The Way of Kings

by Brandon Sanderson

  “I don’t have passion for it as I once did,” he continued. “Besides, what good will a cook be in the Spiritual Realm?”

  “Heralds need food,” she said absently, scratching out a line on her writing board, then scribbling another line of numbers beneath it.

  “Do they?” Ashir asked. “I’ve never been convinced. Oh, I’ve read the speculations, but it just doesn’t seem rational to me. The body must be fed in the Physical Realm, but the spirit exists in a completely different state.”

  “A state of ideals,” she replied. “So, you could create ideal foods, perhaps.”

  “Hmm…What would be the fun in that? No experimentation.”

  “I could do without,” she said, leaning forward to inspect the room’s hearth, where two flamespren danced on the logs’ fire. “If it meant never again having to eat something like that green soup you made last month.”

  “Ah,” he said, sounding wistful. “That was something, wasn’t it? Completely revolting, yet made entirely from appetizing ingredients.” He seemed to consider it a personal triumph. “I wonder if they eat in the Cognitive Realm. Is a food there what it sees itself as being? I’ll have to read and see if anyone has ever eaten while visiting Shadesmar.”

  Geranid responded with a noncommittal grunt, getting out her calipers and leaning closer to the heat to measure the flamespren. She frowned, then made another notation.

  “Here, love,” Ashir said, walking over, then knelt beside her and offered a small bowl. “Give this a try. I think you’ll like it.”

  She eyed the contents. Bits of bread covered with a red sauce. It was men’s food, but they were both ardents, so that didn’t matter.

  From outside came the sounds of waves gently lapping against the rocks. They were on a tiny Reshi island, technically sent to provide for the religious needs of any Vorin visitors. Some travelers did come to them for that, occasionally even some of the Reshi. But really, this was a way of getting away and focusing on their experiments. Geranid with her spren studies. Ashir with his chemistry–through cooking, of course, as it allowed him to eat the results.

  The portly man smiled affably, head shaven, grey beard neatly squared off. They both kept to the rules of their stations, despite their seclusion. One did not write the ending of a lifetime of faith with a sloppy last chapter.

  “No green,” she noted, taking the bowl. “That’s a good sign.”

  “Hmmm,” he said, leaning down and adjusting his spectacles to inspect her notations. “Yes. It really was fascinating the way that Shin vegetable caramelized. I’m so pleased that Gom brought it to me. You’ll have to go over my notes. I think I got the figures right, but I could be wrong.” He wasn’t as strong at mathematics as he was at theory. Conveniently, Geranid was just the opposite.

  She took a spoon and tried the food. She didn’t wear a sleeve on her safehand–another one of the advantages of being an ardent. The food was actually quite good. “Did you try this, Ashir?”

  “Nope,” he said, still looking over her figures. “You’re the brave one, my dear.”

  She sniffed. “It’s terrible.”

  “I can see that from how you’re taking another large bite at this moment.”

  “Yes, but you’d hate it. No fruit. Is this fish you added?”

  “A dried handful of the little minnows I caught outside this morning. Still don’t know what species they are. Tasty, though.” He hesitated, then looked up at the hearth and its spren. “Geranid, what is this?”

  “I think I’ve had a breakthrough,” she said softly.

  “But the figures,” he said, tapping the writing board. “You said they were erratic, and they still are.”

  “Yes,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the flamespren. “But I can predict when they will be erratic and when they won’t be.”

  He looked at her, frowning.

  “The spren change when I measure them, Ashir,” she said. “Before I measure, they dance and vary in size, luminosity, and shape. But when I make a notation, they immediately freeze in their current state. Then they remain that way permanently, so far as I can tell.”

  “What does it mean?” he asked.

  “I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me. I have the figures. You’ve got the imagination, dear one.”

  He scratched at his beard, sitting back, and produced a bowl and spoon for himself. He’d sprinkled dried fruit over his portion; Geranid was half convinced he’d joined the ardentia because of his sweet tooth. “What happens if you erase the figures?” he asked.

