“The ones of ash and fire, who killed like a swarm, relentless before the Heralds.”

—Noted in Masly, page 337. Corroborated by Coldwin and Hasavah.

It sounds like you’re getting into Jasnah’s good graces quickly, the spanreed wrote out. How long before you can make the switch?

Shallan grimaced, turning the gemstone on the reed. I don’t know, she wrote back. Jasnah keeps a close watch on the Soulcaster, as you’d expect. She wears it all day. At night, she locks it away in her safe and wears the key around her neck.

She turned the gemstone, then waited for a reply. She was in her chamber, a small, stone-carved room inside Jasnah’s quarters. Her accommodations were austere: A small bed, a nightstand, and the writing table were her only furniture. Her clothing remained in the trunk she had brought. No rug adorned the floor, and there were no windows, as the rooms were in the Kharbranthian Conclave, which was underground.

That does make it troubling, the reed wrote. Eylita—Nan Balat’s betrothed—was the one doing the writing, but all three of Shallan’s surviving brothers would be in the room back in Jah Keved, contributing to the conversation.

I’m guessing she takes it off while bathing, Shallan wrote. Once she trusts me more, she may begin using me as a bathing attendant. That may present an opportunity.

That is a good plan, the spanreed wrote. Nan Balat wants me to point out that we are very sorry to make you do this. It must be difficult for you to be away so long.

Difficult? Shallan picked up the spanreed and hesitated.

Yes, it was difficult. Difficult not to fall in love with the freedom, difficult not to get too absorbed in her studies. It had been only two months since she’d convinced Jasnah to take her as a ward, but already she felt half as timid and twice as confident.

The most difficult thing of all was knowing that it would soon end. Coming to study in Kharbranth was, without doubt, the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her.

I will manage, she wrote. You are the ones living the difficult life, maintaining our family’s interests at home. How are you doing?

It took time for them to reply. Poorly, Eylita finally sent. Your father’s debts are coming due, and Wikim can barely keep the creditors distracted. The highprince ails, and everyone wants to know where our house stands on the question of succession. The last of the quarries is running out. If it becomes known that we no longer have resources, it will go badly for us.

Shallan grimaced. How long do I have?

A few more months, at best, Nan Balat sent back via his betrothed. It depends on how long the highprince lasts and whether or not anyone realizes why Asha Jushu is selling our possessions. Jushu was the youngest of the brothers, just older than Shallan. His old gambling habit was actually coming in handy. For years, he’d been stealing things from their father and selling them to cover his losses. He pretended he was still doing that, but he brought the money back to help. He was a good man, despite his habit. And, all things considered, he really couldn’t be blamed for much of what he’d done. None of them could.

Wikim thinks that he can keep everyone at bay for a while longer. But we are getting desperate. The sooner you return with the Soulcaster, the better.

Shallan hesitated, then wrote, Are we certain this is the best way? Perhaps we should simply ask Jasnah for help.

You think she would respond to that? they wrote back. She would help an unknown and disliked Veden house? She would keep our secrets?

Probably not. Though Shallan was increasingly certain that Jasnah’s reputation was exaggerated, the woman did have a ruthless side to her. She would not leave her important studies to go help Shallan’s family.

She reached for the reed to reply, but it started scribbling again. Shallan, it said. This is Nan Balat; I have sent the others away. It is only Eylita and me writing you now. There is something you need to know. Luesh is dead.

Shallan blinked in surprise. Luesh, her father’s steward, had been the one who had known how to use the Soulcaster. He was one of the few people she and her brothers had determined they could trust.

What happened? she wrote after switching to a new sheet of paper.

He died in his sleep, and there’s no reason to suspect he was killed. But Shallan, a few weeks after his passing, some men visited here claiming to be friends of our father. In private with me, they implied they knew of Father’s Soulcaster and suggested strongly that I was to return it to them.

Shallan frowned. She still carried her father’s broken Soulcaster in the safepouch of her sleeve. Return it? she wrote.

We never did figure out where Father got it, Nan Balat sent. Shallan, he was involved in something. Those maps, the things Luesh said, and now this. We continue to pretend that Father is alive, and occasionally he gets letters from other lighteyes that speak of vague “plans.” I think he was going to make a play to become highprince. And he was supported by some very powerful forces.

These men who came, they were dangerous, Shallan. The type of men you do not cross. And they want their Soulcaster back. Whoever they are, I suspect they gave it to Father so he could create wealth and make a bid for the succession. They know he’s dead.

I believe that if we don’t return a working Soulcaster to them, we could all be in serious danger. You need to bring Jasnah’s fabrial to us. We’ll quickly use it to create new quarries of valuable stone, and then we can give it up to these men. Shallan, you must succeed. I was hesitant about this plan when you suggested it, but other avenues are quickly vanishing.

