He started to see and understand. Knowing the stances would let him anticipate a swordsman’s next move. He didn’t have to be wielding a sword himself—he still thought it an inflexible weapon—to make use of that.
An hour or so later, Kaladin set down his practice sword and stepped over to the water barrel. No ardents or parshmen ran drinks to him or his men. He was just fine with that; he wasn’t some pampered rich boy. He leaned against the barrel, taking a ladle of water, feeling the good exhaustion deep in his muscles that told him he’d been doing something worthwhile.
He scanned the grounds for Adolin and Renarin. He wasn’t on duty watching either of them—Adolin would have come with Mart and Eth, and Renarin was under the watch of the three that Kaladin had assigned earlier. Still, he couldn’t help looking to see how they were. An accident here could be—
A woman was on the practice grounds. Not an ardent, but a true lighteyed woman, the one with the vibrant red hair. She had just wandered in, and was scanning the grounds.
He didn’t bear a grudge about the incident with his boots. It simply typified how, to a lighteyes, men like Kaladin were playthings. You toyed with darkeyes, took what you needed from them, and gave no thought to having left them far worse for the interaction.
It was how Roshone had been. It was how Sadeas was. It was how this woman was. She wasn’t evil, really. She just didn’t care.
She’s probably a good match for the princeling, he thought as Yake and Teft jogged over for some water. Moash stayed with his practice, intent on his sword forms.
“Not bad,” Yake said, following Kaladin’s gaze.
“Not bad at what?” Kaladin asked, trying to figure out what the woman was doing.
“Not bad looking, Captain,” Yake said with a laugh. “Storms! Sometimes, it seems the only thing you think about is who has to be on duty next.”
Nearby, Syl nodded emphatically.
“She’s lighteyed,” Kaladin said.
“So?” Yake said, slapping him on the shoulder. “A lighteyed lady can’t be attractive?”
“No.” It was as simple as that.
“You are a strange one, sir,” Yake said.
Eventually, Ivis called for Yake and Teft to stop idling and return to practice. She didn’t call for Kaladin. He seemed to intimidate many of the ardents.
Yake jogged back, but Teft lingered for a moment, then nodded toward the girl, Shallan. “You think we have to worry about her? Foreign woman about whom we know very little, sent in to suddenly be Adolin’s betrothed. Sure would make a good assassin.”
“Damnation,” Kaladin said. “I should have seen that. Good eye, Teft.”
Teft shrugged modestly, then jogged back to his training.
He’d assumed the woman was an opportunist, but could she actually be an assassin? Kaladin picked up his practice sword and wandered toward her, passing Renarin, who was training in some of the same stances that Kaladin’s men were practicing.
As Kaladin walked toward Shallan, Adolin clanked up beside him in Shardplate.
“What is she doing here?” Kaladin asked.
“Come to watch me while I spar, presumably,” Adolin said. “I usually have to kick them out.”
“Them?”
“You know. Girls who want to gawk at me while I fight. I wouldn’t mind, but if we allowed it, they’d clog the entire grounds every time I came. Nobody would be able to get any sparring done.”
Kaladin raised an eyebrow at him.
“What?” Adolin asked. “You don’t get women coming to watch while you spar, bridgeboy? Little darkeyed ladies, missing seven teeth and afraid of bathing . . .”
Kaladin looked away from Adolin, drawing his lips to a line. Next time, he thought, I let the assassin have this one.
Adolin chuckled for a moment, though his laughter trailed off awkwardly. “Anyway,” he continued, “she probably has a better reason to be here than others, considering our relationship. We’ll still have to kick her out. Can’t set a bad precedent.”
“You really let this happen?” Kaladin asked. “A betrothal to a woman you’d never met?”
Adolin shrugged armored shoulders. “Things always go so well at first, and then . . . they fall apart on me. I can never figure out where I go wrong. I thought, maybe if there were something more formal in place . . .”