  “The spren go back to being variable,” she said. “Length, shape, luminosity.”

  He took a bite of his mush. “Go into the other room.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it. Take your writing board.”

  She sighed, standing up, joints popping. Was she getting that old? Starlight, but they’d spent a long time out on this island. She walked to the other room, where their cot was.

  “What now?” she called.

  “I’m going to measure the spren with your calipers,” he called back. “I’ll take three measurements in a row. Only write down one of the figures I give you. Don’t tell me which one you’re writing down.”

  “All right,” she called back. The window was open, and she looked out over a darkening, glassy expanse of water. The Reshi Sea wasn’t as shallow as the Purelake, but it was quite warm most of the time, dotted with tropical islands and the occasional monster of a greatshell.

  “Three inches, seven tenths,” Ashir called.

  She didn’t write down the figure.

  “Two inches, eight tenths.”

  She ignored the number this time too, but got her chalk ready to write—as quietly as possible—the next numbers he called out.

  “Two inches, three ten—Wow.”

  “What?” she called.

  “It stopped changing sizes. I assume you wrote down that third number?”

  She frowned, walking back into their small living chamber. Ashir’s hotplate sat on a low table to her right. After the Reshi style, there were no chairs, just cushions, and all the furniture was flat and long, rather than tall.

  She approached the hearth. One of the two flamespren danced about atop a log, shape changing and length flickering like the flames themselves. The other had taken on a far more stable shape. Its length no longer changed, though its form did slightly.

  It seemed locked somehow. It almost looked like a little person as it danced over the fire. She reached up and erased her notation. It immediately began pulsing and changing erratically like the other one.

  “Wow,” Ashir repeated. “It’s as if it knows, somehow, that it has been measured. As if merely defining its form traps it somehow. Write down a number.”

  “What number?”

  “Any number,” he said. “But one that might be the size of a flamespren.”

  She did so. Nothing happened.

  “You have to actually measure it,” he said, tapping his spoon softly against the side of his bowl. “No pretending.”

  “I wonder at the precision of the instrument,” she said. “If I use one that is less precise, will that give the spren more flexibility? Or is there a threshold, an accuracy beyond which it finds itself bound?” She sat down, feeling daunted. “I need to research this more. Try it for luminosity, then compare that to my general equation of flamespren luminosity as compared to the fire they’re drawn to dance around.”

  Ashir grimaced. “That, my dear, sounds a lot like math.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then I shall make you a snack to occupy you while you create new marvels of calculation and genius.” He smiled, kissing her forehead. “You just found something wonderful,” he said more softly. “I don’t know what it means yet, but it might very well change everything we understand about spren. And maybe even about fabrials.”

  She smiled, turning back to her equations. And for once, she didn’t mind at all as he began chatting about his ingredien
ts, working out a new formula for some sugary confection he was sure she’d love.

  Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, spun between the two guards as their eyes burned out. They slumped quietly to the floor.

  With three quick strokes, he slashed his Shardblade through the hinges and latch of the grand door. Then he took a deep breath, absorbing the Stormlight from a pouch of gemstones at his waist. He burst alight with renewed power and kicked the door with the force of a Light-enhanced foot.

  It flew backward into the room, hinges no longer holding it in place, then crashed to the floor, skidding on the stone. The large feast hall inside was filled with people, crackling hearths, and clattering plates. The heavy door slid to a halt, and the room grew quiet.

  I am sorry, he thought. Then he dashed in to start the slaughter.

  Chaos ensued. Screams, yells, panic. Szeth leaped atop the nearest dining table and started spinning, cutting down everyone nearby. As he did so, he made certain to listen to the sounds of the dying. He did not shut his ears to the screams. He did not ignore the wails of pain. He paid attention to each and every one.

  And hated himself.

  He moved forward, leaping from table to table, wielding his Shardblade, a god of burning Stormlight and death.

