For a timeless moment, all he felt was panic and fright, a frozen eternity before he realized he wasn’t falling. His vision cleared, and he looked down into the maw before him, rain falling in curtains all around. Then he looked back over his shoulder.
To where two bridgemen had grabbed hold of the steel link skirt of his Plate and were struggling to hold him back from the brink. Grunting, they clung to the slick metal, holding tight with feet thrust against stones to keep from being pulled off with him.
Other soldiers materialized, rushing to help. Hands grabbed Adolin around the waist and shoulders, and together they hauled him back from the brink of the void—to the point that he was able to get his balance again and stumble away from the chasm.
Soldiers cheered, and Adolin let out an exhausted laugh. He turned to the bridgemen, Skar and Drehy. “I guess,” Adolin said, “I don’t need to wonder if you two can keep up with me or not.”
“This was nothing,” Skar said.
“Yeah,” Drehy added. “Lifting fat lighteyes is easy. You should try a bridge sometime.”
Adolin grinned, then wiped water from his face with his exposed hand. “See if you can find a chunk of my helm or forearm piece. Regrowing the armor will go faster if we’ve got a seed. Collect my gauntlet too, if you would.”
The two nodded. That red lightning in the sky was building, and that spinning column of dark rain was expanding, growing outward. That . . . that did not seem like a good sign.
He needed a better grasp on what was happening in the rest of the army. He jogged across the bridge to the central plateau. Where was his father? What was happening on Aladar’s and Roion’s fronts? Had Shallan returned from her expedition?
Everything seemed chaotic here on the central plateau. The rising winds tore at tents, and some of them had collapsed. People ran this way and that. Adolin spotted a figure in a thick cloak, striding purposefully through the rain. That person looked like he knew what he was doing. Adolin caught his arm as he passed.
“Where’s my father?” he asked. “What orders are you delivering?”
The hood of the cloak fell down and the man turned to regard Adolin with eyes that were slightly too large, too rounded. A bald head. Filmy, loose clothing beneath the cloak.
The Assassin in White.
* * *
Moash stepped forward, but did not summon his Shardblade.
Kaladin struck with his spear, but it was futile. He’d used what strength he had to merely remain upright. His spear glanced off Moash’s helm, and the former bridgeman slapped a fist down on the weapon, shattering the wood.
Kaladin lurched to a stop, but Moash wasn’t done. He stepped forward and slammed an armored fist into Kaladin’s gut.
Kaladin gasped, folding as things broke inside of him. Ribs snapped like twigs before that impossibly strong fist. Kaladin coughed, spraying blood across Moash’s armor, then groaned as his friend stepped back, removing his fist.
Kaladin collapsed to the cold stone floor, everything shaking. His eyes felt like they’d pop from his face, and he curled around his broken chest, trembling.
“Storms.” Moash’s voice was distant. “That was a harder blow than I intended.”
“You did what you had to.” Graves.
Oh . . . Stormfather . . . the pain . . .
“Now what?” Moash.
“We end this. Kill the king with a Shardblade. It will still look like the assassin, hopefully. Those blood trails are frustrating. They might make people ask questions. Here, let me cut down these boards, so it looks like he came in through the wall, like last time.”
Cold air. Rain.
Yelling? Very distant? He knew that voice. . . .
“Syl?” Kaladin whispered, blood on his lips. “Syl?”
Nothing.
“I ran until . . . until I couldn’t any longer,” Kaladin whispered. “End of . . . the race.”
Life before death.
“I will do it.” Graves. “I will bear this burden.”
“It is my right!” Moash said.
He blinked, eyes resting on the king’s unconscious body just beside him. Still breathing.
I will protect those who cannot protect themselves.
It made sense, now, why he’d had to make this choice. Kaladin rolled to his knees. Graves and Moash were arguing.
“I have to protect him,” Kaladin whispered.
Why?
“If I protect . . .” He coughed. “If I protect . . . only the people I like, it means that I don’t care about doing what is right.” If he did that, he only cared about what was convenient for himself.
That wasn’t protecting. That was selfishness.
Straining, agonized, Kaladin raised one foot. The good foot. Coughing blood, he shoved himself upward and stumbled to his feet between Elhokar and the assassins. Fingers trembling, he felt at his belt, and—after two tries—got his side knife out. He squeezed out tears of pain, and through blurry vision, saw the two Shardbearers looking at him.
