The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Brandon Sanderson

  Shallan picked up the charcoal pencil and flipped through to a blank page in her sketchbook. She passed several pictures of the symbol-headed creatures, some set in this very room. They lurked around her, always. At some times, she thought she saw them in the corners of her eyes. At others, she could hear them whispering. She hadn’t dared speak back to them again.

  She began to draw, fingers unsteady, sketching Jasnah on that day in the hospital. Sitting beside Shallan’s bed, holding the jam. Shallan hadn’t taken a distinct Memory, and wasn’t as accurate as if she had, but she remembered well enough to draw Jasnah with her finger stuck into the jam. She had raised that finger to smell the strawberries. Why? Why put her finger into the jam? Wouldn’t raising the jar to her nose have been enough?

  Jasnah hadn’t made any faces at the scent. In fact, Jasnah hadn’t mentioned that the jam had spoiled. She’d just replaced the lid and handed back the jar.

  Shallan flipped to another blank page and drew Jasnah with a piece of bread raised to her lips. After eating it, she’d grimaced. Odd.

  Shallan lowered her pen, looking at that sketch of Jasnah, piece of bread pinched between her fingers. It wasn’t a perfect reproduction, but it was close enough. In the sketch, it looked like the piece of bread was melting. As if it were squished unnaturally between Jasnah’s fingers as she put it into her mouth.

  Could it… could it be?

  Shallan slid out of the bed, gathering the sphere and carrying it in her hand, sketchpad tucked under her arm. The guard was gone. Nobody seemed to care what happened to her; she was being shipped off in the morning anyway.

  The stone floor was cold beneath her bare feet. She wore only the white robe, and felt almost naked. At least her safehand was covered. There was a door to the city outside at the end of the hallway, and she stepped through it.

  She crossed quietly through the city, making her way to the Ralinsa, avoiding dark alleyways. She walked up toward the Conclave, long red hair blowing free behind her, drawing more than a few strange looks and stares. It was so late at night that nobody on the roadway cared enough to ask if she wanted help.

  The master-servants at the entrance to the Conclave let her pass. They recognized her, and more than a few asked if she needed help. She declined, walking alone down to the Veil. She passed inside, then looked up at the walls full of balconies, some of them lit with spheres.

  Jasnah’s alcove was occupied. Of course it was. Always working, Jasnah was. She’d be particularly bothered by having lost so much time over Shallan’s presumed suicide attempt.

  The lift felt rickety beneath Shallan’s feet as the parshmen lifted her up to Jasnah’s level. She rode in silence, feeling disconnected from the world around her. Walking around through the palace—through the city—in only a robe? Confronting Jasnah Kholin again? Hadn’t she learned?

  But what did she have to lose?

  She walked down the familiar stone hallway to the alcove, weak blue sphere held before her. Jasnah sat at her desk. Her eyes looked uncharacteristically fatigued, dark circles underneath, her face stressed. She looked up and stiffened as she saw Shallan. “You are not welcome here.”

  Shallan walked in anyway, surprised by how calm she felt. Her hands should be shaking.

  “Don’t make me call the soldiers to get rid of you,” Jasnah said. “I could have you thrown in prison for a hundred years for what you did. Do you have any idea what—”

  “The Soulcaster you wear is a fake,” Shallan said quietly. “It was a fake the whole time, even before I made the swap.”

  Jasnah froze.

  “I wondered why you didn’t notice the switch,” Shallan said, sitting in the room’s other chair. “I spent weeks confused. Had you noticed, but decided to keep quiet in order to catch the thief? Hadn’t you Soulcast in all that time? It didn’t make any sense. Unless the Soulcaster I stole was a decoy.”

  Jasnah relaxed. “Yes. Very clever of you to realize that. I keep several decoys. You’re not the first to try to steal the fabrial, you see. I keep the real one carefully hidden, of course.”

  Shallan took out her sketchpad and searched through for a specific picture. It was the image she’d drawn of the strange place with the sea of beads, the floating flames, the distant sun in a black, black sky. Shallan regarded it for a moment. Then she turned it and held it up for Jasnah.

