Chapter Text
Renarin Kholin dried a bowl with a rag, trying to shut out the noise around him.
You could try and join some of the conversations, he told himself. You could make any amount of effort to fit in.
But that probably wouldn’t go very well. He’d been part of Bridge Four for all of two hours but he didn’t think he was imagining it; the way the men fell silent when he approached, or the way they handed him unfinished bowls of stew, as if they were afraid to tell him “no.” He wasn't one of them. He was a prince. They didn't want him here.
You are one of them, said Glys. When they know you, you will be. It will only take time.
Renarin picked up a new bowl and began to scrub. Do we have time?
Thirty-seven days, said Glys. Then the storm.
And wasn't that something to sit on.
He'd been relieved, at first, when the strange things he saw came true and came true and came true. He wasn't losing his mind, like they'd all feared his father had. But it was forbidden, to see what had not yet happened. It was evil. So he couldn't tell anyone. Even if he knew something horrible was coming. Even if he had seen countries fall and innocents die.
He was trying to warn his father, as well as he could. He'd written glyphs into the wall. The ardents wouldn't like that either, if they knew, but he had to do something.
With a sudden pang, he realized what he really wanted was to talk to his mother. She had always made him feel less broken, less wrong. Those Alethi, he could hear her say. They care so much about the proper way to be, when we all return to the One in the end. If writing would save lives, then it is right for you to do it.
His brow creased as he scrubbed harder at the bowl. Who was he to say what his mother would have thought? This past year had been the turning point for Renarin. She'd been dead more than half his life, now. He'd lived longer without her than with her. Her voice in his head was probably his own, telling himself what he wanted to hear.
He hoped she would have been proud of him, joining Bridge Four. He wasn’t sure if she would have. Because— was it right to, well— indulge? To chase his dream of being a soldier while the world was ending? If he wanted to stop what was coming, shouldn't he be with the ardents or the stormwardens? People who could properly teach him to read, so he didn't have to fumble at it in secret?
Storms. He'd longed for Shards, but his blade screamed of ancient betrayals whenever he touched it. He'd wanted to fight, but he was doubting his place in the ranks the moment he gained it. Why couldn't he just take what he was given? Why did he have to make everything complicated?
He dunked the bowl in the basin and set it aside to dry. He had a task in front of him, at least. Real work, doing something useful. There was value in that. And it was nice to have something to do with his hands.
Someone set down a bowl near the basin; another one of the bridgemen, finished with their meal. "Thank you," Renarin said, looked up, and started as he saw a parshman in the Bridge Four uniform standing before him. He flushed, hoping none of the bridgemen had seen. He’d been called strange for talking to parshmen before, and he didn’t want—
We are all aspects of the One, his mother’s voice said. And so we all deserve kindness.
It didn’t matter whether that was what she would have said or what Renarin wanted to hear. He knew what was right either way. “Thanks,” he said again, a bit awkwardly, making sure to look the parshman in the eye.
Rlain stirred his stew. The spoon made a dull thunk against the side of the bowl, without rhythm. The prince was standing in Rlain’s place, doing Rlain’s job, washing Rlain’s dishes. Renarin Kholin, the weak, sickly spare son of the Kholin highprince was doing Parshman work.
Rlain didn’t understand. Was the boy being punished? It couldn’t be. He seemed happy to work, if anxious about getting his sleeves wet.
Rlain needed that work. He needed the protection. People forgot him when he did Parshman things. His wash station let him overhear all kinds of conversations, and Bridge Four was protecting powerful people. What secrets could be bring back to Eshonai, if he could ever get home again?
But when they remembered he was there, there were problems. Like the day before yesterday, when Leyten, Mart, and Eth had hung four suits of warform corpse armor on the barrack walls, and Rlain hadn’t reacted well…
They were keeping an eye on him now. He needed to be forgotten again. But if he didn’t have this, what did he have? He spooned up another bite of stew, but he wasn’t hungry. The spicy shellfood turned to cremwater in his mouth.
Most of the men guarded Kholin’s family and the king. Rock and Hobber cooked the food. Lopen did… Lopen things. They all stayed busy. Rlain had asked Kaladin for a spear weeks ago and been denied. What was his place in Bridge Four if not as their slave? Was this boy going to take even that from him?
Stop that, Rlain told himself. He knew this situation would pass. The prince wasn’t going to wash their dishes forever. Rlain’s world would go back to normal tomorrow, most likely. And then everything would be back the way it should be. He just needed to keep up the act.
Rlain had a job, and the songless didn’t relax. Shen the Parshman would go back to his work, like a good slave, even if someone else was already doing it. So must Rlain.
He forced down the rest of the stew and took his empty bowl to the washing station, setting it down in front of the prince. Then he waited. He watched as the boy took it and reached for the scrub brush, then looked up to see who had given it to him. He saw emotions flicker across the prince’s face—much less exaggerated than the humans he was used to, strangely enough—but to Kholin’s credit, he met Rlain’s unblinking eyes. And then he thanked him.
