The Way of Kings

“Even our names. Yours is nearly perfect. Shallan. One letter off, an ideal name for a lighteyed woman. Not too holy, but ever so close. The original names for the ten Silver Kingdoms. Alethela, Valhav, Shin Kak Nish. Perfect, symmetrical.”

He reached forward, taking her hand. “It’s here, around us. Don’t forget that, Shallan, no matter what she says.”

“I won’t,” she said, realizing how he’d guided the conversation. He’d said he believed her, but still he’d gone through his proofs. It was touching and annoying at the same time. She did not like condescension. But, then, could one really blame an ardent for preaching?

Kabsal looked up suddenly, releasing her hand. “I hear footsteps.” He stood, and Shallan turned as Jasnah walked into the alcove, followed by a parshman carrying a basket of books. Jasnah showed no surprise at the presence of the ardent.

“I’m sorry, Brightness Jasnah,” Shallan said, standing. “He–”

“You are not a captive, child,” Jasnah interrupted brusquely. “You are allowed visitors. Just be careful to check your skin for tooth marks. These types have a habit of dragging their prey out to sea with them.”

Kabsal flushed. He moved to gather up his things.

Jasnah waved for the parshman to place her books on the table. “Can that plate reproduce a cymatic pattern corresponding to Urithiru, priest? Or do you only have patterns for the standard four cities?”

Kabsal looked at her, obviously shocked to realize that she knew exactly what the plate was for. He picked up his book. “Urithiru is just a fable.”

“Odd. One would think that your type would be used to believing in fables.”

His face grew redder. He finished packing his things, then nodded curtly to Shallan and walked hastily from the room.

“If I may say so, Brightness,” Shallan said, “that was exceptionally rude of you.”

“I’m prone to such bouts of incivility,” Jasnah said. “I’m certain he has heard what I’m like. I simply wanted to make sure he got what he expected.”

“You haven’t acted that way toward other ardents in the Palanaeum.”

“The other ardents in the Palanaeum haven’t been working to turn my ward against me.”

“He wasn’t…” Shallan trailed off. “He was simply worried about my soul.”

“Has he asked you to try to steal my Soulcaster yet?”

Shallan felt a sudden spike of shock. Her hand went to the pouch at her waist. Did Jasnah know? No, Shallan told herself. No, listen to the question. “He didn’t.”

“Watch,” Jasnah said, opening a book. “He will eventually. I’ve experience with his type.” She looked at Shallan, and her expression softened. “He’s not interested in you. Not in any of the ways you think. In particular, this isn’t about your soul. It’s about me.”

“That is somewhat arrogant of you,” Shallan said, “don’t you think?”

“Only if I’m wrong, child,” Jasnah said, turning back to her book. “And I rarely am.”

34 Stormwall

“I walked from Abamabar to Urithiru.”

– This quote from the Eighth Parable of The Way of Kings seems to contradict Varala and Sinbian, who both claim the city was inaccessible by foot. Perhaps there was a way constructed, or perhaps Nohadon was being metaphorical.

Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive…

Kaladin’s mind felt fuzzy. He knew that he hurt, but other than that, he floated. As if his head were detached from his body and bouncing off the walls and ceilings.

“Kaladin!” a concerned voice whispered. “Kaladin, please. Please don’t be hurt anymore.”

Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive. Why did those words bother him so much? He remembered what had happened, using the bridge as a shield, throwing the army off, dooming the assault. Stormfather, he thought, I’m an idiot!

“Kaladin?”

It was Syl’s voice. He risked opening his eyes and looked out on an upside-down world, sky extending below him, familiar lumberyard in the air above him.

No. He was upside down. Hanging against the side of Bridge Four’s barrack. The Soulcast building was fifteen feet tall at its peak, with a shallowly slanted roof. Kaladin was tied by his ankles to a rope, which would – in turn – be affixed to a ring set into the slanted roof. He’d seen it happen to other bridgemen. One who had committed a murder in camp, another who had been caught stealing for the fifth time.

His back was to the wall so that he faced eastward. His arms were free, hanging down at his sides, and they almost touched the ground. He groaned again, hurting everywhere.