Wit was gone from the top of the carriage. Another man sat there instead, a younger fellow in brown trousers and a white shirt, a cap on his head. He pulled that off, looking embarrassed.

“Oi’m sorry, sir,” the man said. He had an accent Kaladin didn’t recognize. “He paid me well, he did. Said exactly where Oi was to stand so we could swap places.”

“What’s this?” Adolin said, climbing from the carriage and looking up. “Oh. Wit does this, bridgeboy.”

“This?”

“Likes to vanish mysteriously,” Adolin said.

“It weren’t so mysterious, sir,” the lad said, turning and pointing. “It was joust back there a short ways, where the carriage stopped ’fore turning. Oi was to wait for him, then take over driving this here coach. Oi had to hop on without jostling things. He ran off giggling like a child, he did.”

“He just likes to surprise people,” Adolin said, helping Shallan from the carriage. “Ignore him.”

The new carriage driver hunched down as if embarrassed. Kaladin didn’t recognize him; he wasn’t one of Adolin’s regular servants. I’ll have to ride up there on the way back. Keep an eye on the man.

Shallan and Adolin walked off toward the menagerie. Kaladin retrieved his spear from the back of the carriage, then jogged to catch up, eventually falling in a few steps behind them. He listened to them both laughing, and wanted to punch them in the face.

“Wow,” Syl’s voice said. “You’re supposed to harness the storms, Kaladin. Not carry them about behind your eyes.”

He glanced at her as she flew over and danced around him in the air, a ribbon of light. He set his spear on his shoulder and kept walking.

“What’s wrong?” Syl asked, settling down in the air in front of him. Whichever way he turned his head, she automatically glided that way, as if seated on an invisible shelf, girlish dress fluttering to mist just below her knees.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Kaladin said softly. “I’m just tired of listening to those two.”

Syl looked over her shoulder at the pair just ahead. Adolin paid their way in, thumbing back toward Kaladin, paying for him as well. A pompous-looking Azish man in an odd patterned hat and long coat with an intricate design waved them forward, pointing to the different rows of cages and indicating which animals were where.

“Shallan and Adolin seem happy,” Syl said. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Kaladin said. “So long as I don’t have to listen to it.”

Syl wrinkled her nose. “It’s not them, it’s you. You’re being sour. I can practically taste it.”

“Taste?” Kaladin asked. “You don’t eat, Syl. I doubt you have a sense of taste.”

“It’s a metaphor. And I can imagine it. And you taste sour. And stop arguing, because I’m right.” She zipped off to dangle near Shallan and Adolin as they inspected the first cage.

Blasted spren, Kaladin thought, walking up bedside Shallan and Adolin. Arguing with her is like . . . well, arguing with the wind, I guess.

This stormwagon looked a lot like the slaver cage he’d ridden in on his way to the Shattered Plains, though the animal within looked to have been treated far better than the slaves had. It sat on a rock, and the cage had been covered over with crem on the inside as if to imitate a cave. The creature itself was little more than a lump of flesh with two bulbous eyes and four long tentacles.

“Ooo . . .” Shallan said, eyes wide. She looked like she’d been given a pile of jewelry—only instead, it was a slimy lump of something that Kaladin would have expected to find stuck to the bottom of his boot.

“That,” Adolin said, “is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like the stuff in the middle of a hasper, only without the shell.”

“It’s one of the sarpenthyn,” Shallan said.

“Poor thing,” Adolin said. “Did its mother give it that name?”

Shallan swatted him on the shoulder. “It’s a family.”

“So the mother was behind it.”

“A family of animals, idiot. They have more of them in the west, where the storms aren’t as strong. I’ve only seen a few of them—we’ve got little ones in Jah Keved, but nothing like this. I don’t even know what species this is.” She hesitated, then stuck her fingers through the bars and grabbed one of the tentacle arms.

The thing pulled away immediately, inflating to look bigger, raising two of its arms behind its head in a threatening way. Adolin yelped and pulled Shallan back.

“He said not to touch any of them!” Adolin said. “What if it’s poisonous?”

Shallan ignored him, digging a notebook from her satchel. “Warm to the touch,” she mumbled to herself. “Truly warm-blooded. Fascinating. I need a sketch of it.” She squinted at a little plaque on the cage. “Well, that’s useless.”

“What does it say?” Adolin asked.

“‘Devil rock captured in Marabethia. The locals claim it is the reborn vengeful spirit of a child who was murdered.’ Not even a mention of its species. What kind of scholarship is this?”

“It’s a menagerie, Shallan,” Adolin said, chuckling. “Brought all this distance to entertain soldiers and camp followers.”