He scowled, as if remembering who he was talking to, and tromped forward at a faster pace to get away from Kaladin. Adolin reached Shallan, who—humming to herself—passed him right by without looking. Adolin raised a hand, mouth opened to speak, as he turned and watched her walk farther across the courtyard. Her eyes were on Nall, head ardent of the practice grounds. Shallan bowed to her in reverence.
Adolin scowled, turning to jog after Shallan, passing Kaladin, who smirked at him.
“Come to watch you, I see,” Kaladin said. “Completely fascinated by you, obviously.”
“Shut up,” Adolin growled.
Kaladin strolled after Adolin, reaching Shallan and Nall in the middle of a conversation.
“. . . visual records of these suits are pathetic, Sister Nall,” Shallan was saying, handing Nall a bound leather portfolio. “We need new sketches. Though much of my time will be spent clerking for Brightlord Sebarial, I would like a few projects of my own during my time at the Shattered Plains. With your blessing, I wish to proceed.”
“Your talent is admirable,” Nall said, flipping through pages. “Art is your Calling?”
“Natural History, Sister Nall, though sketching is a priority for me in that line of study as well.”
“As well it should be.” The ardent turned another page. “You have my blessing, dear child. Tell me, which devotary do you call your own?”
“That is . . . a subject of some consternation on my part,” Shallan said, taking the portfolio back. “Oh! Adolin. I didn’t notice you there. My, but you do loom when you wear that armor, don’t you?”
“You’re letting her stay?” Adolin asked Nall.
“She wishes to update the royal record of Shardplate and Shardblades in the warcamps with new sketches,” Nall said. “This seems wise. The king’s current accounting of the Shards includes many rough sketches, but few detailed drawings.”
“So you’re going to need me to pose for you?” Adolin asked, turning to Shallan.
“Actually, the sketches of your Plate are quite complete,” Shallan said, “thanks to your mother. I’ll focus first on the King’s Plate and Blades, which nobody has thought to sketch in any detail.”
“Just stay out of the way of the men sparring, child,” Nall said as someone called for her. She walked off.
“Look,” Adolin said, turning to Shallan. “I can see what you’re up to.”
“Five foot six inches,” Shallan said. “I suspect that’s all I will ever be up to, unfortunately.”
“Five foot . . .” Adolin said, frowning.
“Yes,” Shallan said, scanning the practice grounds. “I thought it was a good height, then I came here. You Alethi really are freakishly tall, aren’t you? I’d guess everyone here is a good two inches taller than the Veden average.”
“No, that’s not . . .” Adolin frowned. “You’re here because you want to watch me spar. Admit it. The sketching is a ruse.”
“Hmmm. Someone has a high opinion of himself. Comes with being royalty, I suppose. Like funny hats and a fondness for beheadings. Ah, and it’s our captain of the guard. Your boots are on the way to your barracks via courier.”
Kaladin started as he realized she was talking to him. “Is that so?”
“I had the soles replaced,” Shallan said. “They were terribly uncomfortable.”
“I liked how they fit!”
“Then you must have stones for feet.” She glanced down, then cocked an eyebrow.
“Wait,” Adolin said, frowning more deeply. “You wore the bridgeboy’s boots? How did that happen?”
“Awkwardly,” Shallan replied. “And with three pairs of socks.” S
he patted Adolin’s armored arm. “If you really want me to sketch you, Adolin, I will. No need to act jealous, though I do still want that walk you promised me. Oh! I need to get that. Excuse me.”
She strode toward where Renarin was taking hits on his armor from Zahel, presumably to get him used to taking a beating while wearing Plate. Shallan’s green gown and red hair were vibrant slashes of color on the grounds. Kaladin inspected her, wondering just how far she could be trusted. Probably not far.
“Insufferable woman,” Adolin growled. He glanced at Kaladin. “Stop leering at her backside, bridgeboy.”
“I’m not leering. And what do you care? You just said she was insufferable.”
“Yeah,” Adolin said, looking back toward her with a wide grin. “She all but ignored me, didn’t she?”
“I suppose.”
“Insufferable,” Adolin said, though he seemed to mean something completely different. His smile widened and he strode after her, moving with the grace of Shardplate that was so discordant with its apparent bulk.
