Shallan, puffing, raised her safehand to her chest. “Storms, what is wrong with palanquin porters? They absolutely refuse to move quickly. ‘It’s not stately,’ they say. Well, I don’t really do stately. All right, give me a minute, then you can continue.”

She settled down on a rock near the bridge. The baffled soldiers regarded her as she dug out her drawing pad, then started sketching. “All right,” she said. “Continue. I’ve been trying all day to get a progressive sketch of that bridge as it unfolds. Storming porters.”

What a bizarre woman.

The soldiers hesitantly continued positioning the bridge, unfolding it beneath the watchful eyes of three of Dalinar’s engineers—widowed wives of his fallen officers. Several carpenters were also on hand to work at their orders if the bridge got stuck or a piece snapped.

Kaladin gripped his spear, trying to sort through his emotions regarding Syl, and the promises he’d made. Surely he could work this out somehow. Couldn’t he?

Seeing this bridge intruded on his mind with thoughts of bridge runs, and he found that a welcome distraction. He could see why Sadeas had preferred the simple, if brutal, method of the bridge crews. Those bridges were faster, cheaper, and less prone to problems. These massive things were ponderous, like big ships trying to maneuver in a bay.

Armored bridge runners is the natural solution, Kaladin thought. Men with shields, with full support from the army to get them into position. You could have fast, mobile bridges, but also not leave men to be slaughtered.

Of course, Sadeas had wanted the bridgemen killed, as bait to keep arrows away from his soldiers.

One of the carpenters helping with the bridge—examining one of the wooden steadying pins and talking about carving a new one—was familiar to Kaladin. The stout man had a birthmark across his forehead, shaded by the carpenter’s cap he wore.

Kaladin knew that face. Had the man been one of Dalinar’s soldiers, one of those who had lost the will to fight following the slaughter on the Tower? Some of those had switched to other duties in camp.

He was distracted as Moash walked over, raising a hand toward Bridge Four, who cheered him. Moash’s brilliant Shardplate—which he’d had repainted blue with red accents at the points—looked surprisingly natural on him. It hadn’t even been a week yet, but Moash walked in the armor easily.

He stepped up to Kaladin, then knelt down on one knee, Plate clinking. He saluted, arm across chest.

His eyes . . . they were lighter in color; tan instead of deep brown as they’d once been. He wore his Shardblade strapped across his back in a guarded sheath. Only one more day until he had it bonded.

“You don’t need to salute me, Moash,” Kaladin said. “You’re lighteyed now. You outrank me by a mile or two.”

“I’ll never outrank you, Kal,” Moash said, faceplate of his helm up. “You’re my captain. Forever.” He grinned. “But I can’t tell you how much storming fun it is to watch the lighteyes try to figure out how to deal with me.”

“Your eyes are really changing.”

“Yeah,” Moash said. “But I’m not one of them, you hear me? I’m one of us. Bridge Four. I’m our . . . secret weapon.”

“Secret?” Kaladin asked, raising an eyebrow. “They’ve probably heard about you all the way in Iri by now, Moash. You’re the first darkeyed man to be given a Blade and Plate in over a lifetime.”

Dalinar had even granted Moash lands and a stipend from them, a lavish sum, and not just by bridgeman standards. Moash still stopped by for stew some nights, but not all. He was too busy arranging his new quarters.

There was nothing wrong with that. It was natural. It was also part of why Kaladin had turned down the Blade himself—and perhaps why he’d always been worried about showing his powers to the lighteyes. Even if they didn’t find a way to take the abilities from him—he knew that fear was irrational, though he felt it all the same—they might find a way to take Bridge Four from him. His men . . . his very self.

They might not be the ones who take it from you, Kaladin thought. You might be doing it to yourself, better than any lighteyes could.

The thought nauseated him.

“We’re getting close,” Moash said softly as Kaladin took out his waterskin.

“Close?” Kaladin asked. He lowered the waterskin and looked over his shoulder across the plateaus. “I thought we still had a few hours to go before we reached the dead chrysalis.”

It was far out, almost as far out as the armies went on bridge runs. Bethab and Thanadal had claimed it yesterday.

“Not that,” Moash said, looking to the side. “Other things.”

“Oh. Moash, are you . . . I mean . . .”

“Kal,” Moash said. “You’re with us, right? You said it.”

Two promises. Syl told him to follow his heart.

“Kaladin,” Moash said, more solemnly. “You gave me these Shards, even after you were angry with me for disobeying you. There’s a reason. You know, deep down, that what I’m doing is right. It’s the only solution.”

Kaladin nodded.

Moash glanced around, then stood up, Plate clinking. He leaned in to whisper. “Don’t worry. Graves says you aren’t going to have to do much. We just need an opening.”

