Words of Radiance

Deeper they went. Storms, these empty corridors were disturbing. Much of the palace was really just a burrow cut through the rock of the peak, with windows carved out of the sides.

Kaladin froze in place.

The lights ahead were out, the corridor dimming into the distance until it was dark as a mine.

“Wait,” Adolin said, stopping in place. “Why is it dark? What happened to the spheres?”

They’ve been drained of Light.

Damnation. And what was that on the wall of the hallway up ahead? A large patch of blackness. Kaladin frantically fished a sphere from his pocket and raised it. It was a hole! A doorway had been cut into this corridor from the outside, sliced directly through the rock. A cold breeze blew inward.

Kaladin’s light also illuminated something on the floor just ahead. A body lying where corridors crossed. It wore a blue uniform. Beld, one of the men Kaladin had sent on ahead.

The huddle of people stared at the body in horror. The corridor’s eerie silence, the lack of lights, had stilled even the king’s protests.

“He’s here,” Syl whispered.

A solemn figure stepped out of the side corridor, holding a long, silvery Blade that cut a trail in the stone floor. The figure had flowing white clothing: filmy trousers and an overshirt that rippled with each step. Bald head, pale skin. Shin.

Kaladin recognized the figure. Every person in Alethkar had heard of this man. The Assassin in White. Kaladin had seen him once in a dream, like the one earlier, though he hadn’t recognized him at that point.

Stormlight streamed from the assassin’s body.

He was a Surgebinder.

“Adolin, with me!” Dalinar shouted. “Renarin, protect the king! Take him back the way we came!” With that, Dalinar—the Blackthorn—seized a spear from one of Kaladin’s men and charged the assassin.

He’s going to get himself killed, Kaladin thought, running after him. “Go with Prince Renarin!” he yelled at his men. “Do as he tells you! Protect the king!”

The men—including Moash and Ralinor, who had caught up to them—began a frantic retreat, towing away Navani and the king.

“Father!” Renarin cried. Moash grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him back. “I can fight!”

“Go!” Dalinar bellowed. “Protect the king!”

As Kaladin charged with Dalinar and Adolin, the last thing he heard of the group was King Elhokar’s whimpering voice. “He’s come for me. I always knew he would. Like he came for Father…”

Kaladin drew in as much Stormlight as he dared. The Assassin in White stood calmly in the corridor, streaming with his own Light. How could he be a Surgebinder? What spren had chosen this man?

Adolin’s Shardblade formed in his hands.

“Trident,” Dalinar said softly, slowing as the three of them approached the assassin. “I’m the middle. You familiar with that, Kaladin?”

“Yes, sir.” It was a simple, small-squad battlefield formation.

“Let me handle this, Father,” Adolin said. “He has a Shardblade, and I don’t like the look of that glow—”

“No,” Dalinar said, “we hit him together.” His eyes narrowed as he regarded the assassin, still standing calmly above the body of poor Beld. “I’m not asleep at the table this time, you bastard. You’re not taking another one from me!”

The three charged together. Dalinar, as the middle tine of the trident, would try to hold the assassin’s attention while Kaladin and Adolin attacked from either side. He’d wisely taken the spear for reach, rather than using his side sword. They charged in a rush to confuse and overwhelm.

The assassin waited until they were close, then jumped, trailing Light. He twisted in the air as Dalinar bellowed and thrust with his spear.

The assassin did not come down. Instead, he landed on the ceiling of the corridor some twelve feet above.

“It’s true,” Adolin said, sounding haunted. He bent back, raising his Shardblade to attack at the awkward angle. The assassin, however, ran down the wall in a rustle of white cloth, battering aside Adolin’s Shardblade with his own, then slammed his hand into Adolin’s chest.

Adolin flipped upward as if he’d been tossed. His body streamed Stormlight and he crashed into the ceiling above. He groaned, rolling over, but remained on the ceiling.

Stormfather! Kaladin thought, pulse pounding, tempest within raging. He thrust his spear alongside that of the Blackthorn in an attempt to hit the assassin.

The man didn’t dodge.

Both spears struck flesh, Dalinar’s in the shoulder, Kaladin’s in the side. The assassin spun, sweeping his Shardblade through the spears and cutting them in half, as if he didn’t even care about the wounds. He lunged forward, slapping Dalinar across the face, sending him sprawling to the ground, then swept his Blade toward Kaladin.