Authors: Brandon Sanderson
“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
un
spontaneous 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
un
infected.”
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
im
purity 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.”