The love of men is a frigid thing . . . a mountain stream only three steps from the ice. We are his. Oh Stormfather . . . we are his. It is but a thousand days and the Last Desolation will come.



Prologue: To Kill


Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, wore white on the day he was to kill a king. The white clothing was Parshendi tradition, foreign to him. But he did as his masters required and did not ask for an explanation.

He sat in a large stone room, baked by enormous firepits that cast a garish light upon the revelers, causing beads of sweat to form on their skin as they danced, and drank, and yelled, and sang, and clapped. Some fell to the ground red-faced, the revelry too much for them, their stomachs proving to be inferior wineskins. They looked as if they were dead, at least until their friends carried them out of the feast hall to waiting beds.

Szeth did not sway to the drums, drink to the sapphire wine, or stand to dance. He sat on a bench at the back, a still servant in white robes. Few at the treaty-signing celebration noticed him. He was just a servant, and Shin were easy to ignore. Mainlanders thought Szeth's kind were docile and harmless. They were generally right.

The drummers began a new rhythm. The beats shook Szeth like a quartet of thumping hears, pumping waves of invisible blood through the room. Szeth's masters – the parshmen who were dismissed as savages by those in more civilized kingdoms – had brought the musicians. At first, base instruments of the common, darkeyed people. But wine was the great assassin of both tradition and propriety, and now the Alethi elite danced with abandon.

Szeth stood and began to pick his way through the room. The revelry had lasted long; even the king had retired hours ago. But many still celebrated. As he walked, Szeth was forced to step around Dalinar Kholin – the king's own brother – who slumped drunkenly at a small table. The aging but powerfully built man kept waving away those who tried to encourage him to bed. Where was Jasnah, the king's daughter? Elhokar, the king's son and heir, sat at the high table, ruling the feast in his father's absence. He was in conversation with two men, a dark-skinned Azish man who had an odd patch of pale skin on his cheek and a thinner, Alethi-looking man who kept glancing over his shoulder.

The heir's feasting companions were unimportant. Szeth stayed far from the man, skirting the sides of the room, passing rows of unwavering azure lights that bulged out where wall met floor. Those held sapphires infused with Stormlight. Profane. How could the men of these lands use something so sacred for mere illumination? Worse, the Alethi stormwardens – the greatest scholars in the world – were learning to manipulate Stormlight for the creation of fabrials. Rumor had it they were close to being able to create new Shardblades. He hoped that was just wishful boasting. For if it did happen, the world would be changed. Likely in a way that ended with people in all countries – from distant Thalenah to towering Jah Keved – speaking Alethi to their children.

They were grand people, these Alethi. Even drunk, there was a natural nobility to them. Tall and well made, the men dressed in dark silk coats that buttoned down the sides of the chest and were elaborately embroidered in silver or gold. Each one looked a general on the field.

The woman were even more splendid. They wore grand silk dresses, tightly fitted, the bright colors a contract to the dark tones favored by the men. The left sleeve of each dress was longer than the right one, covering the hand in the name of that strange Alethi sense of propriety. Their pure black hair was pinned up atop their heads, either in intricate weavings of braids or in loose piles. Often it was woven with gold ribbons or ornaments, along with gems that glowed with Stormlight. Beautiful. Profane, but beautiful.

Szethi left the feasting chamber behind. Just outside, he passed the doorway into the Beggar's Feast. It was an Alethi tradition, a room where some of the poorest men and women in the city were given a feast complementing that of the king and his guests. A man with a long, grey and black beard slumped in the doorway smiling foolishly – though whether from wine or a weak mind, Szeth could not tell.

“Have you seen me?” he slurred as Szeth passed, then began to speak in giggling gibberish, reaching for a wineskin. So it was drink after all. Szeth brushed by, continuing on past a line of statues of the Ten Heralds. Or, at least, nine of them. One was conspicuously missing, though Szeth didn't know why Shalash's statue had been removed. The Alethi king was said to be very devout in his worship. Too devout, by some people's standards.

The hallway here curved to the right, running around the perimeter of the domed palace of Kholinar. They were on the king's floor, two levels up, surrounded by rock walls, ceiling, and floor. That was profane as well. Stone was not to be trod upon. But what was he to do? He was Truthless. He did as his masters demanded.

