Once those new deposits ran out, they’d have to move to less lucrative trades. That would be all right, though. By then, they’d have paid off their debts and compensated those to whom promises had been broken. House Davar would become unimportant again, but would not collapse.
Shallan studied the pictures again. The Alethi princess seemed remarkably casual about Soulcasting. She held one of the most powerful artifacts in all of Roshar, and she used it to create paperweights? What else did she use the Soulcaster for, when Shallan wasn’t watching? Jasnah seemed to use it less frequently in her presence now than she had at first.
Shallan fished in the safepouch inside her sleeve, bringing out her father’s broken Soulcaster. It had been sheared in two places: across one of the chains and through the setting that held one of the stones. She inspected it in the light, looking-not for the first time-for signs of that damage. The link in the chain had been replaced perfectly and the setting reforged equally well. Even knowing exactly where the cuts had been, she couldn’t find any flaw. Unfortunately, repairing only the outward defects hadn’t made it functional.
She hefted the heavy construction of metal and chains. Then she put it on, looping chains around her thumb, small finger, and middle finger. There were no gemstones in the device at present. She compared the broken Soulcaster to the drawings, inspecting it from all sides. Yes, it looked identical. She’d worried about that.
Shallan felt her heart flutter as she regarded the broken Soulcaster. Stealing from Jasnah had seemed acceptable when the princess had been a distant, unknown figure. A heretic, presumably ill-tempered and demanding. But what of the real Jasnah? A careful scholar, stern but fair, with a surprising level of wisdom and insight? Could Shallan really steal from her?
She tried to still her heart. Even as a little child, she’d been this way. She could remember her tears at fights between her parents. She was not good with confrontation.
But she’d do it. For Nan Balat, Tet Wikim, and Asha Jushu. Her brothers depended on her. She pressed her hands against her thighs to keep them from shaking, breathing in and out. After a few minutes, nerves under control, she took off the damaged Soulcaster and returned it to her safepouch. She gathered up her papers. They might be important in discovering how to use the Soulcaster. What was she going to do about that? Was there a way to ask Jasnah about using a Soulcaster without arousing suspicion?
A light flickering through nearby bookcases startled her, and she tucked away her folio. It turned out to be just an old, berobed female ardent, shuffling with a lantern and followed by a parshman servant. She didn’t look in Shallan’s direction as she turned between two rows of shelves, her lantern’s light shining out through the spaces between the books. Lit that way-with her figure hidden but the light streaming between the shelves-it looked as if one of the Heralds themselves were walking through the stacks.
Her heart racing again, Shallan raised her safehand to her breast. I make a terrible thief, she thought with a grimace. She finished gathering her things and moved through the stacks, lantern held before her. The head of each row was carved with symbols, indicating the date the books had entered the Palanaeum. That was how they were organized. There were enormous cabinets filled with indexes on the top level.
Jasnah had sent Shallan to fetch-and then read-a copy of Dialogues, a famous historical work on political theory. However, this was also the room that contained Shadows Remembered-the book Jasnah was reading when the king had visited. Shallan had later looked it up in the index. It might have been reshelved by now.
Suddenly curious, Shallan counted off the rows. She stepped in and counted shelves inward. Near the middle and at the bottom, she found a thin red volume with a red hogshide cover. Shadows Remembered. Shallan set her lantern on the ground and slipped the book free, feeling furtive as she flipped through the pages.
She was confused by what she discovered. She hadn’t realized this was a book of children’s stories. There was no undertext commentary, just a collection of tales. Shallan sat down on the floor, reading through the first one. It was the story of a child who wandered away from his home at night and was chased by Voidbringers until he hid in a cavern beside a lake. He whittled a piece of wood into a roughly human shape and sent it floating across the lake, fooling the creatures into attacking and eating it instead.
Shallan didn’t have much time-Jasnah would grow suspicious if she remained down here too long-but she skimmed the rest of the stories. They were all of a similar style, ghost stories about spirits or Voidbringers. The only commentary was at the back, explaining that the author had been curious about the folktales told by common darkeyes. She had spent years collecting and recording them.