Rlain reached for Amusement. The rhythm was a distant beat in the corners of his mind. He did not hum it aloud—that would’ve been death—or let it show on his face. But he allowed himself a measure to appreciate the moment. Eshonai would have laughed herself silly. The brother-son of the murdered Alethi king was thanking a dullform for the honor of cleaning up after his meal.
Shen the Parshman wouldn’t see the humor, though. So Rlain just stood there, as if waiting for his master to give him orders. He did not look away from the prince’s face.
The parshman held his stare, his strange black eyes unblinking. It only took Renarin a few seconds to look away, face bright red. He didn't do well with eye contact at the best of times. Out of instinct he reached for the cube he kept in his pocket, then jerked his hand back to the basin as he remembered he was wet and soapy.
"I'm Renarin Kholin," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the bowl as he started to scrub. "Um. You might already know that. A few of the parshmen back home recognized my name." Of course, he'd grown up with those parshmen, so it wasn't the same situation at all, was it? He fidgeted and applied a little more soap to the brush. He'd washed dishes before, as a child. His mother had insisted on doing some of the housework when they'd traveled, and Renarin had insisted on helping.
Everything seemed to remind him of her lately. He supposed it made sense to want stability and comfort right now. There was the recent attack from the Assassin. His family was still shaken from Sadeas' betrayal. There was the whole matter of his father's visions. There were the strange things Renarin had been seeing, and the impending horrors they showed. Renarin felt lost and floundering more often than not, these days.
The parshman was still staring at him. Was he waiting for Renarin to say something? Storms. Adolin should be here, with his almost compulsive tendency to fill silences with some charming remark. "I'm new. I just joined Bridge Four today." He wiped the bowl dry, set it aside, and took another dirty one. "It's nice to meet you," he suddenly remembered to say. It was probably too late in the conversation for that not to be rude.
He was still just standing there. Renarin scrubbed furiously at a stubborn bit of dried food. He racked his brain for any other social niceties he might have—
"Storms. I'm sorry. I didn't ask your name. Or if you have a name," he added. Parshmen didn't take names for themselves, that anyone knew, but maybe one of his previous owners had given him one. Maybe Bridge Four had given him one. Maybe free parshmen had names? The Parshendi had names, but they were so different from parshmen. Renarin didn't think he'd ever met a parshman who wasn't a slave. They were too valuable to let go. They weren't given the option to buy their freedom, as was done with human slaves Renarin suspected that putting wages towards a future goal used more forethought and initiative than most parshmen had. Perhaps this was a reflection of how badly people wanted to hold on to their parshmen; they were too scared to give them an option they would never take.
You're rambling, he told himself. You're nervous and your thoughts are racing. He looked up. Wasn't it uncomfortable, standing for that long? "You can sit if you'd like," he blurted out.
Rlain knew Renarin would not be like his brother, but he wasn’t expecting him to be... this.
It was embarrassing.
Rlain had seen the brother in battle long ago, before he’d become a spy. He had moved like his father, laying waste to Rlain’s people in that lifeless blue carapace. Renarin was not like that. This Kholin could barely meet Rlain’s eyes.
How can I use this? he wondered. He struggled to remember his training.
The boy did not like silence. He filled the gaps when he was nervous, and Rlain made him nervous by existing. Could that help?
But no. Humans did not confide in people who unnerved them. How could Rlain ease his fears? And then how could he get him to talk like this about something that mattered? What might Renarin know?
He had a lot to think about, and thoughts were slow in this form. But his body remembered the Rhythm of Peace, even if his gemheart struggled to attune it. He found Peace’s rhythm, to help keep his body language neutral. Show him you’re no threat, Rlain thought. Get sympathy, not pity. And most importantly, show you can listen.
Looking Renarin in the eyes was too much for him. So Rlain looked at the dishes, as if not understanding why he wasn’t being allowed to do them.
Renarin stammered out an introduction, and Rlain wondered how much of it one of the songless would be expected to retain. Sometimes they had to be told how to do things several times before they remembered, though his old master always treated it as laziness. Rlain had endured more than one beating so he wouldn’t stand out from the others.
Then Renarin asked for Rlain’s name. Gods. Rlain paused. In three years, only one other human had asked Rlain’s name. Then when Rlain hadn’t given one, the man had invented one for him. Rlain almost wished he didn’t have to lie. “Shen?,” he said, as if he didn’t understand why he needed a name.
Then Renarin encouraged him to sit. What? Why? Did this boy have any idea how Parshmen were supposed to be treated? Was he showing sympathy already? Of course not. This is how he was trained to act.
Rlain sat obediently, still staring at the pile of dishes.
"Shen," Renarin repeated as the parshman sat down. He'd spoken hesitantly. Was he as uncomfortable with Renarin's presence as the rest of Bridge Four? Was he unsure of his own name? He should ask one of the other bridgemen if "Shen" was correct.
But that would involve talking to them.
