Who would he tell? Who would believe him? Kaladin himself probably didn’t understand what he was doing.
Best to keep it quiet, at least until he could figure out what to do about it.
39
Burned into her
“Within a heartbeat, Alezarv was there, crossing a distance that would have taken more than four months to travel by foot.”
— Another folktale, this one recorded in Among the Darkeyed, by Calinam. Page 102. Stories of instantaneous travel and the Oathgates pervade these tales.
Shallan’s hand flew across the drawing board, moving as if of its own accord, charcoal scratching, sketching, smudging. Thick lines first, like trails of blood left by a thumb drawn across rough granite. Tiny lines like scratches made by a pin.
She sat in her closetlike stone chamber in the Conclave. No windows, no ornamentation on the granite walls. Just the bed, her trunk, the nightstand, and the small desk that doubled as a drawing table.
A single ruby broam cast a bloody light on her sketch. Usually, to produce a vibrant drawing, she had to consciously memorize a scene. A blink, freezing the world, imprinting it into her mind. She hadn’t done that during Jasnah’s annihilation of the thieves. She’d been too frozen by horror or morbid fascination.
Despite that, she could see each of those scenes in her mind just as vividly as if she’d deliberately memorized them. And these memories didn’t vanish when she drew them. She couldn’t rid her mind of them. Those deaths were burned into her.
She sat back from her drawing board, hand shaking, the picture before her an exact charcoal representation of the suffocating nightscape, squeezed between alley walls, a tortured figure of flame rising toward the sky. At that moment, its face still held its shape, shadow eyes wide and burning lips agape. Jasnah’s hand was toward the figure, as if warding, or worshipping.
Shallan drew her charcoal-stained fingers to her chest, staring at her creation. It was one of dozens of drawings she’d done during the last few days. The man turned into fire, the other frozen into crystal, the two transmuted to smoke. She could only draw one of those two fully; she’d been facing down the alleyway to the east. Her drawings of the fourth man’s death were of smoke rising, clothing already on the ground.
She felt guilty for being unable to record his death. And she felt stupid for that guilt.
Logic did not condemn Jasnah. Yes, the princess had gone willingly into danger, but that didn’t remove responsibility from those who had chosen to hurt her. The men’s actions were reprehensible. Shallan had spent the days poring through books on philosophy, and most ethical frameworks exonerated the princess.
But Shallan had been there. She’d watched those men die. She’d seen the terror in their eyes, and she felt terrible. Hadn’t there been another way?
Kill or be killed. That was the Philosophy of Starkness. It exonerated Jasnah.
Actions are not evil. Intent is evil, and Jasnah’s intent had been to stop men from harming others. That was the Philosophy of Purpose. It lauded Jasnah.
Morality is separate from the ideals of men. It exists whole somewhere, to be approached-but never truly understood-by the mortal. The Philosophy of Ideals. It claimed that removing evil was ultimately moral, and so in destroying evil men, Jasnah was justified.
Objective must be weighed against methods. If the goal is worthy, then the steps taken are worthwhile, even if some of them-on their own-are reprehensible. The Philosophy of Aspiration. It, more than any, called Jasnah’s actions ethical.
Shallan pulled the sheet from her drawing board and tossed it down beside the others scattered across her bed. Her fingers moved again, clutching the charcoal pencil, beginning a new picture on the blank sheet strapped in place on the table, unable to escape.
Her theft nagged at her as much as the killings did. Ironically, Jasnah’s demand that Shallan study moralistic philosophy forced her to contemplate her own, terrible actions. She’d come to Kharbranth to steal the fabrial, then use it to save her brothers and their house from massive debt and destruction. Yet in the end, this wasn’t why Shallan had stolen the Soulcaster. She’d taken it because she was angry with Jasnah.
If the intentions were more important than the action, then she had to condemn herself. Perhaps the Philosophy of Aspiration-which stated that objectives were more important than the steps taken to achieve them-would agree with what she’d done, but that was the philosophy she found most reprehensible. Shallan sat here sketching, condemning Jasnah. But Shallan was the one who had betrayed a woman who had trusted her and taken her in. Now she was planning to commit heresy with the Soulcaster by using it although she was not an ardent.
