Chapter 109

In every game are a hundred paths to failure. But not always a single one to victory. It is not weakness to admit that another general must fight this foe another day.

— Proverbs for Towers and War, Zenaz, date unknown

S pear in hand, Kaladin backed away from Nale and evaluated the battlefield. The inside of an old monastery building, the roof broken down, stone blocks from the large fallen chimney—to his left—and hearth crumpled toward the center of the room.

“The day I warned you about is nearly here,” the Wind whispered. “The storm. Tomorrow. I need you tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll have to survive,” Kaladin said. “Any chance I could get your help?”

“I am weak,” the Wind whispered. “I … have nothing but my voice, Kaladin.”

Well then. Without his powers, Nale was only a person, right? The black-suited man swiped with his Shardblade, cutting the air, standing ten feet in front of Kaladin and watching with keen eyes. He did not immediately engage.

During the invasion of Urithiru, Kaladin had gotten plenty of practice drawing on his old training to fight without powers. He set his stance, spear pointed at Nale. The man finally started moving, easing to the right around the perimeter, past Szeth, boots scraping stone. He faced Kaladin from by the wall, just within its shadows—then he lunged into the sunlight.

Kaladin used his spear to shove the Blade away, but didn’t take the bait to strike. That had been a test, as Nale—with sword instead of spear—had a reach disadvantage. His motions precise, every step deliberate, he rounded Kaladin, then came in with another strike. Again Kaladin deflected, though the man’s precision and lack of expression unnerved him.

Nale was a man … and also not one, all at once. He was ancient. In many ways completely unknowable.

Calm, Kaladin told himself. You fought the Pursuer, you fought Leshwi. You’ve defeated ancients before.

Kaladin’s training told him what would likely happen next. Another testing strike, which came, and he deflected it. Now the real strike. Nale swung a fourth time, but instead of backing off as Kaladin deflected, the Herald shoved in close, trying to fling Kaladin’s spear to the side.

Kaladin wouldn’t have it. He kept firm, withdrawing a few steps, but training the spear on Nale and nearly skewering him—forcing the Herald away.

Nale continued to stride around him. “Good,” he said. “Good.”

Not the expected reaction. While Kaladin could anticipate this man’s attacks, Nale’s motives were as opaque as ever.

Oddly, Wit’s words returned to him. The fight ahead of you is going to be legendary. Unfortunately, you can’t fight this one with strength of muscle …

The next few exchanges were more aggressive, but Kaladin controlled the clashes. The man with the spear should always control the fight, because when he lost that control—when the swordsman got in close—that was it.

No, Kaladin thought. You have Plate now. Use it. He needed more training with his armor; strategically taking hits on it was a common practice for Shardbearers.

Nale came in again. Kaladin let him get close and swing at Kaladin’s head—while Kaladin himself formed Syl into a long knife. Metal clanged against metal as Nale’s Blade hit, and a web of cracks appeared in the air to the left of Kaladin’s head, but he stabbed the knife directly at Nale’s gut.

The Herald managed to sidestep, just barely, then he danced backward. Kaladin managed a small slit in Nale’s fine black uniform, along his side. Kaladin smiled. The spiderweb of cracks in the air by his head turned blue, and his armor came fully alert to the danger. It formed—starting a tiny bit out from his skin, then pulling in and locking into place, completely encasing Kaladin. Leyten would have fits about Kaladin’s jacket getting wrinkled, but the Shardplate took that—and everything else—into account, forming perfectly, allowing full movement.

Kaladin wasn’t certain of the specifics; his armor was always there these days, protecting him. But it wasn’t fully there until the danger was real. Regardless, he spun his Shardspear and stepped back, armored foot now falling hard and crunching on rubble. A glow came from his chest and from other junctions along the sleek armor, and the visor—which he knew glowed from the slits—was transparent to him.

He now felt the weight and power of the Shardplate, a strength he hadn’t fully mastered. Yet he had a certain … intrinsic understanding of it. This was his Plate, not some castoff from another Radiant. The windspren who formed it were his companions, and had come to his call at the Fourth Ideal.