Szeth's white clothing swished. The loose trousers were tied at the waist with a white rope. Over them he wore a filmy white shirt with long sleeves, open at the front. White clothing. A tradition among these wile parshman who – defying all beliefs about their kind – had formed a nation out of the Unclaimed Hills. Although Szeth had not asked why he was told to wear white, his masters had explained anyway. White to be bold. White to not blend into the night. White to give warning.

For if you were going to assassinate a man, he was entitled to see you coming.

Szeth turned right, taking the hallway directly toward the king's chambers. Torches burned on the walls, their light unsatisfying to him, like a meal of thin broth after a long fast. Tiny flamespren danced around them like insects made solely of congealed light. They were useless to him. Fortunately, he saw more of the blue lights ahead: a pair of Stormlight lamps hanging on the wall, brilliant sapphires glowing at their hearts. Szeth walked up to one, holding out his hand to cup it around the glass-shrouded gemstone.

“You there!” a voice called in Alethi. There were two guards at the intersection. Double guard, for there were savages abroad in Kholinar this night. True, those savages were supposed to be allies now. But alliances could be shallow things indeed.

This one wouldn't last the night.

Szeth turned as the two guards approached. They carried spears; they weren't lighteyes, and were therefore forbidden the sword. Their painted red breastplates were ornate, however, as were their helms. They might be darkeyed, but they were high-ranking citizens with honored positions in the royal guard.

Stopping a few feet away, the guard in the lead gestured with his spear. “Go on, now. This is no place for you.” He had tan skin and a thin mustache that ran all the way around his mouth, becoming a beard at the bottom.

Szeth didn't move.

“Well?” the guard said. “What are you waiting for?”

Szeth breathed in deeply, drawing forth the Stormlight. It streamed in to him, siphoned from the twin sapphire lamps on the walls, sucked in as if by his deep inhalation. The Stormlight raged inside of him, and the hallway suddenly grew darker, falling into shade like a hilltop cut off from the sun by a transient cloud.

Szeth could feel the Light's warmth, its fury, like a tempest that had been injected directly into his veins. The power of it was invigorating but dangerous. It pushed him to act. To move. To strike.

Holding his breath, he clung to the Stormlight. He could still feel it leaking out. Stormlight could be held for only a short time, a few minutes at most. It leaked away, the human body too porous a container. He had heard that the Voidbringers could hold it perfectly. But, then, did they even exist? His punishment declared that they didn't. His honor demanded that they did.

Afire with holy energy, Szeth turned to the guards. They could see that he was leaking Stormlight, wisps of it faintly visible curling from his skin like a luminescent smoke. The lead guard squinted, frowning. Szeth was sure the man had never seen anything like it before. As far as he knew, Szeth had killed every mainlander who had ever seen what he could do.

“What . . . what are you?” The guard's voice had lost its certainty. “Spirit or man?”

“What am I?” Szeth whispered, a bit of light leaking from his lips. “I'm . . . sorry.”

Let it begin, he thought, looking past the man all the way down the long hallway.

Szeth blinked, Lashing himself to that distant point. Stormlight raged from him in a flash, chilling his skin. He lurched where he stood as the ground stopped pulling him downward. For a moment, he was instead yanked toward the far end of the hall.

No, yanked was the wrong word. He fell toward that distant point. Whatever force, spren, or god it was that help men to the ground had released its grip upon Szeth. From his perspective, the hallway was now a deep shaft down which he fell, with the two guards strangely managing to stand on the wall. This was a partial Lashing, the first of his three kinds of Lashings. It gave him the ability to bind himself, or other objects, to a selected point; he or his subject would then be pulled in that direction instead of toward the ground.

The guards were shocked when Szeth's feet hit them, one for each face, knocking them over. Szeth shifted his view and Lashed himself to the floor. Light leaked from him. The floor of the hallway again became down, and he landed between the two guards, clothes crackling and dropping flakes of frost. He rose, beginning the process of summoning his Shardblade.

One of the guards fumbled for his spear. Szeth snapped a hand to the side, touching the soldier's chest while looking up. He focused on a point above him while willing the Light out of his body and into the guard, Lashing the poor man to the ceiling.

