Szeth remembered a voice. Heard it, almost. His own. As a child. “What is right, Father? Can’t you just tell me?” Then, his voice again, older, to the Farmer. “How do you know what to do?” Older again. To the captain of the guard. “Just tell me what to do, sir.” To Sivi, when joining her monastery. “I’m sure you know what is right.” Taravangian, Dalinar, Nin. Each time it was less and less a question. More and more a mantra. I am Truthless. I do not ask. I do as my masters require. Never. Again.
