Moash froze, looking him in the eye.
“That night on the balcony,” Kaladin said, “did you make it look like a Shardblade cut the railing?”
Moash took him by the arm in a tight grip, looking about. “We shouldn’t talk about this here.”
“Stormfather, Moash!” Kaladin said, the depth of it sinking in. “We’ve been hired to protect the man!”
“Our job,” Moash said, “is to keep Dalinar alive. I can agree with that. He doesn’t seem too bad, for a lighteyes. Storms, this kingdom would be a lot better off if he were king instead. Don’t tell me you think differently.”
“But killing the king—”
“Not here,” Moash hissed through clenched teeth.
“I can’t just let it go. Nalan’s hand! I’m going to have to tell—”
“You’d do that?” Moash demanded. “You’d turn on a member of Bridge Four?”
They locked gazes.
Kaladin turned away. “Damnation. No, I won’t. At least, not if you’ll agree to stop. You may have a grudge with the king, but you can’t just try to… you know…”
“And what else am I supposed to do?” Moash asked softly. By now, he’d pulled right up to Kaladin. “What kind of justice can a man like me get on a king, Kaladin? Tell me.”
This can’t be happening.
“I’ll stop for now,” Moash said. “If you’ll agree to meet with someone.”
“Who?” Kaladin asked, looking back to him.
“This plan wasn’t my idea. Some others are involved. All I had to do was throw them a rope. I want you to listen to them.”
“Moash…”
“Listen to what they have to say,” Moash said, grip tightening on Kaladin’s arm. “Just listen, Kal. That’s all. If you don’t agree with what they tell you, I’ll back out. Please.”
“You promise not to do anything else against the king until we’ve had this meeting?”
“On my grandparents’ honor.”
Kaladin sighed, but nodded. “All right.”
Moash relaxed visibly. He nodded, scooping up his mock sword, then ran back to do some more practice with the Shardblade. Kaladin sighed, turning to grab his sword, and came face-to-face with Syl hovering behind him. Her tiny eyes had gone wide, hands as fists to her sides.
“What did you just do?” she demanded. “I only heard the last part.”
“Moash was involved,” Kaladin whispered. “I need to follow this through, Syl. If someone is trying to kill the king, it’s my job to investigate them.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “I felt something. Something else.” She shook her head. “Kaladin, this is dangerous. We should go to Dalinar.”
“I promised Moash,” he said, kneeling and untying his boots and removing his socks. “I can’t go to Dalinar until I know more.”
Syl followed him as a ribbon of light as he took the fake Shardblade and walked out into the sands of the dueling grounds. The sand was cold under his bare feet. He wanted to feel it.
He fell into Windstance and practiced a few of the swings that Ivis had taught them. Nearby, a group of lighteyed men nudged one another, nodding toward him. One said something soft, making the others laugh, though several others continued frowning. The image of a darkeyed man with even a practice Shardblade was not something they found amusing.
This is my right, Kaladin thought, swinging, ignoring them. I defeated a Shardbearer. I belong here.
Why weren’t darkeyes encouraged to practice like this? The darkeyed men in history who had won Shardblades were praised in song and story. Evod Markmaker, Lanacin, Raninor of the Fields… These men were revered. But modern darkeyes, well, they were told not to think beyond their station. Or else.
But what was the purpose of the Vorin church? Of ardents and Callings and the arts? Improve yourself. Be better. Why shouldn’t men like him be expected to dream big dreams? None of it seemed to fit. Society and religion, they just flat-out contradicted each other.
Soldiers are glorified in the Tranquiline Halls. But without farmers, soldiers can’t eat—so being a farmer is probably all right too.
Better yourself with a Calling in life. But don’t get too ambitious or we’ll lock you away.
Don’t get revenge upon the king for ordering the death of your grandparents. But do get revenge on the Parshendi for ordering the death of someone you never met.
Kaladin stopped swinging, sweating but feeling unfulfilled. When he fought or trained, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be Kaladin and the weapon, as one, not all of these problems bouncing around in his head.
“Syl,” he said, trying a thrust with the sword, “you’re honorspren. Does that mean you can tell me the right thing to do?”
“Definitely,” she said, hanging nearby in the form of a young woman, legs swinging off an invisible ledge. She wasn’t zipping around him in a ribbon, as she often did when he sparred.
“Is it wrong for Moash to try to kill the king?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Because killing is wrong.”
“And the Parshendi I killed?”
“We’ve talked about this. It had to be done.”
“And what if one of them was a Surgebinder,” Kaladin said. “With his own honorspren?”
“Parshendi can’t become Surgebin—”
“Just pretend,” Kaladin said, grunting as he tried another thrust. He wasn’t getting it right. “I’d guess all the Parshendi want to do at this point is survive. Storms, the ones involved in Gavilar’s death, they might not even still be alive. Their leaders were executed back in Alethkar, after all. So you tell me, if a common Parshendi who is protecting his people comes up against me, what would his honorspren say? That he’s doing the right thing?”
“I…” Syl hunched down. She hated questions like this. “It doesn’t matter. You said you won’t kill the Parshendi anymore.”
“And Amaram? Can I kill him?”
“Is that justice?” Syl asked.
“One form.”
“There’s a difference.”
“What?” Kaladin demanded, thrusting. Storm it! Why couldn’t he make the stupid weapon go where it should?
“Because of what it does to you,” Syl said softly. “Thinking about him changes you. Twists you. You’re supposed to protect, Kaladin. Not kill.”
“You have to kill to protect,” he snapped. “Storms. You’re starting to sound as bad as my father.”
He tried a few more stances, until finally Ivis came over and gave him some corrections. She laughed at his frustration as he held the sword wrong again. “You expected to pick this up in one day?”
He kind of had. He knew the spear; he’d trained long and hard. He thought that maybe, this would all just click.
It didn’t. He kept on anyway, going through the motions, kicking up cold sand, mixing among the lighteyes sparring and practicing their own forms. Eventually, Zahel wandered by.
“Keep at it,” the man said without even inspecting Kaladin’s forms.