“The bridgeboy wants us to evacuate the palace,” Adolin said.
“Soldier?” Dalinar asked.
“It’s not safe here, sir.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Instinct, sir.”
The room grew still. Outside, the rainfall slackened to a gentle patter. The riddens had arrived.
“We go, then,” Dalinar said, rising.
“What?” the king demanded.
“You put this man in charge of your guard, Elhokar,” Dalinar said. “If he thinks our position is not safe, we should do as he says.”
There was an implied for now after that sentence, but Kaladin didn’t care. He shoved past the king and Adolin, rushing back through the main chamber to the doorway out. His heart hammered inside of him, his muscles tense. Syl, visible only to his eyes, flitted through the room, frantic.
Kaladin threw open the doors. Six men stood on watch in the hallway beyond, mostly bridgemen with one member of the King’s Guard, a man named Ralinor. “We’re leaving,” Kaladin said, pointing. “Beld and Hobber, you’re an advance squad. Scout the way out of the building—the back way, down through the kitchens—and give a shout if you see anything unusual. Moash, you and Ralinor are the rear guard—watch this room until I’ve got the king and the highprince out of sight, then follow. Mart and Eth, you stay at the king’s side, no matter what.”
The guards scrambled into action without question. As the scouts ran ahead, Kaladin moved back to the king and grabbed him by the arm, then hauled him toward the door. Elhokar allowed it, a stunned expression on his face.
The other lighteyes followed. The bridgeman brothers Mart and Eth fell in, flanking the king, Moash holding the doorway. He gripped his spear nervously, pointing it in one direction, then another.
Kaladin rushed the king and his family down the corridor along the chosen path. Instead of heading left and down the incline toward the palace’s formal entrance, they would head right, farther into its bowels. Down to the right, through the kitchens, then out into the night.
The hallways were silent. Everyone was sheltering in their rooms during the highstorm.
Dalinar joined Kaladin at the front of the group. “I will be curious to hear exactly what prompted this, soldier,” he said. “Once we are safely evacuated.”
My spren is having a fit, Kaladin thought, watching her zip back and forth in the corridor. That’s what prompted it. How was he going to explain that? That he’d listened to a windspren?
Deeper they went. Storms, these empty corridors were disturbing. Much of the palace was really just a burrow cut through the rock of the peak, with windows carved out of the sides.
Kaladin froze in place.
The lights ahead were out, the corridor dimming into the distance until it was dark as a mine.
“Wait,” Adolin said, stopping in place. “Why is it dark? What happened to the spheres?”
They’ve been drained of Light.
Damnation. And what was that on the wall of the hallway up ahead? A large patch of blackness. Kaladin frantically fished a sphere from his pocket and raised it. It was a hole! A doorway had been cut into this corridor from the outside, sliced directly through the rock. A cold breeze blew inward.
Kaladin’s light also illuminated something on the floor just ahead. A body lying where corridors crossed. It wore a blue uniform. Beld, one of the men Kaladin had sent on ahead.
The huddle of people stared at the body in horror. The corridor’s eerie silence, the lack of lights, had stilled even the king’s protests.
“He’s here,” Syl whispered.
A solemn figure stepped out of the side corridor, holding a long, silvery Blade that cut a trail in the stone floor. The figure had flowing white clothing: filmy trousers and an overshirt that rippled with each step. Bald head, pale skin. Shin.
Kaladin recognized the figure. Every person in Alethkar had heard of this man. The Assassin in White. Kaladin had seen him once in a dream, like the one earlier, though he hadn’t recognized him at that point.
Stormlight streamed from the assassin’s body.
He was a Surgebinder.
“Adolin, with me!” Dalinar shouted. “Renarin, protect the king! Take him back the way we came!” With that, Dalinar—the Blackthorn—seized a spear from one of Kaladin’s men and charged the assassin.
He’s going to get himself killed, Kaladin thought, running after him. “Go with Prince Renarin!” he yelled at his men. “Do as he tells you! Protect the king!”
The men—including Moash and Ralinor, who had caught up to them—began a frantic retreat, towing away Navani and the king.
