair, not ours.”
Kaladin fell silent, feeling the larger raindrops hit his head, the smaller ones blowing by as mist. The water ran through the square and pooled in depressions. Near Kaladin, a rainspren sprang up, forming as if out of the water. It stared upward, unblinking.
Roshone leaned on his cane and nodded to Natir, his steward. The man was accompanied by his wife, a stern-looking woman named Alaxia. Natir clapped his slender hands to quiet the crowd, and soon the only sound was that of the soft rain.
“Brightlord Amaram,” Roshone said, nodding to the lighteyed man in the uniform, “is absendiar highmarshal of our princedom. He is in command of defending our borders while the king and Brightlord Sadeas are away.”
Kaladin nodded. Everyone knew of Amaram. He was far more important than most military men who passed through Hearthstone.
Amaram stepped forward to speak.
“You have a fine town here,” Amaram said to the gathered darkeyes. He had a strong, deep voice. “Thank you for hosting me.”
Kaladin frowned, glancing at the other townspeople. They seemed as confused as he by the statement.
“Normally,” Amaram said, “I would leave this task to one of my subordinate officers. But as I was visiting with my cousin, I decided to come down in person. It is not so onerous a task that I need delegate it.”
“Excuse me, Brightlord,” said Callins, one of the farmers. “But what duty is that?”
“Why, recruitment, good farmer,” Amaram said, nodding to Alaxia, who stepped forward with a sheet of paper strapped to a board. “The king took most of our armies with him on his quest to fulfill the Vengeance Pact. My forces are undermanned, and it has become necessary to recruit young men from each town or village we pass. I do this with volunteers whenever possible.”
The townspeople fell still. Boys talked of running off to the army, but few of them would actually do it. Hearthstone’s duty was to provide food.
“My fighting is not as glorious as the war for vengeance,” Amaram said, “but it is our sacred duty to defend our lands. This tour will be for four years, and upon completing your duty, you will receive a war bonus equal to one-tenth your total wages. You may then return, or you may sign up for further duty. Distinguish yourself and rise to a high rank, and it could mean an increase of one nahn for you and your children. Are there any volunteers?”
“I’ll go,” Jost said, stepping forward.
“Me too,” Abry added.
“Jost!” Jost’s mother said, grabbing his arm. “The crops—”
“Your crops are important, darkwoman,” Amaram said, “but not nearly as important as the defense of our people. The king sends back riches from the plundered Plains, and the gemstones he has captured can provide food for Alethkar in emergency. You two are both welcome. Are there any others?”
Three more boys from the town stepped forward, and one older man—Harl, who had lost his wife to the scarfever. He was the man whose daughter Kaladin hadn’t been able to save after her fall.
“Excellent,” Amaram said. “Are there any others?”
The townspeople were still. Oddly so. Many of the boys Kaladin had heard talk so often about joining the army looked away. Kaladin felt his heart beating, and his leg twitched, as if itching to propel him forward.
No. He was to be a surgeon. Lirin looked at him, and his dark brown eyes displayed hints of deep concern. But when Kaladin didn’t make any moves forward, he relaxed.
“Very well,” Amaram said, nodding to Roshone. “We will need your list after all.”
“List?” Lirin asked loudly.
Amaram glanced at him. “The need of our army is great, darkborn. I will take volunteers first, but the army must be replenished. As citylord, my cousin has the duty and honor of deciding which men to send.”
“Read the first four names, Alaxia,” Roshone said, “and the last one.”
Alaxia looked down at her list, speaking with a dry voice. “Agil, son of Marf. Caull, son of Taleb.”
Kaladin looked up at Lirin with apprehension.
“He can’t take you,” Lirin said. “We’re of the second nahn and provide an essential function to the town—I as surgeon, you as my only apprentice. By the law, we are exempt from conscription. Roshone knows it.”