The Way of Kings (108 page)

The Parshendi have seen our servants, and are confused by them. “Where is their music?” Klade will often ask me. I do not know what he means. But our servants do not react to the Parshendi at all, showing no interest in emulating them. This is reassuring.

The question about music may have to do with the humming and chanting the Parshendi often do. They have an uncanny ability to make music together. I swear that I have left one Parshendi singing to himself, then soon passed another out of earshot of the first, yet singing the very same song—eerily near to the other in tempo, tune, and lyric.

Their favored instrument is the drum. They are crudely made, with handprints of paint marking the sides. This matches their simple buildings, which they construct of crem and stone. They build them in the craterlike rock formations here at the edge of the Shattered Plains. I ask Klade if they worry about highstorms, but he just laughs. “Why worry? If the buildings blow down, we can build them again, can we not?”

On the other side of the alcove, Jasnah’s book rustled as she turned a page. Shallan set aside her own volume, then picked through the books on the desk. Her philosophy training done for the time being, she had returned to her study of King Gavilar’s murder.

She slid a small volume out from the bottom of the stack: a record dictated by Stormwarden Matain, one of the scholars who had accompanied the king. Shallan flipped through the pages, searching for a specific passage. It was a description of the very first Parshendi hunting party they encountered.

It happened after we set up beside a deep river in a heavily wooded area. It was an ideal location for a long-term camp, as the dense cobwood trees would protect against highstorm winds, and the river’s gorge eliminated the risk of flooding. His Majesty wisely took my advice, sending scouting parties both upriver and down.

Highprince Dalinar’s scouting party was the first to encounter the strange, untamed parshmen. When he returned to camp with his story, I—like many others—refused to believe his claims. Surely Brightlord Dalinar had simply run across the parshman servants of another expedition like our own.

Once they visited our camp the next day, their reality could no longer be denied. There were ten of them—parshmen to be sure, but bigger than the familiar ones. Some had skin marbled black and red, and others were marbled white and red, as is more common in Alethkar. They carried magnificent weapons, the bright steel etched with complex decorations, but wore simple clothing of woven narbin cloth.

Before long, His Majesty became fascinated by these strange parshmen, insisting that I begin a study of their language and society. I’ll admit that my original intent was to expose them as a hoax of some kind. The more we learned, however, the more I came to realize how faulty my original assessment had been.

Shallan tapped the page, thinking. Then she pulled out a thick volume, titled
King Gavilar Kholin, a Biography
, published by Gavilar’s widow, Navani, two years before. Shallan flipped through pages, scanning for a particular paragraph.

My husband was an excellent king—an inspiring leader, an unparalleled duelist, and a genius of battlefield tactics. But he didn’t have a single scholarly finger on his left hand. He never showed an interest in the accounting of highstorms, was bored by talk of science, and ignored fabrials unless they had an obvious use in battle. He was a man built after the classical masculine ideal.

“Why was he so interested in them?” Shallan said out loud.

“Hmmm?” Jasnah asked.

“King Gavilar,” Shallan said. “Your mother insists in her biography that he wasn’t a scholar.”

“True.”

“But he
was
interested in the Parshendi,” Shallan said. “Even before he could have known about their Shardblades. According to Matain’s account, he wanted to know about their language, their society, and their music. Was that just embellishment, to make him sound more scholarly to future readers?”

“No,” Jasnah said, lowering her own book. “The longer he remained in the Unclaimed Hills, the more fascinated by the Parshendi he became.”

“So there’s a discrepancy. Why would a man with no prior interest in scholarship suddenly become so obsessed?”

“Yes,” Jasnah said. “I too have wondered about this. But sometimes, people change. When he returned, I was encouraged by his interest; we spent many evenings talking about his discoveries. It was one of the few times when I felt I really connected with my father.”

Shallan bit her lip. “Jasnah,” she finally asked. “Why did you assign me to research this event? You
lived
through this; you already know everything I’m ‘discovering.’”

“I feel a fresh perspective may be of value.” Jasnah put down her book, looking over at Shallan. “I don’t intend for you to find specific answers. Instead, I hope that you will notice details I’ve missed. You are coming to see how my father’s personality changed during those months, and that means you are digging deeply. Believe it or not, few others have caught the discrepancy you just did—though many do note his later changes, once he returned to Kholinar.”

“Even so, I feel a little odd studying it. Perhaps I’m still influenced by my tutors’ idea that only the classics are a proper realm of study for young ladies.”

“The classics do have their place, and I will send you to classical works on occasion, as I did with your study of morality. But I intend such tangents to be adjuncts to your current projects.
Those
must be the focus, not long-lost historical conundrums.”

Shallan nodded. “But Jasnah, aren’t you a
historian
? Aren’t those long-lost historical conundrums the meat of your field?”

“I’m a Veristitalian,” Jasnah said. “We search for answers in the past, reconstructing what truly happened. To many, writing a history is not about truth, but about presenting the most flattering picture of themselves and their motives. My sisters and I choose projects that we feel were misunderstood or misrepresented, and in studying them hope to better understand the present.”

Why, then, are you spending so much time studying folktales and looking for evil spirits?
No, Jasnah was searching for something real. Something so important that it drew her away from the Shattered Plains and the fight to avenge her father. She intended to do something with those folktales, and Shallan’s research was part of it, somehow.

That excited her. It was the sort of thing she’d wanted since she’d been a child, looking through her father’s few books, frustrated that he’d chased off yet another tutor. Here, with Jasnah, Shallan was part of something—and, knowing Jasnah, it was something
big
.

