ترجم النص التالي الي اللغة العربية “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 Everstorm comes.”
—Collected on the ﬁrst day of the week Palah of the month Shash of  the  year  1171,  thirty-one  seconds  before  death.  Subject  was  a darkeyed  pregnant  woman  of  middle  years.  The  child  did  not survive.
right.The drummers began a new rhythm. The beats shook Szeth like a
Szeth-son-son-Vallano,  Truthless  of  Shinovar,  wore  white  on  the  day he  was  to  kill  a  king.  The  white  clothing  was  a  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  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.  Most  out  here  in  the  East thought  Szeth’s  kind  were  docile  and  harmless.  They  were  generally
quartet of thumping hearts, pumping waves of invisible blood through the room. Szeth’s masters—who were dismissed as savages by those in more civilized kingdoms—sat at their own tables. They were men with skin of black marbled with red. Parshendi, they were named—cousins to the more docile servant peoples known as parshmen in most of the world. An oddity. They did not call themselves Parshendi; this was the Alethi name for them. It meant, roughly, “parshmen who can think.” Neither side seemed to see that as an insult.
The  Parshendi  had  brought  the  musicians.  At  ﬁrst,  the  Alethi lighteyes had been hesitant. To them, drums were 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  drunken  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  heir,  skirting  the  sides  of  the  room,  passing  the drummers.  Musicspren  zipped  through  the  air  around  them,  the  tiny spirits  taking  the  form  of  spinning  translucent  ribbons.  As  Szeth passed  the  drummers,  they  noted  him.  They  would  withdraw  soon, along with all of the other Parshendi.
They  did  not  seem  oﬀended.  They  did  not  seem  angry.  And  yet they were going to break their treaty of only a few hours. It made no sense. But Szeth did not ask questions.
At  the  edge  of  the  room,  he  passed  rows  of  unwavering  azure lights  that  bulged  out  where  wall  met  ﬂoor.  They  held  sapphires infused  with  Stormlight.  Profane.  How  could  the  men  of  these  lands use  something  so  sacred  for  mere  illumination?  Worse,  the  Alethi scholars  were  said  to  be  close  to  creating  new  Shardblades.  Szeth 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  Thaylenah  to  towering  Jah  Keved—speaking Alethi to their children.
They were a 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  women  were  even  more  splendid.  They  wore  grand  silk dresses,  tightly  ﬁtted,  the  bright  colors  a  contrast  to  the  dark  tones favored by the men. The left sleeve of each dress was longer than the right one, covering the hand. Alethi had an odd sense of propriety.
Their  pure  black  hair  was  pinned  up  atop  their  heads,  either  in intricate weavings of braids or in loose piles. It was often woven with gold  ribbons  or  ornaments,  along  with  gems  that  glowed  with Stormlight. Beautiful. Profane, but beautiful.
Szeth  left  the  feasting  chamber  behind.  Just  outside,  he  passed the doorway into the Beggars’ 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?”  the  man  asked  with  slurred  speech.  He laughed, then began to speak in gibberish, reaching for a wineskin. So it  was  drink  after  all.  Szeth  brushed  by,  continuing  past  a  line  of statues  depicting  the  Ten  Heralds  from  ancient  Vorin  theology. Jezerezeh,  Ishi,  Kelek,  Talenelat.  He  counted  oﬀ  each  one,  and realized  there  were  only  nine  here.  One  was  conspicuously  missing. Why had Shalash’s statue been removed? King Gavilar was said to be very  devout  in  his  Vorin  worship.  Too  devout,  by  some  people’s standards.
The  hallway  here  curved  to  the  right,  running  around  the perimeter  of  the  domed  palace.  They  were  on  the  king’s  ﬂoor,  two levels  up,  surrounded  by  rock  walls,  ceiling,  and  ﬂoor.  That  was profane. Stone was not to be trod upon. But what was he to do? He was Truthless. He did as his masters demanded.
Today, that included wearing white. Loose white trousers tied at the waist with a rope, and over them a ﬁlmy shirt with long sleeves, open  at  the  front.  White  clothing  for  a  killer  was  a  tradition  among the  Parshendi.  Although  Szeth  had  not  asked,  his  masters  had explained why.
