But his right forearm and hand, faintly lit by the Stormlight rising from the rest of him, 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 his coat to hide that it had been cut through with a Shardblade.
He reached the top. Part of him feared that he’d find everyone dead. The hallways were silent. No shouts, no guards. Nothing. He continued on, feeling alone, until he saw light ahead.
“Stop!” called a trembling voice. Mart, of Bridge Four. “You in the dark! Identify yourself!”
Kaladin continued forward into the light, too exhausted to reply. Mart and Moash stood guard at the door to the king’s chambers, along with some of the men from the King’s Guard. They let out whoops of surprise as they recognized Kaladin. They ushered him into the warmth and light of Elhokar’s quarters.
Here, he found Dalinar and Adolin—alive—sitting on the couches. Eth tended their wounds; Kaladin had trained a number of the men in Bridge Four in basic field medicine. Renarin slumped in a chair near the corner, his Shardblade discarded at his feet like a piece of refuse. The king paced at the back of the room, speaking softly with his mother.
Dalinar stood up, shaking off Eth’s attention, as Kaladin entered. “By the Almighty’s tenth name,” Dalinar said, voice hushed. “You’re alive?”
Kaladin nodded, then slumped down in one of the plush royal chairs, uncaring if he got water or blood on it. He let out a soft groan—half relief at seeing them all well, half exhaustion.
“How?” Adolin demanded. “You fell. I was barely awake, but I know I saw you fall.”
I am a Surgebinder, Kaladin thought as Dalinar looked over at him. I used Stormlight. He wanted to say the words, but they wouldn’t come out. Not in front of Elhokar and Adolin.
Storms. I’m a coward.
“I had a good grip on him,” Kaladin said. “I don’t know. We tumbled in the air, and when we hit, I wasn’t dead.”
The king nodded. “Didn’t you say he stuck you to the ceiling?” he said to Adolin. “They probably floated all the way down.”
“Yeah,” Adolin said. “I suppose.”
“After you landed,” the king said, hopefully, “did you kill him?”
“No,” Kaladin said, “He ran off, though. I think he was surprised we fought back as capably as we did.”
“Capably?” Adolin asked. “We were like three children attacking a chasmfiend with sticks. Stormfather! I’ve never been routed so soundly in my life.”
“At least we were alerted,” the king said, sounding shaken. “This bridgeman… he makes a good bodyguard. You will be commended, young man.”
Dalinar stood and crossed the room. Eth had cleaned up his face and plugged his bleeding nose. His skin was split along the left cheekbone, his nose broken, though surely not for the first time in Dalinar’s long military career. Both were wounds that looked worse than they really were.
“How did you know?” Dalinar asked.