“Father summoned her,” Wikim said. “She arrived with her handmaid just now. He’s speaking with her in the feast hall.”

“Oh no,” Balat said, shoving Wikim aside, barreling through the door.

Shallan followed, but stopped in the doorway. “Don’t do anything foolish!” she called after him. “Balat, the plan!”

He didn’t appear to have heard her.

“This could be bad,” Wikim said.

“Or it could be wonderful,” Jushu said from behind them, still lounging. “If Father pushes Balat too far, maybe he’ll stop whining and do something.”

Shallan felt cold as she stepped into the hallway. That coldness . . . was that panic? Overwhelming panic, so sharp and strong it washed away everything else.

This had been coming. She’d known this had been coming. They tried to hide, they tried to flee. Of course that wouldn’t work.

It hadn’t worked with Mother either.

Wikim passed her, running. She stepped slowly. Not because she was calm, but because she felt pulled forward. A slow pace resisted the inevitability.

She turned up the steps instead of going down to the feast hall. She needed to fetch something.

It took only a minute. She soon returned, the pouch given to her long ago tucked into the safepouch in her sleeve. She walked down the steps and to the doorway of the feast hall. Jushu and Wikim waited just outside of it, watching tensely.

They made way for her.

Inside the feast hall, there was shouting, of course.

“You shouldn’t have done this without talking to me!” Balat said. He stood before the high table, Eylita at his side, holding to his arm.

Father stood on the other side of the table, half-eaten meal before him. “Talking to you is useless, Balat. You don’t hear.”

“I love her!”

“You’re a child,” Father said. “A foolish child without regard for your house.”

Bad, bad, bad, Shallan thought. Father’s voice was soft. He was most dangerous when his voice was soft.

“You think,” Father continued, leaning forward, palms on the tabletop, “I don’t know about your plan to leave?”

Balat stumbled back. “How?”

Shallan stepped into the room. What is that on the floor? she thought, walking along the wall toward the door into the kitchens. Something blocked the door from closing.

Rain began to pelt the rooftop outside. The storm had come. The guards were in their guardhouse, the servants in their quarters to wait the storm’s passing. The family was alone.

With the windows closed, the only light in the room was the cool illumination of spheres. Father did not have a fire burning in the hearth.

“Helaran is dead,” Father said. “Did you know that? You can’t find him because he’s been killed. I didn’t even have to do it. He found his own death on a battlefield in Alethkar. Idiot.”

The words threatened Shallan’s cold calm.

“How did you find out I was leaving?” Balat demanded. He stepped forward, but Eylita held him back. “Who told you?”

Shallan knelt by the obstruction in the kitchen doorway. Thunder rumbled, making the building vibrate. The obstruction was a body.

Malise. Dead from several blows to the head. Fresh blood. Warm corpse. He had killed her recently. Storms. He’d found out about the plan, had sent for Eylita and waited for her to arrive, then killed his wife.

Not a crime of the moment. He’d murdered her as punishment.

So it has come to this, Shallan thought, feeling a strange, detached calm. The lie becomes the truth.

This was Shallan’s fault. She stood up and rounded the room toward where servants had left a pitcher of wine, with cups, for Father.

“Malise,” Balat said. He hadn’t looked toward Shallan; he was just guessing. “She broke down and told you, didn’t she? Damnation. We shouldn’t have trusted her.”

“Yes,” Father said. “She talked. Eventually.”

Balat’s sword made a whispering rasp as he pulled it from its leather sheath. Father’s sword followed.

“Finally,” Father said. “You show hints of a backbone.”

“Balat, no,” Eylita said, clinging to him.

“I won’t fear him any longer, Eylita! I won’t!”

Shallan poured wine.

They clashed, Father leaping over the high table, swinging in a two-handed blow. Eylita screamed and scrambled back while Balat swung at his father.

Shallan did not know much of swordplay. She had watched Balat and the others spar, but the only real fights she’d seen were duels at the fair.

This was different. This was brutal. Father bashing his sword down again and again toward Balat, who blocked as best he could with his own sword. The clang of metal on metal, and above it all the storm. Each blow seemed to shake the room. Or was that the thunder?

Balat stumbled before the onslaught, falling on one knee. Father batted the sword out of Balat’s fingers.

Could it really be over that quickly? Only seconds had passed. Not like the duels at all.

Father loomed over his son. “I’ve always despised you,” Father said. “The coward. Helaran was noble. He resisted me, but he had passion. You . . . you crawl about, whining and complaining.”

Shallan moved up to him. “Father?” She handed the wine toward him. “He’s down. You’ve won.”

“I always wanted sons,” Father said. “And I got four. All worthless! A coward, a drunkard, and a weakling.” He blinked. “Only Helaran . . . Only Helaran . . .”

“Father?” Shallan said. “Here.”

