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“Are you satisfied with this, Szeth-son-Neturo?” the voice asked. It was male and deep. What was that accent? The man wasn’t Veden. Alethi, perhaps? “Are you satisfied with trivial crimes? Killing over meaningless turf in backwater mining villages?”

Szeth didn’t reply. He scanned the room, looking for motion in the other shadows. None seemed to be hiding anyone.

“I’ve watched you,” the voice said. “You’ve been sent to intimidate shopkeepers. You’ve killed footpads so unimportant even the authorities ignore them. You’ve been shown off to impress whores, as if they were high lighteyed ladies. What a waste.”

“I do as my master demands.”

“You are squandered,” the voice said. “You are not meant for petty extortions and murders. Using you like this, it’s like hitching a Ryshadium stallion to a run-down market wagon. It’s like using a Shardblade to slice vegetables, or like using the finest parchment as kindling for a washwater fire. It is a crime. You are a work of art, Szeth-son-Neturo, a god. And each day Makkek throws dung at you.”

“Who are you?” Szeth repeated.

“An admirer of the arts.”

“Do not call me by my father’s name,” Szeth said. “He should not be sullied by association with me.”

The sphere on the wall finally ran out of Stormlight, dropping to the floor, the drapery muffling its fall. “Very well,” the figure said. “But do you not rebel against this frivolous use of your skills? Were you not meant for greatness?”

“There is no greatness in killing,” Szeth said. “You speak like a kukori. Great men create food and clothing. He who adds is to be revered. I am he who takes away. At least in the killing of men such as these I can pretend to be doing a service.”

“This from the man who nearly toppled one of the greatest kingdoms in Roshar?”

“This from the man who committed one of the most heinous slaughters in Roshar,” Szeth corrected.

The figure snorted. “What you did was a mere breeze compared to the storm of slaughter Shardbearers wreak on a battlefield each day. And those are breezes compared to the tempests you are capable of.”

Szeth began to walk away.

“Where are you going?” the figure asked.

“Gavashaw is dead. I must return to my master.”

Something hit the floor. Szeth spun, Shardblade down. The figure had dropped something round and heavy. It rolled across the floor toward Szeth.

Another head. It came to rest on its side. Szeth froze as he made out the features. The pudgy cheeks were stained with blood, the dead eyes wide with shock: Makkek.

“How?” Szeth demanded.

“We took him seconds after you left the gambling den.”

“We?”

“Servants of your new master.”

“My Oathstone?”

The figure opened his hand, revealing a gemstone suspended in his palm by a chain wrapped around his fingers. Sitting beside it, now illuminated, was Szeth’s Oathstone. The figure’s face was dark; he wore a mask.

Szeth dismissed his Shardblade and went down on one knee. “What are your orders?”

“There is a list on the table,” the figure said, closing his hand and hiding the Oathstone. “It details our master’s wishes.”

Szeth rose and walked over. Beside the head, which rested on a plate to contain the blood, was a sheet of paper. He took it, and his Stormlight illuminated some two dozen names written in the warrior’s script of his homeland. Some had a note beside them with instructions on how they were to be killed.

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

Kaladin ♦ Shallan

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.