The Emperor's Soul

by Brandon Sanderson

The journal told her far more about the emperor than the official histories had, and not just because of the contents. The pages of the book were worn and stained from constant turning. Ashravan had written this book to be read—by himself.

I do still need a test subject who knew the emperor. The connection between them will allow me to test stamps on him, and they will stick briefly—long enough for me to try out a few things.”

“Such an eyesore. After going to such trouble to make the table more beautiful, why not put the seal on the bottom?”

“I’m proud of my work,” Shai said. “Any Forger who sees this can inspect it and see what I’ve done.”

“You should not be proud of something like this, little thief. Besides, isn’t the point of what you do to hide the fact that you’ve done it?” “Sometimes,” Shai said. “When I imitate a signature or coun...

But with Forgery, true Forgery, you cannot hide what you’ve done. The stamp will always be there, describing exactly what has happene...

“Zu is simpleminded,” Frava said, “though he is very useful when someone needs to be killed. Hopefully you won’t ever have to experience his efficiency firsthand.”

“Has it occurred to you,” Frava said, “how . . . useful to the empire it would be to have an emperor who listened to a voice of wisdom when it spoke to him?”

Wouldn’t it be amazing if, upon his rebirth, he were found lacking that tendency?”

Surely you can replicate dear Ashravan’s soul with authenticity, yet also make him inclined to listen to reason . . . when that reason is spoken by specific individuals.”

“I . . . might be able to do such a thing,” Shai said, as if considering it for the first time. “It would be difficult. I’d need a reward worth the effort.” “A suitable reward would be appropriate,” Frava said, turning to her.

That was always their mistake—assuming they knew why Shai did what she did. Assuming she’d jump at a chance like this, assuming that a smuggler and a Forger were basically the same thing because they both disobeyed someone else’s laws.

Shai sank down into her chair, horrified. Not because of the offer—she’d been expecting one like it for days now—but because she had only now understood the implications.

It meant that Frava had another Forger standing by. One, likely, without the talent or the bravado to try Forging someone else’s soul—but one who could look over Shai’s work and find any back doors she put in.

This Forger would be better trusted, and could rewrite Shai’s work to put Frava in control.

Shai had intended to use the full hundred days to plan her escape, but now she realized that her sudden extermination could come at any time.

The closer she got to finishing the project, the more likely that grew.

Attempts to Forge the window to a better version of itself had repeatedly failed; each time, after five minutes or so, the window had reverted to its cracked, gap-sided self.

“A person is constantly growing, changing, shifting. That makes a soulstamp used on a person wear out in a way that doesn’t happen with objects.

Eventually, someone will realize that he has large holes in his memory. Spread the rumors, Gaotona. You’re going to need them.”

The seal gave off faint wisps of red smoke; that happened only when living things were stamped. The soul fought against the rewriting.

What is your favorite color?” “Green,” he said immediately. “Why?” “Because . . .” He trailed off, cocking his head. “Because it is.” “And your brother?” “I hardly remember him,” Gaotona said with a shrug. “He died when I was very young.”

Gaotona stood up. “Don’t you dare speak ill of him! I will have you . . .” He stiffened, glancing at Zu, who had reached for his sword in alarm. “I . . . Brother . . . ?” The seal faded away.

“A window frame knowing the ‘concept’ of a stained glass window? A soul understanding the concept of another soul?”

Just as you could become a marvelous artist.” “I am one.” “A real one.” “I am one.”

They’re both fakes. One is simply the obvious fake, planted to be discovered in case something went wrong.”

You didn’t care about selling the original. You just wanted your copy hanging in the gallery instead. You destroyed something wonderful so that you could elevate yourself!”

There was more to the story, but the fact was, she had burned the painting. She had her reasons.

Each person was a puzzle. That was how Tao, her first trainer in Forgery, had explained it.

A person was like a dense forest thicket, overgrown with a twisting mess of vines, weeds, shrubs, saplings, and flowers. No person was one single emotion; no person had only one desire. They had many, and usually those desires conflicted with one another like two rosebushes fighting for the same patch of ground.