The guard yelped in shock as up became down for him. Light trailing from his form, he fell upward and crashed into the ceiling. Knocked senseless, he dropped his spear. It was not Lashed, so it fell, clattering back to the floor near Szeth.

To kill. It was the greatest of sins. And yet here Szeth stood, Truthless, profanely walking on stoned sinfully used for building. And it would not end. As Truthless, there was only one light he was forbidden to take.

And that was his own.

At the tenth beat of his heart, his Shardblade dropped into his waiting hand. It was formed as if condensing from mist, beads of water forming along the metal length. His Shardblade was long and thin, edged on both sides, smaller than most others. Szeth swept it out, carving a line in the stone floor beneath him and shearing through the floor-bound guard's neck.

As always, the Shardblade worked oddly; though it cut easily through stone, steel, or anything inanimate, it made no mark on the guard's skin. The man's eyes, however, began to smoke and burn, blackening, shriveling up in his head. He slumped forward, dead. A Shardblade did not cut living flesh, bit it killed just the same.

Above, the first guard gasped. He'd managed to his to his feed, even though they were planted on the ceiling of the hallway. “Shardbearer!” he shouted. “A Shardbearer assaults the king's hall! To arms!”

Finally, Szeth thought. Szeth's use of a Stormlight was unfamiliar to the guards, but they knew of a Shardblade when they saw one.

Szeth bent down and picked up the spear that had fallen from above. As he did so, he released the breath he'd been holding since drawing in the Stormlight. It had sustained him while he held it, but it was running out. The little remaining Light puffed away, dissipating.

Szeth set the spear's butt against the stone floor, then looked upward. The guard above stopped shouting, eyes opening wide as the tails of his shirt began to slip downward, falling toward the ground, the earth below reasserting its dominance. The Light streaming off his body dwindled.

He looked down at Szeth. Down at the spear tip pointing directly at his heart.

The Light ran out. The guard fell.

He screamed as he hit, the spear impaling him through the chest. Szeth let the spear fall away, carried to the ground with a muffled thump by the body twitching on its end. Shardblade in hand, he turned down a side corridor, following the map he'd memorized. He dunked around a corner and flattened himself against the wall, just as a troop of guards reached the dead men. The newcomers began shouting immediately, continuing the alarm.

His instructions were clear. Kill the king, but be seen doing it. Let the Alethi know you are coming and what you are doing. Why? Why did the Parshendi agree to this treaty, only to send an assassin to the very night of its signing? Why did they insist that Szeth raise an uproar with the attacks?

More gemstones glowed on the walls of the hallway here. King Gavilar liked lavish displays of power for Szeth to use in his Lashings. The things he did hadn't been seen for millennia. Histories from those times were all but nonexistent, and the legends were inaccurate.

Szeth peeked back out into the corridor and allowed himself to be seen. One of the guards at the intersection pointed and yelled. Szeth made sure they got a good look, then ducked away. He took a deep breath as he ran, drawing in the Stormlight. His body came alive with it, and his speed increased, his muscles bursting with energy. Light became a storm inside of him; his blood thundered in his ears. It was terrible and wonderful at the same time.

Two corridors down, one to the side. He threw open the door to a storage room for furniture. Szeth hesitated a moment – just long enough for a guard to round the corner and see him – then dashed into the room. Preparing for a full Lashing, he raised his arm and commanded the Stormlight to pool there, causing the skin to burst alight with its radiance. Then he flung his hand out toward the door-frame, spraying white luminescence across it like paoint. He slammed the door just as the guards arrived.

The Stormlight held the door in the frame with the strength of a hundred arms. A full Lashing bound objects together solidly, holding them fast until the Stormlight ran out. It took longer to create – and drained Stormlight far more quickly – than a partial Lashing. The door handle shook, and then the wood began to crack as the guards threw their weight against it, one man calling for an axe.

Szeth crossed the room in rapid strides, wearing around and-preparing himself for yet another blasphemy – he raised his Shardblade and slashed horizontally through the dark grey stone. The rock sliced easily. Two vertical slashed followed, then one across the bottom. Cutting a large square block, he pressed his hand against it, willing Stormlight into the stone. Behind him the room's door began to split.

