The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Brandon Sanderson

  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 ta
lk 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 th
e 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.”