“Father!” Renarin cried. Moash grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him back. “I can fight!”
“Go!” Dalinar bellowed. “Protect the king!”
As Kaladin charged with Dalinar and Adolin, the last thing he heard of the group was King Elhokar’s whimpering voice. “He’s come for me. I always knew he would. Like he came for Father . . .”
Kaladin drew in as much Stormlight as he dared. The Assassin in White stood calmly in the corridor, streaming with his own Light. How could he be a Surgebinder? What spren had chosen this man?
Adolin’s Shardblade formed in his hands.
“Trident,” Dalinar said softly, slowing as the three of them approached the assassin. “I’m the middle. You familiar with that, Kaladin?”
“Yes, sir.” It was a simple, small-squad battlefield formation.
“Let me handle this, Father,” Adolin said. “He has a Shardblade, and I don’t like the look of that glow—”
“No,” Dalinar said, “we hit him together.” His eyes narrowed as he regarded the assassin, still standing calmly above the body of poor Beld. “I’m not asleep at the table this time, you bastard. You’re not taking another one from me!”
The three charged together. Dalinar, as the middle tine of the trident, would try to hold the assassin’s attention while Kaladin and Adolin attacked from either side. He’d wisely taken the spear for reach, rather than using his side sword. They charged in a rush to confuse and overwhelm.
The assassin waited until they were close, then jumped, trailing Light. He twisted in the air as Dalinar bellowed and thrust with his spear.
The assassin did not come down. Instead, he landed on the ceiling of the corridor some twelve feet above.
“It’s true,” Adolin said, sounding haunted. He bent back, raising his Shardblade to attack at the awkward angle. The assassin, however, ran down the wall in a rustle of white cloth, battering aside Adolin’s Shardblade with his own, then slammed his hand into Adolin’s chest.
Adolin flipped upward as if he’d been tossed. His body streamed Stormlight and he crashed into the ceiling above. He groaned, rolling over, but remained on the ceiling.
Stormfather! Kaladin thought, pulse pounding, tempest within raging. He thrust his spear alongside that of the Blackthorn in an attempt to hit the assassin.
The man didn’t dodge.
Both spears struck flesh, Dalinar’s in the shoulder, Kaladin’s in the side. The assassin spun, sweeping his Shardblade through the spears and cutting them in half, as if he didn’t even care about the wounds. He lunged forward, slapping Dalinar across the face, sending him sprawling to the ground, then swept his Blade toward Kaladin.
Kaladin barely ducked the blow, then scrambled backward, the top of his spear clattering to the ground beside Dalinar, who rolled with a groan, holding a hand to his cheek where the assassin had struck him. Blood seeped from torn skin. The blow of a Surgebinder bearing Stormlight could not just be shaken off.
The assassin stood poised and confident in the center of the corridor. Stormlight swirled in the slashes in his now-reddened clothing, healing his flesh.
Kaladin backed away, holding a spear missing its head. The things this man did . . . He couldn’t be a Windrunner, could he?
Impossible.
“Father!” Adolin shouted from above. The youth had clim
bed to his feet, but the Stormlight streaming from him had nearly run out. He tried to attack the assassin, but slipped from the ceiling and crashed to the ground, landing on his shoulder. His Shardblade vanished as it fell from his fingers.
The assassin stepped over Adolin, who stirred but did not rise. “I am sorry,” the assassin said, Stormlight streaming from his mouth. “I don’t want to do this.”
“I won’t give you the chance,” Kaladin growled, dashing forward. Syl spun around him, and he felt the wind stirring. He felt the tempest raging, urging him onward. He came at the assassin with the remnant of his spear wielded like a quarterstaff, and felt the wind guiding him.
Strikes made with precision, a moment of oneness with the weapon. He forgot his worries, forgot his failures, forgot even his rage. Just Kaladin and a spear.
As the world was meant to be.
The assassin took a blow to the shoulder, then the side. He couldn’t ignore them all—his Stormlight would run out as it healed him. The assassin cursed, letting out another mouthful of Light, and backed away, his Shin eyes—slightly too large, colored like pale sapphires—widening at the continued flurry of strikes.
