The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,341

“You thought your salvation lay in enraging not only all the entire ardentia, but Alethkar? Do you realize what my brother would have done if he’d learned of this?”

Shallan looked away, feeling both foolish and ashamed.

Jasnah sighed. “Sometimes I forget how young you are. I can see how the theft might have looked tempting to you. It was stupid nonetheless. I’ve arranged passage back to Jah Keved. You will leave in the morning.”

“I—” It was more than she deserved. “Thank you.”

“Your friend, the ardent, is dead.”

Shallan looked up, dismayed. “What happened?”

“The bread was poisoned. Backbreaker powder. Very lethal, dusted over the bread to look like flour. I suspect the bread was similarly treated every time he visited. His goal was to get me to eat a piece.”

“But I ate a lot of that bread!”

“The jam had the antidote,” Jasnah said. “We found it in several empty jars he’d used.”

“It can’t be!”

“I’ve begun investigating,” Jasnah said. “I should have done so immediately. Nobody quite remembers where this ‘Kabsal’ came from. Though he spoke familiarly of the other ardents to you and me, they knew him only vaguely.”

“Then he…”

“He was playing you, child. The whole time, he was using you to get to me. To spy on what I was doing, to kill me if he could.” She spoke of it so evenly, so emotionlessly. “I believe he used much more of the powder during this last attempt, more than he’d ever used before, perhaps hoping to get me to breathe it in. He realized this would be his last opportunity. It turned against him, however, working more quickly than he’d anticipated.”

Someone had almost killed her. Not someone, Kabsal. No wonder he’d been so eager to get her to taste the jam!

“I’m very disappointed in you, Shallan,” Jasnah said. “I can see now why you tried to end your own life. It was the guilt.”

She hadn’t tried to kill herself. But what good would it do to admit that? Jasnah was taking pity on her; best not to give her reason not to. But what of the strange things Shallan had seen and experienced? Might Jasnah have an explanation for them?

Looking at Jasnah, seeing the cold rage hidden behind her calm exterior, frightened Shallan enough that her questions about the symbolheads and the strange place she’d visited died on her lips. How had Shallan ever thought of herself as brave? She wasn’t brave. She was a fool. She remembered the times her father’s rage had echoed through the house. Jasnah’s quieter, move justified anger was no less daunting.

“Well, you will need to learn to live with your guilt,” Jasnah said. “You might not have escaped with my fabrial, but you have thrown away a very promising career. This foolish scheme will stain your life for decades. No woman will take you as a ward now. You threw it away.” She shook her head in distaste. “I hate being wrong.”

With that, she turned to leave.

Shallan raised a hand. I have to apologize. I have to say something. “Jasnah?”

The woman did not look back, and the guard did not return.

Shallan curled up under the sheet, stomach in knots, feeling so sick that—for a moment—she wished that she’d actually dug that shard of glass in a little deeper. Or maybe that Jasnah hadn’t been quick enough with the Soulcaster to save her.

She’d lost it all. No fabrial to protect her family, no wardship to continue her studies. No Kabsal. She’d never actually had him in the first place.

Her tears dampened the sheets as the sunlight outside faded, then vanished. Nobody came to check on her.

Nobody cared.

ONE YEAR AGO

Kaladin sat quietly in the waiting room of Amaram’s wooden warcenter. It was constructed of a dozen study sections that could be disconnected and pulled by chulls. Kaladin sat beside a window, looking out at the camp. There was a hole where Kaladin’s squad had been housed. He could make it out from where he sat. Their tents had been broken down and given to other squads.

Four of his men remained. Four, out of twenty-six. And men called him lucky. Men called him Stormblessed. He’d begun to believe that.

I killed a Shardbearer today, he thought, mind numb. Like Lanacin the Surefooted, or Evod Markmaker. Me. I killed one.

And he didn’t care.

He crossed his arms on the wooden windowsill. There was no glass in the window and he could feel the breeze. A windspren flitted from one tent to another. Behind Kaladin, the room had a thick red rug