“They take away the light, wherever they lurk. Skin that is burned.”

—Cormshen, page 104.

Shallan sat quietly, propped up in a sterile, white-sheeted bed in one of Kharbranth’s many hospitals. Her arm was wrapped in a neat, crisp bandage, and she held her drawing board in front of her. The nurses had reluctantly allowed her to sketch, so long as she did not “stress herself.”

Her arm ached; she’d sliced herself more deeply than she’d intended. She’d hoped to simulate a wound from breaking the pitcher; she hadn’t thought far enough ahead to realize how much like a suicide attempt it might seem. Though she’d protested that she’d simply fallen from bed, she could see that the nurses and ardents didn’t accept it. She couldn’t blame them.

The results were embarrassing, but at least nobody thought she might have Soulcast to make that blood. Embarrassment was worth escaping suspicion.

She continued her sketch. She was in a large, hallwaylike room in a Kharbranthian hospital, the walls lined with many beds. Other than obvious aggravations, her two days in the hospital had gone fairly well. She’d had a lot of time to think about that strangest of afternoons, when she’d seen ghosts, transformed glass to blood, and had an ardent offer to resign the ardentia to be with her.

She’d done several drawings of this hospital room. The creatures lurked in her sketches, staying at the distant edges of the room. Their presence made it difficult for her to sleep, but she was slowly growing accustomed to them.

The air smelled of soap and lister’s oil; she was bathed regularly and her arm washed with antiseptic to frighten away rotspren. About half of the beds held sick women, and there were wheeled fabric dividers with wooden frames that could be rolled around a bed for privacy. Shallan wore a plain white robe that untied at the front and had a long left sleeve that tied shut to protect her safehand.

She’d transferred her safepouch to the robe, buttoning it inside the left sleeve. Nobody had looked in the pouch. When she’d been washed, they’d unbuttoned it and given it to her without a word, despite its unusual weight. One did not look in a woman’s safepouch. Still, she kept hold of it whenever she could.

In the hospital, her every need was seen to, but she could not leave. It reminded her of being at home on her father’s estates. More and more, that frightened her as much as the symbolheads did. She’d tasted independence, and she didn’t want to go back to what she had been. Coddled, pampered, displayed.

Unfortunately, it was unlikely she’d be able to return to studying with Jasnah. Her supposed suicide attempt gave her an excellent reason to return home. She had to go. To remain, sending the Soulcaster away on its own, would be selfish considering this opportunity to leave without arousing suspicion. Besides, she’d used the Soulcaster. She could use the long trip home to figure out how she’d done it, then be ready to help her family when she arrived.

She sighed, and then with a few shadings, she finished her sketch. It was a picture of that strange place she had gone. That distant horizon with its powerful yet cold sun. Clouds running toward it above, endless ocean below, making the sun look as if it were at the end of a long tunnel. Above the ocean hovered hundreds of flames, a sea of lights above the sea of glass beads.

She lifted the picture up, looking at the sketch underneath. It depicted her, huddled on her bed, surrounded by the strange creatures. She didn’t dare tell Jasnah what she had seen, lest it reveal that she had Soulcast, and therefore committed the theft.

The next picture was one of her, lying on the ground amid the blood. She looked up from the sketchpad. A white-clothed female ardent sat against the wall nearby, pretending to sew but really keeping watch in case Shallan decided to harm herself again. Shallan made a thin line of her lips.

It’s a good cover, she told herself. It works perfectly. Stop being so embarrassed.

She turned to the last of her day’s sketches. It depicted one of the symbolheads. No eyes, no face, just that jagged alien symbol with points like cut crystal. They had to have something to do with the Soulcasting. Didn’t they?

I visited another place, she thought. I think … I think I spoke with the spirit of the goblet. Did a goblet, of all things, have a soul? Upon opening her pouch to check on the Soulcaster, she’d found that the sphere Kabsal had given her had stopped glowing. She could remember a vague feeling of light and beauty, a raging storm inside of her.

She’d taken the light from the sphere and given it to the goblet—the spren of the goblet—as a bribe to transform. Was that how Soulcasting worked? Or was she just struggling to make connections?

Shallan lowered the sketchpad as visitors entered the room and began moving among the patients. Most of the women sat up excitedly as they saw King Taravangian, with his orange robes and kindly, aged air. He paused at each bed to chat. She’d heard that he visited frequently, at least once a week.

Eventually he reached Shallan’s bedside. He smiled at her, sitting as one of his many attendants placed a padded stool for him. “And young Shallan Davar. I was so terribly saddened to hear of your accident. I apologize for not coming earlier. Duties of state kept me.”

