Zahel took the Shardblade from the ardent, holding it up.

Kaladin nodded his chin at it. “What’s that on the Blade?”

“Nobody’s sure,” Zahel said, swiping with the Blade. “Fit it to the edges of a Blade, and it will adapt to the shape of the weapon and make it safely blunt. Off the weapons, they break surprisingly easily. Useless in a fight on their own. Perfect for training, though.”

Kaladin grunted. Something created long ago, for use in training? Zahel inspected the Shardblade for a moment, then pointed it directly toward Kaladin.

Even with it blunted—even knowing the man wasn’t going to really attack him—Kaladin felt an immediate moment of panic. A Shardblade. This one had a slender, sleek form with a large crossguard. The flat sides of the blade were etched with the ten fundamental glyphs. It was a handspan wide and easily six feet long, yet Zahel held it with one hand and didn’t seem off balance.

“Niter,” Zahel said.

“What?” Kaladin asked, frowning.

“He was head of the Cobalt Guard before you,” Zahel said. “He was a good man, and a friend. He died keeping the men of the Kholin house alive. Now you’ve got the same Damnation job, and you’re going to have a tough time doing it half as well as he did.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with you waving a Shardblade at me.”

“Anyone who sends assassins after Dalinar or his sons is going to be powerful,” Zahel said. “They’ll have access to Shardbearers. That’s what you’re up against, son. You’re going to need far more training than a battlefield gives a spearman. Have you ever fought a man holding one of these?”

“Once or twice,” Kaladin said, relaxing against the nearby pillar.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Kaladin said, meeting Zahel’s eyes. “Ask Adolin what I pulled his father out of a few weeks back.”

Zahel lowered the sword. Behind him, Renarin dove face-first off the roof and crashed into the ground. He groaned inside his helm, rolling over. His helm leaked Light but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

“Well done, Prince Renarin,” Zahel called without looking. “Now do a few more jumps and see if you can land on your feet.”

Renarin rose and clinked off.

“All right then,” Zahel said, sweeping the Shardblade in the air. “Let’s see what you can do, kid. Convince me to leave you alone.”

Kaladin didn’t respond other than to heft his spear and settle into a defensive posture, one foot behind, one out front. He held his weapon with the butt forward instead of the point. Nearby, Adolin sparred with another one of the masters, who had the second King’s Blade and a suit of Plate.

How would this work? If Zahel scored a hit on Kaladin’s spear, would they pretend it had cut through?

The ardent approached in a rush, raising the Blade in a two-handed grip. The familiar calmness and focus of battle enveloped Kaladin. He did not draw in Stormlight. He needed to be certain not to come to rely on it too much.

Watch that Shardblade, Kaladin thought, stepping forward, trying to get inside the weapon’s reach. In fighting a Shardbearer, everything became about that Blade. The Blade that nothing could stop, the Blade that didn’t just kill the body—but severed the soul itself. The Blade—

Zahel dropped the Blade.

It hit the ground as Zahel got inside Kaladin’s reach. Kaladin had been too focused on the weapon, and though he tried to get his spear in position to strike, Zahel twisted and buried his fist into Kaladin’s stomach. The next punch—to the face—slammed Kaladin to the floor of the practice grounds.

Kaladin immediately rolled, ignoring the painspren wiggling in the sand. He found his feet as his vision swam. He grinned. “Nice move, that.”

Zahel was already turning back to Kaladin, Blade recovered. Kaladin scuttled backward on the sand, spear still forward, staying away. Zahel knew his way around a Blade. He didn’t fight like Adolin; fewer sweeping blows, more overhand chops. Quick and furious. He backed Kaladin around the side of the practice ground.

He’ll get tired keeping this up, Kaladin’s instincts said. Keep him moving.

After an almost complete circuit of the grounds, Zahel slowed his offense and instead rounded on Kaladin, watching for an opening. “You’d be in trouble if I had Plate,” Zahel said. “I’d be faster, wouldn’t tire.”

“You don’t have Plate.”

“And if someone comes for the king wearing it?”

“I’ll use a different tactic.”

Zahel grunted as Renarin crashed to the ground nearby. The prince almost kept his footing, but stumbled and fell to the side, skidding in the sand.

“Well, if this were a real assassination attempt,” Zahel said, “I’d be using different tactics too.”

He dashed toward Renarin.

Kaladin cursed, taking off after Zahel.

Immediately, the man reversed, skidding to a stop in the sand and spinning to swing at Kaladin with a powerful two-handed blow. The strike connected with Kaladin’s spear, sending a sharp crack echoing across the practice grounds. If the Blade hadn’t been guarded, it would have split the spear in two and perhaps grazed Kaladin’s chest.

A watching ardent tossed Kaladin half a spear. They’d been waiting for his spear to be “cut,” and wanted to replicate a real fight as much as possible. Nearby, Moash had arrived, looking concerned, but several ardents intercepted him and explained.

Kaladin looked back to Zahel.

“In a real fight,” the man said, “I might have chased down the prince by now.”

“In a real fight,” Kaladin said, “I might have stabbed you with half a spear when you thought me disarmed.”

“I wouldn’t have made that mistake.”

“Then we’ll have to assume I wouldn’t have made the mistake of letting you get to Renarin.”

Zahel grinned. It looked a dangerous expression on him. He stepped forward, and Kaladin understood. There would be no backing away and leading him off this time. Kaladin wouldn’t have that option if he were protecting a member of Dalinar’s family. Instead, he had to try his best to pretend to kill this man.

That meant an attack.

A prolonged, close-quarters fight would favor Zahel, as Kaladin couldn’t parry a Shardblade. Kaladin’s best bet was to strike fast and hope to score an early hit. Kaladin barreled forward, then threw himself to his knees, skidding on the sands underneath Zahel’s strike. That would get him close, and—

Zahel kicked Kaladin in the face.

Vision swimming, Kaladin rammed his fake spear into Zahel’s leg. The man’s Shardblade came down a second later, stopping where Kaladin’s shoulder met his neck.

“You’re dead, son,” Zahel said.

“You’ve got a spear through the leg,” Kaladin said, puffing. “You aren’t chasing down Renarin like that. I win.”

“You’re still dead,” Zahel said with a grunt.

“My job is to stop you from killing Renarin. With what I just did, he escapes. Doesn’t matter if the bodyguard is dead.”

“And what if the assassin had a friend?” another voice asked from behind.

Kaladin twisted to see Adolin, in full Plate and standing with his Shardblade point stuck into the ground before him. He’d removed his helm, and held it in one hand, the other hand resting on the Blade’s crossguard.