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,  a  meal  of  thin  broth  after  a  long  fast.  Tiny  ﬂamespren  danced around them, like insects made solely of congealed light. The torches
were  useless  to  him.  He  reached  for  his  pouch  and  the  spheres  it contained,  but  then  hesitated  when  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  of  these, 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 hour.
Szeth looked 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 at the front gestured with his spear. “Go on, now. This is no place for you.” He had tan Alethi 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  into  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  in 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  curling  from  his  skin like 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 stonewalker 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
as he looked past the man down the long hallway. “I’m…sorry.”
Szeth  blinked,  Lashing  himself  to  that  distant  point  down  the hallway.  Stormlight  raged  from  him  in  a  ﬂash,  chilling  his  skin,  and the  ground  immediately  stopped  pulling  him  downward.  Instead,  he was  pulled  toward  that  distant  point—it  was  as  if,  to  him,  that direction had suddenly become down.
This  was  a  Basic  Lashing,  ﬁrst  of  his  three  kinds  of  Lashings.  It gave  him  the  ability  to  manipulate  whatever  force,  spren,  or  god  it was  that  held  men  to  the  ground.  With  this  Lashing,  he  could  bind people or objects to diﬀerent surfaces or in diﬀerent directions.
From Szeth’s perspective, the hallway was now a deep shaft down which  he  was  falling,  and  the  two  guards  stood  on  one  of  the  sides. They  were  shocked  when  Szeth’s  feet  hit  them,  one  for  each  face, throwing 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  reached  down, touching  the  soldier’s  shoulder  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  crashed  into  the  ceiling  and  dropped  his spear. It was not Lashed directly, and clattered back down to the ﬂoor near Szeth.
To  kill.  It  was  the  greatest  of  sins.  And  yet  here  Szeth  stood, Truthless, profanely walking on stones used for building. And it would not  end.  As  Truthless,  there  was  only  one  life  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  formed  as  if  condensing  from  mist,  water  beading 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 and passing through the second guard’s neck.
As  always,  the  Shardblade  killed  oddly;  though  it  cut  easily through stone, steel, or anything inanimate, the metal fuzzed when it touched  living  skin.  It  traveled  through  the  guard’s  neck  without leaving a mark, but once it did, the man’s eyes smoked and burned. They  blackened,  shriveling  up  in  his  head,  and  he  slumped  forward, dead. A Shardblade did not cut living ﬂesh; it severed the soul itself.
Above,  the  ﬁrst  guard  gasped.  He’d  managed  to  get  to  his  feet, 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 Stormlight was unfamiliar to the guards, but they knew 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 sustained him while he held it, but those two lanterns hadn’t contained much of it, so he would need to breathe again soon. The Light began to leak away more quickly, now that he wasn’t holding his breath.
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, the earth below reasserting its dominance. The Light steaming oﬀ his body dwindled.
He looked down at Szeth. Down at the spear tip pointing directly at his heart. Violet fearspren crawled out of the stone ceiling around him.
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 ducked 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  he  was  coming  and  what  he  was  doing.  Why?  Why did  the  Parshendi  agree  to  this  treaty,  only  to  send  an  assassin  the very night of its signing?
More  gemstones  glowed  on  the  walls  of  the  hallway  here.  King Gavilar liked lavish display, and he couldn’t know that he was leaving sources of power for Szeth to use in his Lashings. The things Szeth did hadn’t been seen for millennia. Histories from those times were all but nonexistent, and the legends were horribly inaccurate.