Shadows Remembered, Shallan thought, would have been better off forgotten.
This was what Jasnah had been reading? Shallan had expected Shadows Remembered to be some kind of deep philosophical discussion of a hidden historical murder. Jasnah was a Veristitalian. She constructed the truth of what happened in the past. What kind of truth could she find in stories told to frighten disobedient darkeyed children?
Shallan slid the volume back in place and hurried on her way.
A short time later, Shallan returned to the alcove to discover that her haste had been unnecessary. Jasnah wasn’t there. Kabsal, however, was.
The youthful ardent sat at the long desk, flipping through one of Shallan’s books on art. Shallan noticed him before he saw her, and she found herself smiling despite her troubles. She folded her arms and adopted a dubious expression. “Again?” she asked.
Kabsal leaped up, slapping the book closed. “Shallan,” he said, his bald head reflecting the blue light of her parshman’s lantern. “I came looking for-”
“For Jasnah,” Shallan said. “As always. And yet, she’s never here when you come.”
“An unfortunate coincidence,” he said, raising a hand to his forehead. “I am a poor judge of timing, am I not?”
“And is that a basket of bread at your feet?”
“A gift for Brightness Jasnah,” he said. “From the Devotary of Insight.”
“I doubt a bread basket is going to persuade her to renounce her heresy,” Shallan said. “Perhaps if you’d included jam.”
The ardent smiled, picking up the basket and pulling out a small jar of red simberry jam.
“Of course, I’ve told you that Jasnah doesn’t like jam,” Shallan said “And yet you bring it anyway, knowing jam to be among my favorite foods. And you’ve done this oh…a dozen times in the last few months?”
“I’m growing a bit transparent, aren’t I?”
“Just a tad,” she said, smiling. “It’s about my soul, isn’t it? You’re worried about me because I’m apprenticed to a heretic.”
“Er…well, yes, I’m afraid.”
“I’d be insulted,” Shallan said. “But you did bring jam.” She smiled, waving for her parshman to deposit her books and then wait beside the doorway. Was it true that there were parshmen on the Shattered Plains who were fighting? That seemed hard to credit. She’d never known any parshman to as much as raise their voice. They didn’t seem bright enough for disobedience.
Of course, some reports she’d heard-including those Jasnah had made her read when studying King Gavilar’s murder-indicated that the Parshendi weren’t like other parshmen. They were bigger, had odd armor that grew from their skin itself, and spoke far more frequently. Perhaps they weren’t parshmen at all, but some kind of distant cousin, a different race entirely.
She sat down at the desk as Kabsal got out the bread, her parshman waiting at the doorway. A parshman wasn’t much of a chaperone, but Kabsal was an ardent, which meant technically she didn’t need one.
The bread had been purchased from a Thaylen bakery, which meant it was fluffy and brown. And, since he was an ardent, it didn’t matter that jam was a feminine food-they could enjoy it together. She eyed him as he cut the bread. The ardents in her father’s employ had all been crusty men or women in their
later years, stern-eyed and impatient with children. She’d never even considered that the devotaries would attract young men like Kabsal.
During these last few weeks, she’d found herself thinking of him in ways that would better have been avoided.
“Have you considered,” he noted, “what kind of person you declare yourself to be by preferring simberry jam?”
“I wasn’t aware that my taste in jams could be that significant.”
“There are those who have studied it,” Kabsal said, slathering on the thick red jam and handing her the slice. “You run across some very odd books, working in the Palanaeum. It’s not hard to conclude that perhaps everything has been studied at one time or another.”
“Hum,” Shallan said. “And simberry jam?”
“According to Palates of Personality-and before you object, yes it is a real book, and that is its title-a fondness for simberries indicates a spontaneous, impulsive personality. And also a preference for-” He cut off as a wadded-up piece of paper bounced off his forehead. He blinked.
“Sorry,” Shallan said. “It just kind of happened. Must be all that impulsiveness and spontaneity I have.”