“It is quite all right, Your Majesty.”

“No, no, it is not,” he said. “But it is what must be. There are many who complain that I spend too much of my time here.”

Shallan smiled. Those complaints were never vociferous. The landlords and houselords who played politics in court were quite content with a king who spent so much of his time outside the palace, ignoring their schemes.

“This hospital is amazing, Your Majesty,” she said. “I can’t believe how well everyone is cared for.”

He smiled widely. “My great triumph. Lighteyes and darkeyes alike, nobody turned away—not beggar, not whore, not sailor from afar. It’s all paid for by the Palanaeum, you know. In a way, even the most obscure and useless record is helping heal the sick.”

“I’m glad to be here.”

“I doubt that, child. A hospital such as this one is, perhaps, the only thing a man could pour so much money into and be delighted if it were never used. It is a tragedy that you must become my guest.”

“What I meant was that I’d rather be sick here than somewhere else. Though I suppose that’s a little like saying it’s better to choke on wine than on dishwater.”

He laughed. “What a sweet thing you are,” he said, rising. “Is there anything I can do to improve your stay?”

“End it?”

“I’m afraid that I can’t allow that,” he said, eyes softening. “I must defer to the wisdom of my surgeons and nurses. They say that you are still at risk. We must think of your health.”

“Keeping me here gives me health at the expense of my wellness, Your Majesty.”

He shook his head. “You mustn’t be allowed to have another accident.”

“I … I understand. But I promise that I’m feeling much better. The episode that struck me was caused by overwork. Now that I’m relaxed, I’m not in any further danger.”

“That is good,” he said. “But we still need to keep you for a few more days.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. But could I at least have visitors?” So far, the hospital staff had insisted that she was not to be bothered.

“Yes … I can see how that might help you. I’ll speak to the ardents and suggest that you be allowed a few visitors.” He hesitated. “Once you are well again, it might be best for you to suspend your training.”

She pasted a grimace on her face, trying not to feel sick at the charade. “I hate to do that, Your Majesty. But I have been missing my family greatly. Perhaps I should return to them.”

“An excellent idea. I’m certain the ardents will be more likely to release you if they know you’ll be going home.” He smiled in a kindly way, resting a hand on her shoulder. “This world, it is a tempest sometimes. But remember, the sun always rises again.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

The king moved away, visiting other patients, then speaking quietly with the ardents. Not five minutes passed before Jasnah walked through the doorway with her characteristic straight-backed stride. She wore a beautiful dress, deep blue with golden embroidery. Her sleek black hair was done in braids and pierced by six thin golden spikes; her cheeks glowed with blush, her lips bloodred with lip paint. She stood out in the white room like a flower upon a field of barren stone.

She glided toward Shallan on feet hidden beneath the loose folds of her silk skirt, carrying a thick book under her arm. An ardent brought her a stool, and she sat down where the king had just stood.

Jasnah regarded Shallan, face stiff, impassive. “I have been told that my tutelage is demanding, perhaps harsh. This is one reason why I often refuse to take wards.”

“I apologize for my weakness, Brightness,” Shallan said, looking down.

Jasnah seemed displeased. “I did not mean to suggest fault in you, child. I was attempting the opposite. Unfortunately I’m … unaccustomed to such behavior.”

“Apologizing?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you see,” Shallan said, “in order to grow proficient at apologizing, you must first make mistakes. That’s your problem, Jasnah. You’re absolutely terrible at making them.”

The woman’s expression softened. “The king mentioned to me that you would be returning to your family.”

“What? When?”

“When he met me in the hallway outside,” she said, “and finally gave me permission to visit you.”

“You make it sound as if you were waiting out there.”

Jasnah didn’t reply.

“But your research!”

“Can be done in the hospital waiting chamber.” She hesitated. “It has been somewhat difficult for me to focus these last few days.”

“Jasnah! That’s quite nearly human of you!”

Jasnah regarded her reprovingly, and Shallan winced, immediately regretting the words. “I’m sorry. I’ve learned poorly, haven’t I?”

“Or perhaps you are just practicing the art of the apology. So that you will not be unsettled when the need arises, as I am.”

“How very clever of me.”

“Indeed.”

“Can I stop now, then?” Shallan asked. “I think I’ve had quite enough practice.”