Shen stared at the dishes. Renarin shifted in his seat as he cleaned one of the few remaining bowls. Maybe he wants to help, Renarin thought, then mentally kicked himself. Shen was as free as every other bridgeman— it wasn't right to assume that his place was doing menial work.
Another possibility occurred to him. "Was this your job? I didn't— I didn't mean to step on any toes. Captain Kaladin told me to wash the stew bowls and then help Rock clean the cauldron."
He rinsed the soap off the bowl in his hands as he waited for an answer. If only there was someone he felt comfortable enough to ask everyone's name, and what they did. If they could help him break into their conversations and laughter. If the looks he was getting were because he was genuinely doing something wrong, or because he was a prince, or because he didn't act like other people. "I'm not completely sure who Rock is," he admitted. "Is he the tall Horneater who made the stew?"
At last, Renarin got the message. Rlain gave a slow nod—yes, dishes were his job. Then he looked at his feet, shifting one boot from side to side to see all angles. He looked back at Renarin, though without the intensity from before. No, his toes had not been stepped on.
There, he thought. Shen could listen and understand, but there were limits to his intelligence.
The prince then asked about Rock. Rlain nodded again. “Rock,” he confirmed. “Good stew.” And then he gambled a few more words. “Lets me have shells.”
Damnation, he thought as Shen nodded. He had taken someone's place. He ducked his head and scrubbed at a new bowl, face growing hot.
You are embarrassed because you have been doing another's task, and therefore you keep doing it? Glys asked, far too innocently.
That's… no, you're right. Renarin fidgeted and put down the bowl. He looked up to see Shen examining his boots, turning one of them this way and that. He'd confused the parshman somehow. Renarin ran through what he'd said, trying to figure out—
Oh. It was strangely comforting, to know that Shen had the same difficulties with idioms that Renarin sometimes had. "Sorry, I meant that I didn't want to take your place. To do your job for you."
He reached out for the brush again on instinct, needing something to do with his hands, and nearly missed it when Shen spoke again. Renarin could have sighed with relief. He had confirmation of who to talk to when the dishes were done, the parshman had said more than one word to him, and it seemed this Rock was kind. That was good to know.
He glanced around and saw another brush lying next to the basin. "Thank you. I, um, I don't mind doing the dishes myself, but if you want to wash half of the ones that are left, that's fine too." He tried to sit still, waiting for Shen's answer. His foot tapped a rapid, anxious beat on the floor of its own accord.
Rlain couldn’t believe it. Not only was a prince doing slave work, but he was apologizing for saving a Parshman the effort. This boy was odd. Even when Bridge Four had shown him kindness, they had never tried to apologize.
They’d never apologized. For any of it.
Rlain still had nightmares about Leyten’s heap of bones and carapace from the bodies Kaladin had butchered. He thought of those warriors’ songs trapped forever in the chasms, echoing against the walls, unable to reach the sky and merge with the songs of their loved ones. He hated this war and the arrogant child who had started it.
Another comment from Renarin brought him back to the present. The boy held up a second brush and offered to share the work with Rlain. A prince sharing work with a Parshman was somehow even more impossible than him doing it by himself. When Rlain was working for his old master, before he was sold to the slave camps, he’d heard stories of Highprince Dalinar digging latrines in shardplate, but Rlain's new brightlord worked alone then. Even when the king's uncle did menial work, he would not do so alongside those he considered beneath him. What would he say if he saw his son now?
Renarin tapped his foot at an anxious pace, but Rlain didn’t recognize the rhythm. Would he have known it if he’d been in a different form? He had no way of knowing. But that was foolish. Why would Renarin be able to attune the rhythms? Humans had no connection to Roshar. Rlain stood next to Renarin and accepted the second brush. He took a bowl from the pile and dipped it in the soapy water, then began to scrub.
A smile flickered unbidden across Renarin's face as Shen took the other brush. It felt good to do something together with one of the other bridgemen, even if it was— well.
He tried not to look at Shen as he dried his bowl and stacked it. The parshman stood out from the rest of them. That wasn't wrong. It would be unkind, of course, to treat him any differently, but he was different.
Then again, Renarin knew people thought the same when they looked at him. He hated that.
But they're not wrong either. I am different. Are people supposed to pretend I'm not?
He sighed and continued with the dishes. Shen said nothing further, and Renarin was happy to let silence grow comfortably between them. His thoughts drifted, as they often did lately, to his visions. His last episode had been over two weeks ago. He didn't know what that unusually long gap meant, or if it meant anything at all. There should be a field guide for terrifying visions powered by the Void, he thought, and Glys rang with amusement.
The things he'd seen were still carved deep in his mind. A red-lit sky churning with storm clouds. A strange citadel high in the mountains. A Parshendi warrior kneeling on a plateau as rain fell in wind-driven sheets, a glowing gemstone in their hand.
He almost never knew what these things meant beforehand. It all became clear after the fact, with proper context, but Renarin couldn't afford to wait. Something horrible was going to happen, and people were going to die. He had to figure this out.
And he had no idea where to start.