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 him 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.
“I healed,” he whispered, then coughed. “I healed from a Shardblade wound. Why didn’t you tell me I could do that?”
“Because I didn’t know you could do it until you did it, silly.” She said it as if it were the most obvious fact in the world. Her voice grew softer. “There are dead. Up above.”
Kaladin nodded. Could he walk? He managed to get to his feet, and slowly made his way around the base of the Pinnacle, toward the steps on the other side. Syl flitted around him anxiously. His strength began to return a little as he found the steps and began to climb. He had to stop several times to catch his breath, and at one point he ripped off the sleeve of