The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  Glories within, Szeth thought. “These are some of the most powerful people in the world! Six highprinces? A Selay gerontarch? The king of Jah Keved?”

  “It is time you stopped wasting your talent,” the figure said, walking to the far wall, resting his hand upon it.

  “This will cause chaos,” Szeth whispered. “Infighting. War. Confusion and pain such as the world has rarely known.”

  The chained gemstone on the man’s palm flashed. The wall vanished, turned to smoke. A Soulcaster.

  The dark figure glanced at Szeth. “Indeed. Our master directs that you are to use tactics similar to those you employed so well in Alethkar years ago. When you are done, you will receive further instructions.”

  He then exited through the opening, leaving Szeth horrified. This was his nightmare. To be in the hands of those who understood his capabilities and who had the ambition to use them properly. He stood for a time, silent, long past when his Stormlight ran out.

  Then, reverently, he folded the list. He was surprised that his hands were so steady. He should be trembling.

  For soon the world itself would shake.

  Part Three

  Dying

  29

  Errorgance

  “The ones of ash and fire, who killed like a swarm, relentless before the Heralds.”

  — Noted in Masly, page 337. Corroborated by Coldwin and Hasavah.

  It sounds like you’re getting into Jasnah’s good graces quickly, the spanreed wrote out. How long before you can make the switch?

  Shallan grimaced, turning the gemstone on the reed. I don’t know, she wrote back. Jasnah keeps a close watch on the Soulcaster, as you’d expect. She wears it all day. At night, she locks it away in her safe and wears the key around her neck.

  She turned the gemstone, then waited for a reply. She was in her chamber, a small, stone-carved room inside Jasnah’s quarters. Her accommodations were austere: A small bed, a nightstand, and the writing table were her only furniture. Her clothing remained in the trunk she had brought. No rug adorned the floor, and there were no windows, as the rooms were in the Kharbranthian Conclave, which was underground.

  That does make it troubling, the reed wrote. Eylita-Nan Balat’s betrothed-was the one doing the writing, but all three of Shallan’s surviving brothers would be in the room back in Jah Keved, contributing to the conversation.

  I’m guessing she takes it off while bathing, Shallan wrote. Once she trusts me more, she may begin using me as a bathing attendant. That may present an opportunity.

  That is a good plan, the spanreed wrote. Nan Balat wants me to point out that we are very sorry to make you do this. It must be difficult for you to be away so long.

  Difficult? Shallan picked up the spanreed and hesitated.

  Yes, it was difficult. Difficult not to fall in love with the freedom, difficult not to get too absorbed in her studies. It had been only two months since she’d convinced Jasnah to take her as a ward, but already she felt half as timid and twice as confident.

  The most difficult thing of all was knowing that it would soon end. Coming to study in Kharbranth was, without doubt, the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her.

  I will manage, she wrote. You are the ones living the difficult life, maintaining our family’s interests at home. How are you doing?

  It took time for them to reply. Poorly, Eylita finally sent. Your father’s debts are coming due, and Wikim can barely keep the creditors distracted. The highprince ails, and everyone wants to know where our house stands on the question of succession. The last of the quarries is running out. If it becomes known that we no longer have resources, it will go badly for us.

  Shallan grimaced. How long do I have?

  A few more months, at best, Nan Balat sent back via his betrothed. It depends on how long the highprince lasts and whether or not anyone realizes why Asha Jushu is selling our possessions. Jushu was the youngest of the brothers, just older than Shallan. His old gambling habit was actually coming in handy. For years, he’d been stealing things from their father and selling them to cover his losses. He pretended he was still doing that, but he brought the money back to help. He was a good man, despite his habit. And, all things considered, he really couldn’t be blamed for much of what he’d done. None of them could.

  Wikim thinks that he can keep everyone at bay for a while longer. But we are getting desperate. The sooner you return with the Soulcaster, the better.

