“They changed, even as we fought them. Like shadows they were, that can transform as the flame dances. Never underestimate them because of what you first see.”
—Purports to be a scrap collected from Talatin, a Radiant of the Order of Stonewards. The source—Guvlow’s Incarnate—is generally held as reliable, though this is from a copied fragment of “The Poem of the Seventh Morning,” which has been lost.
Sometimes, when Shallan walked into the Palanaeum proper—the grand storehouse of books, manuscripts, and scrolls beyond the study areas of the Veil—she grew so distracted by the beauty and scope of it that she forgot everything else.
The Palanaeum was shaped like an inverted pyramid carved down into the rock. It had balcony walkways suspended around its perimeter. Slanted gently downward, they ran around all four walls to form a majestic square spiral, a giant staircase pointing toward the center of Roshar. A series of lifts provided a quicker method of descending.
Standing at the top level’s railing, Shallan could see only halfway to the bottom. This place seemed too large, too grand, to have been shaped by the hands of men. How had the terraced levels been aligned so perfectly? Had Soulcasters been used to create the open spaces? How many gemstones would that have taken?
The lighting was dim; there was no general illumination, only small emerald lamps focused to illuminate the walkway floors. Ardents from the Devotary of Insight periodically moved through the levels, changing the spheres. There had to be hundreds upon hundreds of the emeralds here; apparently, they made up the Kharbranthian royal treasury. What better place for them than the extremely secure Palanaeum? Here they could both be protected and serve to illuminate the enormous library.
Shallan continued on her way. Her parshman servant carried a sphere lantern containing a trio of sapphire marks. The soft blue light reflected against the stone walls, portions of which had been Soulcast into quartz purely for ornamentation. The railings had been carved from wood, then transformed to marble. When she ran her fingers across one, she could feel the original wood’s grain. At the same time, it had the cold smoothness of stone. An oddity that seemed designed to confuse the senses.
Her parshman carried a small basket of books full of drawings by famous natural scientists. Jasnah had begun allowing Shallan to spend some of her study time on topics of her own choosing. Just a single hour a day, but it was remarkable how precious that hour had become. Recently, she’d been digging through Myalmr’s Western Voyages.
The world was a wondrous place. She hungered to learn more, wished to observe each and every one of its creatures, to have sketches of them in her books. To organize Roshar by capturing it in images. The books she read, though wonderful, all felt incomplete. Each author would be good with words or with drawings, but rarely both. And if the author was good with both, then her grasp of science would be poor.
There were so many holes in their understanding. Holes that Shallan could fill.
No, she told herself firmly as she walked. That’s not what I’m here to do.
It was getting harder and harder to stay focused on the theft, though Jasnah—as Shallan had hoped—had begun using her as a bathing attendant.
That might soon present the opportunity she needed. And yet, the more she studied, the more she hungered for knowledge.
She led her parshman to one of the lifts. There, two other parshmen began lowering her. Shallan eyed the basket of books. She could spend her time on the lift reading, maybe finish that section of Western Voyages… She turned away from the basket. Stay focused. On the fifth level down,
she stepped out into the smaller walkway that connected the lift to the sloping ramps set into the walls. Upon reaching the wall, she turned right and continued down a little farther. The wall was lined with doorways and, finding the one she wanted, she entered a large stone chamber filled with tall bookshelves. “Wait here,” she said to her parshman as she dug her drawing folio out of the basket. She tucked it under her arm, took the lantern, and hurried into the stacks.
One could disappear for hours in the Palanaeum and never see another soul. Shallan rarely saw anyone while searching out an obscure book for Jasnah. There were ardents and servants to fetch volumes, of course, but Jasnah thought it important for Shallan to practice doing it herself.
Apparently the Kharbranthian filing system was now standard for many of Roshar’s libraries and archives.
At the back of the room, she found a small desk of cobwood. She set her lantern on one side and sat on the stool, getting out her portfolio. The room was silent and dark, her lantern light revealing the ends of bookshelves to her right and a smooth stone wall to her left. The air smelled of old paper and dust. Not wet. It was never damp in the Palanaeum. Perhaps the dryness had something to do with the long troughs of white powder at the ends of each room.
She undid her portfolio’s leather ties. Inside, the top sheets were blank, and the next few contained drawings she’d done of people in the Palanaeum.
More faces for her collection. Hidden in the middle was a far more important set of drawings: sketches of Jasnah performing Soulcastings.
The princess used her Soulcaster infrequently; perhaps she hesitated to use it when Shallan was around. But Shallan had caught a handful of occasions, mostly when Jasnah had been distracted, and had apparently forgotten she wasn’t alone.