Nale swiped with his Blade—his Radiant Blade, it seemed, not his Honorblade—strolling around Kaladin. He didn’t summon his own Plate. Shouldn’t it have deflected Kaladin’s strike earlier?

Nale fell into an unfamiliar stance, sword held forward, then waved for Kaladin to approach and try some strikes of his own. Spear in hand, Kaladin did so, clashing with Nale, Plated feet grinding stone, spear clanging against sword. Kaladin didn’t connect, but still Nale’s Plate didn’t appear. At least, he let a spear thrust go straight past his cheek—a hair from slicing him—and it didn’t collide with anything.

Kaladin pulled away. Truth was, he didn’t want to hurt Nale, and the man might have suspected Kaladin’s heart wasn’t in their exchanges—for he soon went back on the offensive.

Kaladin stepped into his flurry of strikes, taking another hit on the head, but sweeping for Nale’s legs with the butt of his spear, which formed into a hook. The man jumped over the attack, then slammed his sword into Kaladin’s head yet again. With a curse, Kaladin stumbled back. His helm was leaking furiously, a web of cracks crossing his vision. His armor seemed stronger than ordinary Shardplate, and was powered not by gemstones but by its own Connection to the Spiritual Realm, but Sigzil hadn’t had time to run tests. Kaladin didn’t want to take a fourth hit in the same spot if he could help it.

He came in once more, more careful, forming Syl into a giant Blade and sweeping at Nale, who easily dodged.

“You did better without the Plate, Stormblessed,” Nale said in his passionless voice. “How long have you had it?”

Plate formed around Nale in a heartbeat, and he slammed an armored fist into Kaladin’s chest—sending him stumbling backward to the ground, where he crashed in a heap, metal grinding on stone. Nale’s armor vanished, becoming mist, and he strolled forward. “Do better. I would not have you die in such a pitiful way.”

Kaladin clambered to his feet, then mostly dismissed his Plate. He needed more training to use it properly. As it faded though, he knew the spren would remain, guarding him.

“Good,” Nale said, falling into a stance again.

Kaladin raised his spear, then advanced on Nale, forcing him back through the rubble-strewn room. Szeth watched from the side, concern showing in his widened eyes, in his tense hold on his pack of swords—including Nightblood.

This guy, Syl said in Kaladin’s head. Have we ever fought someone so annoying?

“Amaram,” Kaladin whispered.

Oh yeah. He was an absolute tool, wasn’t he? And that’s coming from a girl who is currently a spear.

Kaladin grunted, then advanced. Step, thrust, reset. Keep your spear toward the enemy. Be careful with your footing—but don’t take your eyes off the target. Strike because you decide to, not because you’re anxious.

He got in several very close thrusts, and expertly kept Nale at bay. “Good,” the man said. “This is a man I can kill with confidence.”

“You keep saying that,” Kaladin said, sweat trickling down his brows. “Well, come on then. Try. ”

Nale did. Sweeping attacks with his Blade from a stance Kaladin didn’t know—like Windstance, only more frantic. Kaladin should have had the advantage with his longer reach, but now he was forced back. He thrust, but each time just a little too slowly. He still managed to fend off the attacks until right at the end, when he went to block a sweep from Nale’s Blade.

Nale, in a blink, was holding a spear instead. He rammed it forward, square into Kaladin’s face—where the invisible helmet barely caught it. The tip pierced the armor, cracking it fully, and stopped right between Kaladin’s eyes, almost touching the skin.

Watch it, Kal, Syl said in his head. That was a little close …

They clashed again, and yet again Kaladin almost got a strike on Nale. By now Kaladin was puffing, sweating. This careful, deliberate contest reminded him of the fights he’d had with Leshwi. But those had been fights against a rival he respected, and this felt different. Storms, it was hard. Kaladin kept having to push himself more than he wanted, overextending to try to land a hit—and he kept missing anyway.

