A paranoid way to think, perhaps, but that was his job. So he kept an eye on Adolin as the man turned and began sparring with Zahel, to give Renarin some perspective on how to use the stances.

Adolin was a good swordsman. Kaladin would give him that much. So was Zahel, for that matter.

“It was the king,” Moash said. “He had my family executed.”

It took Kaladin a moment to realize what Moash was talking about. The person that Moash wanted to kill, the person he had a grudge against. It was the king.

Kaladin felt a shock spike through him, as if he’d been punched. He turned on Moash.

“We’re Bridge Four,” Moash continued, staring off to the side at nothing in particular. He took another drink. “We stick together. You should know about . . . why I am the way I am. My grandparents were the only family I ever knew. Parents died when I was a child. Ana and Da, they raised me. The king . . . he killed them.”

“How did it happen?” Kaladin asked softly, checking to make sure none of the ardents were close enough to hear.

“I was away,” Moash said, “working a caravan that ran out here, to this wasteland. Ana and Da, they were second nahn. Important for darkeyes, you know? Ran their own shop. Silversmiths. I never picked up on the trade. Liked to be out walking. Going somewhere.

“Well, a lighteyed man owned two or three silversmith shops in Kholinar, one of which was across from my grandparents. He never did like the competition. This was a year or so before the old king died, and Elhokar was left in charge of the kingdom while Gavilar was out at the Plains. Anyway, Elhokar was good friends with the lighteyes who was in competition with my grandparents.

“So, he did his friend a favor. Elhokar had Ana and Da dragged in on some charge or another. They were important enough to demand a right to trial, an inquest before magistrates. I think it surprised Elhokar that he couldn’t completely ignore the law. He pled lack of time and sent Ana and Da to the dungeons to wait until an inquest could be arranged.” Moash dipped the ladle back into the barrel. “They died there a few months later, still waiting for Elhokar to approve their paperwork.”

“That’s not exactly the same as killing them.”

Moash met Kaladin’s eyes. “You doubt that sending a seventy-five-year-old couple to the palace dungeons is a death sentence?”

“I guess . . . well, I guess you’re right.”

Moash nodded sharply, tossing the ladle into the barrel. “Elhokar knew they’d die in there. That way, the hearing would never go before the magistrates, exposing his corruption. That bastard killed them—murdered them to keep his secret. I came home from my trip with the caravan to an empty house, and the neighbors told me my family was already two months dead.”

“So now you’re trying to assassinate King Elhokar,” Kaladin said softly, feeling a chill to be speaking it. Nobody was close enough to hear, not over the sounds of weapons and shouting common to sparring grounds. Still, the words seemed to hang in front of him, as loud as a trumpeter’s call.

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.

“I was under the impression you’d be training me personally,” Kaladin called after him.

“Too much work,” Zahel called back, digging a canteen of something from a bundle of cloth beside one of the pillars. Another ardent had piled his colored rocks there, which made Zahel scowl.

Kaladin jogged up to him. “I saw Dalinar Kholin, while unarmed and unarmored, catch a Shardblade in midair with the flats of his palms.”

Zahel grunted. “Old Dalinar pulled off a lastclap, eh? Good for him.”

“Can you teach me?”

“It’s a stupid maneuver,” Zahel said. “When it works, it’s only because most Shardbearers learn to swing their weapons without as much force as they would a regular blade. And it doesn’t usually work; it usually fails, and you’re dead when it does. Better to focus your time practicing things that will actively help you.”