The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  What, then, had she heard? Noises from the woman cleaning, obviously. Shallan’s mind had just interpreted those random sounds as words.

  Forcing herself to relax, Shallan looked out past the maid into the sitting room. The woman had cleaned up the wineglass and crumbs. A broom leaned against the wall. In addition, Jasnah’s door was cracked open. “Were you in Brightness Jasnah’s room?” Shallan demanded.

  “Yes, Brightness,” the woman said. “Tidying up the desk, making the bed-”

  “Brightness Jasnah does not like people entering her room. The maids have been told not to clean in there.” The king had promised that his maids were very carefully chosen, and there had never been issues of theft, but Jasnah still insisted that none enter her bedchamber.

  The woman paled. “I’m sorry, Brightness. I didn’t hear! I wasn’t told-”

  “Hush, it’s all right,” Shallan said. “You’ll want to go tell her what you’ve done. She always notices if her things were moved. It will be better for you if you go to her and explain.”

  “Y-Yes, Brightness.” The woman bowed again.

  “In fact,” Shallan said, something occurring to her. “You should go now. No point putting it off.”

  The elderly maid sighed. “Yes, of course, Brightness.” She withdrew. A few seconds later, the outside door closed and locked.

  Shallan leapt up, pulling off the Soulcaster and stuffing it back in her safepouch. She hurried outside, heart thumping, the strange voice forgotten as she seized the opportunity to look into Jasnah’s room. It was unlikely that Shallan would discover anything useful about the Soulcaster, but she couldn’t pass up the chance-not with the maid to blame for moving things.

  She felt only a glimmer of guilt for this. She’d already stolen from Jasnah. Compared with that, poking through her room was nothing.

  The bedroom was larger than Shallan’s, though it still felt cramped because of the unavoidable lack of windows. Jasnah’s bed, a four-poster monstrosity, took up half the space. The vanity was against the far wall, and beside it the dressing table from which Shallan had originally stolen the Soulcaster. Other than a dresser, the only other thing in the room was the desk, books piled high on the left side.

  Shallan never got a chance to look at Jasnah’s notebooks. Might she, perhaps, have taken notes on the Soulcaster? Shallan sat at the desk, hurriedly pulling open the top drawer and poking through the brushpens, charcoal pencils, and sheets of paper. All were organized neatly, and the paper was blank. The bottom right drawer held ink and empty notebooks. The bottom left drawer had a small collection of reference books.

  That left the books on the top of the table. Jasnah would have the majority of her notebooks with her as she worked. But…yes, there were still a few here. Heart fluttering, Shallan gathered up the three thin volumes and set them before her.

  Notes on Urithiru, the first one declared inside. The notebook was full-it appeared-of quotes from and notations about various books Jasnah had found. All spoke of this place, Urithiru. Jasnah had mentioned it earlier to Kabsal.

  Shallan put that book aside, looking at the next, hoping for mention of the Soulcaster. This notebook was also filled to capacity, but there was no title on it. Shallan picked through, reading some entries.

  “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.

  “They take away the light, wherever they lurk. Skin that is burned.” Cormshen, page 104.

  Innia, in her recordings of children’s folktales, speaks of the Voidbringers as being “Like a highstorm, regular in their coming, yet always unexpected.” The word Desolation is used twice in reference to their appearances. See pages 57, 59, and 64 of Tales by Hearthlight.

  “They changed, even as we fought them. Like shadows they were, that can transform as the flame dances. Never underestimate them because of what you first see.” Purports to be a scrap collected from Talatin, a Radiant of the Order of Stonewards. The source-Guvlow’s Incarnate-is generally held as reliable, though this is from a copied fragment of The Poem of the Seventh Morning, which has been lost.

  They went on like that. Pages and pages. Jasnah had trained her in this method of note taking-once the notebook was filled, each item would be evaluated again for reliability and usefulness and copied to different, more specific notebooks.

