The Way of Kings (The Stormlight Archive 1)

“It’s yours, Coreb,” Kaladin said. “I give it to you.”

“What?” Coreb said from behind.

Ahead, Amaram’s honor guard had finally returned, apprehensively appearing at the top of the small hollow, looking ashamed.

“What are you doing?” Amaram demanded as Kaladin passed him. “What—Aren’t you going to take the Blade?”

“I don’t want it,” Kaladin said softly. “I’m giving it to my men.”

Kaladin walked away, emotionally exhausted, tears on his cheeks as he climbed out of the hollow and shoved his way through the honor guard.

He walked back to the warcamp alone.

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

—Cormshen, page 104.

Shallan sat quietly, propped up in a sterile, white-sheeted bed in one of Kharbranth’s many hospitals. Her arm was wrapped in a neat, crisp bandage, and she held her drawing board in front of her. The nurses had reluctantly allowed her to sketch, so long as she did not “stress herself.”

Her arm ached; she’d sliced herself more deeply than she’d intended. She’d hoped to simulate a wound from breaking the pitcher; she hadn’t thought far enough ahead to realize how much like a suicide attempt it might seem. Though she’d protested that she’d simply fallen from bed, she could see that the nurses and ardents didn’t accept it. She couldn’t blame them.

The results were embarrassing, but at least nobody thought she might have Soulcast to make that blood. Embarrassment was worth escaping suspicion.

She continued her sketch. She was in a large, hallwaylike room in a Kharbranthian hospital, the walls lined with many beds. Other than obvious aggravations, her two days in the hospital had gone fairly well. She’d had a lot of time to think about that strangest of afternoons, when she’d seen ghosts, transformed glass to blood, and had an ardent offer to resign the ardentia to be with her.

She’d done several drawings of this hospital room. The creatures lurked in her sketches, staying at the distant edges of the room. Their presence made it difficult for her to sleep, but she was slowly growing accustomed to them.

The air smelled of soap and lister’s oil; she was bathed regularly and her arm washed with antiseptic to frighten away rotspren. About half of the beds held sick women, and there were wheeled fabric dividers with wooden frames that could be rolled around a bed for privacy. Shallan wore a plain white robe that untied at the front and had a long left sleeve that tied shut to protect her safehand.

She’d transferred her safepouch to the robe, buttoning it inside the left sleeve. Nobody had looked in the pouch. When she’d been washed, they’d unbuttoned it and given it to her without a word, despite its unusual weight. One did not look in a woman’s safepouch. Still, she kept hold of it whenever she could.

In the hospital, her every need was seen to, but she could not leave. It reminded her of being at home on her father’s estates. More and more, that frightened her as much as the symbolheads did. She’d tasted independence, and she didn’t want to go back to what she had been. Coddled, pampered, displayed.

Unfortunately, it was unlikely she’d be able to return to studying with Jasnah. Her supposed suicide attempt gave her an excellent reason to return home. She had to go. To remain, sending the Soulcaster away on its own, would be selfish considering this opportunity to leave without arousing suspicion. Besides, she’d used the Soulcaster. She could use the long trip home to figure out how she’d done it, then be ready to help her family when she arrived.

She sighed, and then with a few shadings, she finished her sketch. It was a picture of that strange place she had gone. That distant horizon with its powerful yet cold sun. Clouds running toward it above, endless ocean below, making the sun look as if it were at the end of a long tunnel. Above the ocean hovered hundreds of flames, a sea of lights above the sea of glass beads.

She lifted the picture up, looking at the sketch underneath. It depicted her, huddled on her bed, surrounded by the strange creatures. She didn’t dare tell Jasnah what she had seen, lest it reveal that she had Soulcast, and therefore committed the theft.

The next picture was one of her, lying on the ground amid the blood. She looked up from the sketchpad. A white-clothed female ardent sat against the wall nearby, pretending to sew but really keeping watch in case Shallan decided to harm herself again. Shallan made a thin line of her lips.

It’s a good cover, she told herself. It works perfectly. Stop being so embarrassed.

She turned to the last of her day’s sketches. It depicted one of the symbolheads. No eyes, no face, just that jagged alien symbol with points like cut crystal. They had to have something to do with the Soulcasting. Didn’t they?

I visited another place, she thought. I think…I think I spoke with the spirit of the goblet. Did a goblet, of all things, have a soul? Upon opening her pouch to check on the Soulcaster, she’d found that the sphere Kabsal had given her had stopped glowing. She could remember a vague feeling of light and beauty, a raging storm inside of her.

She’d taken the light from the sphere and given it to the goblet—the spren of the goblet—as a bribe to transform. Was that how Soulcasting worked? Or was she just struggling to make connections?

Shallan lowered the sketchpad as visitors entered the room and began moving among the patients. Most of the women sat up excitedly as they saw King Taravangian, with his orange robes and kindly, aged air. He paused at each bed to chat. She’d heard that he visited frequently, at least once a week.

Eventually he reached Shallan’s bedside. He smiled at her, sitting as one of his many attendants placed a padded stool for him. “And young Shallan Davar. I was so terribly saddened to hear of your accident. I apologize for not coming earlier. Duties of state kept me.”

“It is quite all right, Your Majesty.”

“No, no, it is not,” he said. “But it is what must be. There are many who complain that I spend too much of my time here.”

Shallan smiled. Those complaints were never vociferous. The landlords and house lords who played politics in court were quite content with a king who spent so much of his time outside the palace, ignoring their schemes.

“This hospital is amazing, Your Majesty,” she said. “I can’t believe how well everyone is cared for.”

He smiled widely. “My great triumph. Lighteyes and darkeyes alike, nobody turned away—not beggar, not whore, not sailor from afar. It’s all paid for by the Palanaeum, you know. In a way, even the most obscure and useless record is helping heal the sick.”

“I’m glad to be here.”

“I doubt that, child. A hospital such as this one is, perhaps, the only thing a man could pour so much money into and be delighted if it were never used. It is a tragedy that you must become my guest.”

“What I meant was that I’d rather be sick here than somewhere else. Though I suppose that’s a little like saying it’s better to choke on wine than on dishwater.”

He laughed. “What a sweet thing you are,” he said, rising. “Is there anything I can do to improve your stay?”

“End it?”

“I’m afraid that I can’t allow that,” he said, eyes softening. “I must defer to the wisdom of my surgeons and nurses. They say that you are still at risk. We must think of your health.”