“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 red armor.
Amaram, hands on a sword stained with blood.
Kaladin screamed as Adolin’s unguarded Shardblade came for him in one of the careful, sweeping strokes from Adolin’s practice session. Kaladin pulled himself up short, raising his half-spear and letting the Blade pass right before him. Then he slapped the back edge of the Shardblade with his spear, knocking Adolin’s grip to the side and fouling up the follow-through.
Kaladin barreled forward and threw his shoulder against the prince. It was like slamming into a wall. Kaladin’s shoulder flared with pain, but the momentum—along with the surprise of his cudgel blow—knocked Adolin off balance. Kaladin forced both of them backward, the Shardbearer toppling to the ground with a crash and a surprised grunt.
Renarin made a twin crash, falling to the ground nearby. Kaladin raised his half-spear like a dagger to plunge it toward Adolin’s faceplate. Unfortunately, Adolin had dismissed his Blade as they fell. The princeling got a gauntleted hand up underneath Kaladin.
Kaladin slammed his weapon downward.
Adolin heaved upward with one hand.
Kaladin’s blow didn’t connect; instead he found himself airborne, thrown with all the Plate-augmented strength of a Shardbearer. He floundered in the air before slamming down eight feet away, the sand grinding into his side, the shoulder he’d hit against Adolin flaring in pain again. Kaladin gasped.
“Idiot!” Zahel yelled.
Kaladin groaned, rolling over. His vision swam.
“You could have killed the boy!” He was talking to Adolin somewhere far away.
“He attacked me!” Adolin’s voice was muffled by the helm.
“You challenged him, fool child.” Zahel’s voice was closer.
“Then he asked for it,” Adolin said.
Pain. Someone at Kaladin’s side. Zahel?
“You’re wearing Plate, Adolin.” Yes, that was Zahel kneeling above Kaladin, whose vision refused to focus. “You don’t throw an unarmored sparring partner like he’s a bundle of sticks. Your father taught you better than that!”
Kaladin sucked in sharply and forced his eyes open. Stormlight from the pouch at his belt filled him. Not too much. Don’t let them see. Don’t let them take it away from you!
Pain vanished. His shoulder reknit—he didn’t know if he’d broken it or just dislocated it. Zahel cried out in surprise as Kaladin pitched himself up to his feet and dashed back toward Adolin.
The prince stumbled away, hand out to his side, obviously summoning his Blade. Kaladin kicked his fallen half-spear up in a spray of sand, then grabbed it in midair as he got near.
In that moment, the strength drained from him. The tempest inside of him fled without warning, and he stumbled, gasping at the returning pain of his shoulder.
Adolin caught him by the arm with a gauntleted fist. The prince’s Shardblade formed in his other hand, but in that moment, a second Blade stopped at Kaladin’s neck.
“You’re dead,” Zahel said from behind, holding the Blade against Kaladin’s skin. “Again.”
Kaladin sank down in the middle of the practice grounds, dropping his half-spear. He felt completely drained. What had happened?
“Go give your brother some help with his jumping,” Zahel ordered Adolin. Why did he get to order around princes?
Adolin left and Zahel knelt beside Kaladin. “You don’t flinch when someone swings a Blade at you. You actually have fought Shardbearers before, haven’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re lucky to be alive, then,” Zahel said, probing at Kaladin’s shoulder. “You’ve got tenacity. A stupid amount of it. You have good form, and you think well in a fight. But you hardly know what you’re doing against Shardbearers.”
“I…” What should he say? Zahel was right. It was arrogant to say otherwise. Two fights—three, if he counted today—did not make one an expert. He winced as Zahel prodded a sore tendon. More painspren on the ground. He was giving them a workout today.
“Nothing broken here,” Zahel said with a grunt. “How are your ribs?”
“They’re fine,” Kaladin said, lying back in the sand, staring up at the sky.
“Well, I won’t force you to learn,” Zahel said, standing up. “I don’t think I could force you, actually.”
Kaladin squeezed his eyes shut. He felt humiliated, but why should he? He’d lost sparring matches before. It happened all the time.
“You remind me a lot of him,” Zahel said. “Adolin wouldn’t let me teach him either. Not at first.”
Kaladin opened his eyes. “I’m nothing like him.”
Zahel barked a laugh at that, then stood and walked away, chuckling, as if he’d heard the finest joke in all the world. Kaladin continued to lie on the sand, staring upward at the deep blue sky, listening to the sounds of men sparring. Eventually, Syl flitted over and landed on his chest.
“What happened?” Kaladin asked. “The Stormlight drained from me. I felt it go.”
“Who were you protecting?” Syl asked.
“I… I was practicing how to fight, like when I practiced with Skar and Rock down in the chasms.”
“Is that really what you were doing?” Syl asked.
He didn’t know. He lay there, staring at the sky, until he finally caught his breath and forced himself to his feet with a groan. He dusted himself off, then went to check on Moash and the other guards. As he went, he drew in a little Stormlight, and it worked, slowly healing his shoulder and soothing away his bruises.
The physical ones, at least.
19. Safe Things
FIVE AND A HALF YEARS AGO
The silk of Shallan’s new dress was softer than any she had owned before. It touched her skin like a comforting breeze. The left cuff clipped closed over the hand; she was old enough now to cover her safehand. She had once dreamed of wearing a woman’s dress. Her mother and she…
Her mother…
Shallan’s mind went still. Like a candle suddenly snuffed, she stopped thinking. She leaned back in her chair, legs tucked up underneath her, hands in her lap. The dreary stone dining chamber bustled with activity as Davar Manor prepared for guests. Shallan did not know which guests, only that her father wanted the place immaculate.
Not that she could do anything to help.
Two maids bustled past. “She saw,” one whispered softly to the other, a new woman. “Poor thing was in the room when it happened. Hasn’t spoken a word in five months. The master killed his own wife and her lover, but don’t let it…”
They continued talking, but Shallan didn’t hear.