Navani slumped in the doorway, objections withering in her throat. She knew he was wrong, but she couldn’t find her voice. Something about that man unnerved her to the point of panic. He wasn’t human. He was a Voidbringer. If that word had ever applied to any, it was Moash.
“What do you need?” her guard asked. “Have you been fed?”
“I…” Navani licked her lips. “I need a candle, please. For burning prayers.”
Remarkably, she fetched it. Taking the candle, shivering, Navani cupped the flame and walked to her pallet. There, she knelt and began burning her glyphwards one at a time.
If there was a God, if the Almighty was still out there somewhere, had he created Moash? Why? Why bring such a thing into the world?
Please, she thought, begging as a ward shriveled, her prayers casting smoke into the air. Please. Tell me what to do. Show me something. Let me know you’re there.
As the last prayer drifted toward the Tranquiline Halls, she sat back on her heels, numb, wanting to huddle down and forget about her problems. When she moved to do so, however, in the candlelight she caught sight of something glittering amid the wreckage of her desk. As if in a trance, Navani rose and walked over. The guard wasn’t looking.
Navani brushed aside ash to find a metal dagger with a diamond affixed to the pommel. She stared at it, confused. It had exploded, hadn’t it?
No, this is the second one. The one Raboniel used to kill her daughter. She tossed it aside, as if hating it, once the deed was done.
A precious, priceless weapon, and the Fused had discarded it. How long had Raboniel been awake? Did she feel like Navani, exhausted, pushed to the limit? Forgetting important details?
For there, glimmering violet-black in the gemstone, was a soft glow. Not completely used up in the previous killing.
A small charge of anti-Voidlight.
* * *
Kaladin took the steps down one at a time. Unhurried as he walked toward the trap.
A certain momentum pushed him forward. As if his next actions were Soulcast into stone, already unchangeable. A mountain seemed to fill in behind him, blocking his retreat.
Forward. Only forward. One step after another.
He emerged from the stairwell onto the ground floor. Two direform Regals had been guarding the path, but they backed off—hands on swords, humming frantically. Kaladin ignored them, turning toward the atrium. He set his spear to his shoulder and strode through this central corridor.
No more hiding. He was too tired to hide. Too wrung-out for tactics and strategy. The Pursuer wanted him? Well, he would have Kaladin, presented as he had always been seen. Dressed in his uniform, striding to the fight, his head high.
Humans and singers alike scattered before him. Kaladin saw many of the humans wearing the markings Rlain had described—shash glyphs drawn on their foreheads. Storm them, they believed in him. They wore the symbol of his shame, his failure, and his imprisonment. And they made it something better.
He couldn’t help feeling that this was it. The last time he’d wear the uniform, his final act as a member of Bridge Four. One way or another, he had to move on from the life he’d been clinging to and the simple squad of soldiers who had formed the heart of that life.
All these people believed in a version of him who had already died. Highmarshal Kaladin Stormblessed. The valiant soldier, leader of the Windrunners, stalwart and unwavering. Like Kal the innocent youth, Squadleader Kaladin the soldier in Amaram’s army, and Kaladin the slave … Highmarshal Stormblessed had passed. Kaladin had become someone new, someone who could not measure up to the legend.
But with all these people believing in him—falling in behind him, whispering with hope and anticipation—perhaps he could resurrect Stormblessed for one last battle.
He didn’t worry about exposing himself. There was nowhere to run. Regals and singer soldiers gathered in bunches, tailing him and whispering harshly, but they would let a Fused deal with a Radiant.
Other Fused would know, though. Kaladin had been claimed already. He was Pursued.
As Kaladin drew near to the Breakaway—the hallway to his right would merge with the large open marketplace—he finally felt her. He stopped fast, looking that direction. The dozens of people following him hushed as he stared intently and raised his right hand in the direction of the market.
Syl, he thought. I’m here. Find me.
A line of light, barely visible, bounced around in the distance. It turned and spun toward him, picking up speed—its path growing straighter. She grew brighter, and awareness of her blossomed in his mind. They were not whole, either one, without the other.