  Frowning, Shallan looked through the final notebook. It focused on Natanatan, the Unclaimed Hills, and the Shattered Plains. It collected records of discoveries by hunters, explorers, or tradesmen searching for a river passage to New Natanan. Of the three notebooks, the largest was the one that focused on the Voidbringers.

  The Voidbringers again. Many people in more rural places whispered of them and other monsters of the dark. The raspings, or stormwhispers, or even the dreaded nightspren. Shallan had been taught by stern tutors that these were superstition, fabrications of the Lost Radiants, who used tales of monsters to justify their domination of mankind.

  The ardents taught something else. They spoke of the Lost Radiants-called the Knights Radiant then-fighting off Voidbringers during the war to hold Roshar. According to these teachings, it was only after defeating the Voidbringers-and the departure of the Heralds-that the Radiants had fallen.

  Both groups agreed that the Voidbringers were gone. Fabrications or long-defeated enemies, the result was the same. Shallan could believe that some people-some scholars, even-might believe that the Voidbringers still existed, haunting mankind. But Jasnah the skeptic? Jasnah, who denied the existence of the Almighty? Could the woman really be so twisted as to deny the existence of God, but accept the existence of his mythological enemies?

  A knock came at the outer door. Shallan jumped, raising her hand to her breast. She hurriedly replaced the notebooks on the desk in the same order and orientation. Then, flustered, she hurried out to the door. Jasnah wouldn’t knock, you silly fool, she told herself, unlocking and opening the door a crack.

  Kabsal stood outside. The handsome, lighteyed ardent held up a basket. “I’ve heard reports that you have the day free.” He shook the basket temptingly. “Would you like some jam?”

  Shallan calmed herself, then glanced back at Jasnah’s open quarters. She really should investigate more. She turned to Kabsal, meaning to tell him no, but his eyes were so inviting. That hint of a smile on his face, that good-natured and relaxed posture.

  If Shallan went with Kabsal, maybe she could ask him what he knew regarding Soulcasters. That wasn’t what decided it for her, however, The truth was, she needed to relax. She’d been so on edge lately, brain stuffed with philosophy, every spare moment spent trying to make the Soulcaster work. Was it any wonder she was hearing voices?

  “I’d love some jam,” she declared.

  “Truthberry jam,” Kabsal said, holding up the small green jar. “It’s Azish. Legends there say that those who consume the berries speak only the truth until the next sunset.”

  Shallan raised an eyebrow. They were seated on cushions atop a blanket in the Conclave gardens, not far from where she’d first experimented with the Soulcaster. “And is it true?”

  “Hardly,” Kabsal said, opening the jar. “The berries are harmless. But the leaves and stalks of the truthberry plant, if burned, give off a smoke that makes people intoxicated and euphoric. It appears that peoples often gathered the stalks for making fires. They’d eat the berries around the campfire and have a rather…interesting night.”

  “It’s a wonder-” Shallan began, then bit her lip.

  “What?” he prodded.

  She sighed. “It’s a wonder they didn’t become known as birthberries, considering-” She blushed.

  He laughed. “That’s a good point!”

  “Stormfather,” she said, blushing further. “I’m terrible at being proper. Here, give me some of that jam.”

  He smiled, handing over a slice of bread with green jam slathered across the top. A dull-eyed parshman-appropriated fr
om inside the Conclave-sat on the ground beside a shalebark wall, acting as an impromptu chaperone. It felt so strange to be out with a man near her own age with only a single parshman in attendance. It felt liberating. Exhilarating. Or maybe that was just the sunlight and the open air.

  “I’m also terrible at being scholarly,” she said, closing her eyes, breathing deeply. “I like it outside far too much.”

  “Many of the greatest scholars spent their lives traveling.”

  “And for each one of them,” Shallan said, “there were a hundred more stuck back in a hole of a library, buried in books.”

  “And they wouldn’t have had it any other way. Most people with a bent for research prefer their holes and libraries. But you do not. That makes you intriguing.”

  She opened her eyes, smiling at him, then took a luscious bite of her jam and bread. This Thaylen bread was so fluffy, it was more like cake.