Kaladin shook his head. Lighteyes and their games. How had he found himself in such a position that he had to spend so much time around them? He walked back to the barrel and got another drink. Soon after, a practice sword crunching to the sand announced Moash joining him.
Moash nodded gratefully as Kaladin handed over the ladle. Teft and Yake were having a turn facing down the Shardblade.
“She let you go?” Kaladin asked, nodding toward their trainer.
Moash shrugged, gulping water. “I didn’t flinch.”
Kaladin nodded appreciatively.
“What we’re doing here is good,” Moash said. “Important. After the way you trained us in those chasms, I thought I didn’t have anything left to learn. Shows how much I knew.”
Kaladin nodded, folding his arms. Adolin displayed several dueling stances for Renarin, Zahel nodding approvingly. Shallan had settled down to sketch them. Was this all an excuse to get her close, so she could wait for the right time to slide a knife into Adolin’s gut?
A paranoid way to think, perhaps, but that was his job. So he kept an eye on Adolin as the man turned and began sparring with Zahel, to give Renarin some perspective on how to use the stances.
Adolin was a good swordsman. Kaladin would give him that much. So was Zahel, for that matter.
“It was the king,” Moash said. “He had my family executed.”
It took Kaladin a moment to realize what Moash was talking about. The person that Moash wanted to kill, the person he had a grudge against. It was the king.
Kaladin felt a shock spike through him, as if he’d been punched. He turned on Moash.
“We’re Bridge Four,” Moash continued, staring off to the side at nothing in particular. He took another drink. “We stick together. You should know about . . . why I am the way I am. My grandparents were the only family I ever knew. Parents died when I was a child. Ana and Da, they raised me. The king . . . he killed them.”
“How did it happen?” Kaladin asked softly, checking to make sure none of the ardents were close enough to hear.
“I was away,” Moash said, “working a caravan that ran out here, to this wasteland. Ana and Da, they were second nahn. Important for darkeyes, you know? Ran their own shop. Silversmiths. I never picked up on the trade. Liked to be out walking. Going somewhere.
“Well, a lighteyed man owned two or three silversmith shops in Kholinar, one of which was across from my grandparents. He never did like the competition. This was a year or so before the old king died, and Elhokar was left in charge of the kingdom while Gavilar was out at the Plains. Anyway, Elhokar was good friends with the lighteyes who was in competition with my grandparents.
“So, he did his friend a favor. Elhokar had Ana and Da dragged in on some charge or another. They were important enough to demand a right to trial, an inquest before magistrates. I think it surprised Elhokar that he couldn’t completely ignore the law. He pled lack of time and sent Ana and Da to the dungeons to wait until an inquest could be arranged.” Moash dipped the ladle back into the barrel. “They died there a few months later, still waiting for Elhokar to approve their paperwork.”
“That’s not exactly the same as killing them.”
Moash met Kaladin’s eyes. “You doubt that sending a seventy-five-year-old couple to the palace dungeons is a death sentence?”
“I guess . . . well, I guess you’re right.”
Moash nodded sharply, tossing the ladle into the barrel. “Elhokar knew they’d die in there. That way, the hearing would never go before the magistrates, exposing his corruption. That bastard killed them—murdered them to keep his secret. I came home from my trip with the caravan to an empty house, and the neighbors told me my family was already two months dead.”
“So now you’re trying to assassinate King Elhokar,” Kaladin said softly, feeling a chill to be speaking it. Nobody was close enough to hear, not over the sounds of weapons and shouting common to sparring grounds. Still, the words seemed to hang in front of him, as loud as a trumpeter’s call.
Moash froze, looking him in the eye.
“That night on the balcony,” Kaladin said, “did you make it look like a Shardblade cut the railing?”
Moash took him by the arm in a tight grip, looking about. “We shouldn’t talk about this here.”
“Stormfather, Moash!” Kaladin said, the depth of it sinking in. “We’ve been hired to protect the man!”