Szeth peeked back out into the corridor. One of the guards at the intersection saw him, pointing and yelling. Szeth made sure they got a good  look,  then  ducked  away.  He  took  a  deep  breath  as  he  ran, drawing in Stormlight from the lanterns. 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 of a storage room, then hesitated a moment—just long enough for a guard to  round  the  corner  and  see  him—before  dashing  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 radiance. Then he ﬂung his hand out toward the doorframe, spraying white luminescence across it like paint. 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,  holding  them fast until the Stormlight ran out. It took longer to create—and drained Stormlight  far  more  quickly—than  a  Basic  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,  weaving  around  the shrouded furniture that had been stored here. It was of red cloth and deep  expensive  woods.  He  reached  the  far  wall  and—preparing himself  for  yet  another  blasphemy—he  raised  his  Shardblade  and slashed  horizontally  through  the  dark  grey  stone.  The  rock  sliced easily;  a  Shardblade  could  cut  any  inanimate  object.  Two  vertical slashes  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  crack.  He  looked  over  his shoulder and focused on the shaking door, Lashing the block in that direction.  Frost  crystallized  on  his  clothing—Lashing  something  so large  required  a  great  deal  of  Stormlight.  The  tempest  within  him stilled, like a storm reduced to a drizzle.
He  stepped  aside.  The  large  stone  block  shuddered,  sliding  into the  room.  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, smashing furniture.
The  soldiers  ﬁnally  broke  through  the  door,  staggering  into  the room just as the enormous block crashed into them.
Szeth  turned  his  back  on  the  terrible  sound  of  the  screams,  the splintering  of  wood,  the  breaking  of  bones.  He  ducked  and  stepped through his new hole, entering the hallway outside.
He walked slowly, drawing Stormlight from the lamps he passed, siphoning it to him and stoking anew the tempest within. As the lamps dimmed,  the  corridor  darkened.  A  thick  wooden  door  stood  at  the end,  and  as  he  approached,  small  fearspren—shaped  like  globs  of purple goo—began to wriggle from 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.  Tall,  red  ceramic  vases  lined  the  pathway,  and
they  were  interspersed  with  nervous  soldiers.  They  ﬂanked  a  long, narrow rug. It was red, like a river of blood.
The spearmen in front didn’t wait for him to get close. They broke into a trot, lifting their short throwing spears. Szeth slammed his hand to the side, pushing Stormlight into the doorframe, using the third and ﬁnal type of Lashing, a Reverse Lashing. This one worked diﬀerently from  the  other  two.  It  did  not  make  the  doorframe  emit  Stormlight; indeed,  it  seemed  to  pull  nearby  light  into  it,  giving  it  a  strange penumbra.
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—particularly  lighter  objects—was  instead  pulled  toward  the Lashing itself.
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, his feet hitting the stone with a slap.
He immediately reoriented his perspective. To his eyes, he wasn’t standing on the wall, the soldiers were, the blood-red carpet streaming between  them  like  a  long  tapestry.  Szeth  bolted  down  the  hallway, striking with his Shardblade, shearing through the necks of 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 hung on the wall. Szeth cut down a few, then ﬂipped into the air, tucking into a roll, and Lashed himself back to the ﬂoor.
He  hit  the  ground  in  the  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.  Gifts  of  their  god,  granted  to allow them to ﬁght 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 another. He could neither close his ears to the screams that followed nor  avoid  seeing  the  men  fall.  They  dropped  round  him  like  toys knocked over by a child’s careless kick. If the Blade touched a man’s spine,  he  died,  eyes  burning.  If  it  cut  through  the  core  of  a  limb,  it
killed that limb. One soldier stumbled away from Szeth, 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, slippered feet falling on the soft red rug. The Shardblade, as always, glistened silver and clean. When one killed with a Blade, there was no blood. That seemed like 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  a small group of soldiers rushed out, ushering a man in regal robes, his head  ducked  as  if  to  avoid  arrows.  The  soldiers  wore  deep  blue,  the color of the King’s Guard, and the corpses 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 at Szeth as they backed out.
Another  ﬁgure  stepped  from  the  king’s  quarters;  he  wore glistening  blue  armor  made  of  smoothly  interlocking  plates.  Unlike common  plate  armor,  however,  this  armor  had  no  leather  or  mail visible at the joints—just smaller plates, ﬁtting together with intricate precision. The armor was beautiful, the blue inlaid with golden bands around  the  edges  of  each  piece  of  plate,  the  helm  ornamented  with three waves of small, hornlike wings.