  “So,” she said as he chewed on his bite, “do you feel any more truthful, now that you’ve had the jam?”

  “I am an ardent,” he said. “It is my duty and calling to be truthful at all times.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’m always truthful as well. So full of truth, in fact, that sometimes it squeezes the lies right out my lips. There isn’t a place for them inside, you see.”

  He laughed heartily. “Shallan Davar. I can’t imagine anyone as sweet as yourself uttering a single untruth.”

  “Then for the sake of your sanity, I’ll keep them coming in pairs.” She smiled. “I’m having a terrible time, and this food is awful.”

  “You’ve just disproven an entire body of lore and mythology surrounding the eating of truthberry jam!”

  “Good,” Shallan said. “Jam should not have lore or mythology. It should be sweet, colorful, and delicious.”

  “Like young ladies, I presume.”

  “Brother Kabsal!” She blushed again. “That wasn’t at all appropriate.”

  “And yet you smile.”

  “I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m sweet, colorful, and delicious.”

  “You have the colorful part right,” he said, obviously amused at her deep blush. “And the sweet part. Can’t speak for your deliciousness….”

  “Kabsal!” she exclaimed, though she wasn’t entirely shocked. She’d once told herself that he was interested in her only in order to protect her soul, but that was getting more and more difficult to believe. He stopped by at least once a week.

  He chuckled at her embarrassment, but that only made her blush further.

  “Stop it!” She held her hand up in front of her eyes. “My face must be the color of my hair! You shouldn’t say such things; you’re a man of religion.”

  “But still a man, Shallan.”

  “One who said his interest in me was only academic.”

  “Yes, academic,” he said idly. “Involving many experiments and much firsthand field research.”

  “Kabsal!”

  He laughed deeply, taking a bite of his bread. “I’m sorry, Brightness Shallan. But it gets such a reaction!”

  She grumbled, lowering her hand, but knew that he said the things-in part-because she encouraged him. She couldn’t help it. Nobody had ever shown her the kind of interest that he, increasingly, did. She liked him-liked talking with him, liked listening to him. It was a wonderful way to break the monotony of study.

  There was, of course, no prospect for a union. Assuming she could protect her family, she’d be needed to make a good political marriage. Dallying with an ardent owned by the king of Kharbranth wouldn’t serve anyone.

  I’ll soon have to start hinting to him the truth, she thought. He has to know that this won’t go anywhere. Doesn’t he?

  He leaned toward her. “You really are what you seem, aren’t you, Shallan?”

  “Capable? Intelligent? Charming?”

  He smiled. “Genuine.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” she said.

  “You are. I see it in you.”

  “It’s not that I’m genuine. I’m naive. I lived my entire childhood in my family’s manor.”

  “You don’t have the air of a recluse about you. You’re so at ease at conversation.”

  “I had to become so. I spent most of my childhood in my own company, and I detest boring conversation partners.”

  He smiled, though his eyes held concern. “It seems a shame that one such as you would lack for attention. That’s like hanging a beautiful painting facing the wall.”

  She leaned back on her safehand, finishing off her bread. “I wouldn’t say I lacked for attention, not quantitatively, for certain. My father paid me plenty of attention.”

  “I’ve heard of him. A stern man, by reputation.”

  “He’s…” She had to pretend he was still alive. “My father is a man of passion and virtue. Just never at the same time.”

  “Shallan! That might just be the wittiest thing I’ve heard you say.”

  “And perhaps the most truthful. Unfortunately.”

  Kabsal looked into her eyes, searching for something. What did he see? “You don’t seem to care for your father much.”

  “Another truthful statement. The berries are working on both of us, I see.”

  “He’s a hurtful man, I gather?”

  “Yes, though never to me. I’m too precious. His ideal, perfect daughter. You see, my father is precisely the type of man to hang a picture facing the wrong way. That way, it can’t be soiled by unworthy eyes or touched by unworthy fingers.”

  “That’s a shame. As you look very touchable to me.”

  She glared. “I told you, no more of that teasing.”