“You are good,” Nale said, breaking off, then calmly walking through the chamber to Kaladin’s right. “I have looked into your past, Stormblessed. You—the one who slipped past me, the one I should have found and killed. I know you have had a difficult life. It would have been better if you’d died by young Helaran’s Blade.”

Kaladin hesitated, gripping his spear, which had changed from smooth to covered in tiny ridges to give his sweaty hands more purchase. Helaran. Shallan’s brother. It was sometimes difficult to remember that one event had set all this off: Kaladin unexpectedly finding a Shardbearer on the battlefield. A Skybreaker acolyte sent to murder Amaram, to prevent him from looking into the secrets of the vanished Knights Radiant.

“It was you,” Kaladin said. “You sent him.”

“I wish I’d known,” Nale said, “that the key target was not Amaram, but one of his squadleaders. I would have gone myself and made sure you didn’t leave that battlefield alive.”

He’s so strange, Syl thought at him. He’s always had this broken belief that if he killed the Radiants, it would prevent the Desolation. But we came back because we felt the Desolation coming.

“Why?” Kaladin said to Nale. “The Desolation would still have come. Syl sought me out because she felt the storm moving through Shadesmar. Taln Returned, finally breaking. Your killing all those Radiants accomplished nothing. ”

Nale froze, and Kaladin saw something: a flash of emotion, a chink in his armor. He looked away, as if remembering, then put his hand to his chest. “Do you know a young Radiant named Lift?” Nale asked.

“I do,” Kaladin said. “Why?”

“She is the only one to have ever defeated me in single combat,” Nale said softly.

“Please tell me she didn’t use the fork,” Kaladin said.

“No. No, it was a different weapon entirely.” He focused again on Kaladin. “You might be right. The Desolation may still have arrived. However, I’d have killed you, and been correct to do so—for I believed it was the best course at the time, and was following what I’d been told.”

“By whom?” Kaladin demanded.

“Ishar, naturally,” Nale said. “Regardless: my choices were correct. Yes. If I’d killed every potential Radiant, then would the spren have felt the desire to return? No. Not at all.”

“The Everstorm—” Kaladin said.

“Is meaningless,” Nale said. “I am right.”

He’s working through his rationalizations, Syl said, and getting them mixed up again.

Logic would never work. Emotion. Kaladin had to focus on emotion and memory. How to make Nale remember ?

“That day …” Kaladin said. “Helaran came thundering in like a storm. He killed my friends, left misery in his wake. Don’t you care? He murdered a youth, a wounded child who was no threat. Cenn was his name.”

“Collateral damage,” Nale said.

“You say that about a child? Didn’t you care once, Nale? About the innocents?”

The briefest moment of concern crossed his face. “I am here,” he said softly, “because of the innocents.”

“Yet you kill them!”

“I … follow the law,” Nale said. “Helaran joined the army that your lord was fighting against, which gave him legal justification to kill as he needed.” Nale looked up at Kaladin and pointed his sword straight at him. “I would kill a thousand youthful soldiers if my cause were just and the law on my side.”

Kaladin’s grip tightened on his spear. He felt cold … and then warm. And then …

And then he was back there. He was that man again, the one he’d proclaimed dead so many times. He remembered the smell of blood in the air on that field, so long ago, and the sound of Dallet repeating Kaladin’s orders as he beat spear against shield to organize the squad.

Szeth was the boy who needed Kaladin now. And Kaladin was here in this fight not because of a compulsion—but because he had decided for himself. Wit said he needed to discover who he was when he didn’t need to fight. Remarkably, Kaladin had begun to do that, he realized. New Kaladin still protected, but accepted he might fail. He controlled his sense of loss. Not through callousness, as his father had tried to teach him. But through love.

Memory and present meshed together, and then Kaladin lunged and struck. He anticipated exactly how Nale would dodge. Wind in his ears, Kaladin changed the tip of his thrust perfectly, knowing that his strike would be true.

This was the one. He had Nale.

