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He waited. Of course, nothing happened. You’re as big a fool as any, Teft, he told himself. He reached for Kaladin’s hand. Those spheres would buy a few drinks.
Kaladin gasped suddenly, drawing in a short, quick, powerful breath.
The glow in his hand faded.
Teft froze, eyes widening. Wisps of Light began to rise from Kaladin’s body. It was faint, but there was no mistaking that glowing white Stormlight streaming off his frame. It was as if Kaladin had been bathed in sudden heat, and his very skin steamed.
Kaladin’s eyes snapped open, and they leaked light too, faintly colored amber. He gasped again loudly, and the trailing wisps of light began to twist around the exposed cuts on his chest. A few of them pulled together and knit themselves up.
Then it was gone, the Light of those tiny chips expended. Kaladin’s eyes closed and he relaxed. His wounds were still bad, his fever still raging, but some color had returned to his skin. The puffy redness around several cuts had diminished.
“My God,” Teft said, realizing he was trembling. “Almighty, cast from heaven to dwell in our hearts…It is true.” He bowed his head to the rock floor, squeezing his eyes shut, tears leaking from their corners.
Why now? he thought again. Why here?
And, in the name of all heaven, why me?
He knelt for a hundred heartbeats, counting, thinking, worrying. Eventually, he pulled himself to his feet and retrieved the spheres—now dun—from Kaladin’s hand. He’d need to trade them for spheres with Light in them. Then he could return and let Kaladin drain those as well.
He’d have to be careful. A few spheres each day, but not too many. If the boy healed too quickly, it would draw too much attention.
And I need to tell the Envisagers, he thought. I need to…
The Envisagers were gone. Dead, because of what he had done. If there were others, he had no idea how to locate them.
Who would he tell? Who would believe him? Kaladin himself probably didn’t understand what he was doing.
Best to keep it quiet, at least until he could figure out what to do about it.
“Within a heartbeat, Alezarv was there, crossing a distance that would have taken more than four months to travel by foot.”
—Another folktale, this one recorded in Among the Darkeyed, by Calinam. Page 102. Stories of instantaneous travel and the Oathgates pervade these tales.
Shallan’s hand flew across the drawing board, moving as if of its own accord, charcoal scratching, sketching, smudging. Thick lines first, like trails of blood left by a thumb drawn across rough granite. Tiny lines like scratches made by a pin.
She sat in her closetlike stone chamber in the Conclave. No windows, no ornamentation on the granite walls. Just the bed, her trunk, the nightstand, and the small desk that doubled as a drawing table.
A single ruby broam cast a bloody light on her sketch. Usually, to produce a vibrant drawing, she had to consciously memorize a scene. A blink, freezing the world, imprinting it into her mind. She hadn’t done that during Jasnah’s annihilation of the thieves. She’d been too frozen by horror or morbid fascination.
Despite that, she could see each of those scenes in her mind just as vividly as if she’d deliberately memorized them. And these memories didn’t vanish when she drew them. She couldn’t rid her mind of them. Those deaths were burned into her.
She sat back from her drawing board, hand shaking, the picture before her an exact charcoal representation of the suffocating nightscape, squeezed between alley walls, a tortured figure of flame rising toward the sky. At that moment, its face still held its shape, shadow eyes wide and burning lips agape. Jasnah’s hand was toward the figure, as if warding, or worshipping.
Shallan drew her charcoal-stained fingers to her chest, staring at her creation. It was one of dozens of drawings she’d done during the last few days. The man turned into fire, the other frozen into crystal, the two transmuted to smoke. She could only draw one of those two fully; she’d been facing down the alleyway to the east. Her drawings of the fourth man’s death were of smoke rising, clothing already on the ground.
She felt guilty for being unable to record his death. And she felt stupid for that guilt.
Logic did not condemn Jasnah. Yes, the princess had gone willingly into danger, but that didn’t remove responsibility from those who had chosen to hurt her. The men’s actions were reprehensible. Shallan had spent the days poring through books on philosophy, and most ethical frameworks exonerated the princess.
But Shallan had been there. She’d watched those men die. She’d seen the terror in their eyes, and she felt terrible. Hadn’t there been another way?
Kill or be killed. That was the Philosophy of Starkness. It exonerated Jasnah.
Actions are not evil. Intent is evil, and Jasnah’s intent had been to stop men from harming others. That was the Philosophy of Purpose. It lauded Jasnah.
Morality is separate from the ideals of men. It exists whole somewhere, to be approached—but never truly understood—by the mortal. The Philosophy of Ideals. It claimed that removing evil was ultimately moral, and so in destroying evil men, Jasnah was justified.
Objective must be weighed against methods. If the goal is worthy, then the steps taken are worthwhile, even if some of them—on their own—are reprehensible. The Philosophy of Aspiration. It, more than any, called Jasnah’s actions ethical.
Shallan pulled the sheet from her drawing board and tossed it down beside the others scattered across her bed. Her fingers moved again, clutching the charcoal pencil, beginning a new picture on the blank sheet strapped in place on the table, unable to escape.
Her theft nagged at her as much as the killings did. Ironically, Jasnah’s demand that Shallan study moralistic philosophy forced her to contemplate her own, terrible actions. She’d come to Kharbranth to steal the fabrial, then use it to save her brothers and their house from massive debt and destruction. Yet in the end, this wasn’t why Shallan had stolen the Soulcaster. She’d taken it because she was angry with Jasnah.
If the intentions were more important than the action, then she had to condemn herself. Perhaps the Philosophy of Aspiration—which stated that objectives were more important than the steps taken to achieve them—would agree with what she’d done, but that was the philosophy she found most reprehensible. Shallan sat here sketching, condemning Jasnah. But Shallan was the one who had betrayed a woman who had trusted her and taken her in. Now she was planning to commit heresy with the Soulcaster by using it although she was not an ardent.
The Soulcaster itself lay in the hidden part of Shallan’s trunk. Three days, and Jasnah had said nothing about the disappearance. She wore the fake each day. She said nothing, acted no differently. Maybe she hadn’t tried Soulcasting. Almighty send that she didn’t go out and put herself into danger again, expecting to be able to use the fabrial to kill men who attacked her.
Of course, there was one other aspect of that night that Shallan had to think of. She carried a concealed weapon that she hadn’t used. She felt foolish for not even thinking of getting it out that night. But she wasn’t accustomed to—
Shallan froze, realizing for the first time what she’d been drawing. Not another scene from the alleyway, but a lavish room with a thick, ornamented rug and swords on the walls. A long dining table, set with a half-eaten meal.
