Chapter 48

TWENTY-SIX YEARS AGO

I t felt strange for Szeth to be the only one in the bed.

Usually the entire family shared the mat. But this time, on the evening following … events at the stone … his sister had been sent to stay with cousins for a few days, and his parents were outside. He’d been fed, washed, and tucked in. His mother treated him like something fragile.

Szeth wanted something to hold. They’d … taken Molli’s pelt from him.

He’d suffered their ministrations in a deep haze, so it was no wonder they assumed he’d gone straight to sleep. But he could hear them outside. Talking to the Farmer.

“He subtracted,” Father said, his voice thick with emotion. Like broth with far too little water. “My son … subtracted.”

“He had nail marks on his throat, Neturo,” the Farmer said, his voice kindly. Like a flute. “The soldier attacked him. Beyond that, they robbed you.”

“I know,” Father said. “But … my little boy …”

“How could this happen?” Mother said, her voice strong, like a towering tree. Firm, immovable. “Colors-nimi, how could you let your soldiers run rampant like this?”

“They have been more difficult to control lately,” the Farmer said. “It must be because I let them fight. They get a taste for it, and subtraction … it feeds upon itself, Zeenid.”

Szeth squeezed his eyes shut. He had subtracted. No. That was a sanitized word.

He’d killed someone. With a rock to the head.

“What are you saying?” Father asked. “What does this mean for my son?”

“He did nothing wrong,” the Farmer assured him. “The fault lies entirely upon the soldiers, and upon me as their supervisor. At the same time, what your son did … changes a person.”

“No,” Mother said. “I won’t have you say in one breath he did nothing wrong, and in another imply he is broken.”

“He is not broken,” the Farmer said. “We need people capable of actions like this. The raids grow more frequent. I need soldiers who were raised well, who are moral and strong, but who can also subtract when needed.”

In the silence that followed, Szeth could hear leaves rustling. The gurgling of the distant brook. The grinding of wills between his parents and the man they obeyed.

“This is a talent,” the Farmer said. “The Stone Shamans teach that it is. Your son should be sent for training.”

“In how to kill?” Father asked, his voice cracking.

“Do you know the stories of the Knights Radiant?” the Farmer asked. “They had a philosophy. They called it … watchers at the rim. They went to fight, and be changed, so we might live.”

“You want to do this to our son?” Mother asked.

“He’s already killed a man, Zeenid, and he used a stone to do it. He blasphemed. But soldiers, they can touch rocks, and iron forged from the blood of the earth. Sending him away would protect him from what he did. From what he might do. If the shamans discover he was hiding that stone …”

“We all found that stone,” Mother said. “We—”

“It is well,” the Farmer said. “Let’s face the problem before us, not ones in the past.” His voice was so calming, as if it came from the brook or the leaves. If Szeth were ever to be blessed to hear the spren, he imagined their voices would be the same.

“No,” Szeth whispered to himself. “You will never hear the spren, Szeth. You aren’t worthy of that.”

Don’t be so certain, a voice—that same one—said in his head. We watch you, Szeth. We are curious.

He felt a sudden jolt. Again? What did it mean?

“You’re going to take him away,” Mother said. “You’re going to steal him and turn him into a killer.”

“I’m sorry,” the Farmer said. “You can visit him though.”

More silence, full of the sounds of the winds. Then a sound of wood groaning as someone stood up on the steps outside. A voice somehow stronger than the wind, or the trees, or the river. A voice like the stones.

“No,” Szeth’s father said. “I will not visit. If you are taking my son, then I will go with him. I will learn to subtract as well.”

Something broke in Szeth then. It was a strange sensation, feeling his emotions snap, like a clay vessel dropped to the ground. A burst of pain at hearing his father insist—followed by rushing warmth and relief.

Szeth wouldn’t be alone.

“Neturo!” the Farmer said. “You are my best administrator!”

“No longer. If you are going to teach my son to kill, then you will teach me as well so that he is never alone with what he must do.”

“Then Elid and I will go too,” Mother said. “If she hates it, we will let her move to the town with her cousins, as she has often asked.”

“This is insanity,” the Farmer said.

“No,” Father replied. “We are a family. My son will not step into the darkness alone. If you need me to break something to prove I am willing, point me toward the other two soldiers who robbed me, then left my son in the hands of a drunken monster.”

The Farmer heaved a long sigh. “At least think about this first. You might reconsider.”

“Are you going to reconsider?” Father asked.

“No,” the Farmer admitted.

“Then neither,” Father said, “will I.”