Kaladin felt sick. “We can’t do it when Dalinar is in the warcamp,” he whispered. “I won’t risk him being hurt.”

“No problem,” Moash said. “We feel the same way. We’ll wait for the right moment. The newest plan is to hit the king with an arrow, so there’s no risk of implicating you or anyone else. You lead him to the right spot, and Graves will fell the king with his own bow. He’s an excellent shot.”

An arrow. It felt so cowardly.

It needed to be done. It needed to be.

Moash patted him on the shoulder, stepping off in his clinking Shardplate. Storms. All Kaladin had to do was lead the king into a specific spot . . . that, and betray Dalinar’s trust in him.

And if I don’t help kill the king, won’t I be betraying justice and honor? The king had murdered—or as good as murdered—many people, some through indifference, others through incompetence. And storms, Dalinar wasn’t innocent either. If he’d been as noble as he pretended, wouldn’t he have seen Roshone imprisoned, rather than shipped off somewhere where he “couldn’t do any more harm”?

Kaladin walked over to the bridge, watching the men march across. Shallan Davar sat primly on a rock, continuing her sketches of the bridge mechanism. Adolin had climbed off his horse and handed it to some grooms for watering. He waved Kaladin over.

“Princeling?” Kaladin asked, stepping up.

“The assassin has been seen out here,” Adolin said. “On the Plains at night.”

“Yes. I heard the scout telling your father about it.”

“We need a plan. What if he attacks out here?”

“I hope he does.”

Adolin looked to him, frowning.

“From what I saw,” Kaladin said, “and from what I’ve learned about the assassin’s initial attack on the old king, he depends on confusion in his victims. He jumps off walls and onto ceilings; he sends men falling the wrong direction. Well, there aren’t any walls or ceilings out here.”

“So he can just full-on fly,” Adolin said with a grimace.

“Yes,” Kaladin said, pointing with a smile, “since we have, what is it, three hundred archers with us?”

Kaladin had used his abilities effectively against Parshendi arrows, and so perhaps archers wouldn’t be able to kill the assassin. But he imagined it would be hard for the man to fight with wave after wave of arrows flying at him.

Adolin nodded slowly. “I’ll talk to them, get them ready for the possibility.” He started walking toward the bridge, so Kaladin joined him. They passed Shallan, who was still absorbed in her sketching. She didn’t even notice Adolin waving at her. Lighteyed women and their diversions. Kaladin shook his head.

“Do you know anything about women, bridgeboy?” Adolin asked, looking over his shoulder and watching Shallan as the two of them crossed the bridge.

“Lighteyed women?” Kaladin asked. “Nothing. Thankfully.”

“People think I know a lot about women,” Adolin said. “The truth is, I know how to get them—how to make them laugh, how to make them interested. I don’t know how to keep them.” He hesitated. “I really want to keep this one.”

“So . . . tell her that, maybe?” Kaladin said, thinking back to Tarah, and the mistakes he’d made.

“Do such things work on darkeyed women?”

“You’re asking the wrong man,” Kaladin said. “I haven’t had much time for women lately. I was too busy trying to avoid being killed.”

Adolin seemed to be barely listening. “Perhaps I could say something like that to her. . . . Seems too simple, and she’s anything but simple. . . .” He turned back to Kaladin. “Anyway. Assassin in White. We need more of a plan than just telling the archers to be ready.”

“Do you have any ideas?” Kaladin said.

“You won’t have a Shardblade, but won’t need one, because of . . . you know.”

“I know?” Kaladin felt a spike of alarm.

“Yeah . . . you know.” Adolin glanced away and shrugged, as if trying to act nonchalant. “That thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing . . . with the . . . um, stuff?”

He doesn’t know, Kaladin realized. He’s just fishing, trying to figure out why I can fight so well.

And he’s doing a really, really bad job of it.

Kaladin relaxed, and even found himself smiling at Adolin’s awkward attempt. It was nice to feel an emotion other than panic or worry. “I don’t think you have any idea what you’re talking about.”

Adolin scowled. “There’s something odd about you, bridgeboy,” he said. “Admit it.”

“I admit nothing.”

“You survived that fall with the assassin,” Adolin said. “And at first, I worried you were working with him. Now . . .”

“Now what?”

“Well, I’ve decided that whatever you are, you’re on my side.” Adolin sighed. “Anyway, the assassin. My instincts say the best plan is the one we used when fighting together in the arena. You distract him while I kill him.”

“That could work, though I worry that he’s not the type to let himself get distracted.”

“Neither was Relis,” Adolin said. “We’ll do it, bridgeboy. You and I. We’re going to bring that monster down.”

“We’ll need to be fast,” Kaladin said. “He’ll win a drawn-out fight. And Adolin, strike for the spine or the head. Don’t try a weakening blow first. Go right for the kill.”