“And I stand by my evasiveness, Your Majesty. I’m sorry. I do forgive your curiosity, but I cannot reward it. These secrets are mine.”
“Of course, of course.” The king sat back, looking embarrassed. “Now you probably assume I brought this meal simply to ambush you about the fabrial.”
“You had another purpose, then?”
“Well, you see, I’ve heard the most wonderful things about your ward’s artistic skill. I thought that maybe…” He smiled at Shallan.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Shallan said. “I’d be happy to draw your likeness.”
He beamed as she stood, leaving her meal half eaten and gathering her things. She glanced at Jasnah, but the older woman’s face was unreadable.
“Would you prefer a simple portrait against a white background?” Shallan asked. “Or would you prefer a broader perspective, including surroundings?”
“Perhaps,” Jasnah said pointedly, “you should wait until the meal is finished, Shallan?”
Shallan blushed, feeling a fool for her enthusiasm. “Of course.”
“No, no,” the king said. “I’m quite finished. A wider sketch would be perfect, child. How would you like me to sit?” He slid his chair back, posing and smiling in a grandfatherly way.
She blinked, fixing the image in her mind. “That is perfect, Your Majesty. You can return to your meal.”
“Don’t you need me to sit still? I’ve posed for portraits before.”
“It’s all right,” Shallan assured him, sitting down.
“Very well,” he said, pulling back to the table. “I do apologize for making you use me, of all people, as a subject for your art. This face of mine isn’t the most impressive one you’ve depicted, I’m sure.”
“Nonsense,” Shallan said. “A face like yours is just what an artist needs.”
“It is?”
“Yes, the—” She cut herself off. She’d been about to quip, Yes, the skin is enough like parchment to make an ideal canvas. “…that handsome nose of yours, and wise furrowed skin. It will be quite striking in the black charcoal.”
“Oh, well then. Proceed. Though I still can’t see how you’ll work without me holding a pose.”
“Brightness Shallan has some unique talents,” Jasnah said. Shallan began her sketch.
“I suppose that she must!” the king said. “I’ve seen the drawing she did for Varas.”
“Varas?” Jasnah asked.
“The Palanaeum’s assistant chief of collections,” the king said. “A distant cousin of mine. He says the staff is quite taken with your young ward. How did you find her?”
“Unexpectedly,” Jasnah said, “and in need of an education.”
The king cocked his head.
“The artistic skill, I cannot claim,” Jasnah said. “It was a preexisting condition.”
“Ah, a blessing of the Almighty.”
“You might say that.”
“But you would not, I assume?” Taravangian chuckled awkwardly.
Shallan drew quickly, establishing the shape of his head. He shuffled uncomfortably. “Is it hard for you, Jasnah? Painful, I mean?”
“Atheism is not a disease, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said dryly. “It’s not as if I’ve caught a foot rash.”
“Of course not, of course not. But…er, isn’t it difficult, having nothing in which to believe?”
Shallan leaned forward, still sketching, but keeping her attention on the conversation. Shallan had assumed that training under a heretic would be a little more exciting. She and Kabsal—the witty ardent whom she’d met on her first day in Kharbranth—had chatted several times now about Jasnah’s faith. However, around Jasnah herself, the topic almost never came up. When it did, Jasnah usually changed it.
Today, however, she did not. Perhaps she sensed the sincerity in the king’s question. “I wouldn’t say that I have nothing to believe in, Your Majesty. Actually, I have much to believe in. My brother and my uncle, my own abilities. The things I was taught by my parents.”
“But, what is right and wrong, you’ve…Well, you’ve discarded that.”
“Just because I do not accept the teachings of the devotaries does not mean I’ve discarded a belief in right and wrong.”
“But the Almighty determines what is right!”
“Must someone, some unseen thing, declare what is right for it to be right? I believe that my own morality—which answers only to my heart—is more sure and true than the morality of those who do right only because they fear retribution.”
“But that is the soul of law,” the king said, sounding confused. “If there is no punishment, there can be only chaos.”
“If there were no law, some men would do as they wish, yes,” Jasnah said. “But isn’t it remarkable that, given the chance for personal gain at the cost of others, so many people choose what is right?”
“Because they fear the Almighty.”
“No,” Jasnah said. “I think something innate in us understands that seeking the good of society is usually best for the individual as well. Humankind is noble, when we give it the chance to be. That nobility is something that exists independent of any god’s decree.”
“I just don’t see how anything could be outside God’s decrees.” The king shook his head, bemused. “Brightness Jasnah, I don’t mean to argue, but isn’t the very definition of the Almighty that all things exist because of him?”
“If you add one and one, that makes two, does it not?”
“Well, yes.”
“No god needs declare it so for it to be true,” Jasnah said. “So, could we not say that mathematics exists outside the Almighty, independent of him?”
“Perhaps.”
“Well,” Jasnah said, “I simply claim that morality and human will are independent of him too.”
“If you say that,” the king said, chuckling, “then you’ve removed all purpose for the Almighty’s existence!”
“Indeed.”
