Читаем Words of Radiance полностью

“Assassins?” Elhokar leapt to his feet, then wobbled. “He wears white. I knew he’d come… but then… he only cared about Dalinar… Not even the assassin thinks I’m worthy of the throne…”

Kaladin managed to get under Elhokar’s arm, holding his spear for support with one hand. The king slumped against him, and Kaladin’s leg cried out. “Please, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said, almost collapsing, “I need you to try to walk.”

“Assassins probably want you, bridgeman,” the king muttered. “You’re more a leader than I am. I wish… wish you’d teach me…”

Thankfully, Elhokar then did support himself to an extent. It was a struggle to walk the two of them to the doorway, where the guard’s body still lay—

Body? Where was the other one?

Kaladin twisted out of the king’s grip as a blur with a knife lunged at him. By instinct, Kaladin snapped his spear haft back—bringing his hands up near to the head for a close-quarters fight—then thrust. The spearhead sank in deep into Cleft-chin’s stomach. The man grunted.

But he hadn’t been lunging for Kaladin.

He’d plunged his knife into the king’s side.

Cleft-chin flopped to the floor, falling off Kaladin’s spear and dropping his knife. Elhokar reached—a stunned expression on his face—to his side. The hand came away bloody. “I’m dead,” Elhokar whispered, regarding the blood.

In that moment, Kaladin’s pain and weakness seemed to fade. The moment of panic was a moment of strength, and he used it to rip at Elhokar’s clothing while kneeling on his good leg. The knife had glanced off a rib. The king was bleeding heavily, but it was a very survivable wound, with medical attention.

“Keep pressure on that,” Kaladin said, pushing a cut section of the king’s shirt against the wound, then placing the king’s hand over it. “We need to get out of the palace. Find safety somewhere.” The dueling grounds, maybe? The ardents could be relied upon, and they could fight too. But would that be too obvious?

Well, first they had to actually get out of the palace. Kaladin grabbed his spear and turned to lead the way out, but his leg nearly betrayed him. He managed to catch himself, but it left him gasping in pain, clinging to his spear to keep from falling.

Storms. Was that pool of blood at his feet his? He’d ripped his sutures out, and then some.

“I was wrong,” the king said. “We’re both dead.”

“Fleet kept running,” Kaladin growled, getting back under Elhokar’s arm.

“What?”

“He couldn’t win, but he kept running. And when the storm caught him, it didn’t matter that he’d died, because he’d run for all he had.”

“Sure. All right.” The king sounded groggy, though Kaladin couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the blood loss.

“We all die in the end, you see,” Kaladin said. The two of them walked down the corridor, Kaladin leaning on his spear to keep them upright. “So I guess what truly matters is just how well you’ve run. And Elhokar, you’ve kept running since your father was killed, even if you screw up all the storming time.”

“Thank you?” the king said, drowsy.

They reached an intersection, and Kaladin decided on escaping through the bowels of the palace complex, rather than the front gates. It was equally fast, but might not be the first place the plotters would look.

The palace was empty. Moash had done as he’d said, sending the servants away into hiding, using the precedent of the Assassin in White’s attack. It was a perfect plan.

“Why?” the king whispered. “Shouldn’t you hate me?”

“I don’t like you, Elhokar,” Kaladin said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s right to let you die.”

“You said I should step down. Why, bridgeman? Why help me?”

I don’t know.

They turned down a hallway, but only made it about halfway before the king stopped walking and slumped to the ground. Kaladin cursed, kneeling beside Elhokar, checking his pulse and the wound.

This is the wine, Kaladin decided. That, plus the blood loss, left the king too light-headed.

Bad. Kaladin worked to rebind the wound as best he could, but then what? Try to pull the king out on a litter? Go for help, and risk leaving him alone?

“Kaladin?”

Kaladin froze, still kneeling over the king.

“Kaladin, what are you doing?” Moash’s voice demanded from behind. “We found the men at the door to the king’s room. Storms, did you kill them?”

Kaladin rose and turned, putting his weight on his good leg. Moash stood at the other end of the corridor, resplendent in his blue and red Shardplate. Another Shardbearer accompanied him, Blade up on the shoulder of his Plate, faceplate down. Graves.

The assassins had arrived.

Navani’s Notebook: Battle Map

83. Time’s Illusion

Перейти на страницу:

Похожие книги