And yet,
she thought.
Tozbek’s ship arrives tomorrow morning. I’ll be leaving.

I need to start complaining. I need to convince Jasnah that this was all so much harder than I anticipated, so that when I leave she won’t be surprised. I need to cry, break down, give up. I need to—

“What is Urithiru?” Shallan found herself asking instead.

To her surprise, Jasnah answered without hesitation. “Urithiru was said to be the center of the Silver Kingdoms, a city that held ten thrones, one for each king. It was the most majestic, most amazing, most important city in all the world.”

“Really? Why hadn’t I heard of it before?”

“Because it was abandoned even before the Lost Radiants turned against mankind. Most scholars consider it just a myth. The ardents refuse to speak of it, due to its association with the Radiants, and therefore with the first major failure of Vorinism. Much of what we know about the city comes from fragments of lost works quoted by classical scholars. Many of those classical works have, themselves, survived only in pieces. Indeed, the single complete work we have from early years is
The Way of Kings,
and that is only because of the Vanrial’s efforts.”

Shallan nodded slowly. “If there were ruins of a magnificent, ancient city hidden somewhere, Natanatan—unexplored, overgrown, wild—would be the natural place to find them.”

“Urithiru is
not
in Natanatan,” Jasnah said, smiling. “But it is a good guess, Shallan. Return to your studies.”

“The weapons,” Shallan said.

Jasnah raised an eyebrow.

“The Parshendi. They carried beautiful weapons of fine, etched steel. Yet they used skin drums with crude handprints on the sides and lived in huts of stone and crem. Doesn’t that strike you as incongruous?”

“Yes. I would certainly describe that as an oddity.”

“Then—”

“I assure you, Shallan,” Jasnah said. “The city is not there.”

“But you
are
interested in the Shattered Plains. You spoke of them with Brightlord Dalinar through the spanreed.”

“I did.”

“What were the Voidbringers?” Now that Jasnah was actually answering, perhaps she’d say. “What were they
really
?”

Jasnah studied her with a curious expression. “Nobody knows for sure. Most scholars consider them, like Urithiru, mere myths, while theologians accept them as counterparts of the Almighty—monsters that dwelled in the hearts of men, much as the Almighty once lived there.”

“But—”

“Return to your studies, child,” Jasnah said, raising her book. “Perhaps we will speak of this another time.”

There was an air of finality about that. Shallan bit her lip, keeping herself from saying something rude just to draw Jasnah back into conversation.
She doesn’t trust me,
she thought. Perhaps with good reason.
You’re leaving,
Shallan told herself again.
Tomorrow. You’re sailing away from this.

But that meant she had only one day left. One more day in the grand Palanaeum. One more day with all of these books, all of this power and knowledge.

“I need a copy of Tifandor’s biography of your father,” Shallan said, poking through the books. “I keep seeing it referenced.”

“It’s on one of the bottom floors,” Jasnah said idly. “I might be able to dig out the index number.”

“No need,” Shallan said, standing. “I’ll look it up. I need the practice.”

“As you wish,” Jasnah said.

Shallan smiled. She knew exactly where the book was—but the pretense of searching for it would give her time away from Jasnah. And during that time, she’d see what she could discover about the Voidbringers on her own.

Two hours later, Shallan sat at a cluttered desk at the back of one of the Palanaeum’s lower-level rooms, her sphere lantern illuminating a stack of hastily gathered volumes, none of which had proven much use.

It seemed that everybody knew something about the Voidbringers. People in rural areas spoke of them as mysterious creatures that came out at night, stealing from the unlucky and punishing the foolish. Those Voidbringers seemed more mischievous than evil. But then there would be the odd story about a Voidbringer taking on the form of a wayward traveler who—after receiving kindness from a tallew farmer—would slaughter the entire family, drink their blood, then write voidish symbols across the walls in black ash.

Most people in the cities, however, saw the Voidbringers as spirits who stalked at night, a kind of evil spren that invaded the hearts of men and made them do terrible things. When a good man grew angry, it was the work of a Voidbringer.

Scholars laughed at all these ideas. Actual historical accounts—the ones she could find quickly—were contradictory. Were the Voidbringers the denizens of Damnation? If so, wouldn’t Damnation now be empty, as the Voidbringers had conquered the Tranquiline Halls and cast out mankind to Roshar?

I should have known that I’d have trouble finding anything solid,
Shallan thought, leaning back in her chair.
Jasnah’s been researching this for months, maybe years. What did I expect to find in a few hours?

The only thing the research had done was increase her confusion. What errant winds had brought Jasnah to this topic? It made no sense. Studying the Voidbringers was like trying to determine if deathspren were real or not. What was the point?

She shook her head, stacking her books. The ardents would reshelve them for her. She needed to fetch Tifandor’s biography and return to their balcony. She rose and walked toward the room’s exit, carrying her lantern in her freehand. She hadn’t brought a parshman; she intended to carry back only the one book. As she reached the exit, she noticed another light approaching out on the balcony. Just before she arrived, someone stepped up to the doorway, holding aloft a garnet lantern.

“Kabsal?” Shallan asked, surprised to see his youthful face, painted blue by the light.

“Shallan?” he asked, looking up at the index inscription atop the entry-way. “What are you doing here? Jasnah said you were looking for Tifandor.”

“I…got turned around.”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Bad lie?” she asked.

“Terrible,” he said. “You’re two floors up and about a thousand index numbers off. After I couldn’t find you below, I asked the lift porters to take me where they brought you, and they took me here.”