  The look of utter shock Jasnah displayed was nearly worth the night spent feeling sick and guilty. Jasnah’s eyes bulged and she sputtered for a moment, trying to find words. Shallan blinked, taking a Memory of that. She couldn’t help herself.

  “Where did you find that?” Jasnah demanded. “What book described that scene to you?”

  “No book, Jasnah,” Shallan said, lowering the picture. “I visited that place. The night when I accidentally Soulcast the goblet in my room to blood, then covered it up by faking a suicide attempt.”

  “Impossible. You think I’d believe—”

  “There is no fabrial, is there, Jasnah? There’s no Soulcaster. There never has been. You use the fake ‘fabrial’ to distract people from the fact that you have the power to Soulcast on your own.”

  Jasnah fell silent.

  “I did it too,” Shallan said. “The Soulcaster was tucked away in my safepouch. I wasn’t touching it—but that didn’t matter. It was a fake. What I did, I did without it. Perhaps being near you has changed me, somehow. It has something to do with that place and those creatures.”

  Again, no reply.

  “You suspected Kabsal of being an assassin,” Shallan said. “You knew immediately what had happened when I fell; you were expecting poison, or at least were aware that it was possible. But you thought the poison was in the jam. You Soulcast it when you opened the lid and pretended to smell it. You didn’t know how to re-create strawberry jam, and when you tried, you made that vile concoction. You thought to get rid of poison. But you inadvertently Soulcast away the antidote.

  “You didn’t want to eat the bread either, just in case there was something in it. You always refused it. When I convinced you to take a bite, you Soulcast it into something else as you put it in your mouth. You said you’re terrible at making organic things, and what you created was revolting. But you got rid of the poison, which is why you didn’t succumb to it.”

  Shallan met her former mistress’s eyes. Was it the fatigue that made her so indifferent to the consequences of confronting this woman? Or was it her knowledge of the truth? “You did all that, Jasnah,” Shallan finished, “with a fake Soulcaster. You hadn’t spotted my swap yet. Don’t try to tell me otherwise. I took it on the night when you killed those three thugs.”

  Jasnah’s violet eyes showed a glimmer of surprise.

  “Yes,” Shallan said, “that long ago. You didn’t replace it with a decoy. You didn’t know you’d been tricked until I got out the fabrial and let you save me with it. It’s all a lie, Jasnah.”

  “No,” Jasnah said. “You’re just delusional from your fatigue and the stress.”

  “Very well,” Shallan said. She stood up, clutching the dim sphere. “I guess I’ll have to show you. If I can.”

  Creatures, she said in her head. Can you hear me?

  Yes, always, a whisper came in response. Though she’d hoped to hear it, she still jumped.

  Can you return me to that place? she asked.

  You need to tell me something true, it replied. The more true, the stronger our bond.

  Jasnah is using a fake Soulcaster, Shallan thought. I’m sure that’s a truth.

  That’s not enough, the voice whispered. I must know something true about you. Tell me. The stronger the truth, the more hidden it is, the more powerful the bond. Tell me. Tell me. What are you?

  “What am I?” Shallan whispered. “Truthfully?” It was a day for confrontation. She felt strangely strong, steady. Time to speak it. “I’m a murderer. I killed my father.”

  Ah, the voice whispered. A powerful truth indeed….

  And the alcove vanished.
>
  Shallan fell, dropping into that sea of dark glass beads. She struggled, trying to stay at the surface. She managed it for a moment. Then something tugged on her leg, pulling her down. She screamed, slipping beneath the surface, tiny beads of glass filling her mouth. She panicked. She was going to—

  The beads above her parted. Those beneath her surged, bearing her upward, out to where someone stood, hand outstretched. Jasnah, back to the black sky, face lit by nearby hovering flames. Jasnah grasped Shallan’s hand, pulling her upward, onto something. A raft. Made from the beads of glass. They seemed to obey Jasnah’s will.

  “Idiot girl,” Jasnah said, waving. The oceanlike beads to the left split, and the raft lurched, bearing them sideways toward a few flames of light. Jasnah shoved Shallan into one of the small flames, and she fell backward off the raft.

  And hit the floor of the alcove. Jasnah sat where she had been, eyes closed. A moment later, she opened them, giving Shallan an angry look.