Shardplate,  the  customary  complement  to  a  Shardblade.  The newcomer  carried  a  sword  as  well,  an  enormous  Shardblade  six  feet long with a design along the blade like burning ﬂames, a weapon of silvery  metal  that  gleamed  and  almost  seemed  to  glow.  A  weapon designed  to  slay  dark  gods,  a  larger  counterpart  to  the  one  Szeth carried.
Szeth hesitated. He didn’t recognize the armor; he had not been warned that he would be set at this task, and hadn’t been given proper time  to  memorize  the  various  suits  of  Plate  or  Blades  owned  by  the Alethi.  But  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. Szeth’s  honor  would  not  allow  him  to  betray  his  mission  or  seek death. But if that death occurred, he would welcome it.
The  Shardbearer  struck,  and  Szeth  Lashed  himself  to  the  side  of
the hallway, leaping with a twist and landing on the wall. He danced backward,  Blade  held  at  the  ready.  The  Shardbearer  fell  into  an aggressive posture, using one of the swordplay stances favored here in the East. 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.
The  Shardbearer  struck.  Szeth  skipped  to  the  side  and  Lashed himself to the ceiling as the Shardbearer’s Blade sliced into the wall. Feeling  a  thrill  at  the  contest,  Szeth  dashed  forward  and  attacked downward  with  an  overhand  blow,  trying  to  hit  the  Shardbearer’s helm. The man ducked, going down on one knee, letting Szeth’s Blade cleave empty air.
Szeth leaped backward as the Shardbearer swung upward with his Blade, slicing into the ceiling. Szeth didn’t own a set of Plate himself, and  didn’t  care  to.  His  Lashings  interfered  with  the  gemstones  that powered Shardplate, and he had to choose one or the other.
As  the  Shardbearer  turned,  Szeth  sprinted  forward  across  the ceiling. As expected, the Shardbearer swung again, and Szeth leaped to  the  side,  rolling.  He  came  up  from  his  roll  and  ﬂipped,  Lashing himself to the ﬂoor again. He spun to land on the ground behind the Shardbearer. He slammed his Blade into his opponent’s open back.
Unfortunately,  there  was  one  major  advantage  Plate  oﬀered:  It could block a Shardblade. Szeth’s weapon hit solidly, causing a web of glowing  lines  to  spread  out  across  the  back  of  the  armor,  and Stormlight  began  to  leak  free  from  them.  Shardplate  didn’t  dent  or bend like common metal. Szeth would have to hit the Shardbearer in the same location at least once more to break through.
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 it would not restore limbs killed by a Shardblade.
He rounded the Shardbearer, then picked a moment and dashed forward.  The  Shardbearer  swung  again,  but  Szeth  brieﬂy  Lashed himself  to  the  ceiling  for  lift.  He  shot  into  the  air,  cresting  over  the swing, then immediately Lashed himself back to the ﬂoor. He struck as he  landed,  but  the  Shardbearer  recovered  quickly  and  executed  a perfect follow-through stroke, coming within a ﬁnger of hitting Szeth.
The  man  was  dangerously  skilled  with  that  Blade.  Many Shardbearers  depended  too  much  on  the  power  of  their  weapon  and armor. This man was diﬀerent.
Szeth  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. His Blade’s length kept Szeth at bay.
This is taking too long! Szeth thought. 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 and 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.
He  landed  in  a  crouch,  using  his  momentum  to  throw  himself forward,  and  swung  at  the  Shardbearer’s  side,  where  the  Plate  had cracked.  He  hit  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 side and shoved him backward with a Stormlight- enhanced kick.
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, following the way the king had gone. The hallway here had the same red carpet, and Stormlight lamps on the walls gave Szeth a chance to recharge the tempest within.
Energy blazed within him again, and he sped up. If he could get far enough ahead, he could deal with the king, 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  that  Plate  would  let  the  man  run supernaturally fast. Szeth glanced over his shoulder.