  Shallan hesitated, then wrote, Are we certain this is the best way? Perhaps we should simply ask Jasnah for help.

  You think she would respond to that? they wrote back. She would help an unknown and disliked Veden house? She would keep our secrets?

  Probably not. Though Shallan was increasingly certain that Jasnah’s reputation was exaggerated, the woman did have a ruthless side to her. She would not leave her important studies to go help Shallan’s family.

  She reached for the reed to reply, but it started scribbling again. Shallan, it said. This is Nan Balat; I have sent the others away. It is only Eylita and me writing you now. There is something you need to know. Luesh is dead.

  Shallan blinked in surprise. Luesh, her father’s steward, had been the one who had known how to use the Soulcaster. He was one of the few people she and her brothers had determined they could trust.

  What happened? she wrote after switching to a new sheet of paper.

  He died in his sleep, and there’s no reason to suspect he was killed. But Shallan, a few weeks after his passing, some men visited here claiming to be friends of our father. In private with me, they implied they knew of Father’s Soulcaster and suggested strongly that I was to return it to them.

  Shallan frowned. She still carried her father’s broken Soulcaster in the safepouch of her sleeve. Return it? she wrote.

  We never did figure out where Father got it, Nan Balat sent. Shallan, he was involved in something. Those maps, the things Luesh said, and now this. We continue to pretend that Father is alive, and occasionally he gets letters from other lighteyes that speak of vague “plans.” I think he was going to make a play to become highprince. And he was supported by some very powerful forces.

  These men who came, they were dangerous, Shallan. The type of men you do not cross. And they want their Soulcaster back. Whoever they are, I suspect they gave it to Father so he could create wealth and make a bid for the succession. They know he’s dead.

  I believe that if we don’t return a working Soulcaster to them, we could all be in serious danger. You need to bring Jasnah’s fabrial to us. We’ll quickly use it to create new quarries of valuable stone, and then we can give it up to these men. Shallan, you must succeed. I was hesitant about this plan when you suggested it, but other avenues are quickly vanishing.

  Shallan felt a chill. She read over the paragraphs a few times, then wrote, If Luesh is dead, then we don’t know how to use the Soulcaster. That is problematic.

  I know, Nan Balat sent. See if you can figure that out. This is dangerous, Shallan. I know it is. I’m sorry.

  She took a deep breath. It must be done, she wrote.

  Here, Nan Balat sent. I wanted to show you something. Have you ever seen this symbol? The sketch that followed was crude. Eylita wasn’t much of an artist. Fortunately, it was a simple picture-three diamond shapes in a curious pattern.

  I’ve never seen it, Shallan wrote. Why?

  Luesh wore a pendant with this symbol on it, Nan Balat sent. We found it on his body. And one of the men who came searching for the Soulcaster had the same pattern tattooed on his hand, just below his thumb.

  Curious, Shallan wrote. So Luesh…

  Yes, Nan Balat sent. Despite what he said, I think he must have been the one who brought the Soulcaster to Father. Luesh was involved in this, perhaps as liaison between Father and the people backing him. I tried to suggest that they could back me instead, but the men just laughed. They did not stay long or give a specific time by which the Soulcaster must be returned. I doubt the
y’d be satisfied to receive a broken one.

  Shallan pursed her lips. Balat, have you thought that we might be risking a war? If it becomes known that we’ve stolen an Alethi Soulcaster…

  No, there wouldn’t be a war, Nan Balat wrote back. King Hanavanar would just turn us over to the Alethi. They’d execute us for the theft.

  Wonderfully comforting, Balat, she wrote. Thank you so much.

  You’re welcome. We’re going to have to hope that Jasnah doesn’t realize that you took the Soulcaster. It seems likely she’ll assume that hers broke for some reason.

  Shallan sighed. Perhaps, she wrote.

  Take care, Nan Balat sent her.

  You too.