The Soulcaster itself lay in the hidden part of Shallan’s trunk. Three days, and Jasnah had said nothing about the disappearance. She wore the fake each day. She said nothing, acted no differently. Maybe she hadn’t tried Soulcasting. Almighty send that she didn’t go out and put herself into danger again, expecting to be able to use the fabrial to kill men who attacked her.
Of course, there was one other aspect of that night that Shallan had to think of. She carried a concealed weapon that she hadn’t used. She felt foolish for not even thinking of getting it out that night. But she wasn’t accustomed to-
Shallan froze, realizing for the first time what she’d been drawing. Not another scene from the alleyway, but a lavish room with a thick, ornamented rug and swords on the walls. A long dining table, set with a half-eaten meal.
And a dead man in fine clothing, lying face-first on the floor, blood pooling around him. She jumped back, tossing aside the charcoal, then crumpled up the paper. Shaking, she moved over and sat down on the bed among the pictures. Dropping the crumpled drawing, she raised her fingers to her forehead, feeling the cold sweat there.
Something was wrong with her, with her drawings.
She had to get out. Escape the death, the philosophy and the questions. She stood and hurriedly strode into the main room of Jasnah’s quarters. The princess herself was away researching, as always. She hadn’t demanded that Shallan come to the Veil today. Was that because she realized that her ward needed time to think alone? Or was it because she suspected Shallan of stealing the Soulcaster, and no longer trusted her?
Shallan hurried through the room. It was furnished only with the basics provided by King Taravangian. Shallan pulled open the door to the hallway, and nearly ran into a master-servant who had been reaching up to knock.
The woman started, and Shallan let out a yelp. “Brightness,” the woman said, bowing immediately. “Apologies. But one of your spanreeds is flashing.” The woman held up the reed, affixed on the side with a small blinking ruby.
Shallan breathed in and out, stilling her heart. “Thank you,” she said. She, like Jasnah, left her spanreeds in the care of servants because she was often away from her rooms, and was likely to miss any attempt to contact her.
Still flustered, she was tempted to leave the thing and continue on her way. However, she did need to speak with her brothers, Nan Balat particularly, and he’d been away the last few times she’d contacted home. She took the spanreed and closed the door. She didn’t dare return to her rooms, with all of those sketches accusing her, but there was a desk and a spanreed board in the main room. She sat there, then twisted the ruby.
Shallan? the reed wrote. Are you comfortable? It was a code phrase, meant to indicate to her that it was indeed Nan Balat-or, at least, his betrothed-on the other side.
My back hurts and my wrist itches, she wrote back, giving the other half of the code phrase.
I’m sorry I missed your other communications, Nan Balat sent. I had to attend a feast in Father’s name. It was with Sur Kamar, so it wasn’t really something I could miss, despite the day of traveling each way.
It’s all right, Shallan wrote. She took a deep breath. I have the item. She turned the gem.
The reed was still for a long moment. Finally, a hurried hand wrote, Praise the Heralds. Oh, Shallan. You’ve do
ne it! You are on your way back to us, then? How can you use the spanreed on the ocean? Are you in port?
I haven’t left, Shallan wrote.
What? Why?
Because it would be too suspicious, she wrote. Think about it, Nan Balat. If Jasnah tries the item and finds it broken, she might not immediately decide that she’s been had. That changes if I’ve suddenly and suspiciously left for home.
I have to wait until she’s made the discovery, then see what she does next. If she realizes that her fabrial was replaced with a fake, then I can deflect her toward other culprits. She’s already suspicious of the ardentia. If-on the other hand-she assumes that her fabrial has broken somehow, I’ll know we’re free.
She twisted the gem, setting the spanreed in place.
The question she’d been expecting came next. And if she immediately assumes that you did it? Shallan, what if you can’t deflect her suspicion? What if she orders a search of your chambers and they find the hidden compartment?