Kaladin sucked in the rest of his Stormlight. So little. He hadn’t picked up new spheres before coming to guard duty. Stupid. Sloppy.
The assassin turned his shoulder, lifting his Shardblade, preparing to thrust. There, Kaladin thought. He could feel what would happen. He would twist around the strike, bringing up the butt of his spear. It would hit the assassin on the side of the head, a powerful blow that even Stormlight would not easily compensate for. He’d be left dazed. An opening.
I have him.
Somehow, the assassin twisted out of the way.
He moved too quickly, faster than Kaladin anticipated. As quickly . . . as Kaladin himself. Kaladin’s blow found only open air, and he narrowly avoided being run through by the Shardblade.
Kaladin’s next moves came by instinct. Years of training gave his muscles minds of their own. If he’d been fighting an ordinary foe, the way he automatically shifted his weapon to block the next swing would have been perfect. But the assassin had a Shardblade. Kaladin’s instincts—instilled so diligently—betrayed him.
The silvery weapon sheared through the remnant of Kaladin’s spear, then through Kaladin’s right arm, just below the elbow. A shock of incredible pain washed through Kaladin, and he gasped, falling to his knees.
Then . . . nothing. He couldn’t feel the arm. It turned grey and dull, lifeless, the palm opening, fingers spreading as half of his spear shaft dropped from his fingers and thumped to the ground.
The assassin kicked Kaladin out of the way, slamming him against the wall. Kaladin groaned, slumping there.
The man in the white clothing turned up the corridor in the direction the king had gone. He again stepped over Adolin.
“Kaladin!” Syl said, her form a ribbon of light.
“I can’t beat him,” Kaladin whispered, tears in his eyes. Tears of pain. Tears of frustration. “He’s one of us. A Radiant.”
“No!” Syl said forcefully. “No. He’s something far more terrible. No spren guides him, Kaladin. Please. Get up.”
Dalinar had regained his feet in the corridor between the assassin and the path to the king. The Blackthorn’s cheek was a bloody mess, but his eyes were lucid. “I won’t let you have him!” Dalinar bellowed. “Not Elhokar. You took my brother! You won’t take the only thing I have left of him!”
The assassin stopped in the corridor just in front of Dalinar. “But I’m not here for him, Highprince,” he whispered, Stormlight puffing from his lips. “I’m here for you.” The assassin lunged forward, slapping away Dalinar’s strike, and kicked the Blackthorn in the leg.
Dalinar went down on one knee, his grunt echoing in the hallway as he dropped his spear. A frigid wind blew into the corridor through the opening in the wall just beside him.
Kaladin growled, forcing himself to stand and charge down the corridor, one hand useless and dead. He’d never wield a spear again. He couldn’t think about that. He had to reach Dalinar.
Too slow.
I’m going to fail.
The assassin swung his terrible Blade down in a final overhead sweep. Dalinar did not dodge.
Instead, he caught the Blade.
Dalinar brought the heels of his palms together as the Blade fell, and he caught it just before it hit.
The assassin grunted in surprise.
At that moment, Kaladin plowed into him, using his weight and momentum to throw the assassin against the wall. Except there wasn’t a wall here. They hit the place where the assassin had cut his entrance into the corridor.
Both tumbled out into the open air.
But it is not impossible to blend
Their Surges to ours in the end.
It has been promised and it can come.
Or do we understand the sum?
We question not if they can have us then,
But if we dare to have them again.
—From the Listener Song of Spren, 10th stanza
Kaladin fell with the rain.
He clung to the assassin’s bone-white clothing with his one working hand. The assassin’s dropped Shardblade exploded into mist beside them, and together they plummeted toward the ground a hundred feet below.
The tempest within Kaladin was almost still. Too little Stormlight!
The assassin suddenly started glowing more powerfully.
He has spheres.
Kaladin breathed in sharply, and Light streamed from spheres in pouches at the assassin’s waist. As the Light streamed into Kaladin, the assassin kicked at him. One handhold was not enough, and Kaladin was thrown free.