Shallan felt a chill. She read over the paragraphs a few times, then wrote, If Luesh is dead, then we don’t know how to use the Soulcaster. That is problematic.

I know, Nan Balat sent. See if you can figure that out. This is dangerous, Shallan. I know it is. I’m sorry.

She took a deep breath. It must be done, she wrote.

Here, Nan Balat sent. I wanted to show you something. Have you ever seen this symbol? The sketch that followed was crude. Eylita wasn’t much of an artist. Fortunately, it was a simple picture—three diamond shapes in a curious pattern.

I’ve never seen it, Shallan wrote. Why?

Luesh wore a pendant with this symbol on it, Nan Balat sent. We found it on his body. And one of the men who came searching for the Soulcaster had the same pattern tattooed on his hand, just below his thumb.

Curious, Shallan wrote. So Luesh …

Yes, Nan Balat sent. Despite what he said, I think he must have been the one who brought the Soulcaster to Father. Luesh was involved in this, perhaps as liaison between Father and the people backing him. I tried to suggest that they could back me instead, but the men just laughed. They did not stay long or give a specific time by which the Soulcaster must be returned. I doubt they’d be satisfied to receive a broken one.

Shallan pursed her lips. Balat, have you thought that we might be risking a war? If it becomes known that we’ve stolen an Alethi Soulcaster …

No, there wouldn’t be a war, Nan Balat wrote back. King Hanavanar would just turn us over to the Alethi. They’d execute us for the theft.

Wonderfully comforting, Balat, she wrote. Thank you so much.

You’re welcome. We’re going to have to hope that Jasnah doesn’t realize that you took the Soulcaster. It seems likely she’ll assume that hers broke for some reason.

Shallan sighed. Perhaps, she wrote.

Take care, Nan Balat sent her.

You too.

And that was it. She set the spanreed aside, then read over the entire conversation, memorizing it. Then she crumpled up the sheets and walked into the sitting room of Jasnah’s quarters. She wasn’t there—Jasnah rarely broke from her studies—so Shallan burned the conversation in the hearth.

She stood for a long moment, watching the fire. She was worried. Nan Balat was capable, but they all bore scars from the lives they’d led. Eylita was the only scribe they could trust, and she … well, she was incredibly nice but not very clever.

With a sigh, Shallan left the room to return to her studies. Not only would they help get her mind off her troubles, but Jasnah would grow testy if she dallied too long.

Five hours later, Shallan wondered why it was she’d been so eager.

She did enjoy her chances at scholarship. But recently, Jasnah had set her to study the history of the Alethi monarchy. It wasn’t the most interesting subject around. Her boredom was compounded by her being forced to read a number of books that expressed opinions she found ridiculous.

She sat in Jasnah’s alcove at the Veil. The enormous wall of lights, alcoves, and mysterious researchers no longer awed her. The place was becoming comfortable and familiar. She was alone at the moment.

Shallan rubbed her eyes with her freehand, then slid her book closed. “I,” she muttered, “am really coming to hate the Alethi monarchy.”

“Is that so?” a calm voice said from behind. Jasnah walked past, wearing a sleek violet dress, followed by a parshman porter with a stack of books. “I’ll try not to take it personally.”

Shallan winced, then blushed furiously. “I didn’t mean individually, Brightness Jasnah. I meant categorically.”

Jasnah lithely took her seat in the alcove. She raised an eyebrow at Shallan, then gestured for the parshman to set down his burden.

Shallan still found Jasnah an enigma. At times, she seemed a stern scholar annoyed by Shallan’s interruptions. At other times, there seemed to be a hint of wry humor hiding behind the stern facade. Either way, Shallan was finding that she felt remarkably comfortable around the woman. Jasnah encouraged her to speak her mind, something Shallan had taken to gladly.

“I assume from your outburst that this topic is wearing on you,” Jasnah said, sorting through her volumes as the parshman withdrew. “You expressed interest in being a scholar. Well, you must learn that this is scholarship.”

“Reading argument after argument from people who refuse to see any other point of view?”

“They’re confident.”

“I’m not an expert on confidence, Brightness,” Shallan said, holding up a book and inspecting it critically. “But I’d like to think that I could recognize it if it were before me. I don’t think that’s the right word for books like this one from Mederia. They feel more arrogant than confident to me.” She sighed, setting the book aside. “To be honest, ‘arrogant’ doesn’t feel like quite the right word. It’s not specific enough.”

“And what would be the right word, then?”

“I don’t know. ‘Errorgant,’ perhaps.”

Jasnah raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“It means to be twice as certain as someone who is merely arrogant,” Shallan said, “while possessing only one-tenth the requisite facts.”

Her words drew a hint of a smile from Jasnah. “What you are reacting against is known as the Assuredness Movement, Shallan. This errorgance is a literary device. The scholars are intentionally overstating their case.”

