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