Then the Herald moved a little faster, blurring.

Kaladin missed. His spear passed right by Nale’s ear, striking only empty air.

That caused a moment of disconnect. Kaladin should have recovered and reset as training had drilled into him. Yet he knew he should have hit. Every scrap of instinct he had with the spear—the intimate familiarity that he seemed to have that others lacked—said that strike should have landed.

How had Nale possibly dodged?

“Such an interesting aspect of Windrunners,” Nale said, stepping back. “If one enrages other people, they get sloppy. But put you in a position to protect, make you see red, and we find you at your best.”

Kaladin struck again, and Nale leaned to the side, again impossibly fast. A little blur and shift.

This strike missed as well.

“Good,” Nale said. “Yes, you’d likely have won by now if you were facing most foes. You quite nearly killed me, Stormblessed. Be proud of that. I would have you die with such pride.”

Kaladin gripped his spear again, then struck, struck, struck. Three precise attacks, each as useless as the one before. Nale stepped around each one. He didn’t even raise his Blade. He acted casual.

“Fight me!” Kaladin said, leaping forward—

Nale was there. Stepping into the attack and around it, faster than Kaladin could respond. Nale pressed his hand against Kaladin’s chest and tossed him to the ground. Sprawling.

Kaladin gaped, stunned—less physically than mentally. Never since his first days training with a spear had anyone treated him so indifferently in a fight.

What … what was going on?

Kaladin? Syl said.

He picked himself up and backed away. That emotion making him cold, that was fear. Powerlessness. He knew it. He’d felt it many times before, but rarely while he’d held a spear.

“If I am asked,” Nale said, striding forward, “I will be honest. You fought well. It is rare that I must use the true skills of a Herald against a mortal. We … do not deploy them frivolously.”

Szeth stumbled between the two of them. “I’ll do as you say. I’ll obey, Nin. It’s over!”

Nale calmly pushed Szeth out of his way and walked toward Kaladin. “I must execute him, Szeth, now that I have legal authority to do so. His corrupting influence on you must end.”

“But—”

“He agreed to this fight. It is settled. Stand down. ”

“It’s all right, Szeth,” Kaladin said, mind racing. “I’ll find a way to—”

Nale was there in front of him.

Kaladin tried to dodge, but Nale didn’t move like a person should. A lifetime of practice had trained Kaladin in what to expect. He could barely track—much less comprehend—the way Nale seized him by the arm, spun him and took him in two hands, then smashed him against the stone wall of the building.

Once. Twice. Thrice. Kaladin’s armor gave out as Nale treated him like a child’s doll. The armor exploded, leaving Kaladin exposed. Then Nale tossed Kaladin aside.

Kaladin rolled hard along the ground, slamming into the nearby wall and colliding with his pack. Limp, in pain, Kaladin wheezed for breath, his vision spinning. This was … this was something he’d never experienced … Even in his youth, the first time he’d picked up a spear, he’d felt somewhat in control.

He’d never been so utterly outmatched.

He looked up, blinded by pain, seeing the dark shadow of Nalan’Elin approach. Then he stopped as a figure formed in front of him. Syl?

“This is not fair,” she said.

“It is just.”

He tried to step around her and she moved back in front of him. “This? Justice? ”

“I am sorry, Ancient Daughter,” Nale said, still cold and calm. “You should have stayed in Shadesmar as your father wished. Your pain is of your own choosing.”

Nale stepped deliberately through her. Then pulled up short as another figure formed in front of him, hands up as if to protect Kaladin. From the shape, through blurred vision, Kaladin could make out Szeth’s spren.

“Stop, Nale!” the spren said. “Please.”

“You,” Nale said, “are a disgrace to your kind. You were trained to be a light to your human, not some kind of attendant to him and his will.”

Nale continued, ignoring both spren, ignoring Szeth’s cries. Kaladin took a deep breath and prepared to stand, pressing his hands against the stone floor, strewn with chips of rubble. And as he did, he heard something distant, faint.

The sound of a flute.