Shallan held up one picture. Jasnah, sitting in the alcove, hand to the side and touching a crumpled piece of notepaper, a gem on her Soulcaster glowing. Shallan held up the next picture. It depicted the same scene just seconds later. The paper had become a ball of flames. It hadn’t burned. No, it had become fire. Tongues of flame coiling, a flash of heat in the air. What had been on it that Jasnah wished to hide?
Another picture showed Jasnah Soulcasting the wine in her cup into a chunk of crystal to use as a paperweight, the goblet itself holding down another stack, on one of the rare occasions when they’d dined—and studied
—on a patio outside the Conclave. There was also the one of Jasnah burning words after running out of ink. When Shallan had seen her burning letters into a page, she’d been amazed at the Soulcaster’s precision.
It seemed that this Soulcaster was attuned to three Essences in particular: Vapor, Spark, and Lucentia. But it should be able to create any of the Ten Essences, from Zephyr to Talus. That last one was the most important to Shallan, as Talus included stone and earth. She could create new mineral deposits for her family to exploit. It would work; Soulcasters were very rare in Jah Keved, and her family’s marble, jade, and opal would sell at a premium. They couldn’t create actual gemstones with a Soulcaster—that was said to be impossible—but they could create other deposits of near equal value.
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 Calling. 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.”
“Recruit them.”
“Let them see what it is they are missing.” He took a bite of his bread and jam. “In the Devotary of Purity, did they teach you about the nature of the Almighty? The divine prism, with the ten facets representing the Heralds?”
“They touched on it,” she said. “Mostly we talked about achieving my goals of…well, purity. Somewhat boring, I’ll admit, since there wasn’t much chance for impurity on my part.”
Kabsal shook his head. “The Almighty gives everyone talents—and when we pick a Calling that capitalizes on them, we are worshipping him in the most fundamental way. A devotary—and its ardents—should help nurture that, encouraging you to set and achieve goals of excellence.” He waved to the books stacked on the desk. “This is what your devotary should be helping you with, Shallan. History, logic, science, art. Being honest and good is important, but we should be working harder to encourage the natural talents of people, rather than forcing them to adapt to the Glories and Callings we feel are most important.”
“That is a reasonable argument, I guess.”
Kabsal nodded, looking thoughtful “Is it any wonder a woman like
Jasnah Kholin turned away from that? Many devotaries encourage women to leave difficult studies of theology to the ardents. If only Jasnah had been able to see the true beauty of our doctrine.” He smiled, digging a thick book out of his bread basket. “I really had hoped, originally, to be able to show her what I
mean.”
“I doubt she’d react well to that.”
“Perhaps,” he said idly, hefting the tome. “But to be the one who finally convinced her!”
“Brother Kabsal, that sounds almost like you’re seeking distinction.”
He blushed, and she realized she’d said something that genuinely embarrassed him. She winced, cursing her tongue.
“Yes,” he said. “I do seek distinction. I shouldn’t wish so badly to be the one who converts her. But I do. If she would just listen to my proof.”
“Proof?”
“I have real evidence that the Almighty exists.”
“I’d like to see it.” Then she raised a finger, cutting him off. “Not because I doubt his existence, Kabsal. I’m just curious.”
He smiled. “It will be my pleasure to explain. But first, would you like another slice of bread?”
“I should say no,” she said, “and avoid excess, as my tutors trained me.
But instead I’ll say yes.”
“Because of the jam?”
“Of course,” she said, taking the bread. “How did your book of oracular preserves describe me? Impulsive and spontaneous? I can do that. If it means jam.”
He slathered a piece for her, then wiped his fingers on his cloth and opened his book, flipping through the pages until he reached one that had a drawing on it. Shallan slid closer for a better look. The picture wasn’t of a person; it depicted a pattern of some kind. A triangular shape, with three
outlying wings and a peaked center.
“Do you recognize this?” Kabsal asked.
It seemed familiar. “I feel that I should.”
“It’s Kholinar,” he said. “The Alethi capital, drawn as it would appear from above. See the peaks here, the ridges there? It was built around the rock formation that was already there.” He flipped the page. “Here’s Vedenar, capital of Jah Keved.” This one was a hexagonal pattern. “Akinah.” A circular pattern. “Thaylen City.” A four-pointed star pattern.
“What does it mean?”
“It is proof that the Almighty is in all things. You can see him here, in these cities. Do you see how symmetrical they are?”
“The cities were built by men, Kabsal. They wanted symmetry because it is holy.”
“Yes, but in each case they built around existing rock formations.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Shallan said. “I do believe, but I don’t know if this is proof. Wind and water can create symmetry; you see it in nature all the time. The men picked areas that were roughly symmetrical, then designed their cities to make up for any flaws.”