  And that was it. She set the spanreed aside, then read over the entire conversation, memorizing it. Then she crumpled up the sheets and walked into the sitting room of Jasnah’s quarters. She wasn’t there-Jasnah rarely broke from her studies-so Shallan burned the conversation in the hearth.

  She stood for a long moment, watching the fire. She was worried. Nan Balat was capable, but they all bore scars from the lives they’d led. Eylita was the only scribe they could trust, and she…well, she was incredibly nice but not very clever.

  With a sigh, Shallan left the room to return to her studies. Not only would they help get her mind off her troubles, but Jasnah would grow testy if she dallied too long.

  Five hours later, Shallan wondered why it was she’d been so eager.

  She did enjoy her chances at scholarship. But recently, Jasnah had set her to study the history of the Alethi monarchy. It wasn’t the most interesting subject around. Her boredom was compounded by her being forced to read a number of books that expressed opinions she found ridiculous.

  She sat in Jasnah’s alcove at the Veil. The enormous wall of lights, alcoves, and mysterious researchers no longer awed her. The place was becoming comfortable and familiar. She was alone at the moment.

  Shallan rubbed her eyes with her freehand, then slid her book closed. “I,” she muttered, “am really coming to hate the Alethi monarchy.”

  “Is that so?” a calm voice said from behind. Jasnah walked past, wearing a sleek violet dress, followed by a parshman porter with a stack of books. “I’ll try not to take it personally.”

  Shallan winced, then blushed furiously. “I didn’t mean individually, Brightness Jasnah. I meant categorically.”

  Jasnah lithely took her seat in the alcove. She raised an eyebrow at Shallan, then gestured for the parshman to set down his burden.

  Shallan still found Jasnah an enigma. At times, she seemed a stern scholar annoyed by Shallan’s interruptions. At other times, there seemed to be a hint of wry humor hiding behind the stern facade. Either way, Shallan was finding that she felt remarkably comfortable around the woman. Jasnah encouraged her to speak her mind, something Shallan had taken to gladly.

  “I assume from your outburst that this topic is wearing on you,” Jasnah said, sorting through her volumes as the parshman withdrew. “You expressed interest in being a scholar. Well, you must learn that this is scholarship.”

  “Reading argument after argument from people who refuse to see any other point of view?”

  “They’re confident.”

  “I’m not an expert on confidence, Brightness,” Shallan said, holding up a book and inspecting it critically. “But I’d like to think that I could recognize it if it were before me. I don’t think that’s the right word for books like this one from Mederia. They feel more arrogant than confident to me.” She sighed, setting the book aside. “To be honest, ‘arrogant’ doesn’t feel like quite the right word. It’s not specific enough.”

  “And what would be the right word, then?”

  “I don’t know. ‘Errorgant,’ perhaps.”

  Jasnah raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “It means to be twice as certain as someone who is merely arrogant,” Shallan said, “while possessing only one-tenth the requisite facts.”

  Her words drew a hint of a smile from Jasnah. “What you are reacting against is known as the Assuredness Movement, Shallan. This errorgance is a literary device. The scholars are intentionally overstating their case.”

  “The Assuredness Movement?” Shallan asked, holding up one of her books. “I guess I could get behind that.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Much easier to stab it in the back from that position.”

  That got only an eyebrow raise. So, more seriously, Shallan continued. “I suppose I can understand the device, Brightness, but these books you’ve given me on King Gavilar’s death are more and more irrational in defending their points. What began as a rhetorical conceit seems to have descended into name-calling and squabbling.”

  “They are trying to provoke discussion. Would you rather that the scholars hide from the truth, like so many? You would have men prefer ignorance?”

  “When reading these books, scholarship and ignorance feel much alike to me,” Shallan said. “Ignorance may reside in a man hiding from intelligence, but scholarship can seem ignorance hidden behind intelligence.”

  “And what of intelligence without ignorance? Finding truth while not dismissing the possibility of being wrong?”