  “Idiot girl!” Jasnah repeated. “You have no idea how dangerous that was. Visiting Shadesmar with only a single dim sphere? Idiot!”

  Shallan coughed, feeling as if she still had beads in her throat. She stumbled to her feet, meeting Jasnah’s gaze. The other woman still looked angry, but said nothing. She knows that I have her, Shallan realized. If I spread the truth…

  What would it mean? She had strange powers. Did that make Jasnah some kind of Voidbringer? What would people say? No wonder she’d created the decoy.

  “I want to be part of it,” Shallan found herself saying.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Whatever you’re doing. Whatever it is you’re researching. I want to be part of it.”

  “You have no idea what you’re saying.”

  “I know,” Shallan said. “I’m ignorant. There’s a simple cure for that.” She stepped forward. “I want to know, Jasnah. I want to be your ward in truth. Whatever the source of this thing you can do, I can do it too. I want you to train me and let me be part of your work.”

  “You stole from me.”

  “I know,” Shallan said. “And I’m sorry.”

  Jasnah raised an eyebrow.

  “I won’t excuse myself,” Shallan said. “But Jasnah, I came here intending to steal from you. I was planning it from the beginning.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “I planned to steal from Jasnah the bitter heretic,” Shallan said. “I didn’t realize I’d come to regret the need for that theft. Not just because of you, but because it meant leaving this. What I’ve come to love. Please. I made a mistake.”

  “A large one. Insurmountable.”

  “Don’t make a larger one by sending me away. I can be someone you don’t have to lie to. Someone who knows.”

  Jasnah sat back.

  “I stole the fabrial on the night you killed those men, Jasnah,” Shallan said. “I’d decided I couldn’t do it, but you convinced me that truth was not as simple as I thought it. You’ve opened a box full of storms in me. I made a mistake. I’ll make more. I need you.”

  Jasnah took a deep breath. “Sit down.”

  Shallan sat.

  “You will never lie to me again,” Jasnah said, raising a finger. “And you will never steal from me, or anyone, again.”

  “I promise.”

  Jasnah sat for a moment, then sighed. “Scoot over here,” she said, pulling open a book.

  Shallan obeyed as Jasnah took out several sheets filled with notes. “What is this?” Shallan asked.

  “You wanted to be part of what I’m doing? Well, you’ll need to read this.” Jasnah looked down at the notes. “It’s about the Voidbringers.”

  Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, walked with bowed back, carrying a sack of grain down off the ship and onto the docks of Kharbranth. The City of Bells smelled of a fresh ocean morning, peaceful yet excited, fishermen calling to friends as they prepared their nets.

  Szeth joined the other porters, carrying his sack through the twisting streets. Perhaps another merchant might have used a chull cart, but Kharbranth was infamous for its crowds and its steep walkways. A line of porters was an efficient option.

  Szeth kept his eyes down. Partially to imitate the look of a worker. Partially to lower his gaze from the blazing sun above, the god of gods, who watched him and saw his shame. Szeth should not have been out during the day. He should have hidden his terrible face.

  He felt his every step should leave a bloody footprint. The massacres he’d committed these months, working for his hidden master… He could hear the dead scream every time he closed his eyes. They grated against his soul, rubbing it to nothing, haunting him, consuming him.

  So many dead. So very many dead.

  Was he losing his mind? Each time he went on an assassination, he found himself blaming the victims. He cursed them for not being strong enough to fight back and kill him.

  During each of his slaughters, he wore white, just as he had been commanded.

  One foot in front of the other. Don’t think. Don’t focus on what you’ve done. On what you’re… going to do.

  He had reached the last name on the list: Taravangian, the king of Kharbranth. A beloved monarch, known for building and maintaining hospitals in his city. It was known as far away as Azir that if you were sick, Taravangian would take you in. Come to Kharbranth and be healed. The king loved all.

  And Szeth was going to kill him.

  At the top of the steep city, Szeth lugged his sack with the other porters around to the back of the palace structure, entering a dim stone corridor. Taravangian was a simpleminded man. That should have made Szeth feel more guilty, but he found himself consumed by loathing. Taravangian would not be smart enough to prepare for Szeth. Fool. Idiot. Would Szeth never face a foe strong enough to kill him?