The balcony fell silent. Jasnah’s sphere lamps cast a cool, even white light across them. For an uncomfortable moment, the only sound was the scratching of Shallan’s charcoal on her drawing pad. She worked with quick, scraping motions, disturbed by the things that Jasnah had said. They made her feel hollow inside. That was partly because the king, for all his affability, was not good at arguing. He was a dear man, but no match for Jasnah in a conversation.
“Well,” Taravangian said, “I must say that you make your points quite effectively. I don’t accept them, though.”
“My intention is not to convert, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said. “I am content keeping my beliefs to myself, something most of my colleagues in the devotaries have difficulty doing. Shallan, have you finished yet?”
“Quite nearly, Brightness.”
“But it’s been barely a few minutes!” the king said.
“She has remarkable skill, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said. “As I believe I mentioned.”
Shallan sat back, inspecting her piece. She’d been so focused on the conversation, she’d just let her hands do the drawing, trusting in her instincts. The sketch depicted the king, sitting in his chair with a wise expression, the turretlike balcony walls behind him. The doorway into the balcony was to his right. Yes, it was a good likeness. Not her best work, but—
Shallan froze, her breath catching, her heart lurching in her chest. She had drawn something standing in the doorway behind the king. Two tall and willowy creatures with cloaks that split down the front and hung at the sides too stiffly, as if they were made of glass. Above the stiff, high collars, where the creatures’ heads should be, each had a large, floating symbol of twisted design full of impossible angles and geometries.
Shallan sat, stunned. Why had she drawn those things? What had driven her to—
She snapped her head up. The hallway was empty. The creatures hadn’t been part of the Memory she’d taken. Her hands had simply drawn them of their accord.
“Shallan?” Jasnah said.
By ref
lex, Shallan dropped her charcoal and grabbed the sheet in her freehand, crumpling it. “I’m sorry, Brightness. I paid too much attention to the conversation. I let myself grow sloppy.”
“Well, certainly we can at least see it, child,” the king said, standing.
Shallan tightened her grip. “Please, no!”
“She has an artist’s temperament at times, Your Majesty.” Jasnah sighed. “There will be no getting it out of her.”
“I’ll do you another, Your Majesty,” Shallan said. “I’m so sorry.”
He rubbed his wispy beard. “Yes, well, it was going to be a gift for my granddaughter….”
“By the end of the day,” Shallan promised.
“That would be wonderful. You’re certain you don’t need me to pose?”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary, Your Majesty,” Shallan said. Her pulse was still racing and she couldn’t shake the image of those two distorted figures from her mind, so she took another Memory of the king. She could use that to create a more suitable picture.
“Well then,” the king said. “I suppose I should be going. I wish to visit one of the hospitals and the sick. You can send the drawing to my rooms, but take your time. Really, it is quite all right.”
Shallan curtsied, crushed paper still held to her breast. The king withdrew with his attendants, several parshmen entering to remove the table.
“I’ve never known you to make a mistake in drawing,” Jasnah said, sitting back down at the desk. “At least not one so horrible that you destroyed the paper.”
Shallan blushed.
“Even the master of an art may err, I suppose. Go ahead and take the next hour to do His Majesty a proper portrait.”
Shallan looked down at the ruined sketch. The creatures were simply her fancy, the product of letting her mind wander. That was all. Just imagination. Perhaps there was something in her subconscious that she’d needed to express. But what could the figures mean, then?
“I noticed that at one point when you were speaking to the king, you hesitated,” Jasnah said. “What didn’t you say?”
“Something inappropriate.”
“But clever?”
“Cleverness never seems quite so impressive when regarded outside the moment, Brightness. It was just a silly thought.”
“And you replaced it with an empty compliment. I think you misunderstood what I was trying to explain, child. I do not wish for you to remain silent. It is good to be clever.”
“But if I’d spoken,” Shallan said, “I’d have insulted the king, perhaps confused him as well, which would have caused him embarrassment. I am certain he knows what people say about his slowness of thought.”
Jasnah sniffed. “Idle words. From foolish people. But perhaps it was wise not to speak, though keep in mind that channeling your capacities and stifling them are two separate things. I’d much prefer you to think of something both clever and appropriate.”
“Yes, Brightness.”
“Besides,” Jasnah said, “I believe you might have made Taravangian laugh. He seems haunted by something lately.”
“You don’t find him dull, then?” Shallan asked, curious. She herself didn’t think the king dull or a fool, but she’d thought someone as intelligent and learned as Jasnah might not have patience for a man like him.
“Taravangian is a wonderful man,” Jasnah said, “and worth a hundred self-proclaimed experts on courtly ways. He reminds me of my uncle Dalinar. Earnest, sincere, concerned.”
“The lighteyes here say he’s weak,” Shallan said. “Because he panders to so many other monarchs, because he fears war, because he doesn’t have a Shardblade.”
Jasnah didn’t reply, though she looked disturbed.
“Brightness?” Shallan prodded, walking to her own seat and arranging her charcoals.
“In ancient days,” Jasnah said, “a man who brought peace to his kingdom was considered to be of great worth. Now that same man would be derided as a coward.” She shook her head. “It has been centuries coming, this change. It should terrify us. We could do with more men like Taravangian, and I shall require you to never call him dull again, not even in passing.”