Looking over his shoulder, and focusing on the shaking door, he Lashed the block in that direction. Frost crystallized on his clothing – Lashing something so large drained a great deal of his Stormlight away. The tempest within him stilled, like a storm reduced to a drizzle.

He stepped aside. The large stone block shuddered, sliding outward. Normally, moving the block would have been impossible. Its own weight would have held it against the stones below. Yet now, that same weight pulled it free; for the block, the direction of the room's door was down. With a deep grinding sound, the block slid free of the wall and tumbled through the air. The soldiers finally broke through the door, staggering into the room.

And then the block crashed into them.

Szeth turned his back on the cries of agony and the terrible sound of the block crushing stone, wood, and bones. He ducked and stepped through his new hole, entering the hallway outside.

He walked slowly, drawing Stormlight from the laps he passed, siphoning it to him and stoking anew the tempest within. As the lamps dimmed, the corridor was cast into shadow, like a tunnel. A thick wooden door stood at the end of the stone hallway, and as he approached, small fearspren – shaped like globs of purple goo – began to wriggle free of the masonry, pointing toward the doorway. They were drawn by the terror being felt on the other side.

Szeth pushed the door open, entering the last corridor leading to the king's chambers. Interspersed among the tall, red ceramic vases lining it were nervous solders. They waited for him, flanking the long , narrow carpet. It was red, like a river of blood.

The two spearmen in front didn't wait for him to get close. They broke into a trot to gain momentum, lifting their spears. Szeth slammed his hand to the side, pushing Stormlight into the doorframe, using the third kind of his Lashings, a reverse Lashing. This one worked differently from the other two. The doorframe did not emit Stormlight; indeed it seemed to pull nearby light into it, giving it a strange prenumbra.

The spearmen threw, and Szeth stood still, hand on the doorframe. A reverse Lashing required his constant touch, but took comparatively little Stormlight. During one, anything that approached him was pulled toward the object he was touching. The spears veered in the air, splitting around him and slamming into the wooden frame. As he felt them hit, Szeth leaped into the air and Lashed himself to the right wall with a blink, his feet hitting the stone with a slap.

He reoriented himself immediately. He wasn't standing on the wall. The soldiers were, the blood red carpet streaming behind them like a long tapestry. Szeth bolted down the hallway, striking with his Shardblade, shearing through the necks of the two men who had thrown spears at him. Their eyes burned, and they collapsed.

The other guards in the hallway began to panic. Some tried to attack him, others yelled for more help, still others cringed away from him. The attackers had trouble – they were disoriented by the oddity of striking at someone who hunk on the wall. Szeth flipped into the air, tucked into a roll, and Lashed himself back to the floor. He hit thr ground in toe midst of the soldiers.

Completely surrounded, but holding a Shardblade.

According to legend, the Shardblades were first carried by the Knights Radiant uncounted ages ago, as gifts of their god. Only the Shardblades enabled them to fight the horrors of rock and flame, dozens of feet tall, foes whose eyes burned with hatred. The Voidbringers. When your foe had skin as hard as stone itself, steel was useless. Something supernal was required.

Szeth rose from his crouch, loose white clothes rippling, jaw clenched against his sins. He struck out, his weapon flashing with reflected torchlight. Elegant wide swings. Three of them, one after the other. Much though he wished to, he could neither close his ears to the screams that followed, nor avoid seeing the men fall. They dropped around him like toys knocked over by a child's careless kick. If the Blade cut a man's spine, he died, eyes burning. If it cut through a limb, it killed that limb. One soldier stumbled away from him, arm flopping uselessly on his shoulder. He would never be able to feel it, or use it, again.

Szeth lowered his Shardblade, standing among the cinder-eyed corpses. Here, in Alethkar, men often spoke of the legends – of mankind's hard-won victory over the Voidbringers. But when weapons created to fight nightmares were turned against common soldiers, the lives of men became cheap things indeed.

Szeth turned and continued on his way, skippered feet falling silent on the soft red rub. The Shardblade, as always, glistened silver and clean. When one killed with a Blade, there was no blood. That seemed to Szeth to be a sign. The Shardblade was just a tool; it could not be blamed for the murders.