  “A mythological treasure, Brightness, much like the Dawnshards or the Honorblades. Certainly worth seeking, but only with great caution.”

  “Caution?” Jasnah said, frowning.

  “It would make you famous, but actually finding it would destroy us all. Proof that one can be both intelligent and accept the intelligence of those who disagree with you? Why, I should think it would undermine the scholarly world in its entirety.”

  Jasnah sniffed. “You go too far, child. If you took half the energy you devote to being witty and channeled it into your work, I daresay you could be one of the greatest scholars of our age.”

  “I’m sorry, Brightness,” Shallan said. “I…well, I’m confused. Considering the gaps in my education, I assumed you would have me studying things deeper in the past than a few years ago.”

  Jasnah opened one of her books. “I have found that youths like you have a relative lack of appreciation for the distant past. Therefore, I selected an area of study that is both more recent and sensational, to ease you into true scholarship. Is the murder of a king not of interest to you?”

  “Yes, Brightness,” Shallan said. “We children love things that are shiny and loud.”

  “You have quite the mouth on you at times.”

  “At times? You mean it’s not there at others? I’ll have to…” Shallan trailed off, then bit her lip, realizing she’d gone too far. “Sorry.”

  “Never apologize for being clever, Shallan. It sets a bad precedent. However, one must apply one’s wit with care. You often seem to say the first passably clever thing that enters your mind.”

  “I know,” Shallan said. “It’s long been a foible of mine, Brightness. One my nurses and tutors tried very hard to discourage.”

  “Likely through strict punishments.”

  “Yes. Making me sit in the corner holding books over my head was the preferred method.”

  “Which, in turn,” Jasnah said with a sigh, “only trained you to make your quips more quickly, for you knew you had to get them out before you could reconsider and suppress them.”

  Shallan cocked her head.

  “The punishments were incompetent,” Jasnah said. “Used upon one such as yourself, they were actually encouragement. A game. How much would you have to say to earn a punishment? Could you say something so clever that your tutors missed the joke? Sitting in the corner just gave you more time to compose retorts.”

  “But it’s unseemly for a young woman to speak as I so often do.”

  “The only ‘unseemly’ thing is to not channel your intelligence usefully. Consider. You have trained yourself to do something very similar to what annoys you in the scholars: cleverness without thought behind it-intelligence, one might say, without a foundation of proper consideration.” Jasnah turned a page. “Erro
rgant, wouldn’t you say?”

  Shallan blushed.

  “I prefer my wards to be clever,” Jasnah said. “It gives me more to work with. I should bring you to court with me. I suspect that Wit, at least, would find you amusing-if only because your apparent natural timidity and your clever tongue make such an intriguing combination.”

  “Yes, Brightness.”

  “Please, just remember that a woman’s mind is her most precious weapon. It must not be employed clumsily or prematurely. Much like the aforementioned knife to the back, a clever gibe is most effective when it is unanticipated.”

  “I’m sorry, Brightness.”

  “It wasn’t an admonition,” Jasnah said, turning a page. “Simply an observation. I make them on occasion: Those books are musty. The sky is blue today. My ward is a smart-lipped reprobate.”

  Shallan smiled.

  “Now, tell me what you’ve discovered.”

  Shallan grimaced. “Not much, Brightness. Or should I say too much? Each writer has her own theories on why the Parshendi killed your father. Some claim he must have insulted them at the feast that night. Others say that the entire treaty was a ruse, intended to get the Parshendi close to him. But that makes little sense, as they had much better opportunities earlier.”

  “And the Assassin in White?” Jasnah asked.

  “A true anomaly,” Shallan said. “The undertexts are filled with commentary about him. Why would the Parshendi hire an outside assassin? Did they fear they could not accomplish the job themselves? Or perhaps they didn’t hire him, and were framed. Many think that is unlikely, considering that the Parshendi took credit for the murder.”

  “And your thoughts?”

  “I feel inadequate to draw conclusions, Brightness.”