“Definitely,” she said, hanging nearby in the form of a young woman, legs swinging off an invisible ledge. She wasn’t zipping around him in a ribbon, as she often did when he sparred.
“Is it wrong for Moash to try to kill the king?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Because killing is wrong.”
“And the Parshendi I killed?”
“We’ve talked about this. It had to be done.”
“And what if one of them was a Surgebinder,” Kaladin said. “With his own honorspren?”
“Parshendi can’t become Surgebin—”
“Just pretend,” Kaladin said, grunting as he tried another thrust. He wasn’t getting it right. “I’d guess all the Parshendi want to do at this point is survive. Storms, the ones involved in Gavilar’s death, they might not even still be alive. Their leaders were executed back in Alethkar, after all. So you tell me, if a common Parshendi who is protecting his people comes up against me, what would his honorspren say? That he’s doing the right thing?”
“I . . .” Syl hunched down. She hated questions like this. “It doesn’t matter. You said you won’t kill the Parshendi anymore.”
“And Amaram? Can I kill him?”
“Is that justice?” Syl asked.
“One form.”
“There’s a difference.”
“What?” Kaladin demanded, thrusting. Storm it! Why couldn’t he make the stupid weapon go where it should?
“Because of what it does to you,” Syl said softly. “Thinking about him changes you. Twists you. You’re supposed to protect, Kaladin. Not kill.”
“You have to kill to protect,” he snapped. “Storms. You’re starting to sound as bad as my father.”
He tried a few more stances, until finally Ivis came over and gave him some corrections. She laughed at his frustration as he held the sword wrong again. “You expected to pick this up in one day?”
He kind of had. He knew the spear; he’d trained long and hard. He thought that maybe, this would all just click.
It didn’t. He kept on anyway, going through the motions, kicking up cold sand, mixing among the lighteyes sparring and practicing their own forms. Eventually, Zahel wandered by.
“Keep at it,” the man said without even inspecting Kaladin’s forms.
“I was under the impression you’d be training me personally,” Kaladin called after him.
“Too much work,” Zahel called back, digging a canteen of something from a bundle of cloth beside one of the pillars. Another ardent had piled his colored rocks there, which made Zahel scowl.
Kaladin jogged up to him. “I saw Dalinar Kholin, while unarmed and unarmored, catch a Shardblade in midair with the flats of his palms.”
Zahel grunted. “Old Dalinar pulled off a lastclap, eh? Good for him.”
“Can you teach me?”
“It’s a stupid maneuver,” Zahel said. “When it works, it’s only because most Shardbearers learn to swing their weapons without as much force as they would a regular blade. And it doesn’t usually work; it usually fails, and you’re dead when it does. Better to focus your time practicing things that will actively help you.”
Kaladin nodded.
“Not going to push me on it?” Zahel asked.
“Your argument is good,” Kaladin said. “Solid soldier’s logic. Makes sense.”
“Huh. Might be hope for you after all.” Zahel took a swig from his canteen. “Now go get back to practicing.”