The door at the end of the hallway burst open. Szeth froze as another small group of soldiers rushed out, ushering away a man in regal robes, his head ducked down as if to avoid possible arrows. The soldiers wore deep blue, the color of the king's guard, and the sight of the corpses Szeth had left didn't make them stop and gawk. They were prepared for what a Shardbearer could do. They opened a side door and shoved their ward through, several leveling spears as Szeth as they backed out.

Another figure stepped out of the king's quarters; he wore glistening blue armor made of smoothly interlocking plated. Unlike common plate armor, however, there was no leather or mail visible at the joints – just smaller plates, fitting together with intricate precision. He carried an enormous single-edged sword, a Blade designed to slay dark gods, a larger counterpart to the one Szeth carried.

Szeth hesitated. A Shardbearer would have to be dealt with before he chased the king; he could not leave such a foe behind.

Besides, perhaps a Shardbearer could defeat him, kill him and end his miserable life. His Lashings wouldn't work directly on someone in Shardplate, and the armor would enhance the man, strengthen him. It was also the only defense that would resist a Shardblade except for another Shardblade. Szeth's honor would not allow him to betray his mission or seek death. But if that occurred, he would welcome it.

Once again, he Lashed himself to the side of the hallway, leaping into the air with a twist and landing on the wall. He dashed forward, Blade held at the ready. The Swordbearer fell into an aggressive posture, using one of the swordplay stances favored here in the east, and swept out with his Blade. He moved far more nimbly than one would expect for a man in such bulky armor. Shardplate was special, as ancient and magical as the Blades it complemented.

Szeth leaped again, skipping to the side and Lashing himself to the ceiling as the Shardbearer's Blade sliced into the wall. Chunks of mortar and stone fell free; Szeth landed and struck out at his opponent's head. The Shardbearer ducked, going down on one knee, letting Szeth's Blade cleave empty air.

Szeth dashed forward, running above the Shardbearer before Lashing himself to the floor again. He flipped to land on his feet and slammed his Blade into his opponent's armor.

Shardplate didn't bend or dent like common metal. It cracked. Where Szeth's Blade hit, the Plate on the Shardbearer's side sent out a web of blowing lines. Stormlight began to leak free.

Stormlight. It both gave durability to Shardplate and strengthened its wearer – without its infused gemstones, the armor was too heavy to move in, let alone fight in. Szeth danced out of range as the Shardbearer swung in anger, trying to cut at Szeth's knees. The tempest within Szeth gave him many advantages – including the ability to quickly recover from small wounds – but would not be able to restore limbs killed by a Shardblade.

He dashed forward. Briefly Lashing himself to the ceiling for lift. Szeth leaped over a swing from the Shardbearer, then immediately Lashed himself back to the floor and struck again. But the Shardbearer recovered just as quickly and reached out precisely with his backswing, coming dangerously close to hitting Szeth. The man was good, well trained. Many Shardbearers depended too much on the power of their weapon and armor. This man was different. In other circumstances, Szeth might have enjoyed the fight, but right now he was too concerned about the fleeing king.

He jumped to the wall and struck at the Shardbearer with quick, terse attacks, like a snapping eel. The Shardbearer fended him off with wide, sweeping counters, as necessitated by the size of his Blade. Its length kept Szeth at bay, and he was unable to get close enough to land any more blows.

This is taking too long! If the king slipped away into hiding, Szeth would fail in his mission no matter how many people he killed. He ducked in for another strike, but the Shardbearer forced him back. Each second this fight lasted was another for the king's escape.

It was time to be reckless. Szeth launched into the air, Lashing himself to the other end of the hallway, falling feet first toward his adversary. The Shardbearer didn't hesitate to swing, but Szeth Lashed himself down at an angle, dropping immediately. The Shardblade swished through the air above him as he landed in a crouch, using his momentum to throw himself forward.

He swung at the Shardbearer's side, where the Plate had cracked, and struck with a powerful blow. That piece of the Plate shattered, bits of molten metal streaking away. The Shardbearer grunted, dropping to one knee, raising a hand to his side. Szeth raised a foot to the man's shoulder and threw him backward with a Stormlight-enhanced shove.

The heavy Shardbearer crashed into the door of the king's quarters, smashing it and falling partway into the room beyond. Szeth left him, ducking instead through the doorway to the right through which the king had been taken. The hallway here had the same red carpet and was lined with carved reliefs on the walls. The Stormlight lamps between the reliefs gave Szeth a chance to recharge the tempest within him, which was nearly gone.