The Shardbearer wasn’t following. The man sat up in his armor, looking dazed. Szeth could just barely see him, sitting in the doorway, surrounded by broken bits of wood. Perhaps Szeth had wounded him more 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 swordsmanship. Could it be?
Szeth  turned  and  dashed  back,  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.  He  timed  his  next  move,  then  dashed  forward, ducking underneath the king’s follow-through.
The  king,  expecting  another  strike  at  his  side,  twisted  with  his arm held protectively to block the hole in his Plate. That gave Szeth the room to run past him and into the king’s chambers.
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 infused 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 pieces still crashed into him, making him stumble. A footstool hit him next, throwing him to the ground.
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  two  Basic Lashings in a row. 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 as Szeth lurched in midair, then spun toward him, swinging. He slammed his Blade into the king’s helm, then 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 gracefully. He stumbled back to his feet.
Below, the king stepped back, trying to get into position to swing up at Szeth. The man’s helm was cracked, leaking Stormlight, and he stood protectively, defending the side with the broken plate. The king used a one-handed swing, reaching for the ceiling. Szeth immediately Lashed himself downward, judging that the king’s attack would leave him unable to get his sword back in time.
Szeth underestimated his opponent. The king stepped into Szeth’s attack, trusting his helm to absorb the blow. Just as Szeth hit the helm a  second  time—shattering  it—Gavilar  punched  with  his  oﬀ  hand, slamming his gauntleted ﬁst into Szeth’s face.
Blinding  light  ﬂashed  in  Szeth’s  eyes,  a  counterpoint  to  the sudden  agony  that  crashed  across  his  face.  Everything  blurred,  his vision fading.
Pain. So much pain!
He screamed, Stormlight leaving him in a rush, and he slammed back  into  something  hard.  The  balcony  doors.  More  pain  broke  out
across his shoulders, as if someone had stabbed him with a hundred daggers,  and  he  hit  the  ground  and  rolled  to  a  stop,  muscles trembling. The blow would have killed an ordinary man.
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. His jaw felt unhinged. Broken? He’d dropped his Shardblade.
A  lumbering  shadow  moved  in  front  of  him;  the  Shardbearer’s armor had leaked enough Stormlight that the king was having trouble walking. But he was coming.
Szeth  screamed,  kneeling,  infusing  Stormlight  into  the  wooden balcony,  Lashing  it  downward.  The  air  frosted  around  him.  The tempest roared, traveling down his arms into the wood. He Lashed it downward,  then  did  it  again.  He  Lashed  a  fourth  time  as  Gavilar stepped onto the balcony. It 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. Szeth screamed through a broken jaw and used his ﬁnal bit of Stormlight to Lash himself to the side of the building. He fell to the side, passing the shocked Shardbearer, then hit the wall and rolled.
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 to the stone ground below. The wall of the palace trembled, and the crash of broken wood echoed from the nearby buildings.
Still standing on the side of the wall, Szeth groaned, climbing to his  feet.  He  felt  weak;  he’d  used  up  his  Stormlight  too  quickly, straining  his  body.  He  stumbled  down  the  side  of  the  building, approaching the wreckage, barely able to remain standing.
The king was still moving. Shardplate would protect a man from such  a  fall,  but  a  large  length  of  bloodied  wood  stuck  up  through Gavilar’s side, piercing him where Szeth had broken the Plate earlier. Szeth  knelt  down,  inspecting  the  man’s  pain-wracked  face.  Strong features,  square  chin,  black  beard  ﬂecked  with  white,  striking  pale green eyes. 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. More Light rose from the side of his  face,  repairing  his  damaged  skin  and  bones.  The  pain  was  still great;  Stormlight  healing  was  far  from  instantaneous.  It  would  be hours before he recovered.
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.  He  held  his  hand  to  the  side, resummoning 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,  reaching  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 glow 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.  I  am  sorry,  King  of  the 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.
Shouts of alarm came from inside the palace. Szeth needed to go. But…
Tell my brother…
To Szeth’s people, a dying request was sacred. He took the king’s hand, dipping it in the man’s own blood, then used it to scrawl on the wood, 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; he had no use for it. The Blade Szeth already carried was curse enough