He smiled. “You disagree with the conclusions?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “I’ve had people tell me they could determine my personality based on the day I was born, or the position of Taln’s Scar on my seventh birthday, or by numerological extrapolations of the tenth glyphic paradigm. But I think we’re more complicated than that.”
“People are more complicated than the numerological extrapolations of the tenth glyphic paradigm?” Kabsal said, spreading jam on a piece of bread for himself. “No wonder I have such difficulty understanding women.”
“Very funny. I mean that we’re more complex than mere bundles of personality traits. Am I spontaneous? Sometimes. You might describe my chasing Jasnah here to become her ward that way. But before that, I spent seventeen years being about as unspontaneous as someone could be. In many situations-if I’m encouraged-my tongue can be quite spontaneous, but my actions rarely are. We’re all spontaneous sometimes, and we’re all conservative sometimes.”
“So you’re saying that the book is right then. It says you’re spontaneous; you’re spontaneous sometimes. Ergo, it’s correct.”
“By that argument, it’s right about everybody.”
“One hundred percent accurate!”
“Well, not one hundred percent,” Shallan said, swallowing another bite of the sweet, fluffy bread. “As has been noted, Jasnah hates jam of all kinds.”
“Ah yes,” Kabsal said. “She’s a jam heretic too. Her soul is in more danger than I had realized.” He grinned and took a bite of his bread.
“Indeed,” Shallan said. “So what else does that book of yours say about me-and half the world’s population-because of our enjoyment of foods with far too much sugar in them?”
“Well, a fondness for simberry is also supposed to indicate a love of the outdoors.”
“Ah, the outdoors,” Shallan said. “I visited that mythical place once. It was so very long ago, I’ve nearly forgotten it. Tell me, does the sun still shine, or is that just my dreamy recollection?”
“Surely your studies aren’t that bad.”
“Jasnah is inordinately fond of dust,” Shallan said. “I believe she thrives on it, feeding off the particles like a chull crunching rockbuds.”
“And you, Shallan? On what do you thrive?”
“Charcoal.”
He looked confused at first, then glanced at her folio. “Ah yes. I was surprised at how quickly your name, and pictures, spread through the Conclave.”
Shallan ate the last of her bread, then wiped her hands on a damp rag Kabsal had brought. “You make me sound like a disease.” She ran a finger through her red hair, grimacing. “I guess I do have the coloring of a rash, don’t I?”
“Nonsense,” he said sternly. “You shouldn’t say such things, Brightness. It’s disrespectful.”
“Of myself?”
“No. Of the Almighty, who made you.”
“He made cremlings too. Not to mentions rashes and diseases. So being compared to one is actually an honor.”
“I fail to follow that logic, Brightness. As he created all things, comparisons are meaningless.”
“Like the claims of your Palates book, eh?”
“A point.”
“There are worse things to be than a disease,” she said, idly thoughtful. “When you have one, it reminds you that you’re alive. Makes you fight for what you have. When the disease has run its course, normal healthy life seems wonderful by comparison.”
“And would you not rather be a sense of euphoria? Bringing pleasant feelings and joy to those you infect?”
“Euphoria passes. It is usually brief, so we spend more time longing for it than enjoying it.” She sighed. “Look what we’ve done. Now I’m depressed. At least turning back to my studies will seem exciting by comparison.”
He frowned at the books. “I was under the impression that you enjoyed your studies.”
“As was I. Then Jasnah Kholin stomped into my life and proved that even something pleasant could become boring.”
“I see. So she’s a harsh mistress?”
“Actually, no,” Shallan said. “I’m just fond of hyperbole.”
“I’m not,” he said. “It’s a real bastard to spell.”
“Kabsal!”
“Sorry,” he said. Then he glanced upward. “Sorry.”
“I’m sure the ceiling forgives you. To get the Almighty’s attention, you might want to burn a prayer instead.”
“I owe him a few anyway,” Kabsal said. “You were saying?”