  “Armsmen!” yelled the lighteyed man at the edge of the room. “Where are my armsmen!” Thick of waist and shoulder, the man had a square brown beard and a prominent nose. King Hanavanar of Jah Keved. Not a Shardbearer, though some rumors said that he secretly kept a Shardblade.

  Near Szeth, men and women scrambled away, stumbling over one another. He dropped among them, his white clothing rippling. He cut through a man who was drawing his sword–but also sliced through three women who wanted only to escape. Eyes burned and bodies collapsed.

  Szeth reached behind himself, infusing the table he’d leaped from, then Lashing it to the far wall with a Basic Lashing, the type that changed which direction was down. The large wooden table fell to the side, tumbling into people, causing more screams and more pain.

  Szeth found himself crying. His orders were simple. Kill. Kill as you have never killed before. Lay the innocent screaming at your feet and make the lighteyes weep. Do so wearing white, so all know who you are. Szeth did not object. It was not his place. He was Truthless.

  And he did as his masters demanded.

  Three lighteyed men got up the nerve to attack him, and Szeth raised his Shardblade in salute. They screamed battle cries as they charged. He was silent. A flick of his wrist cut the blade from the first one’s sword. The length of metal spun in the air as Szeth stepped between the other two, his Blade swishing through their necks. They dropped in tandem, eyes shriveling. Szeth struck the first man from behind, ramming the Blade through his back and out his chest.

  The man dropped forward–a hole in his shirt, but his skin unmarred. As he hit the floor, his severed sword blade clanged to the stones beside him.

  Another group came at Szeth from the side, and he drew Stormlight into his hand and flung it in a Full Lashing across the floor at their feet. This was the Lashing that bonded objects; when the men crossed it, their shoes stuck to the floor. They tripped, and found their hands and bodies Lashed to the floor as well. Szeth stepped through them mournfully, striking.

  The king edged away, as if to round the chamber and escape. Szeth sprayed a table’s top with a Full Lashing, then infused the entire thing with a Basic Lashing as well, pointed at the doorway. The table flipped into the air and crashed against the exit–the side bearing the Full Lashing sticking it to the wall. People tried to pry it out of the way, but that only made them bunch up as Szeth waded into them, Shardblade sweeping.

  So many deaths. Why? What purpose did it fulfill?

  When he’d assaulted Alethkar six years before, he’d thought that had been a massacre. He hadn’t known what a true massacre was. He reached the door and found himself standing over the bodies of some thirty people, his emotions caught up in the tempest of Stormlight within him. He hated that Stormlight, suddenly, as much as he hated himself. As much as the cursed Blade he held.

  And…and the king. Szeth spun on the man. Irrationally, his confused, broken mind blamed this man. Why had he called a feast on this night? Why couldn’t he have retired early? Why had he invited so many people?

  Szeth charged at the king. He passed the dead, who lay twisted on the floor, burned-out eyes staring in lifeless accusation. The king cowered behind his high table.

  That high table shuddered, quivering oddly.

  Something was wrong.

  Instinctively, Szeth Lashed himself to the ceiling. From his viewpoint, the room flipped, and the floor was now the ceiling. Two figures burst out from beneath the king’s table. Two men in Plate, carrying Shardblades, swinging.

  Twisting in the air, Szeth evaded their swings, then Lashed himself back to the floor, landing on the king’s table just as the king summoned a Shardblade. So the rumors were true.

  The king struck, but Szeth jumped backward, landing beyond the Shardbearers. Outside, he could hear footfalls. Szeth glanced to see men pouring into the room. The newcomers carried distinctive, diamond-shaped shields. Half-shards. Szeth had heard of the new fabrials, capable of stopping a Shardblade.

  “You think I didn’t know you were coming?” the king yelled at him. “After you killed three of my highprinces? We’re ready for you, assassin.” He lifted something from beneath the table. Another of those half-shard shields. They were made of metal imbedded with a gemstone hidden at the back.

  “You are a fool,” Szeth said, Stormlight leaking from his mouth.

  “Why?” the king called. “You think I should have run?”