Then he hit.
He hit hard. No preparation, no getting his feet beneath him. He smacked against cold, wet stone, and his vision flashed like lightning.
It cleared a moment later, and he found himself lying on the rocks at the base of the rise that led to the king’s palace, a gentle rain sprinkling him. He looked up at the distant light of the hole in the wall above. He’d survived.
One question answered, he thought, struggling to his knees on the wet rock. The Stormlight was already working on his skin, which was shredded along his right side. He’d broken something in his shoulder; he could feel its healing as a burning pain that slowly retreated.
But his right forearm and hand, faintly lit by the Stormlight rising from the rest of him, were still a dull grey. Like a dead candle in a row, this part of him did not glow. He couldn’t feel it; he couldn’t even move the fingers. They drooped, limp, as he cradled the hand.
Nearby, the Assassin in White stood up straight in the rain. He’d somehow gotten his feet beneath him and landed, in control, with poise. This man had a level of experience with his powers that made Kaladin look like a new recruit.
The assassin turned on Kaladin, then stopped short. He spoke softly in a language Kaladin didn’t understand, the words breathy and sibilant, bearing lots of “sh” sounds.
Got to move, Kaladin thought. Before he summons that Blade again. Unfortunately, he failed to shove down the horror at having lost the hand. No more spear fighting. No more surgery. Both men he had learned to be were now lost to him.
Except . . . he could almost feel . . .
“Did I Lash you?” the assassin asked in accented Alethi. His eyes had darkened, losing their sapphire blue quality. “To the ground? But why did you not die falling? No. I must have Lashed you upward. Impossible.” He stepped back.
A moment of surprise. A moment to live. Perhaps . . . Kaladin felt the Light working, the tempest within straining and pushing. He gritted his teeth and heaved somehow.
The color returned to his hand, and feeling—cold pain—suddenly flooded his arm, hand, fingers. Light began to stream from his hand.
“No . . .” the assassin said. “No!”
Whatever Kaladin had done to his hand had consumed much of his Light and his overall glow faded, leaving hi
m barely alight. Still on his knees, gritting his teeth, Kaladin grabbed the knife from his belt, but found his grip weak. He almost fumbled the weapon as he got it free.
He swapped the knife to his off hand. It would have to do.
He threw himself to his feet and charged the assassin. Have to hit him quickly to have a chance.
The assassin jumped backward, soaring a good ten feet, his white clothing rippling in the night air. He landed with a lithe grace, Shardblade appearing in his hand. “What are you?” he demanded.
“Same thing you are,” Kaladin said. He felt a wave of nausea, but forced himself to appear firm. “Windrunner.”
“You can’t be.”
Kaladin held up the knife, the few wisps of remaining Light steaming from his skin. Rain sprinkled him.
The assassin scrambled backward, eyes as wide as if Kaladin had turned into a chasmfiend. “They told me I was a liar!” the assassin screamed. “They told me I was wrong! Szeth-son-son-Vallano . . . Truthless. They named me Truthless!”
Kaladin stepped forward as threateningly as he could manage, hoping his Stormlight would last long enough to be imposing. He breathed out, letting it puff before him, faintly luminescent in the darkness.
The assassin scrambled back through a puddle. “Are they back?” he demanded. “Are they all back?”
“Yes,” Kaladin said. It seemed like the right answer. The answer that would keep him alive, at least.
The assassin stared at him a moment longer, then turned and fled. Kaladin watched the glowing form run, then lurch into the sky. He zipped eastward as a streak of light.
“Storms,” Kaladin said, then breathed out the last of his Light and collapsed in a heap.
* * *
When he regained consciousness, Syl stood beside him on the rocky ground, hands on her hips. “Sleeping when you’re supposed to be on guard duty?”
Kaladin groaned and sat up. He felt horribly weak, but he was alive. Good enough. He held up his hand, but couldn’t see much in the darkness now that his Stormlight had faded.
He could move his fingers. His entire hand and forearm ached, but it was the most wonderful ache he’d ever felt.