The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  “What is the point of research if not to draw conclusions?”

  “My tutors told me that supposition was only for the very experienced,” Shallan explained.

  Jasnah sniffed. “Your tutors were idiots. Youthful immaturity is one of the cosmere’s great catalysts for change, Shallan. Do you realize that the Sunmaker was only seventeen when he began his conquest? Gavarah hadn’t reached her twentieth Weeping when she proposed the theory of the three realms.”

  “But for every Sunmaker or Gavarah, are there not a hundred Gregorhs?” He had been a youthful king notorious for beginning a pointless war with kingdoms that had been his father’s allies.

  “There was only one Gregorh,” Jasnah said with a grimace, “thankfully. Your point is a valid one. Hence the purpose of education. To be young is about action. To be a scholar is about informed action.”

  “Or about sitting in an alcove reading about a five-year-old murder.”

  “I would not have you studying this if there were no point to it,” Jasnah said, opening up another of her own books. “Too many scholars think of research as purely a cerebral pursuit. If we do nothing with the knowledge we gain, then we have wasted our study. Books can store information better than we can-what we do that books cannot is interpret. So if one is not going to draw conclusions, then one might as well just leave the information in the texts.”

  Shallan sat back, thoughtful. Presented that way, it somehow made her want to dig back into the studies. What was it that Jasnah wanted her to do with the information? Once again, she felt a stab of guilt. Jasnah was taking great pains to instruct her in scholarship, and she was going to reward the woman by stealing her most valuable possession and leaving a broken replacement. It made Shallan feel sick.

  She had expected study beneath Jasnah to involve meaningless memorization and busywork, accompanied by chastisement for not being smart enough. That was how her tutors had approached her instruction. Jasnah was different. She gave Shallan a topic and the freedom to pursue it as she wished. Jasnah offered encouragement and speculation, but nearly all of their conversations turned to topics like the true nature of scholarship, the purpose of studying, the beauty of knowledge and its application.

  Jasnah Kholin truly loved learning, and she wanted others to as well. Behind the stern gaze, intense eyes, and rarely smiling lips, Jasnah Kholin truly believed in what she was doing. Whatever that was.

  Shallan raised one of her books, but covertly eyed the spines of Jasnah’s latest stack of tomes. More histories about the Heraldic Epochs. Mythologies, commentaries, books by scholars known to be wild speculators. Jasnah’s current volume was called Shadows Remembered. Shallan memorized the title. She would try to find a copy and look through it.

  What was Jasnah pursuing? What secrets was she hoping to pry from these volumes, most of them centuries-old copies of copies? Though Shallan had discovered some secrets regarding the Soulcaster, the nature of Jasnah’s quest-the reason the princess had come to Kharbranth-remained elusive. Maddeningly, yet tantalizingly, so. Jasnah liked to speak of the great women of the past, ones who had not just recorded history, but shaped it. Whatever it was she studied, she felt that it was important. World-changing.

  You mustn’t be drawn in, Shallan told herself, settling back with book and notes. Your goal is not to change the world. Your goal is to protect your brothers and your house.

  Still, she needed to make a good show of her wardship. And that gave her a reason to immerse herself for two hours until footsteps in the hallway interrupted. Likely the servants bringing the midday meal. Jasnah and Shallan often ate on their balcony.

  Shallan’s stomach grumbled as she smelled the food, and she gleefully set aside her book. She usually sketched at lunch, an activity that Jasnah-despite her dislike of the visual arts-encouraged. She said that highborn men often thought drawing and painting to be “enticing” in a woman, and so Shallan should maintain her skills, if only for the purpose of attracting suitors.

  Shallan didn’t know whether to find that insulting or not. And what did it say about Jasnah’s own intentions for marriage that she herself never bothered with the more becoming feminine arts like music or drawing?

  “Your Majesty,” Jasnah said, rising smoothly.

  Shallan started and looked hastily over her shoulder. The elderly king of Kharbranth was standing in the doorway, wearing magnificent orange and white robes with detailed embroidery. Shallan scrambled to her feet.

  “Brightness Jasnah,” the king said. “Am I interrupting?”

  “Your company is never an interruption, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said. She had to be as surprised as Shallan was, yet didn’t display a moment of discomfort or anxiety. “We were soon to take lunch, anyway.”

  “I know, Brightness,” Taravangian said. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you.” A group of servants began bringing in food and a table.

  “Not at all,” Jasnah said.

  The servants hurried to set things up, putting two different tablecloths on the round table to separate the genders during dining. They secured the half-moons of cloth-red for the king, blue for the women-with weights at the center. Covered plates filled with food followed: a clear, cold stew with sweet vegetables for the women, a spicy-smelling broth for the king. Kharbranthians preferred soups for their lunches.

  Shallan was surprised to see them set a place for her. Her father had never eaten at the same table as his children-even she, his favorite, had been relegated to her own table. Once Jasnah sat, Shallan did likewise. Her stomach growled again, and the king waved for them to begin. His motions seemed ungainly compared with Jasnah’s elegance.

  Shallan was soon eating contentedly-with grace, as a woman should, safehand in her lap, using her freehand and a skewer to spear chunks of vegetable or fruit. The king slurped, but he wasn’t as noisy as many men. Why had he deigned to visit? Wouldn’t a formal dinner invitation have been more proper? Of course, she’d learned that Taravangian wasn’t known for his mastery of protocol. He was a popular king, beloved by the darkeyes as a builder of hospitals. However, the lighteyes considered him less than bright.

  He was not an idiot. In lighteyed politics, unfortunately, being only average was a disadvantage. As they ate, the silence drew out, becoming awkward. Several times, the king looked as if he wanted to say something, but then turned back to his soup. He seemed intimidated by Jasnah.

  “And how is your granddaughter, Your Majesty?” Jasnah eventually asked. “She is recovering well?”

  “Quite well, thank you,” Taravangian said, as if relieved to begin conversing. “Though she now avoids the narrower corridors of the Conclave. I do want to thank you for your aid.”

  “It is always fulfilling to be of service, Your Majesty.”

  “If you will forgive my saying so, the ardents do not think much of your service,” Taravangian said. “I realize it is likely a sensitive topic. Perhaps I shouldn’t mention it, but-”

  “No, feel free,” Jasnah said, eating a small green lurnip from the end of her skewer. “I am not ashamed of my choices.”

  “Then you’ll forgive an old man’s curiosity?”

  “I always forgive curiosity, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said. “It strikes me as one of the most genuine of emotions.”

  “Then where did you find it?” Taravangian asked, nodding toward the Soulcaster, which Jasnah wore covered by a black glove. “How did you keep it from the devotaries?”

  “One might find those questions dangerous, Your Majesty.”

  “I’ve already acquired some new enemies by welcoming you.”

  “You will be forgiven,” Jasnah said. “Depending on the devotary you have chosen.”

  “Forgiven? Me?” The elderly man seemed to find that amusing, and for a moment, Shallan thought she saw deep regret in his expression. “Unlikely. But that is something else entirely. Please. I stand by my questions.”

  “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 reflex, Shallan dropped her charcoal and grabbed the sheet in her freehand, crumpling it. “I’m sorry, Brightness. I paid to
o 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.”