He turned to his basket again, rummaging. He came out with—of all things—a metal plate. As she opened her mouth to ask a question, he held up his finger again and set the plate down on a small wooden stand that raised it a few inches above the tabletop.
Kabsal sprinkled white, powdery sand on the sheet of metal, coating it.
Then he got out a bow, the kind drawn across strings to make music.
“You came prepared for this demonstration, I see,” Shallan noted. “You really did want to make your case to Jasnah.”
He smiled, then drew the bow across the edge of the metal plate, making it vibrate. The sand hopped and bounced, like tiny insects dropped onto something hot.
“This,” he said, “is called cymatics. The study of the patterns that sounds make when interacting with a physical medium.”
As he drew the bow again, the plate made a sound, almost a pure note. It was actually enough to draw a single musicspren, which spun for a moment in the air above him, then vanished. Kabsal finished, then gestured to the
plate with a flourish.
“So…?” Shallan asked.
“Kholinar,” he said, holding up his book for comparison.
Shallan cocked her head. The pattern in the sand looked exactly like Kholinar.
He dropped more sand on the plate and then drew the bow across it at another point and the sand rearranged itself.
“Vedenar,” he said.
She compared again. It was an exact match.
“Thaylen City,” he said, repeating the process at another spot. He carefully chose another point on the plate’s edge and bowed it one final time.
“Akinah. Shallan, proof of the Almighty’s existence is in the very cities we live in. Look at the perfect symmetry!”
She had to admit, there was something compelling about the patterns. “It could be a false correlation. Both caused by the same thing.”
“Yes. The Almighty,” he said, sitting. “Our very language is symmetrical. Look at the glyphs—each one can be folded in half perfectly.
And the alphabet too. Fold any line of text down across itself, and you’ll find symmetry. Surely you know the story, that both glyphs and letters came from
the Dawnsingers?”
“Yes.”
“Even our names. Yours is nearly perfect. Shallan. One letter off, an ideal name for a lighteyed woman. Not too holy, but ever so close. The original names for the ten Silver Kingdoms. Alethela, Valhav, Shin Kak Nish. Perfect, symmetrical.”
He reached forward, taking her hand. “It’s here, around us. Don’t forget that, Shallan, no matter what she says.”
“I won’t,” she said, realizing how he’d guided the conversation. He’d said he believed her, but still he’d gone through his proofs. It was touching and annoying at the same time. She did not like condescension. But, then, could one really blame an ardent for preaching?
Kabsal looked up suddenly, releasing her hand. “I hear footsteps.” He stood, and Shallan turned as Jasnah walked into the alcove, followed by a parshman carrying a basket of books. Jasnah showed no surprise at the presence of the ardent.
“I’m sorry, Brightness Jasnah,” Shallan said, standing. “He—”
“You are not a captive, child,” Jasnah interrupted brusquely. “You are allowed visitors. Just be careful to check your skin for tooth marks. These types have a habit of dragging their prey out to sea with them.”
Kabsal flushed. He moved to gather up his things.
Jasnah waved for the parshman to place her books on the table. “Can that plate reproduce a cymatic pattern corresponding to Urithiru, priest? Or do you only have patterns for the standard four cities?”
Kabsal looked at her, obviously shocked to realize that she knew exactly what the plate was for. He picked up his book. “Urithiru is just a fable.”
“Odd. One would think that your type would be used to believing in fables.”
His face grew redder. He finished packing his things, then nodded curtly
to Shallan and walked hastily from the room.
“If I may say so, Brightness,” Shallan said, “that was exceptionally rude of you.”
“I’m prone to such bouts of incivility,” Jasnah said. “I’m certain he has heard what I’m like. I simply wanted to make sure he got what he expected.”
“You haven’t acted that way toward other ardents in the Palanaeum.”
“The other ardents in the Palanaeum haven’t been working to turn my ward against me.”
“He wasn’t…” Shallan trailed off. “He was simply worried about my soul.”
“Has he asked you to try to steal my Soulcaster yet?”
Shallan felt a sudden spike of shock. Her hand went to the pouch at her waist. Did Jasnah know? No, Shallan told herself. No, listen to the question.
“He didn’t.”
“Watch,” Jasnah said, opening a book. “He will eventually. I’ve experience with his type.” She looked at Shallan, and her expression softened. “He’s not interested in you. Not in any of the ways you think. In particular, this isn’t about your soul. It’s about me.”
“That is somewhat arrogant of you,” Shallan said, “don’t you think?”
“Only if I’m wrong, child,” Jasnah said, turning back to her book. “And I rarely am.”