  Szeth had come to the city early and taken the job as a porter. He had needed to research and study, for the instructions commanded him—for once—not to kill anyone else in performing this assassination. Taravangian’s murder was to be done quietly.

  Why the difference? The instructions stated that he was to deliver a message. “The others are dead. I’ve come to finish the job.” The instructions were explicit: Make certain Taravangian heard and acknowledged the words before harming him.

  This was looking like a work of vengeance. Someone had sent Szeth to hunt down and destroy the men who had wronged him. Szeth laid his sack down in the palace larder. He turned automatically, following the shuffling line of porters back down the hallway. He nodded toward the servants’ privy, and the portermaster waved for him to go ahead. Szeth had made this same haul on several occasions, and could be trusted—presumably—to do his business and catch up.

  The privy didn’t smell half as foul as he had anticipated. It was a dark room, cut into the underground cavern, but a candle burned beside a man standing at the pissing trough. He nodded to Szeth, tying up the front of his trousers and wiping his fingers on the sides as he walked to the door. He took his candle, but kindly lit a leftover stub before withdrawing.

  As soon as he was gone, Szeth infused himself with Stormlight from his pouch and laid his hand on the door, performing a Full Lashing between it and the frame, locking it closed. His Shardblade came out next. In the palace, everything was built downward. Trusting the maps he’d purchased, he knelt and carved a square of rock from the floor, wider at the bottom. As it began to slide down, Szeth infused it with Stormlight, performing half a Basic Lashing upward, making the rock weightless.

  Next, he Lashed himself upward with a subtle Lashing that left him weighing only a tenth his normal weight. He leapt onto the rock, and his lessened weight pushed the rock down slowly. He rode it down into the room below. Three couches with plush violet cushions lined the walls, sitting beneath fine silver mirrors. The lighteyes’ privy. A lamp burned with a small flame in the sconce, but Szeth was alone.

  The stone thumped softly to the floor, and Szeth leaped off. He shed his clothing, re
vealing a black and white master-servant’s outfit underneath. He took a matching cap from the pocket and slipped it on, reluctantly dismissed his Blade, then slipped into the hallway and quickly Lashed the door shut.

  These days, he rarely gave a thought to the fact that he walked on stone. Once, he would have revered a corridor of rock like this. Had that man once been him? Had he ever revered anything?

  Szeth hurried onward. His time was short. Fortunately, King Taravangian kept a strict schedule. Seventh bell: private reflection in his study. Szeth could see the doorway into the study ahead, guarded by two soldiers.

  Szeth bowed his head, hiding his Shin eyes and hurrying up to them. One of the men held out his hand wardingly, so Szeth grabbed it, twisting, shattering the wrist. He smashed his elbow into the man’s face, throwing him back against the wall.

  The man’s stunned companion opened his mouth to yell, but Szeth kicked him in the stomach. Even without a Shardblade, he was dangerous, infused with Stormlight and trained in kammar. He grabbed the second guard by the hair and slammed his forehead against the rock floor. Then he rose and kicked open the door.

  He walked into a room well illuminated by a double row of lamps on the left. Crammed bookcases covered the right wall from floor to ceiling. A man sat cross-legged on a small rug directly ahead of Szeth. The man looked out an enormous window cut through the rock, staring at the ocean beyond.

  Szeth strode forward. “I have been instructed to tell you that the others are dead. I’ve come to finish the job.” He raised his hands, Shardblade forming.

  The king did not turn.

  Szeth hesitated. He had to make certain the man acknowledged what had been said. “Did you hear me?” Szeth demanded, striding forward.

  “Did you kill my guards, Szeth-son-son-Vallano?” the king asked quietly.

  Szeth froze. He cursed and stepped backward, raising his Blade in a defensive stance. Another trap?

  “You have done your work well,” the king said, still not facing him. “Leaders dead, lives lost. Panic and chaos. Was this your destiny? Do you wonder? Given that monstrosity of a Shardblade by your people, cast out and absolved of any sin your masters might require of you?”