the weapon’s reach. In fighting a Shardbearer, everything became about that Blade. The Blade that nothing could stop, the Blade that didn’t just kill the body—but severed the soul itself. The Blade—
Zahel dropped the Blade.
It hit the ground as Zahel got inside Kaladin’s reach. Kaladin had been too focused on the weapon, and though he tried to get his spear in position to strike, Zahel twisted and buried his fist into Kaladin’s stomach. The next punch—to the face—slammed Kaladin to the floor of the practice grounds.
Kaladin immediately rolled, ignoring the painspren wiggling in the sand. He found his feet as his vision swam. He grinned. “Nice move, that.”
Zahel was already turning back to Kaladin, Blade recovered. Kaladin scuttled backward on the sand, spear still forward, staying away. Zahel knew his way around a Blade. He didn’t fight like Adolin; fewer sweeping blows, more overhand chops. Quick and furious. He backed Kaladin around the side of the practice ground.
He’ll get tired keeping this up, Kaladin’s instincts said. Keep him moving.
After an almost complete circuit of the grounds, Zahel slowed his offense and instead rounded on Kaladin, watching for an opening. “You’d be in trouble if I had Plate,” Zahel said. “I’d be faster, wouldn’t tire.”
“You don’t have Plate.”
“And if someone comes for the king wearing it?”
“I’ll use a different tactic.”
Zahel grunted as Renarin crashed to the ground nearby. The prince almost kept his footing, but stumbled and fell to the side, skidding in the sand.
“Well, if this were a real assassination attempt,” Zahel said, “I’d be using different tactics too.”
He dashed toward Renarin.
Kaladin cursed, taking off after Zahel.
Immediately, the man reversed, skidding to a stop in the sand and spinning to swing at Kaladin with a powerful two-handed blow. The strike connected with Kaladin’s spear, sending a sharp crack echoing across the practice grounds. If the Blade hadn’t been guarded, it would have split the spear in two and perhaps grazed Kaladin’s chest.
A watching ardent tossed Kaladin half a spear. They’d been waiting for his spear to be “cut,” and wanted to replicate a real fight as much as possible. Nearby, Moash had arrived, looking concerned, but several ardents intercepted him and explained.
Kaladin looked back to Zahel.
“In a real fight,” the man said, “I might have chased down the prince by now.”
“In a real fight,” Kaladin said, “I might have stabbed you with half a spear when you thought me disarmed.”
“I wouldn’t have made that mistake.”
“Then we’ll have to assume I wouldn’t have made the mistake of letting you get to Renarin.”
Zahel grinned. It looked a dangerous expression on him. He stepped forward, and Kaladin understood. There would be no backing away and leading him off this time. Kaladin wouldn’t have that option if he were protecting a member of Dalinar’s family. Instead, he had to try his best to pretend to kill this man.
That meant an attack.
A prolonged, close-quarters fight would favor Zahel, as Kaladin couldn’t parry a Shardblade. Kaladin’s best bet was to strike fast and hope to score an early hit. Kaladin barreled forward, then threw himself to his knees, skidding on the sands underneath Zahel’s strike. That would get him close, and—
Zahel kicked Kaladin in the face.
Vision swimming, Kaladin rammed his fake spear into Zahel’s leg. The man’s Shardblade came down a second later, stopping where Kaladin’s shoulder met his neck.
“You’re dead, son,” Zahel said.
“You’ve got a spear through the leg,” Kaladin said, puffing. “You aren’t chasing down Renarin like that. I win.”
“You’re still dead,” Zahel said with a grunt.
“My job is to stop you from killing Renarin. With what I just did, he escapes. Doesn’t matter if the bodyguard is dead.”
“And what if the assassin had a friend?” another voice asked from behind.
Kaladin twisted to see Adolin, in full Plate and standing with his Shardblade point stuck into the ground before him. He’d removed his helm, and held it in one hand, the other hand resting on the Blade’s crossguard.
“If there were two of them, bridgeboy?” Adolin asked with a smirk. “Could you fight two Shardbearers at once? If I wanted to kill Father or the king, I’d never send just one.”
Kaladin stood, rolling his shoulder in its socket. He met Adolin’s gaze. So condescending. So sure of himself. Arrogant bastard.
“All right,” Zahel said. “I’m sure he sees the point, Adolin. No need—”
Kaladin charged the princeling, and he thought he heard Adolin chuckling as he put on his helm.
Something boiled inside of Kaladin.
The nameless Shardbearer who had killed so many of his friends.
Sadeas, sitting regally in