“Yes, Brightness,” Shallan said, bowing her head. “Did you really believe the things you said? About the Almighty?”
Jasnah was quiet for a moment. “I do. Though perhaps I overstated my conviction.”
“The Assuredness Movement of rhetorical theory?”
“Yes,” Jasnah said. “I suppose that it was. I must be careful not to put my back toward you as I read today.”
Shallan smiled.
“A true scholar must not close her mind close on any topic,” Jasnah said, “no matter how certain she may feel. Just because I have not yet found a convincing reason to join one of the devotaries does not mean I never will. Though each time I have a discussion like the one today, my convictions grow firmer.”
Shallan bit her lip. Jasnah noticed the expression. “You will need to learn to control that, Shallan. It makes your feelings obvious.”
“Yes, Brightness.”
“Well, out with it.”
“Just that your conversation with the king was not entirely fair.”
“Oh?”
“Because of his, well, you know. His limited capacity. He did quite remarkably, but didn’t make the arguments that someone more versed in Vorin theology might have.”
“And what arguments might such a one have made?”
“Well, I’m not very well trained in that area myself. But I do think that you ignored, or at least minimized, one vital part of the discussion.”
“Which is?”
Shallan tapped at her breast. “Our hearts, Brightness. I believe because I feel something, a closeness to the Almighty, a peace that comes when I live my faith.”
“The mind is capable of projecting expected emotional responses.”
“But didn’t you yourself argue that the way we act—the way we feel about right and wrong—was a defining attribute of our humanity? You used our innate morality to prove your point. So how can you discard my feelings?”
“Discard them? No. Regard them with skepticism? Perhaps. Your feelings, Shallan—however powerful—are your own. Not mine. And what I feel is that spending my life trying to earn the favor of an unseen, unknown, and unknowable being who watches me from the sky is an exercise in sheer futility.” She pointed at Shallan with her pen. “But your rhetorical method is improving. We’ll make a scholar of you yet.”
Shallan smiled, feeling a surge of pleasure. Praise from Jasnah was more precious than an emerald broam.
But…I’m not going to be a scholar. I’m going to steal the Soulcaster and leave.
She didn’t like to think about that. That was something else she’d have to get over; she tended to avoid thinking about things that made her uncomfortable.
“Now hurry and be about the king’s sketch,” Jasnah said, lifting a book. “You still have a great deal of real work to do once you are done drawing.”
“Yes, Brightness,” Shallan said.
For once, however, she found sketching difficult, her mind too troubled to focus.
“They were suddenly dangerous. Like a calm day that became a tempest.”
—This fragment is the origin of a Thaylen proverb that was eventually reworked into a more common derivation. I believe it may reference the Voidbringers. See Ixsix’s Emperor, fourth chapter.
Kaladin walked from the cavernous barrack into the pure light of first morning. Bits of quartz in the ground sparkled before him, catching the light, as if the ground were sparking and burning, ready to burst from within.
A group of twenty-nine men followed him. Slaves. Thieves. Deserters. Foreigners. Even a few men whose only sin had been poverty. Those had joined the bridge crews out of desperation. The pay was good when compared with nothing, and they were promised that if they survived a hundred bridge runs, they would be promoted. Assignment to a watch post—which, in the mind of a poor man, so
unded like a life of luxury. Being paid to stand and look at things all day? What kind of insanity was that? It was like being rich, almost.
They didn’t understand. Nobody survived a hundred bridge runs. Kaladin had been on two dozen, and he was already one of the most experienced living bridgemen.
Bridge Four followed him. The last of the holdouts—a thin man named Bisig—had given in yesterday. Kaladin preferred to think that the laughter, the food, and the humanity had finally gotten to him. But it had probably been a few glares or under-the-breath threats from Rock and Teft.
Kaladin turned a blind eye to those. He’d eventually need the men’s loyalty, but for now, he’d settle for obedience.
He guided them through the morning exercises he’d learned his very first day in the military. Stretches followed by jumping motions. Carpenters in brown work overalls and tan or green caps passed on their way to the lumberyard, shaking their heads in amusement. Soldiers on the short ridge above, where the camp proper began, looked down and laughed. Gaz watched from beside a nearby barrack, arms folded, single eye dissatisfied.
Kaladin wiped his brow. He met Gaz’s eye for a long moment, then turned back to the men. There was still time to practice hauling the bridge before breakfast.
Gaz had never gotten used to having just one eye. Could a man get used to that? He’d rather have lost a hand or a leg than that eye. He couldn’t stop feeling that something hid in that darkness he couldn’t see, but others could. What lurked there? Spren that would drain his soul from his body? The way a rat could empty an entire wineskin by chewing the corner?
His companions called him lucky. “That blow could have taken your life.” Well, at least then he wouldn’t have had to live with that darkness. One of his eyes was always closed. Close the other, and the darkness swallowed him.
Gaz glanced left, and the darkness scuttled to the side. Lamaril stood leaning against a post, tall and slim. He was not a massive man, but he was not weak. He was all lines. Rectangular beard. Rectangular body. Sharp. Like a knife.
The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The) Page 58