She picked up the pen. Then it is still better for me to be here, she wrote. Balat, I have learned much about Jasnah Kholin. She is incredibly focused and determined. She will not let me escape if she thinks I have robbed her. She will hunt me down, and will use all of her resources to exact retribution. We’d have our own king and highprinces on our property in days, demanding that we turn over the fabrial. Stormfather! I’ll bet Jasnah has contacts in Jah Keved that she could reach before I got back. I’d find myself in custody the moment I landed.
Our only hope is to deflect her. If that doesn’t work, better for me to be here and suffer her wrath quickly. Likely she would take the Soulcaster and banish me from her sight. If we make her work and chase after me, though…She can be very ruthless, Balat. It would not go well for us.
The response was long in coming. When did you get so good at logic, small one? he finally sent. I see that you’ve thought this through. Better than I have, at least. But Shallan, our time is running out.
I know, she wrote. You said you could hold things together for a few more months. I ask you to do that. Give me two or three weeks, at least, to see what Jasnah does. Besides, while I am here, I can look into how the thing works. I haven’t found any books that give hints, but there are so many here, maybe I just haven’t found the right one yet.
Very well, he wrote. A few weeks. Be careful, small one. The men who gave Father his fabrial visited again. They asked after you. I’m worried about them. Even more than I worry about our finances. They disturb me in a profound way. Farewell.
Farewell, she wrote back.
So far, there had been no hint of reaction from the princess. She hadn’t even mentioned the Soulcaster. That made Shallan nervous. She wished that Jasnah would just say something. The waiting was excruciating. Each day, while she sat with Jasnah, Shallan’s stomach churned with anxiety until she was nauseated. At least-considering the killings a few days ago-Shallan had a very good excuse for looking disturbed.
Cold, calm logic. Jasnah herself would be proud.
A knock came at the door, and Shallan quickly gathered up the conversation she’d had with Nan Balat and burned it in the hearth. A palace maid entered a moment later, carrying a basket in the crook of her arm. She smiled at Shallan. It was time for the daily cleaning.
Shallan had a strange moment of panic at seeing the woman. She wasn’t one of the maids Shallan recognized. What if Jasnah had sent her or someone else to search Shallan’s room? Had she done so already? Shallan nodded to the woman and then-to assuage her worries-she walked to her room and closed the door. She rushed to the chest and checked the hidden compartment. The fabrial was there. She lifted it out, inspecting it. Would she know if Jasnah somehow reversed the exchange?
You’re being foolish, she told herself. Jasnah’s subtle, but she’s not that subtle. Still, Shallan stuffed the Soulcaster in her safepouch. It just barely fit inside the envelope-like cloth container. She’d feel safer knowing she had it on her while the maid cleaned her room. Besides, the safepouch might be a better hiding place for it than her trunk.
By tradition, a woman’s safepouch was where she kept items of intimate or very precious import. To search one would be like strip-searching her-considering her rank, either would be virtually unthinkable unless she were obviously implicated in a crime. Jasnah could probably force it. But if Jasnah could do that, she could order a search of Shallan’s room, and her trunk would be under particular scrutiny. The truth was, if Jasnah chose to suspect her, there would be little Shallan could do to hide the fabrial. So the safepouch was as good a place as any.
She gathered up the pictures she’d drawn and put them upside-down on the desk, trying not to look at them. She didn’t want those to be seen by the maid. Finally, she left, taking her portfolio. She felt that she needed to get outside and escape for a while. Draw something other than death and murder. The conversation with Nan Balat had only served to upset her more.
“Brightness?” the maid asked.
Shallan froze, but the maid held up a basket. “This was dropped off for you with the master-servants.”
She hesitantly accepted it, looking inside. Bread and jam. A note, tied to one of the jars, read: Bluebar jam. If you like it, it means you’re mysterious, reserved, and thoughtful. It was signed Kabsal.
Shallan placed the basket’s handle in the crook of her safearm’s elbow. Kabsal. Maybe she should go find him. She always felt better after a conversation with him.
