Chapter Text
The surgeon of Hearthstone did not have an elder son.
“I volunteer. Take me with him.”
Veld couldn’t help but stare at the discarded glove Kal held low by her side, hidden from the brightlords’ view. He felt dirty for doing so. Sure, Laral, barely older than Kal, was still old enough for a bride’s glyphward, but… Kal was fifteen. Still a child.
“Kaladin, no,” Lirin shouted. Kal stood her ground, her eyes never leaving Brightlord Roshone and Highmarshal Amaram. Veld waited for someone else to speak up, to tell them the truth. That Kaladin was eligible only as a scribe, that she was… well, a woman.
No one did.
Was Brightlord Roshone just going to let this happen? Was he just going to let a woman go to war?
...Did he even know Kal wasn’t a boy? He had never seemed to take much notice of the surgeon’s children beyond the feud with their family. Kal often wore trousers, even in public, and a safehand glove maybe wasn’t hard to miss on a girl that tall, with those shoulders and that voice. She certainly didn’t have much chest to speak of.
“Very well,” Amaram said. “Volunteers are always welcome.”
Despite the frankly blasphemous situation, Veld felt a stubborn stab of pride, seeing the echo of her father facing the pretended bandits at his door. Kal never wavered once. Did not back down or look away. Soulcast from steel or something even harder, that girl was. She could have matched any brightlady for poise. Who knew? The girl was second nahn. Maybe she’d still bring her grace, sense and will to shore up some wavering lighteyed house, once she got out of this mess. Heralds knew any brightlord would be lucky to have her. Most of them didn’t deserve her.
That was, assuming she lived through the next four years. Assuming she wasn’t exposed and disgraced.
“I’ll bring him home, father.” Kal’s voice rang out clear. “In four years we’ll be back. I’ll bring him home safely. I promise.”
Heralds guard you, girl, Veld thought.
The surgeon of Hearthstone did not have a daughter.