The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,347

they’d spent a long time out on this island. She walked to the other room, where their cot was.

“What now?” she called.

“I’m going to measure the spren with your calipers,” he called back. “I’ll take three measurements in a row. Only write down one of the figures I give you. Don’t tell me which one you’re writing down.”

“All right,” she called back. The window was open, and she looked out over a darkening, glassy expanse of water. The Reshi Sea wasn’t as shallow as the Purelake, but it was quite warm most of the time, dotted with tropical islands and the occasional monster of a greatshell.

“Three inches, seven tenths,” Ashir called.

She didn’t write down the figure.

“Two inches, eight tenths.”

She ignored the number this time too, but got her chalk ready to write—as quietly as possible—the next numbers he called out.

“Two inches, three ten—Wow.”

“What?” she called.

“It stopped changing sizes. I assume you wrote down that third number?”

She frowned, walking back into their small living chamber. Ashir’s hotplate sat on a low table to her right. After the Reshi style, there were no chairs, just cushions, and all the furniture was flat and long, rather than tall.

She approached the hearth. One of the two flamespren danced about atop a log, shape changing and length flickering like the flames themselves. The other had taken on a far more stable shape. Its length no longer changed, though its form did slightly.

It seemed locked somehow. It almost looked like a little person as it danced over the fire. She reached up and erased her notation. It immediately began pulsing and changing erratically like the other one.

“Wow,” Ashir repeated. “It’s as if it knows, somehow, that it has been measured. As if merely defining its form traps it somehow. Write down a number.”

“What number?”

“Any number,” he said. “But one that might be the size of a flamespren.”

She did so. Nothing happened.

“You have to actually measure it,” he said, tapping his spoon softly against the side of his bowl. “No pretending.”

“I wonder at the precision of the instrument,” she said. “If I use one that is less precise, will that give the spren more flexibility? Or is there a threshold, an accuracy beyond which it finds itself bound?” She sat down, feeling daunted. “I need to research this more. Try it for luminosity, then compare that to my general equation of flamespren luminosity as compared to the fire they’re drawn to dance around.”

Ashir grimaced. “That, my dear, sounds a lot like math.”

“Indeed.”

“Then I shall make you a snack to occupy you while you create new marvels of calculation and genius.” He smiled, kissing her forehead. “You just found something wonderful,” he said more softly. “I don’t know what it means yet, but it might very well change everything we understand about spren. And maybe even about fabrials.”

She smiled, turning back to her equations. And for once, she didn’t mind at all as he began chatting about his ingredients, working out a new formula for some sugary confection he was sure she’d love.

Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, spun between the two guards as their eyes burned out. They slumped quietly to the floor.

With three quick strokes, he slashed his Shardblade through the hinges and latch of the grand door. Then he took a deep breath, absorbing the Stormlight from a pouch of gemstones at his waist. He burst alight with renewed power and kicked the door with the force of a Light-enhanced foot.

It flew backward into the room, hinges no longer holding it in place, then crashed to the floor, skidding on the stone. The large feast hall inside was filled with people, crackling hearths, and clattering plates. The heavy door slid to a halt, and the room grew quiet.

I am sorry, he thought. Then he dashed in to start the slaughter.

Chaos ensued. Screams, yells, panic. Szeth leaped atop the nearest dining table and started spinning, cutting down everyone nearby. As he did so, he made certain to listen to the sounds of the dying. He did not shut his ears to the screams. He did not ignore the wails of pain. He paid attention to each and every one.

And hated himself.

He moved forward, leaping from table to table, wielding his Shardblade, a god of burning Stormlight and death.

“Armsmen!” yelled the lighteyed man at the edge of the room. “Where are my armsmen!” Thick of waist and shoulder, the man had a square brown beard and a prominent nose. King Hanavanar of Jah Keved. Not a Shardbearer, though some