  “No,” Szeth replied, meeting his eyes. “Because you set a trap for me during a feast. And now I can blame you for their deaths.”

  The soldiers fanned out through the room while the two fully armored Shardbearers stepped toward him, Blades out. The king smiled.

  “So let it be,” Szeth said, breathing deeply, sucking in the Stormlight of the many gemstones tied in the pouches at his waist. The Light began to rage within him, like a highstorm in his chest, burning and screaming. He breathed in more than he’d ever held before, holding it until he was barely able to keep the Stormlight from ripping him apart.

  Were those still tears in his eyes? Would that they could hide his crimes. He yanked the strap free at his waist, releasing his belt and the heavy spheres.

  Then he dropped his Shardblade.

  His opponents froze in shock as his Blade vanished to mist. Who would drop a Shardblade in the middle of a battle? It defied reason.

  And so did Szeth.

  You are a work of art, Szeth-son-Neturo. A god.

  It was time to see.

  The soldiers and Shardbearers charged. Mere heartbeats before they reached him, Szeth spun into motion, liquid tempest in his veins. He dodged between the initial sword strikes, spinning into the midst of the soldiers. Holding this much Stormlight made it easier to infuse things; the light wanted out, and it pushed against his skin. In this state, the Shardblade would only be a distraction. Szeth himself was the real weapon.

  He grabbed the arm of an attacking soldier. It took only an instant to infuse and Lash him upward. The man cried out, falling into the air as Szeth ducked another sword thrust. He touched the attacker’s leg, inhumanly lithe. With a look and a blink, he Lashed that man to the ceiling as well.

  Soldiers cursed, slashing at him, their bulky half-shards suddenly becoming hindrances as Szeth moved among them, graceful as a skyeel, touching arms, legs, shoulders, sending a dozen, then two dozen, men flying in all directions. Most went up, but he sent a barrage of them toward the approaching Shardbearers, who cried out as squirming bodies smashed into them.

  He jumped backward as a squad of soldiers came at him, Lashing himself to the far wall and spinning into the air. The room changed orientations, and he landed on the wall–which was now down for him. He ran along it toward the
king, who waited behind his Shardbearers.

  “Kill him!” the king said. “Storm you all! What are you doing? Kill him!”

  Szeth leaped off the wall, Lashing himself downward as he flipped, landing with one knee on the dining table. Silverware and plates clinked as he grabbed a dining knife and infused once, twice, three times. He used a triple Basic Lashing, pointing it in the direction of the king, then dropped it and Lashed himself backward.

  He lurched away as one of the Shardbearers struck, cutting the table in half. Szeth’s released knife fell far more quickly than it should have, flashing toward the king. He barely got his shield up in time, eyes wide as the knife clanged against the metal.

  Damnation, Szeth thought, Lashing himself upward with a quarter of a Basic Lashing. That didn’t pull him upward, it just made him much lighter. A quarter of his weight was now pulled upward instead of downward. In essence, he became half as heavy as he had been.

  He twisted, white clothing flapping gracefully as he dropped amid the common soldiers. Soldiers he’d Lashed earlier began to fall from the high ceiling, their Stormlight running out. A rain of broken bodies, crashing one by one to the floor.

  Szeth came at the soldiers again. Some men fell as he sent others flying. Their expensive shields clanged to the stones, falling from dead or stunned fingers. Soldiers tried to reach him, but Szeth danced between them, using the ancient martial art of kammar, which used only the hands. It was meant as a less deadly form of fighting, focused on grabbing enemies and using their weight against them, immobilizing them.

  It was also ideal when one wanted to touch and infuse someone.

  He was the storm. He was destruction. At his will, men flipped into the air, fell, and died. He swept outward, touching a table and Lashing it upward with half a Basic Lashing. With half its mass pulled upward, half downward, it became weightless. Szeth sprayed it with a Full Lashing, then kicked it toward the soldiers; they stuck to it, their clothing and skin bonding to the wood.