But no. She was going to leave; she couldn’t keep stringing him, or herself, along. She was afraid of where the relationship was going. Instead, she made her way to the main cavern and then to the Conclave’s exit. She walked out into the sunlight and took a deep breath, looking up into the sky as servants and attendants parted around her, swarming in and out of the Conclave. She held her portfolio close, feeling the cool breeze on her cheeks and the contrasting warmth of the sunlight pressing down on her hair and forehead.
In the end, the most disturbing part was that Jasnah had been right. Shallan’s world of simple answers had been a foolish, childish place. She’d clung to the hope that she could find truth, and use it to explain-perhaps justify-what she had done back in Jah Keved. But if there was such a thing as truth, it was far more complicated and murky than she’d assumed.
Some problems didn’t seem to have any good answers. Just a lot of wrong ones. She could choose the source of her guilt, but she couldn’t choose to be rid of that guilt entirely.
Two hours-and about twenty quick sketches-later, Shallan felt far more relaxed.
She sat in the palace gardens, sketchpad in her lap, drawing snails. The gardens weren’t as extensive as her father’s, but they were far more varied, not to mention blessedly secluded. Like many modern gardens, they were designed with walls of cultivated shalebark. This one’s made a maze of living stone. They were short enough that, when standing, she could see the way back to the entrance. But if she sat down on one of the numerous benches, she could feel alone and unseen.
She’d asked a groundskeeper the name of the most prominent shalebark plant; he’d called it “plated stone.” A fitting name, as it grew in thin round sections that piled atop one another, like plates in a cupboard. From the sides, it looked like weathered rock that exposed hundreds of thin strata. Tiny little tendrils grew up out of pores, waving in the wind. The stonelike casings had a bluish shade, but the tendrils were yellowish.
Her current subject was a snail with a low horizontal shell edged with little ridges. When she tapped, it would flatten itself into a rift in the shalebark, appearing to become part of the plated stone. It blended in perfectly. When she let it move, it nibbled at the shalebark-but didn’t chew it away.
It’s cleaning the shalebark, she realized, continuing her sketch. Eating off the lichen and mold. Indeed, a cleaner trail extended behind it.
Patches of a different kind of shalebark-with fingerlike protrusions growing up into the air from a central knob-grew alongside the plated stone.
When she looked closely, she noted little cremlings-thin and multilegged-crawling along it, eating at it. Were they too cleaning it?
Curious, she thought, beginning a sketch of the miniature cremlings. They had carapaces shaded like the shalebark’s fingers, while the snail’s shell was a near duplicate of the yellow and blue colorings of the plated stone. It was as if they had been designed by the Almighty in pairs, the plant giving safety to the animal, the animal cleaning the plant.
A few lifespren-tiny, glowing green specks-floated around the shalebark mounds. Some danced amid the rifts in the bark, others in the air like dust motes zigzagging up, only to fall again.
She used a finer-tipped charcoal pencil to scribble some thoughts about the relationship between the animals and the plants. She didn’t know of any books that spoke of relationships like this one. Scholars seemed to prefer studying big, dynamic animals, like greatshells or whitespines. But this seemed a beautiful, wondrous discovery to Shallan.
Snails and plants can help one another, she thought. But I betray Jasnah.
She glanced toward her safehand, and the pouch hidden inside. She felt more secure having the Soulcaster near. She hadn’t yet dared try to use it. She’d been too nervous about the theft, and had worried about using the object near Jasnah. Now, however, she was in a nook deep within the maze, with only one curving entrance into her dead end. She stood up casually, looking around. No one else was in the gardens, and she was far enough inside that it would take minutes for anyone to get to her.
Shallan sat back down, setting aside her drawing pad and pencil. I might as well see if I can figure out how to use it, she thought. Maybe there’s no need to keep searching the Palanaeum for a solution. So long as she stood up and glanced about periodically, she could be certain she wouldn’t be approached or seen by accident.
She removed the forbidden device. It was heavy in her hand. Solid. Taking a deep breath, she looped the chains over her fingers and around her wrist, the gemstones set against the back of her hand. The metal was cold, the chains loose. She flexed her hand, pulling the fabrial tight.
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