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Moash nodded and accepted what seemed to be a small diagram explaining the location of the node. He turned on his heel with military precision and marched up the hallway. If he saw her, he made no comment, passing like a cold wind.
“Monster,” Navani said, angerspren at her feet. “Traitor! You would attack your own friend?”
He stopped short. Staring straight ahead, he spoke. “Where were you, lighteyes, when your son condemned innocents to death?” He turned, affixing Navani with those lifeless eyes. “Where were you, Queen, when your son sent Roshone to Kaladin’s hometown? A political outcast, a known murderer, exiled to a small village. Where he couldn’t do any damage, right?
“Roshone killed Kaladin’s brother. You could have stopped it. If any of you cared. You were never my queen; you are nothing to me. You are nothing to anyone. So don’t speak to me of treason or friendship. You have no idea what this day will cost me.”
He continued forward, bearing no visible weapon save the dagger tucked into his belt. A dagger designed to kill a spren. A dagger that Navani had, essentially, created. He reached the end of the hallway, burst alight with Stormlight—which somehow worked for him—and streaked into the air, rising through the open stairwell toward the ground floor.
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.