“The Assuredness Movement?” Shallan asked, holding up one of her books. “I guess I could get behind that.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Much easier to stab it in the back from that position.”

That got only an eyebrow raise. So, more seriously, Shallan continued. “I suppose I can understand the device, Brightness, but these books you’ve given me on King Gavilar’s death are more and more irrational in defending their points. What began as a rhetorical conceit seems to have descended into name-calling and squabbling.”

“They are trying to provoke discussion. Would you rather that the scholars hide from the truth, like so many? You would have men prefer ignorance?”

“When reading these books, scholarship and ignorance feel much alike to me,” Shallan said. “Ignorance may reside in a man hiding from intelligence, but scholarship can seem ignorance hidden behind intelligence.”

“And what of intelligence without ignorance? Finding truth while not dismissing the possibility of being wrong?”

“A mythological treasure, Brightness, much like the Dawnshards or the Honorblades. Certainly worth seeking, but only with great caution.”

“Caution?” Jasnah said, frowning.

“It would make you famous, but actually finding it would destroy us all. Proof that one can be both intelligent and accept the intelligence of those who disagree with you? Why, I should think it would undermine the scholarly world in its entirety.”

Jasnah sniffed. “You go too far, child. If you took half the energy you devote to being witty and channeled it into your work, I daresay you could be one of the greatest scholars of our age.”

“I’m sorry, Brightness,” Shallan said. “I … well, I’m confused. Considering the gaps in my education, I assumed you would have me studying things deeper in the past than a few years ago.”

Jasnah opened one of her books. “I have found that youths like you have a relative lack of appreciation for the distant past. Therefore, I selected an area of study that is both more recent and sensational, to ease you into true scholarship. Is the murder of a king not of interest to you?”

“Yes, Brightness,” Shallan said. “We children love things that are shiny and loud.”

“You have quite the mouth on you at times.”

“At times? You mean it’s not there at others? I’ll have to …” Shallan trailed off, then bit her lip, realizing she’d gone too far. “Sorry.”

“Never apologize for being clever, Shallan. It sets a bad precedent. However, one must apply one’s wit with care. You often seem to say the first passably clever thing that enters your mind.”

“I know,” Shallan said. “It’s long been a foible of mine, Brightness. One my nurses and tutors tried very hard to discourage.”

“Likely through strict punishments.”

“Yes. Making me sit in the corner holding books over my head was the preferred method.”

“Which, in turn,” Jasnah said with a sigh, “only trained you to make your quips more quickly, for you knew you had to get them out before you could reconsider and suppress them.”

Shallan cocked her head.

“The punishments were incompetent,” Jasnah said. “Used upon one such as yourself, they were actually encouragement. A game. How much would you have to say to earn a punishment? Could you say something so clever that your tutors missed the joke? Sitting in the corner just gave you more time to compose retorts.”

“But it’s unseemly for a young woman to speak as I so often do.”

“The only ‘unseemly’ thing is to not channel your intelligence usefully. Consider. You have trained yourself to do something very similar to what annoys you in the scholars: cleverness without thought behind it—intelligence, one might say, without a foundation of proper consideration.” Jasnah turned a page. “Errorgant, wouldn’t you say?”

Shallan blushed.

“I prefer my wards to be clever,” Jasnah said. “It gives me more to work with. I should bring you to court with me. I suspect that Wit, at least, would find you amusing—if only because your apparent natural timidity and your clever tongue make such an intriguing combination.”

“Yes, Brightness.”

“Please, just remember that a woman’s mind is her most precious weapon. It must not be employed clumsily or prematurely. Much like the aforementioned knife to the back, a clever gibe is most effective when it is unanticipated.”

“I’m sorry, Brightness.”

“It wasn’t an admonition,” Jasnah said, turning a page. “Simply an observation. I make them on occasion: Those books are musty. The sky is blue today. My ward is a smart-lipped reprobate.”

Shallan smiled.

“Now, tell me what you’ve discovered.”

Shallan grimaced. “Not much, Brightness. Or should I say too much? Each writer has her own theories on why the Parshendi killed your father. Some claim he must have insulted them at the feast that night. Others say that the entire treaty was a ruse, intended to get the Parshendi close to him. But that makes little sense, as they had much better opportunities earlier.”

“And the Assassin in White?” Jasnah asked.

“A true anomaly,” Shallan said. “The undertexts are filled with commentary about him. Why would the Parshendi hire an outside assassin? Did they fear they could not accomplish the job themselves? Or perhaps they didn’t hire him, and were framed. Many think that is unlikely, considering that the Parshendi took credit for the murder.”

“And your thoughts?”

“I feel inadequate to draw conclusions, Brightness.”

“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 six-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. Worldchanging.

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 brow. 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 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 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.