She recovered herself with a gasp, then landed on his hand, wearing her girlish dress.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
“No,” she said. “No, not at all. That felt … felt like it did when I nearly died. Like it did when I drifted for centuries. I feel sad, Kaladin. And cold.”
“I understand those feelings,” he replied. “But the enemy, Syl … they’re going to execute the Radiants. And they might have my parents.”
She peered up at him. Then her shape fuzzed, and she was instantly in a uniform like his, colored Kholin blue.
Kaladin nodded, then turned and continued, shadowed by the hopes and prayers of hundreds. Shadowed by his own reputation. A man who would never cry in the night, huddled against the wall, terrified. A man he was determined to pretend to be. One last time.
He checked Navani’s flying gauntlet, which he’d attached to his belt—easy to unhook, if needed—at his right side so it pointed behind him. Kaladin and Dabbid had reset its conjoined weights the other night. It hadn’t worked so well for him in the previous fight, but now he understood its limitations. It was a device designed by engineers, not soldiers. He couldn’t wear it on his hand, where it would interfere with his ability to hold a spear. But perhaps it could offer him an edge in another capacity.
With Syl flying as a ribbon of light beside his head, he strode into the atrium—with that endless wall of glass rising as a window in front of him. An equally endless hollow shaft in the stone rose up toward the pinnacle of the tower, surrounded by balconies on most levels. Heavenly Ones hovered in the air, though he didn’t have time to search for Leshwi.
Syl moved out in front of him, then paused, hovering, seeming curious.
“What?” he asked.
Highstorm coming, she said in his head.
Of course there was. It was that kind of day.
People in the atrium began to scatter as they saw him, accompanied by anticipationspren. As the place emptied, he picked out a hulking figure standing in the dead center of the chamber, blocking the way to the room on the other side—the infirmary.
Kaladin brandished his spear in challenge. But the Pursuer cared nothing for honor. He was here for the kill, and he came streaking at Kaladin to claim it.
Watch them struggle. Witness their writhing, their refusal to surrender. Humans cling to the rocks with the vigor of any Rosharan vine.
—Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days
“There he is,” Teft said, ducking and moving with the crowd of people in the atrium. With a cloak over his uniform, he didn’t draw attention. He’d found that was often the case. Kaladin turned heads, even if he was dressed in rags. He was that kind of man.
But Teft? He looked forgettable. In this cloak he was simply another worker, walking with his daughter through the atrium. Hopefully Lift would keep her head down so the hood of her own cloak obscured her features—otherwise someone might wonder why his “daughter” looked an awful lot like a certain bothersome Radiant who was always making trouble in the tower.
“What took him so long?” Lift whispered as the two of them sidled over along the wall of the atrium, acting frightened of the sudden rush of people who made way for Kaladin and the Pursuer.
“Boy likes to grandstand,” Teft said. But storms, it was hard not to feel inspired at the sight of Kaladin
framed in the entryway like that in a sharp blue uniform, his hair free, his scars bold and stark on his forehead. Eyes intense enough to pierce the darkest storm.
You did good with that one, Teft, he thought—giving himself permission to feel a little pride. You ruined your own life something fierce, but you did good with that one.
Phendorana whispered comfort in his ear. She’d shrunk, at his request, and rode on his shoulder. He nodded at the words. If his family hadn’t gotten involved with the Envisagers, he wouldn’t have known how to help Kaladin when he’d needed it. And then the Blackthorn probably would have died, and they wouldn’t have found this tower. So … maybe it was time to let go of what he’d done.
Together, they inched along the wall toward the infirmary. Storm him if having his own personal spren wasn’t the best thing that had happened to him, other than Bridge Four. She could be a little crusty at times, which made them a good match. She also refused to accept his excuses. Which made them an even better match.
Kaladin started fighting, and Teft couldn’t spare him much more than a wish of goodwill. The lad would be fine. Teft simply had to do his part.