Energy blazed within him again, and he sped up. If he could get far enough ahead, he could deal with the king first, then turn back to fight off the Shardbearer. It wouldn't be easy. A full Lashing on a doorway wouldn't stop a Shardbearer, and with that Plate he would be able to run supernaturally fast. Szeth glanced over his shoulder.

The Shardbearer wasn't following. The man sat up in his armor, looking dazed. Perhaps Szeth had wounded him more seriously than he'd thought.

Or maybe...

Szeth froze. He thought of the ducked head of the man who'd been rushed out, face obscured. The Shardbearer still wasn't following. He was so skilled. It was said that few men could rival Gavilar Kholin's swordmanship. Could it be?

Szeth turned and dashed back the way he had come, trusting his instincts. As soon as the Shardbearer saw him, he climbed to his feet with alacrity. Szeth ran faster. What was the safest place for your king? In the hands of some guards, fleeing? Or protected in a suit of Shardplate, left behind, dismissed as a bodyguard?

Clever. Szeth thought as the formerly sluggish Shardbearer fell into another battle stance. Szeth attacked with renewed vigor, swinging his Blade in a flurry of strikes. The Shardbearer – the king – aggressively struck out with broad, sweeping blows. Szeth pulled away from one of these, feeling the wind of the weapon passing just inches before him, then ducked and dashed underneath the follow-through, slipping past the Shardbearer and into the room. Szeth swung his Blade as he passed, cracking more of the Plate on the king's side.

The king spun around to follow, but Szeth ran through the lavishly furnished chamber, flinging out his hand, touching pieces of furniture he passed. He invested them with Stormlight, Lashing them to a point behind the king. The furniture tumbled as if the room had been turned on its side, couches, chairs, and tables dropping toward the surprised king. Gavilar made the mistake of chopping at them with his Shardblade. The weapon easily sheared through a large couch, but the furniture still crashed into him, making him stumble. A footstool hit him next, throwing him to the ground.

Unfortunately, Szeth couldn't Lash the furniture to a moving person – with a partial Lashing, you Lashed to a specific point, and that because down for the object. It he could get close enough, he could use a reverse Lashing on a person, causing objects – particularly those in motion – to be attracted to him. But the Shardplate would protect the king from that.

Gavilar rolled out of the way of the furniture and charged forward, Plate leaking streams of Light from the cracked sections. Szeth gathered himself, then leaped into the air, Lashing himself backward and to the right as the king arrived. He zipped out of the way of the king's blow, then Lashed himself forward with a double partial Lashing. Stormlight flashed out of him, clothing freezing, as he was pulled toward the king at twice the speed of a normal fall.

The king's posture indicated surprise, and the maneuver got Szeth close enough to land a blow on his helm, cracking it. Szeth immediately Lashed himself to the ceiling and fell upward, slamming into the stone roof above. He'd Lashed himself in too many directions too quickly, and his body had lost track, making it difficult to land as gracefully as he had earlier. He stumbled back to his feet.

Below, the king stepped back, trying to get into position to swing up at him. The king used a one-handed swing, reaching for the ceiling, but Szeth Lashed himself downward, going for the helm again.

He'd underestimated his opponent. The king anticipated his move, and as Szeth hit the helm a second time, the Shardbearer struck with a prepared punch, slamming his gauntleted fish into Szeth's face.

Blinding light flashed inSzeth's eyes, a counterpoint to the sudden pain that crashed across his face. Everything blurred, his vision fading.

Pain! So much pain!

He screamed, Stormlight leaving him in a rush, and he hit something hard. The balcony doors. The blow had flung him backward into them; such a impact would have killed an ordinary man. More pain broke out across his back, like someone had stabbed him with a hundred daggers, and he rolled to a stop, everything trembling.

No time for pain. No time for pain. No time for pain!

He blinked, shaking his head, the world blurry and dark. Was he blind? No. It was dark outside. He was on the wooden balcony; the force of the blow had thrown him through the doors. Something was thumping. Heavy footfalls. The Shardbearer!

