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Jasnah came in, and though she made no accusations, her glare was so hostile that Shallan wanted to crawl under her covers and hide. No. She wanted to crawl under the bed, dig down into the floor itself, and put stone between herself and those eyes.
She settled for looking downward in shame.
“You were wise to return the Soulcaster,” Jasnah said, voice like ice. “It saved your life. I saved your life.”
“Thank you,” Shallan whispered.
“Who are you working with? Which devotary bribed you to steal the fabrial?”
“None of them, Brightness. I stole it of my own volition.”
“Protecting them does you no good. Eventually you will tell me the truth.”
“It is the truth,” Shallan said, looking up, feeling a hint of defiance. “It’s why I became your ward in the first place. To steal that Soulcaster.”
“Yes, but for whom?”
“For me,” Shallan said. “Is it so hard to believe that I could act for myself? Am I such a miserable failure that the only rational answer is to assume I was duped or manipulated?”
“You have no grounds to raise your voice to me, child,” Jasnah said evenly. “And you have every reason to remember your place.”
Shallan looked down again.
Jasnah was silent for a time. Finally, she sighed. “What were you thinking, child?”
“My father is dead.”
“So?”
“He was not well liked, Brightness. Actually, he was hated, and our family is bankrupt. My brothers are trying to put up a strong front by pretending he still lives. But…” Dared she tell Jasnah that her father had possessed a Soulcaster? Doing so wouldn’t help excuse what Shallan had done, and might get her family more deeply into trouble. “We needed something. An edge. A way to earn money quickly, or create money.”
Jasnah was silent again. When she finally spoke, she sounded faintly amused. “You thought your salvation lay in enraging not only all the entire ardentia, but Alethkar? Do you realize what my brother would have done if he’d learned of this?”
Shallan looked away, feeling both foolish and ashamed.
Jasnah sighed. “Sometimes I forget how young you are. I can see how the theft might have looked tempting to you. It was stupid nonetheless. I’ve arranged passage back to Jah Keved. You will leave in the morning.”
“I—” It was more than she deserved. “Thank you.”
“Your friend, the ardent, is dead.”
Shallan looked up, dismayed. “What happened?”
“The bread was poisoned. Backbreaker powder. Very lethal, dusted over the bread to look like flour. I suspect the bread was similarly treated every time he visited. His goal was to get me to eat a piece.”
“But I ate a lot of that bread!”
“The jam had the antidote,” Jasnah said. “We found it in several empty jars he’d used.”
“It can’t be!”
“I’ve begun investigating,” Jasnah said. “I should have done so immediately. Nobody quite remembers where this ‘Kabsal’ came from. Though he spoke familiarly of the other ardents to you and me, they knew him only vaguely.”
“Then he…”
“He was playing you, child. The whole time, he was using you to get to me. To spy on what I was doing, to kill me if he could.” She spoke of it so evenly, so emotionlessly. “I believe he used much more of the powder during this last attempt, more than he’d ever used before, perhaps hoping to get me to breathe it in. He realized this would be his last opportunity. It turned against him, however, working more quickly than he’d anticipated.”
Someone had almost killed her. Not someone, Kabsal. No wonder he’d been so eager to get her to taste the jam!
“I’m very disappointed in you, Shallan,” Jasnah said. “I can see now why you tried to end your own life. It was the guilt.”
She hadn’t tried to kill herself. But what good would it do to admit that? Jasnah was taking pity on her; best not to give her reason not to. But what of the strange things Shallan had seen and experienced? Might Jasnah have an explanation for them?
Looking at Jasnah, seeing the cold rage hidden behind her calm exterior, frightened Shallan enough that her questions about the symbolheads and the strange place she’d visited died on her lips. How had Shallan ever thought of herself as brave? She wasn’t brave. She was a fool. She remembered the times her father’s rage had echoed through the house. Jasnah’s quieter, move justified anger was no less daunting.
“Well, you will need to learn to live with your guilt,” Jasnah said. “You might not have escaped with my fabrial, but you have thrown away a very promising career. This foolish scheme will stain your life for decades. No woman will take you as a ward now. You threw it away.” She shook her head in distaste. “I hate being wrong.”
With that, she turned to leave.
Shallan raised a hand. I have to apologize. I have to say something. “Jasnah?”
The woman did not look back, and the guard did not return.
Shallan curled up under the sheet, stomach in knots, feeling so sick that—for a moment—she wished that she’d actually dug that shard of glass in a little deeper. Or maybe that Jasnah hadn’t been quick enough with the Soulcaster to save her.
She’d lost it all. No fabrial to protect her family, no wardship to continue her studies. No Kabsal. She’d never actually had him in the first place.
Her tears dampened the sheets as the sunlight outside faded, then vanished. Nobody came to check on her.
Nobody cared.
ONE YEAR AGO
Kaladin sat quietly in the waiting room of Amaram’s wooden warcenter. It was constructed of a dozen study sections that could be disconnected and pulled by chulls. Kaladin sat beside a window, looking out at the camp. There was a hole where Kaladin’s squad had been housed. He could make it out from where he sat. Their tents had been broken down and given to other squads.
Four of his men remained. Four, out of twenty-six. And men called him lucky. Men called him Stormblessed. He’d begun to believe that.
I killed a Shardbearer today, he thought, mind numb. Like Lanacin the Surefooted, or Evod Markmaker. Me. I killed one.
And he didn’t care.
He crossed his arms on the wooden windowsill. There was no glass in the window and he could feel the breeze. A windspren flitted from one tent to another. Behind Kaladin, the room had a thick red rug and shields on the walls. There were a number of padded wooden chairs, like the one Kaladin sat in. This was the “small” waiting chamber of the warcenter—small, yet larger than his entire house back in Hearthstone, the surgery included.
I killed a Shardbearer, he thought again. And then I gave away the Blade and Plate.
That single event had to be the most monumentally stupid thing anyone, in any kingdom, in any era, had ever done. As a Shardbearer, Kaladin would have been more important than Roshone—more important than Amaram. He’d have been able to go to the Shattered Plains and fight in a real war.
No more squabbling over borders. No more petty lighteyed captains belonging to unimportant families, bitter because they’d been left behind. He would never again have had to worry about blisters from boots that didn’t fit, dinner slop that tasted of crem, or other soldiers who wanted to pick a fight.