“Our job,” Moash said, “is to keep Dalinar alive. I can agree with that. He doesn’t seem too bad, for a lighteyes. Storms, this kingdom would be a lot better off if he were king instead. Don’t tell me you think differently.”
“But killing the king—”
“Not here,” Moash hissed through clenched teeth.
“I can’t just let it go. Nalan’s hand! I’m going to have to tell—”
“You’d do that?” Moash demanded. “You’d turn on a member of Bridge Four?”
They locked gazes.
Kaladin turned away. “Damnation. No, I won’t. At least, not if you’ll agree to stop. You may have a grudge with the king, but you can’t just try to . . . you know . . .”
“And what else am I supposed to do?” Moash asked softly. By now, he’d pulled right up to Kaladin. “What kind of justice can a man like me get on a king, Kaladin? Tell me.”
This can’t be happening.
“I’ll stop for now,” Moash said. “If you’ll agree to meet with someone.”
“Who?” Kaladin asked, looking back to him.
“This plan wasn’t my idea. Some others are involved. All I had to do was throw them a rope. I want you to listen to them.”
“Moash . . .”
“Listen to what they have to say,” Moash said, grip tightening on Kaladin’s arm. “Just listen, Kal. That’s all. If you don’t agree with what they tell you, I’ll back out. Please.”
“You promise not to do anything else against the king until we’ve had this meeting?”
“On my grandparents’ honor.”
Kaladin sighed, but nodded. “All right.”
Moash relaxed visibly. He nodded, scooping up his mock sword, then ran back to do some more practice with the Shardblade. Kaladin sighed, turning to grab his sword, and came face-to-face with Syl hovering behind him. Her tiny eyes had gone wide, hands as fists to her sides.
“What did you just do?” she demanded. “I only heard the last part.”
“Moash was involved,” Kaladin whispered. “I need to follow this through, Syl. If someone is trying to kill the king, it’s my job to investigate them.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “I felt something. Something else.” She shook her head. “Kaladin, this is dangerous. We should go to Dalinar.”
“I promised Moash,” he said, kneeling and untying his boots and removing his socks. “I can’t go to Dalinar until I know more.”
Syl followed him as a ribbon of light as he took the fake Shardblade and walked out into the sands o
f the dueling grounds. The sand was cold under his bare feet. He wanted to feel it.
He fell into Windstance and practiced a few of the swings that Ivis had taught them. Nearby, a group of lighteyed men nudged one another, nodding toward him. One said something soft, making the others laugh, though several others continued frowning. The image of a darkeyed man with even a practice Shardblade was not something they found amusing.
This is my right, Kaladin thought, swinging, ignoring them. I defeated a Shardbearer. I belong here.
Why weren’t darkeyes encouraged to practice like this? The darkeyed men in history who had won Shardblades were praised in song and story. Evod Markmaker, Lanacin, Raninor of the Fields . . . These men were revered. But modern darkeyes, well, they were told not to think beyond their station. Or else.
But what was the purpose of the Vorin church? Of ardents and Callings and the arts? Improve yourself. Be better. Why shouldn’t men like him be expected to dream big dreams? None of it seemed to fit. Society and religion, they just flat-out contradicted each other.
Soldiers are glorified in the Tranquiline Halls. But without farmers, soldiers can’t eat—so being a farmer is probably all right too.
Better yourself with a Calling in life. But don’t get too ambitious or we’ll lock you away.
Don’t get revenge upon the king for ordering the death of your grandparents. But do get revenge on the Parshendi for ordering the death of someone you never met.
Kaladin stopped swinging, sweating but feeling unfulfilled. When he fought or trained, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be Kaladin and the weapon, as one, not all of these problems bouncing around in his head.
“Syl,” he said, trying a thrust with the sword, “you’re honorspren. Does that mean you can tell me the right thing to do?”
“Definitely,” she said, hanging nearby in the form of a young woman, legs swinging off an invisible ledge. She wasn’t zipping around him in a ribbon, as she often did when he sparred.
“Is it wrong for Moash to try to kill the king?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Because killing is wrong.”