He took the wine, gulping it down.

Balat grabbed his sword. Still on one knee, he struck with a lunge. Shallan screamed, and the sword made a strange clang as it barely missed Father, stabbing through his coat and out the back, connecting with something metallic.

Father dropped the cup. It smashed, empty, to the ground. He grunted, feeling at his side. Balat pulled the sword back and stared upward at his father in horror.

Father’s hand came back with a touch of blood on it, but not much. “That’s the best you have?” Father demanded. “Fifteen years of sword training, and that’s your best attack? Strike at me! Hit me!” He held his sword out to the side, raising his other hand.

Balat started to blubber, sword slipping from his fingers.

“Bah!” Father said. “Useless.” He tossed his sword onto the high table, then stepped over to the hearth. He grabbed an iron poker, then walked back. “Useless.”

He slammed the poker down on Balat’s thigh.

“Father!” Shallan screamed, trying to take his arm. He shoved her aside as he struck again, smashing his poker against Balat’s leg.

Balat screamed.

Shallan hit the ground hard, knocking her head against the floor. She could only hear what happened next. Shouts. The poker connecting with a sound like a dull thump. The storm raging above.

“Why.” Smack. “Can’t.” Smack. “You.” Smack. “Do.” Smack. “Anything.” Smack. “Right?”

Shallan’s vision cleared. Father drew deep breaths. Blood had splattered his face. Balat whimpered on the floor. Eylita held to him, face buried in his hair. Balat’s leg was a bloody mess.

Wikim and Jushu still stood in the doorway to the hall, looking horrified.

Father looked to Eylita, murder in his eyes. He raised his poker to strike. But then the weapon slipped from his fingers and clanged to the ground. He looked at his hand as if surprised, then stumbled. He grabbed the table for support, but fell to his knees, then slumped to the side.

Rain pelted the roof. It sounded like a thousand scurrying creatures looking for a way into the building.

Shallan forced herself to her feet. Coldness. Yes, she recognized that coldness inside of her now. She’d felt it before, on the day when she’d lost her mother.

“Bind Balat’s wounds,” she said, approaching the weeping Eylita. “Use his shirt.”

The woman nodded through her tears and began working with trembling fingers.

Shallan knelt beside her father. He lay motionless, eyes open and dead, staring at the ceiling.

“What . . . what happened?” Wikim asked. She hadn’t noticed him and Jushu timidly entering the room, rounding the table and joining her. Wikim peered over her shoulder. “Did Balat’s strike to the side . . .”

Father was bleeding there; Shallan could feel it through the clothing. It wasn’t nearly bad enough to have caused this though. She shook her head.

“You gave me something a few years ago,” she said. “A pouch. I kept it. You said it grows more potent over time.”

“Oh, Stormfather,” Wikim said, raising his hand to his mouth. “The blackbane? You . . .”

“In his wine,” Shallan said. “Malise is dead by the kitchen. He went too far.”

“You’ve killed him,” Wikim said, staring at their father’s corpse. “You’ve killed him!”

“Yes,” Shallan said, feeling exhausted. She stumbled over to Balat, then began helping Eylita with the bandages. Balat was conscious and grunting at the pain. Shallan nodded to Eylita, who fetched him some wine. Unpoisoned, of course.

Father was dead. She’d killed him.

“What is this?” Jushu asked.

“Don’t do that!” Wikim said. “Storms! You’re going through his pockets already?”

Shallan glanced over to see Jushu pulling something silvery from Father’s coat pocket. It was shrouded in a small black bag, mildly wet with blood, only pieces of it showing from where Balat’s sword had struck.

“Oh, Stormfather,” Jushu said, pulling it out. The device consisted of several chains of silvery metal connecting three large gemstones, one of which was cracked, its glow lost. “Is this what I think it is?”

“A Soulcaster,” Shallan said.

“Prop me up,” Balat said as Eylita returned with the wine. “Please.”

Reluctantly the girl helped him sit. His leg . . . his leg was not in good shape. They would need to get him a surgeon.

Shallan stood, wiping bloodied hands on her dress, and took the Soulcaster from Jushu. The delicate metal was broken where the sword had struck it.

“I don’t understand,” Jushu said. “Isn’t that blasphemy? Don’t those belong to the king, only to be used by ardents?”

Shallan rubbed her thumb across the metal. She couldn’t think. Numbness . . . shock. That was it. Shock.

I killed Father.

Wikim yelped suddenly, jumping back. “His leg twitched.”

Shallan spun on the body. Father’s fingers spasmed.

“Voidbringers!” Jushu said. He looked up at the ceiling, and at the raging storm. “They’re here. They’re inside of him. It—”

Shallan knelt next to the body. The eyes trembled, then focused on her. “It wasn’t enough,” she whispered. “The poison wasn’t strong enough.”