“Well, Brightness Jasnah isn’t a harsh mistress. She’s actually everything she’s said to be. Brilliant, beautiful, mysterious. I’m fortunate to be her ward.”
Kabsal nodded. “She is said to be a sterling woman, save for one thing.”
“You mean the heresy?”
He nodded.
“It’s not as bad for me as you think,” she said. “She’s rarely vocal about her beliefs unless provoked.”
“She’s ashamed, then.”
“I doubt that. Merely considerate.”
He eyed her.
“You needn’t worry about me,” Shallan said. “Jasnah doesn’t try to persuade me to abandon the devotaries.”
Kabsal leaned forward, growing more somber. He was older than she-a man in his mid-twenties, confident, self-assured, and earnest. He was practically the only man near her age that she’d ever talked to outside of her father’s careful supervision.
But he was also an ardent. So, of course, nothing could come of it. Could it?
“Shallan,” Kabsal said gently, “can you not see how we-how I-would be concerned? Brightness Jasnah is a very powerful and intriguing woman. We would expect her ideas to be infectious.”
“Infectious? I thought you said I was the disease.”
“I never said that!”
“Yes, but I pretended you did. Which is virtually the same thing.”
He frowned. “Brightness Shallan, the ardents are worried about you. The souls of the Almighty’s children are our responsibility. Jasnah has a history of corrupting those with whom she comes in contact.”
“Really?” Shallan asked, genuinely interested. “Other wards?”
“It is not my place to say.”
“We can move to another place.”
“I’m firm on this point, Brightness. I will not speak of it.”
“Write it, then.”
“Brightness…” he said, voice taking on a suffering tone.
“Oh, all right,” she said, sighing. “Well, I can assure you, my soul is quite well and thoroughly uninfected.”
He sat back, then cut another piece of bread. She found herself studying him again, but grew annoyed at her own girlish foolishness. She would soon be returning to her family, and he was only visiting her for reasons relating to his C
alling. But she truly was fond of his company. He was the only one here in Kharbranth that she felt she could really talk to. And he was handsome; the simple clothing and shaved head only highlighted his strong features. Like many young ardents, he kept his beard short and neatly trimmed. He spoke with a refined voice, and he was so well-read.
“Well, if you’re certain about your soul,” he said, turning back to her. “Then perhaps I could interest you in our devotary.”
“I have a devotary. The Devotary of Purity.”
“But the Devotary of Purity isn’t the place for a scholar. The Glory it advocates has nothing to do with your studies or your art.”
“A person doesn’t need a devotary that focuses directly on their Calling.”
“It is nice when the two coincide, though.”
Shallan stifled a grimace. The Devotary of Purity focused on-as one might imagine-teaching one to emulate the Almighty’s honesty and wholesomeness. The ardents at the devotary hall hadn’t known what to make of her fascination with art. They’d always wanted her to do sketches of things they found “pure.” Statues of the Heralds, depictions of the Double Eye.
Her father had chosen the devotary for her, of course.
“I just wonder if you made an informed choice,” Kabsal said. “Switching devotaries is allowed, after all.”
“Yes, but isn’t recruitment frowned upon? Ardents competing for members?”
“It is indeed frowned upon. A deplorable habit.”
“But you do it anyway?”
“I curse occasionally too.”
“I hadn’t noticed. You’re a very curious ardent, Kabsal.”
“You’d be surprised. We’re not nearly as stuffy a bunch as we seem. Well, except Brother Habsant; he spends so much time staring at the rest of us.” He hesitated. “Actually, now I think about it, he might actually be stuffed. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him move….”
“We’re getting distracted. Weren’t you trying to recruit me to your devotary?”
“Yes. And it’s not so uncommon as you think. All of the devotaries engage in it. We do a lot of frowning at one another for our profound lack of ethics.” He leaned forward again, growing more serious. “My devotary has relatively few members, as we don’t have as much exposure as others. So whenever someone seeking knowledge comes to the Palanaeum, we take it upon ourselves to inform them.”
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