“I should think,” Jasnah said, “that apology is an art of which we could use a few more masters. Do not use me as a model in this. Pride is often mistaken for faultlessness.” She leaned forward. “I am sorry, Shallan Davar. In overworking you, I may have done the world a disservice and stolen from it one of the great scholars of the rising generation.”

Shallan blushed, feeling more foolish and guilty. Shallan’s eyes flickered to her mistress’s hand. Jasnah wore the black glove that hid the fake. In the fingers of her safehand, Shallan grasped the pouch holding the Soulcaster. If Jasnah only knew.

Jasnah took the book from beneath her arm and set it on the bed beside Shallan. “This is for you.”

Shallan picked it up. She opened to the front page, but it was blank. The next one was as well, as were all inside of it. Her frown deepened, and she looked up at Jasnah.

“It’s called the Book of Endless Pages,” Jasnah said.

“Er, I’m pretty sure it’s not endless, Brightness.” She flipped to the last page and held it up.

Jasnah smiled. “It’s a metaphor, Shallan. Many years ago, someone dear to me made a very good attempt at converting me to Vorinism. This was the method he used.”

Shallan cocked her head.

“You search for truth,” Jasnah said, “but you also hold to your faith. There is much to admire in that. Seek out the Devotary of Sincerity. They are one of the very smallest of the devotaries, but this book is their guide.”

“One with blank pages?”

“Indeed. They worship the Almighty, but are guided by the belief that there are always more answers to be found. The book cannot be filled, as there is always something to learn. This devotary is a place where one is never penalized for questions, even those challenging Vorinism’s own tenets.” She shook her head. “I cannot explain their ways. You should be able to find them in Vedenar, though there are none in Kharbranth.”

“I …” Shallan trailed off, noticing how Jasnah’s hand rested fondly on the book. It was precious to her. “I hadn’t thought to find ardents who were willing to question their own beliefs.”

Jasnah raised an eyebrow. “You will find wise men in any religion, Shallan, and good men in every nation. Those who truly seek wisdom are those who will acknowledge the virtue in their adversaries and who will learn from those who disabuse them of error. All others—heretic, Vorin, Ysperist, or Maakian—are equally closed-minded.” She took her hand from the book, moving as if to stand up.

“He’s wrong,” Shallan said suddenly, realizing something.

Jasnah turned to her.

“Kabsal,” Shallan said, blushing. “He says you’re researching the Voidbringers because you want to prove that Vorinism is false.”

Jasnah sniffed in derision. “I would not dedicate four years of my life to such an empty pursuit. It’s idiocy to try to prove a negative. Let the Vorin believe as they wish—the wise among them will find goodness and solace in their faith; the fools would be fools no matter what they believed.”

Shallan frowned. So why was Jasnah studying the Voidbringers?

“Ah. Speak of the storm and it begins to bluster,” Jasnah said, turning toward the room’s entrance.

With a start, Shallan realized that Kabsal had just arrived, wearing his usual grey robes. He was arguing softly with a nurse, who pointed at the basket he carried. Finally, the nurse threw up her hands and walked away, leaving Kabsal to approach, triumphant. “Finally!” he said to Shallan. “Old Mungam can be a real tyrant.”

“Mungam?” Shallan asked.

“The ardent who runs this place,” Kabsal said. “I should have been allowed in immediately. After all, I know what you need to make you better!” He pulled out a jar of jam, smiling broadly.

Jasnah remained on her stool, regarding Kabsal across the bed. “I would have thought,” she said dryly, “that you would allow Shallan a respite, considering how your attentions drove her to despair.”

Kabsal flushed. He looked at Shallan, and she could see the pleading in his eyes.

“It wasn’t you, Kabsal,” Shallan said. “I just … I wasn’t ready for life away from my family estate. I still don’t know what came over me. I’ve never done anything like that before.”

He smiled, pulling a stool over for himself. “I think,” he said, “that the lack of color in these places is what keeps people sick so long. That and the lack of proper food.” He winked, turning the jar toward Shallan. It was deep, dark red. “Strawberry.”

“Never heard of it,” Shallan said.

“It’s exceedingly rare,” Jasnah said, reaching for the jar. “Like most plants from Shinovar, it can’t grow other places.”

Kabsal looked surprised as Jasnah removed the lid and dipped a finger into the jar. She hesitated, then raised a bit of the jam to her nose to sniff at it.

“I was under the impression that you disliked jam, Brightness Jasnah,” Kabsal said.

“I do,” she said. “I was simply curious about the scent. I’ve heard that strawberries are very distinctive.” She screwed the lid back on, then wiped her finger on her cloth handkerchief.