Indeed, the menagerie was popular. As Shallan sketched, Kaladin kept busy watching those who passed by, making certain they kept their distance. He saw everything from washmaids and tenners to officers, and even some higher lighteyes. Behind them, a lighteyed woman was paraded past in her palanquin, barely even glancing at the cages. It provided quite a contrast to Shallan’s eager drawing and Adolin’s good-natured gibes.

Kaladin wasn’t giving those two enough credit. They might ignore him, but they weren’t actively mean to him. They were happy and pleasant. Why did that annoy him so?

Eventually, Shallan and Adolin moved on to the next cage, which contained skyeels and a large tub of water for them to dip in. They didn’t look as comfortable as the “devil rock.” There wasn’t much room to move in the cage, and they didn’t often take to the air. Not very interesting.

Next was a cage with a creature that looked like a small chull, but with larger claws. Shallan wanted a sketch of this one too, so Kaladin found himself lounging beside the cage, watching people pass and listening to Adolin try to crack jokes to amuse his betrothed. He wasn’t very good at it, but Shallan laughed anyway.

“Poor thing,” Syl said, landing on the floor of the cage, looking at its crab occupant. “What kind of life is this?”

“A safe one.” Kaladin shrugged. “At least it has no need to worry about predators. Always kept fed. I doubt a chull-thing could ask for more than that.”

“Oh?” Syl asked. “And you’d be all right if that were you.”

“Of course not. I’m not a chull-thing. I’m a soldier.”

They moved on, passing cage after cage of animals. Some Shallan wanted to draw, others she concluded didn’t need an immediate sketch. The one she found the most fascinating was also the strangest, a kind of colorful chicken with red, blue, and green feathers. She dug out colored pencils to do that sketch. Apparently, she’d missed a chance at sketching one of these a long time ago.

Kaladin had to admit the thing was pretty. How did it survive, though? It had shell on the very front of its face, but the rest of it wasn’t squishy, so it couldn’t hide in cracks like the devil rock. What did this chicken do when a storm came?

Syl landed on Kaladin’s shoulder.

“I’m a soldier,” Kaladin repeated, speaking very softly.

“That’s what you were,” Syl said.

“It’s what I want to be again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mostly.” He folded his arms, spear leaning against his shoulder. “The only thing is . . . It’s crazy, Syl. Insane. My time as a bridgeman was the worst in my life. We suffered death, oppression, indignity. Yet I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive as I did in those final weeks.”

Next to the work he’d done with Bridge Four, being a simple soldier—even a highly respected one, like captain of a highprince’s guard—just felt mundane. Ordinary.

But soaring on the winds—that had been anything but ordinary.

“You’re almost ready, aren’t you?” Syl whispered.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

The next cage in line had a large crowd around it, and even a few fearspren wiggling out of the ground. Kaladin pushed in, though he didn’t have to clear a space—the people made room for Dalinar’s heir as soon as they realized who he was. Adolin walked past them without a second glance, obviously accustomed to such deference.

This cage was different from the others. The bars were closer together, the wood reinforced. The animal inside didn’t seem to deserve the special treatment. The sorry beast lay in front of some rocks, eyes closed. The square face showed sharpened mandibles—like teeth, only somehow more vicious—and a pair of long, toothlike tusks that pointed down from the upper jaw. The stark spikes running from the head along the sinuous back, along with powerful legs, were clues as to what this beast was.

“Whitespine,” Shallan breathed, stepping closer to the cage.

Kaladin had never seen one. He remembered a young man, lying dead on the operating table, blood everywhere. He remembered fear, frustration. And then misery.

“I expected,” Kaladin said, trying to sort through it all, “the thing to be . . . more.”

“They don’t do well in captivity,” Shallan said. “This one probably would have gone dormant in crystal long ago, if it had been allowed. They must keep dousing it to wash away the shell.”

“Don’t feel sorry for the thing,” Adolin said. “I’ve seen what they can do to a man.”

“Yeah,” Kaladin said softly.

Shallan got out her drawing things, though as she started, people began to move away from the cage. At first, Kaladin thought it was something about the beast itself—but the animal continued to just lie there, eyes closed, occasionally snorting out of its nose holes.

No, people were congregating at the other side of the menagerie. Kaladin caught Adolin’s attention, then pointed. I’m going to go check that out, the gesture implied. Adolin nodded and rested his hand on his sword. I’ll be on the watch, that said.

Kaladin jogged off, spear on his shoulder, to investigate. Unfortunately, he soon recognized a familiar face above the crowd. Amaram was a tall man. Dalinar stood at his side, guarded by several of Kaladin’s men, who were keeping the gawking crowd back a safe distance.

“. . . heard my son was here,” Dalinar was saying to the well-dressed owner of the menagerie.

“You needn’t pay, Highprince!” the menagerie owner said, speaking with a lofty accent similar to Sigzil’s. “Your presence is a grand blessing from the Heralds upon my humble collection. And your distinguished guest.”