take Bridge Four from him. His men . . . his very self.
They might not be the ones who take it from you, Kaladin thought. You might be doing it to yourself, better than any lighteyes could.
The thought nauseated him.
“We’re getting close,” Moash said softly as Kaladin took out his waterskin.
“Close?” Kaladin asked. He lowered the waterskin and looked over his shoulder across the plateaus. “I thought we still had a few hours to go before we reached the dead chrysalis.”
It was far out, almost as far out as the armies went on bridge runs. Bethab and Thanadal had claimed it yesterday.
“Not that,” Moash said, looking to the side. “Other things.”
“Oh. Moash, are you . . . I mean . . .”
“Kal,” Moash said. “You’re with us, right? You said it.”
Two promises. Syl told him to follow his heart.
“Kaladin,” Moash said, more solemnly. “You gave me these Shards, even after you were angry with me for disobeying you. There’s a reason. You know, deep down, that what I’m doing is right. It’s the only solution.”
Kaladin nodded.
Moash glanced around, then stood up, Plate clinking. He leaned in to whisper. “Don’t worry. Graves says you aren’t going to have to do much. We just need an opening.”
Kaladin felt sick. “We can’t do it when Dalinar is in the warcamp,” he whispered. “I won’t risk him being hurt.”
“No problem,” Moash said. “We feel the same way. We’ll wait for the right moment. The newest plan is to hit the king with an arrow, so there’s no risk of implicating you or anyone else. You lead him to the right spot, and Graves will fell the king with his own bow. He’s an excellent shot.”
An arrow. It felt so cowardly.
It needed to be done. It needed to be.
Moash patted him on the shoulder, stepping off in his clinking Shardplate. Storms. All Kaladin had to do was lead the king into a specific spot . . . that, and betray Dalinar’s trust in him.
And if I don’t help kill the king, won’t I be betraying justice and honor? The king had murdered—or as good as murdered—many people, some through indifference, others through incompetence. And storms, Dalinar wasn’t innocent either. If he’d been as noble as he pretended, wouldn’t he have seen Roshone imprisoned, rather than shipped off somewhere where he “couldn’t do any more harm”?
Kaladin walked over to the bridge, watching the men march across. Shallan Davar sat primly on a rock, continuing her sketches of the bridge mechanism. Adolin had climbed off his horse and handed it to some grooms for watering. He waved Kaladin over.
“Princeling?” Kaladin asked, stepping up.
“The assassin has been seen out here,” Adolin said. “On the Plains at night.”
“Yes. I heard the scout telling your father about it.”
“We need a plan. What if he attacks out here?”
“I hope he does.”
Adolin looked to him, frowning.
“From what I saw,” Kaladin said, “and from what I’ve learned about the assassin’s initial attack on the old king, he depends on confusion in his victims. He jumps off walls and onto ceilings; he sends men falling the wrong direction. Well, there aren’t any walls or ceilings out here.”
“So he can just full-on fly,” Adolin said with a grimace.
“Yes,” Kaladin said, pointing with a smile, “since we have, what is it, three hundred archers with us?”
Kaladin had used his abilities effectively against Parshendi arrows, and so perhaps archers wouldn’t be able to kill the assassin. But he imagined it would be hard for the man to fight with wave after wave of arrows flying at him.
Adolin nodded slowly. “I’ll talk to them, get them ready for the possibility.” He started walking toward the bridge, so Kaladin joined him. They passed Shallan, who was still absorbed in her sketching. She didn’t even notice Adolin waving at her. Lighteyed women and their diversions. Kaladin shook his head.
“Do you know anything about women, bridgeboy?” Adolin asked, looking over his shoulder and watching Shallan as the two of them crossed the bridge.
“Lighteyed women?” Kaladin asked. “Nothing. Thankfully.”
“People think I know a lot about women,” Adolin said. “The truth is, I know how to get them—how to make them laugh, how to make them interested. I don’t know how to keep them.” He hesitated. “I really want to keep this one.”
“So . . . tell her that, maybe?” Kaladin said, thinking back to Tarah, and the mistakes he’d made.
“Do such things work on darkeyed women?”
“You’re asking the wrong man,” Kaladin said. “I haven’t had much time for women lately. I was