“It’s not about Alethkar! It’s about you! Storm it, you’re supposed to be better than the others!” Tears dripped from Kaladin’s chin.

Amaram looked guilty suddenly, as if he knew what Kaladin had said was true. He turned away, waving to the stormwarden. The man turned from the brazier, holding something he’d been heating in the coals. A small branding iron.

“It’s all an act?” Kaladin asked. “The honorable brightlord who cares about his men? Lies? All of it?”

“This is for my men,” Amaram said. He took the Shardblade from the cloth, holding it in his hand. The gemstone at its pommel let out a flash of white light. “You can’t begin to understand the weights I carry, spearman.” Amaram’s voice lost some of its calm tone of reason. He sounded defensive. “I can’t worry about the lives of a few darkeyed spearmen when thousands of people may be saved by my decision.”

The stormwarden stepped up to Kaladin, positioning the branding iron. The glyphs, reversed, read sas nahn. A slave’s brand.

“You came for me,” Amaram said, limping to the door, stepping around Reesh’s body. “For saving my life, I spare yours. Five men telling the same story would have been believed, but a single slave will be ignored. The warcamp will be told that you didn’t try to help your fellows—but you didn’t try to stop them, either. You fled and were captured by my guard.”

Amaram hesitated by the door, resting the blunt edge of the stolen Shardblade on his shoulder. The guilt was still there in his eyes, but he grew hard, covering it. “You are being discharged as a deserter and branded as a slave. But you are spared death by my mercy.”

He opened the door and walked out.

The branding iron fell, searing Kaladin’s fate into his skin. He let out a final, ragged scream.

THE END OF

Part Three

Baxil hastened down the lavish palace corridor, clutching the bulky bag of tools. A sound like a footfall came from behind him and he jumped, spinning. He didn’t see anything. The corridor was empty, a golden carpet lining the floor, mirrors on the walls, arched ceiling inlaid with elaborate mosaics.

“Would you stop that?” Av said, walking beside him. “Every time you jump I nearly cuff you one out of surprise.”

“I can’t help it,” Baxil said. “Shouldn’t we be doing this at night?”

“Mistress knows what she’s doing,” Av said. Like Baxil, Av was Emuli, with dark skin and hair. But the taller man was far more self-confident. He sauntered down the halls, acting as if they’d been invited, thick-bladed sword slung in a sheath over his shoulder.

If the Prime Kadasix may provide, Baxil thought, I’d rather Av never have to draw that weapon. Thank you.

Their mistress walked ahead of them, the only other person in the hallway. She wasn’t Emuli–she didn’t even seem Makabaki, though she had dark skin and long, beautiful black hair. She had eyes like a Shin, but she was tall and lean, like an Alethi. Av thought she was a mixed breed. Or so he said when they dared talk about such things. The mistress had good ears. Strangely good ears.

She stopped at the next intersection. Baxil caught himself glancing over his shoulder again. Av elbowed him, but he couldn’t help looking. Yes, the mistress claimed that the palace servants would be busy getting the new guest wing ready, but this was the home of Ashno of Sages himself. One of the richest and holiest men in all of Emul. He had hundreds of servants. What if one of them walked down this hallway?

The two men joined their mistress at the intersection. He forced his eyes forward so he wouldn’t keep looking over his shoulder, but then found himself staring at the mistress. It was dangerous, being employed by a woman as beautiful as she was, with that long black hair, worn free, hanging down to her waist. She never wore a proper woman’s robe, or even a dress or skirt. Always trousers, usually sleek and tight, a thin-bladed sword at her hip. Her eyes were so faintly violet they were almost white.

She was amazing. Wonderful, intoxicating, overwhelming.

Av elbowed him in the ribs again. Baxil jumped, then glared at his cousin, rubbing his belly.

“Baxil,” the mistress said. “My tools.”

He opened the bag, handing over a folded tool belt. It clinked as she took it, not looking at him, then she strode down the hallway to their left.

Baxil watched, uncomfortable. This was the Hallowed Hall, the place where a wealthy man placed images of his Kadasix for reverence. The mistress walked up to the first piece of art. The painting depicted Epan, Lady of Dreams. It was beautiful, a masterpiece of gold leaf on black canvas.

The mistress took a knife from her bundle and slashed the painting down the front. Baxil cringed, but said nothing. He’d almost gotten used to the casual way she destroyed art, though he was baffled by it. She did pay the two of them very well, however.

Av leaned back against the wall, picking his teeth with a fingernail. Baxil tried to imitate his relaxed pose. The large hallway was lit with topaz chips set in beautiful chandeliers, but they made no move to take them. The mistress did not approve of stealing.

“I’ve been thinking of seeking the Old Magic,” Baxil said, partially to keep himself from cringing as the mistress moved on to gouge out the eyes of a fine bust.

Av snorted. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Baxil said. “Seems like something to do with myself. I’ve never sought it, you know, and they say every man gets one chance. Ask a boon of the Nightwatcher. Have you used yours?”

“Nah,” Av said. “Don’t fancy making the trip all the way to the Valley. Besides, my brother went. Came back with two numb hands. Never could feel anything with them again.”

“What was his boon?” Baxil asked as the mistress wrapped up a vase with a cloth, then quietly shattered it on the floor and crushed the pieces.

“Don’t know,” Av said. “He never said. Seemed embarrassed. Probably asked for something silly, like a good haircut.” Av smirked.

“I was thinking I’d make myself more useful,” Baxil said. “Ask for courage, you know?”

“If you want,” Av replied. “I figure there are better ways than the Old Magic. You never know what kind of curse you’ll end up with.”

“I could phrase my request perfectly,” Baxil said.

“Doesn’t work that way,” Av said. “It’s not a game, no matter how the stories try to put it. The Nightwatcher doesn’t trick you or twist your words. You ask a boon. She gives what she feels you deserve, then gives you a curse to go along with it. Sometimes related, sometimes not.”

“And you’re an expert?” Baxil asked. The mistress was slashing another painting. “I thought you said you never went.”

“I didn’t,” Av said. “On account of my father going, my mother going, and each of my brothers going. A few got what they wanted. Most all of them regretted the curse, save my father. He got a heap of good cloth; sold to keep us from starving during the lurnip famine a few decades ago.”

“What was his curse?” Baxil said.

“Saw the world upside down from then on.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Av said. “Twisted all about. Like people walk on the ceilings and the sky was underneath him. Said he got used to it pretty quickly, though, and didn’t really think it a curse by the time he died.”