Moash slowly raised his faceplate, revealing a stunned expression. “Stormfather . . . Kal, how are you standing?”
It made sense now.
That was why he’d come back. It was about Tien, it was about Dalinar, and it was about what was right—but most of all, it was about protecting people.
This was the man he wanted to be.
Kaladin moved one foot back, touching his heel to the king, forming a battle stance. Then raised his hand before him, knife out. His hand shook like a roof rattling from thunder. He met Moash’s eyes.
Strength before weakness.
“You. Will. Not. Have. Him.”
“Finish this, Moash,” Graves said.
“Storms,” Moash said. “There’s no need. Look at him. He can’t fight back.”
Kaladin felt exhausted. At least he’d stood up.
It was the end. The journey had come and gone.
Shouting. Kaladin heard it now, as if it were closer.
He is mine! a feminine voice said. I claim him.
HE BETRAYED HIS OATH.
“He has seen too much,” Graves said to Moash. “If he lives this day, he’ll betray us. You know my words are true, Moash. Kill him.”
The knife slipped from Kaladin’s fingers, clanging to the ground. He was too weak to hold it. His arm flopped back to his side, and he stared down at the knife, dazed.
I don’t care.
HE WILL KILL YOU.
“I’m sorry, Kal,” Moash said, stepping forward. “I should have made it quick at the start.”
The Words, Kaladin. That was Syl’s voice. You have to speak the Words!
I FORBID THIS.
YOUR WILL MATTERS NOT! Syl shouted. YOU CANNOT HOLD ME BACK IF HE SPEAKS THE WORDS! THE WORDS, KALADIN! SAY THEM!
“I will protect even those I hate,” Kaladin whispered through bloody lips. “So long as it is right.”
A Shardblade appeared in Moash’s hands.
A distant rumbling. Thunder.
THE WORDS ARE ACCEPTED, the Stormfather said reluctantly.
“Kaladin!” Syl’s voice. “Stretch forth thy hand!” She zipped around him, suddenly visible as a ribbon of light.
“I can’t . . .” Kaladin said, drained.
“Stretch forth thy hand!”
He reached out a trembling hand. Moash hesitated.
Wind blew in the opening in the wall, and Syl’s ribbon of light became mist, a form she often took. Silver mist, which grew larger, coalesced before Kaladin, extending into his hand.
Glowing, brilliant, a Shardblade emerged from the mist, vivid blue light shining from swirling patterns along its length.
Kaladin gasped a deep breath as if coming fully awake for the first time. The entire hallway went black as the Stormlight in every lamp down the length of the hall winked out.
For a moment, they stood in darkness.
Then Kaladin exploded with Light.
It erupted from his body, making him shine like a blazing white sun in the darkness. Moash backed away, face pale in the white brilliance, throwing up a hand to shade his eyes.
Pain evaporated like mist on a hot day. Kaladin’s grip firmed upon the glowing Shardblade, a weapon beside which those of Graves and Moash looked dull. One after another, shutters burst open up and down the hallway, wind screaming into the corridor. Behind Kaladin, frost crystalized on the ground, growing backward away from him. A glyph formed in the frost, almost in the shape of wings.
Graves screamed, falling in his haste to get away. Moash backed up, staring at Kaladin.
“The Knights Radiant,” Kaladin said softly, “have returned.”
“Too late!” Graves shouted.
Kaladin frowned, then glanced at the king.
“The Diagram spoke of this,” Graves said, scuttling back along the corridor. “We missed it. We missed it completely! We focused on making certain you were separated from Dalinar, and not on what our actions might push you to become!”
Moash looked from Graves back at Kaladin. Then he ran, Plate clinking as he turned and dashed down the corridor and disappeared.
Kaladin, Syl’s voice spoke in his head. Something is still very wrong. I feel it on the winds.
Graves laughed like a madman.
“Separating me,” Kaladin whispered. “From Dalinar? Why would they care?”
He turned, looking eastward.
Oh no . . .
But who is the wanderer, the wild piece, the one who makes no sense? I glimpse at his implications, and the world opens to me. I shy back. Impossible. Is it?
—From the Diagram, West Wall Psalm of Wonders: paragraph 8 (Note by Adrotagia: Could this refer to Mraize?)