They waited to see if the guards in the infirmary came out at the ruckus, and blessedly they did. Unfortunately, one remained at the door, gaping at the battle but apparently determined to remain at his post.
Stormform Regal too, which was just Teft’s luck. Still, he and Lift were able to work the press of the crowd to their advantage, pretending they were confused civilians. Maybe that stormform would let them “hide” in the infirmary.
Instead, the Regal at the door showed them an indifferent palm, gesturing for them to flee in another direction. He turned aside a number of other people who saw the infirmary as a convenient escape, so Teft and Lift didn’t draw undue attention.
People in the atrium cried out as Kaladin and the Pursuer clashed. Heavenly Ones floated down to watch the battle, their long trains descending like curtains, adding to the surreal sight. In fact, everybody’s eyes were fixed on the contest between Kaladin and the Pursuer. So, Teft took the Regal guard by the arm. These Regals had that captive lightning running through them, so touching the singer gave Teft a shock. He cried out and shook his hand, backing away as the stormform turned toward him in annoyance.
“Please, Brightlord,” Teft said. “What is happening?”
As the Regal focused on him, Lift slipped around behind and cracked the door open.
“Be on with you,” the Regal said. “Don’t bother—”
Teft rushed the singer, tackling him around the waist and throwing him backward through the open door. The Regal’s powers sent another shock through Teft, but in the confusion, Teft was able to get him to the ground and put him in a deadman’s hold.
Lift shut the door with a click. She waited, anxious, as Teft struggled to keep pressure on the creature’s throat. He pulled in all the Stormlight he had, but felt the stormform’s power growing—the creature’s skin crackling with red lightning.
“Healing!” Teft said.
Lift leapt over and pressed her hand against his leg as the stormform released a bolt of power straight through Teft into the floor. The crack it made was incredible. Teft felt a burning pain, like someone had decided to use his stomach as a convenient place to build their firepit.
But he held on, and Lift healed him. He even managed to roll to the side and use Stormlight to stick the Regal to the ground. That let him keep the pressure on and resist the shocks that followed—less powerful than the first.
Finally the Regal went limp, unconscious. Teft huffed and stood, though he first had to unstick his clothing from the floor. Storming Stormlight. He looked down and found the front of his shirt had been burned clean through.
He glanced to Phendorana, who had grown to full size. She folded her arms thoughtfully.
“What?” he asked.
“Your hair is standing up,” she said, then grinned. She looked like a little kid when she did that, and he couldn’t help returning the expression.
“Move!” she said to him. “Seal the door!”
“Right, right.” He stepped over and infused the doorframe with Stormlight. Someone would have heard that lightning bolt. “Lift,” he shouted as he worked, “get to it! I want these Radiants up and taking orders faster than an arrow falls.” He glanced to Phendorana, standing beside him and meeting his eyes. “We can do this. Get them up, grab Kal’s family, get out.”
“Through the window?” she asked.
Outside the east-facing window was a sheer drop of hundreds of feet. He felt moderately good about his ability to climb down it. How far would everyone have to get before their Radiant powers returned? He feared the Heavenly Ones would find out before then and come after them.
Well, he’d see what the others said, once they were awake. Teft turned from the now-sealed door to inspect the room and Lift’s progress. Where was that surgeon and his—
Lift screamed.
She leaped back as one of the bodies on the floor nearby emerged from beneath the sheet. The figure—dressed all in black—swung a Shardblade at her. She nearly managed to get away, but the Blade caught her in the thighs, cutting with the grace of an eel through the air.
Lift collapsed, her legs ruined by the Blade.
The figure in the black uniform turned from Lift and—blazing with Stormlight—focused on Teft. Sunken cheeks, prominent nose, glowing eyes.
Moash.
* * *
Kaladin didn’t run.
He knew what the Pursuer would do.
Indeed, the creature acted as he had each time before—dropping a husk and streaking toward Kaladin to grapple him. That was one husk spent. The Pursuer had two others before he would be trapped in his form and had to either flee, or face Kaladin and risk dying.