“I brought bread as well,” Kabsal said. He pulled out a small loaf of the fluffy bread. “It’s nice of you not to blame me, Shallan, but I can see that my attentions were too forward. I thought, maybe, I could bring this and …”

“And what?” Jasnah asked. “Absolve yourself? ‘I’m sorry I drove you to suicide. Here’s some bread.’ ”

He blushed, looking down.

“Of course I’ll have some,” Shallan said, glaring at Jasnah. “And she will too. It was very kind of you, Kabsal.” She took the bread, breaking off a chunk for Kabsal, one for herself, then one for Jasnah.

“No,” Jasnah said. “Thank you.”

“Jasnah,” Shallan said. “Would you please at least try some?” It bothered her that the two of them got on so poorly.

The older woman sighed. “Oh, very well.” She took the bread, holding it as Shallan and Kabsal ate. The bread was moist and delicious, though Jasnah grimaced as she put hers in her mouth and chewed it.

“You should really try the jam,” Kabsal said to Shallan. “Strawberry is hard to find. I had to make quite a number of inquiries.”

“No doubt bribing merchants with the king’s money,” Jasnah noted.

Kabsal sighed. “Brightness Jasnah, I realize that you are not fond of me. But I’m working very hard to be pleasant. Could you at least pretend to do likewise?”

Jasnah eyed Shallan, probably recalling Kabsal’s guess that undermining Vorinism was the goal of her research. She didn’t apologize, but also made no retort.

Good enough, Shallan thought.

“The jam, Shallan,” Kabsal said, handing her a slice of bread for it.

“Oh, right.” She removed the lid of the jar, holding it between her knees and using her freehand.

“You missed your ship out, I assume,” Kabsal said.

“Yes.”

“What’s this?” Jasnah asked.

Shallan cringed. “I was planning to leave, Brightness. I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

Jasnah settled back. “I suppose it was to be expected, all things considered.”

“The jam?” Kabsal prodded again.

Shallan frowned. He was particularly insistent about that jam. She raised the jar and sniffed at it, then pulled back. “It smells terrible! This is jam?” It smelled like vinegar and slime.

“What?” Kabsal said, alarmed. He took the jar, sniffing at it, then pulled away, looking nauseated.

“It appears you got a bad jar,” Jasnah said. “That’s not how it’s supposed to smell?”

“Not at all,” Kabsal said. He hesitated, then stuck his finger into the jam anyway, shoving a large glob into his mouth.

“Kabsal!” Shallan said. “That’s revolting!”

He coughed, but forced it down. “Not so bad, really. You should try it.”

“What?”

“Really,” he said, forcing it toward her. “I mean, I wanted this to be special, for you. And it turned out so horribly.”

“I’m not tasting that, Kabsal.”

He hesitated, as if considering forcing it upon her. Why was he acting so strangely? He raised a hand to his head, stood up, and stumbled away from the bed.

Then he began to rush from the room. He made it only halfway before crashing to the floor, his body sliding a little way across the spotless stone.

“Kabsal!” Shallan said, leaping out of the bed, hurrying to his side, wearing only the white robe. He was shaking. And … and …

And so was she. The room was spinning. Suddenly she felt very, very tired. She tried to stand, but slipped, dizzy. She barely felt herself hit the floor.

Someone was kneeling above her, cursing.

Jasnah. Her voice was distant. “She’s been poisoned. I need a garnet. Bring me a garnet!”

There’s one in my pouch, Shallan thought. She fumbled with it, managing to undo the tie of her safehand’s sleeve. Why … why does she want …

But no, I can’t show her that. The Soulcaster!

Her mind was so fuzzy.

“Shallan,” Jasnah’s voice said, anxious, very soft. “I’m going to have to Soulcast your blood to purify it. It will be dangerous. Extremely dangerous. I’m not good with flesh or blood. It’s not where my talent lies.”

She needs it. To save me. Weakly, she reached in and pulled out her safepouch with her right hand. “You … can’t …”

“Hush, child. Where is that garnet!”

“You can’t Soulcast,” Shallan said weakly, pulling the ties of her pouch open. She upended it, vaguely seeing a fuzzy golden object slip out onto the floor, alongside the garnet that Kabsal had given her.

Stormfather! Why was the room spinning so much?

Jasnah gasped. Distantly.

Fading …

Something happened. A flash of warmth burned through Shallan, something inside her skin, as if she had been dumped into a steaming hot cauldron. She screamed, arching her back, her muscles spasming.

All went black.