Szeth stumbled to his feet, vision swimming. Blood streamed from the side of his face, and Stormlight rose from his skin, blinding his left eye. The Light. It would heal him, if it could, keeping him alive. His jaw felt unhinged. Broken? He'd dropped his Shardblade.

A limbering shadow moved in front of him; the Shardbearer's armor had leaked enough Stormlight that the king was having trouble walking. Be he was coming.

Szeth screamed, kneeling, pushing Stormlight into the wooden balcony. Infesting it, Lashing it downward. The air frosted around him. The tempest roared, traveling down his arms into the wood. He Lashed the wood downward with another partial Lashing, then did it again. He Lashed a fourth time as Gavilar stepped onto the wood.

The balcony lurched under the extra weight. The wood cracked, straining. The Shardbearer hesitated.

Szeth Lashed the balcony downward a fifth time. The balcony supports shattered and the entire structure broke free from the building, tumbling in the air. Szeth screamed through a broken jaw and used the final bit of his Stormlight to Lash himself to the side of the building. He fell to the side, past the shocked Shardbearer, hitting the wall and rolling.

The balcony dropped away, the king looking up with shock as he lost his footing. The fall was brief. In the moonlight, Szeth watched solemnly – vision still fuzzy , blinded in one eye – as the structure crashed into the stone ground below. The wall of the palace shook with the blow, and the crash of broken wood echoed from the nearby buildings.

Still standing on the wall, Szeth groaned, climbing to his feet. He felt weak; he'd used his Stormlight too quickly, straining his body. He stumbled down the side of the building, approaching the wreckage, barely able to stand up.

The king was still moving. Shardplate would protect a man from such a fall, but both the helm and the second plate Szeth had cracked were now shattered. A large length of bloodied wood stuck up through Gavilar's side. Szeth knelt down, inspecting the man's pain-wracked face. Strong features, square chin, black beard flecked with white. Gavilar Kholin.

“I . . . expected you . . . to come,” the king said between gasps.

Szeth reached underneath the front of the man's breastplate, tapping the straps there. They unfastened, and he pulled the front of the breastplate free, exposing the gemstones on its interior. Two had been cracked and burned out. Three still glowed. Numb, Szeth breathed in sharply, absorbing the Light.

The storm began to rage again, and more Light rose from the side of his face, repeating his damaged skin and bones. The pain was still great; Stormlight healing was not instantaneous.

The king coughed. “You can tell . . . Thaidakar . . . that he's too late . . .”

“I don't know who that is,” Szeth said, standing, his words slurring from his broken jaw. Speaking hurt, but he was accustomed to pain. He held his hand to his side, re-summoning his Shardblade.

The king frowned. “Then who... ? Restares? Sadeas? I never thought . . .”

“My masters are the Parshendi,” Szeth said. Ten heartbeats passed, and his Blade dropped into his hand, wet with condensation.

“The Parshendi? That makes no sense.” Gavilar coughed, hand quivering, reading toward his chest and fumbling at a pocket. He pulled out a small crystalline sphere tied to a chain. “You must take this. They must not get it.” He seemed dazed. “Tell . . . tell my brother . . . he must find the most important words a man can say . . . .”

Gavilar fell still.

Szeth hesitated, then knelt down and took the sphere. It was odd, unlike any he'd seen before. Though, it was completely dark, it seemed to blow somehow. With a light that was black.

The Parshendi? Gavilar had said. That makes no sense.

“Nothing makes sense anymore,” Szeth whispered, tucking the strange sphere away. “It's all unraveling. Everything. I am sorry, King of Alethi. I doubt that you care. Not anymore, at least.” He stood up. “At least you won't have to watch the world ending with the rest of us.”

Beside the king's body, his Shardblade materialized from mist, clattering to the stones now that its master was dead. It was worth a fortune; kingdoms had fallen as men vied to possess a single Shardblade.

Szeth glanced upward. Shouts of alarm came from inside the palace. He needed to go. But . . .

Tell my brother . . . .

The Szeth's people, a dying request was sacred and must always be honored. He took the king's hand, dipping it in the man's own blood, then used it to scrawl the words he had spoken on the wood beside him. Brother. You must find the most important words a man can say.

With that, Szeth escaped into the night. He left the king's Shardblade lying where it had fallen; he had no use for it.

The Blade Szeth already carried was curse enough.