  “That wasn’t teasing,” he said, regarding her with deep blue eyes. Earnest eyes. “You intrigue me, Shallan Davar.”

  She found her heart thumping. Oddly, a panic rose within her at the same time. “I shouldn’t be intriguing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Logic puzzles are intriguing. Mathematical computations can be intriguing. Political maneuvers are intriguing. But women…they should be nothing short of baffling.”

  “And what if I think I’m beginning to understand you?”

  “Then I’m at a severe disadvantage,” she said. “As I don’t understand myself.”

  He smiled.

  “We shouldn’t be talking like this, Kabsal. You’re an ardent.”

  “A man can leave the ardentia, Shallan.”

  She felt a jolt. He looked steadily at her, not blinking. Handsome, soft-spoken, witty. This could grow very dangerous very quickly, she thought.

  “Jasnah thinks you’re getting close to me because you want her Soulcaster,” Shallan blurted out. Then she winced. Idiot! That’s your response when a man hints that he might leave the service of the Almighty in order to be with you?

  “Brightness Jasnah is quite clever,” Kabsal said, slicing himself another piece of bread.

  Shallan blinked. “Oh, er. You mean she’s right?”

  “Right and wrong,” Kabsal said. “The devotary would very, very much like to get that fabrial. I planned to ask your help eventually.”

  “But?”

  “But my superiors thought it was a terrible idea.” He grimaced. “They think the king of Alethkar is volatile enough that he’d march to war with Kharbranth over that. Soulcasters aren’t Shardblades, but they can be equally important.” He shook his head, taking a bite of bread. “Elhokar Kholin should be ashamed to let his sister use that fabrial, particularly so trivially. But if we were to steal it…Well, the repercussions could be felt across all of Vorin Roshar.”

  “Is that so?” Shallan said, feeling sick.

  He nodded. “Most people don’t think about it. I didn’t. Kings rule and war with Shards-but their armies subsist through Soulcasters. Do you have any idea the kinds of supply lines and support personnel Soulcasters replace? Without them, warfare is virtually impossible. You’d need hundreds of wagons filled with food every month!”

  “I guess…that wo
uld be a problem.” She took a deep breath. “They fascinate me, these Soulcasters. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to use one.”

  “I as well.”

  “So you’ve never used one?”

  He shook his head. “There aren’t any in Kharbranth.”

  Right, she thought. Of course. That’s why the king needed Jasnah to help his granddaughter. “Have you ever heard anyone talk about using one?” She cringed at the bold statement. Would it make him suspicious?

  He just nodded idly. “There’s a secret to it, Shallan.”

  “Really?” she asked, heart in her throat.

  He looked up at her, seeming conspiratorial. “It’s really not that difficult.”

  “It…What?”

  “It’s true,” he said. “I’ve heard it from several ardents. There’s so much shadow and ritual surrounding Soulcasters. They’re kept mysterious, aren’t used where people can see. But the truth is, there’s not much to them. You just put one on, press your hand against something, and tap a gemstone with your finger. It works that simply.”

  “That’s not how Jasnah does it,” she said, perhaps too defensively.

  “Yes, that confused me, but supposedly if you use one long enough, you learn how to control them better.” He shook his head. “I don’t like the mystery that has grown up around them. It smells too much like the mysticism of the old Hierocracy. We’d better not find ourselves treading down that path again. What would it matter if people knew how simple the Soulcasters are to use? The principles and gifts of the Almighty are often simple.”

  Shallan barely listened to that last part. Unfortunately, it seemed that Kabsal was as ignorant as she. More ignorant, even. She’d tried the exact method he spoke of, and it didn’t work. Perhaps the ardents he knew were lying to protect the secret.

  “Anyway,” Kabsal said, “I guess that’s a tangent. You asked me about stealing the Soulcaster, and rest assured, I wouldn’t put you in that position. I was foolish to think of it, and I was shortly forbidden to attempt it. I was ordered to care for your soul and see that you weren’t corrupted by Jasnah’s teachings, and perhaps try to reclaim Jasnah’s soul as well.”