Kaladin stepped directly into the Pursuer’s path and dropped his spear, willingly entering the grapple. Turning at the last moment, he caught the Pursuer’s hands as they reached for him. Thrumming with Stormlight, Kaladin held the Pursuer’s wrists. Storms, the creature was stronger than he was. But Kaladin wouldn’t run or hide. Not this time. This time he only had to give Teft and Lift enough space to work.
And Kaladin had discovered something during their last fight. This creature was not a soldier.
“Give in, little man,” the Pursuer said. “I am as unavoidable as the coming storm. I will chase you forever.”
“Good,” Kaladin said.
“Bravado!” the Pursuer said, laughing. He managed to hook Kaladin’s foot, then used his superior strength to shove Kaladin to the ground. Best Kaladin could do was hang on and pull him down as well. The Pursuer kneed Kaladin in the gut, then twisted to get him in a hold. “So foolish!”
Kaladin writhed, barely able to keep from being immobilized. Syl flitted around them. As the Pursuer tried for a lock, Kaladin twisted around and met the Pursuer’s eyes, then smiled.
The Pursuer growled and repositioned to press Kaladin against the ground by his shoulders.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Kaladin said. “But you’re going to be afraid of me.”
“Madness,” the Pursuer said. “Your inevitable fate has caused madness in your frail mind.”
Kaladin grunted, back to the cold stone, using both hands to push the Pursuer’s right hand away. He kept his eyes locked on to the Pursuer’s.
“I killed you,” Kaladin said. “And I’ll kill you now. Then every time you return for me, I’ll kill you again.”
“I’m immortal,” the Pursuer growled. But his rhythm had changed. Not so confident.
“Doesn’t matter,” Kaladin said. “I’ve heard what people say about you. Your life isn’t the blood in your veins, but the legend you live. Each death kills that legend a little more. Each time I defeat you, it will rip you apart. Until you’re no longer known as the Pursuer. You’ll be known as the Defeated. The creature who, no matter how hard he tries, can’t ever beat ME.”
Kaladin reached down and activ
ated Navani’s device at his belt, then pressed the grip that dropped the weight. It was as if someone had suddenly tied a rope to his waist, and then pulled him out of the Pursuer’s grip, sliding him across the floor of the atrium.
He deactivated the device, then rolled to his feet, looking across the short distance at his enemy. Syl fell in beside him, glaring at the Pursuer in a perfect mimic of his posture. Then, together, they smiled as Kaladin pulled out his scalpel.
* * *
Moash kicked Lift toward the wall, sending her limp and tumbling. She lay still and didn’t move after that. Moash floated forward, blade out, attention affixed solely on Teft.
Teft cursed himself for a fool. He’d focused on taking care of the Regal at the door; he should have known to check for irregularities. Now that he looked, he could see Kal’s parents and brother bound and gagged, visible through a gap in the cloth of the draped-off section at the rear.
The real trap wasn’t outside with the Pursuer. It was in here, with a much deadlier foe: a man who had been trained for war by Kaladin himself.
“Hello, Teft,” Moash said softly, landing in front of the rows of unconscious people on the floor. “How are the men?”
“Safe from you,” Teft said, pushing aside his cloak and unsheathing the long knife he had hidden underneath. Couldn’t move through a crowd unseen with a spear, unfortunately.
“Not all of them, Teft,” Moash said. There was a shadow on his face, despite the room’s many lit spheres.
Moash lunged forward and Teft danced back, stepping carefully over the body of the unconscious Regal. He had space here in front of the door with no fallen Radiants to upset his footing. All Moash did at first was open a sack and throw something out across the floor nearby. Black sand? What on Roshar?
Teft held out his weapon, Phendorana at his side, but the knife seemed tiny compared to Moash’s weapon: the assassin’s Honorblade. The one that had killed old Gavilar.
It looked wicked in Moash’s hand, shorter than most Blades—but in a lithe, deliberate way. This wasn’t a weapon for slaying great monsters of stone.
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