“Perhaps,” Jasnah said pointedly, “you should wait until the meal is finished, Shallan?”
Shallan blushed, feeling a fool for her enthusiasm. “Of course.”
“No, no,” the king said. “I’m quite finished. A wider sketch would be perfect, child. How would you like me to sit?” He slid his chair back, posing and smiling in a grandfatherly way.
She blinked, fixing the image in her mind. “That is perfect, Your Majesty. You can return to your meal.”
“Don’t you need me to sit still? I’ve posed for portraits before.”
“It’s all right,” Shallan assured him, sitting down.
“Very well,” he said, pulling back to the table. “I do apologize for making you use me, of all people, as a subject for your art. This face of mine isn’t the most impressive one you’ve depicted, I’m sure.”
“Nonsense,” Shallan said. “A face like yours is just what an artist needs.”
“It is?”
“Yes, the—” She cut herself off. She’d been about to quip, Yes, the skin is enough like parchment to make an ideal canvas. “…that handsome nose of yours, and wise furrowed skin. It will be quite striking in the black charcoal.”
“Oh, well then. Proceed. Though I still can’t see how you’ll work without me holding a pose.”
“Brightness Shallan has some unique talents,” Jasnah said. Shallan began her sketch.
“I suppose that she must!” the king said. “I’ve seen the drawing she did for Varas.”
“Varas?” Jasnah asked.
“The Palanaeum’s assistant chief of collections,” the king said. “A distant cousin of mine. He says the staff is quite taken with your young ward. How did you find her?”
“Unexpectedly,” Jasnah said, “and in need of an education.”
The king cocked his head.
“The artistic skill, I cannot claim,” Jasnah said. “It was a preexisting condition.”
“Ah, a blessing of the Almighty.”
“You might say that.”
“But you would not, I assume?” Taravangian chuckled awkwardly.
Shallan drew quickly, establishing the shape of his head. He shuffled uncomfortably. “Is it hard for you, Jasnah? Painful, I mean?”
“Atheism is not a disease, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said dryly. “It’s not as if I’ve caught a foot rash.”
“Of course not, of course not. But…er, isn’t it difficult, having nothing in which to believe?”
Shallan leaned forward, still sketching, but keeping her attention on the conversation. Shallan had assumed that training under a heretic would be a little more exciting. She and Kabsal—the witty ardent whom she’d met on her first day in Kharbranth—had chatted several times now about Jasnah’s faith. However, around Jasnah herself, the topic almost never came up. When it did, Jasnah usually changed it.
Today, however, she did not. Perhaps she sensed the sincerity in the king’s question. “I wouldn’t say that I have nothing to believe in, Your Majesty. Actually, I have much to believe in. My brother and my uncle, my own abilities. The things I was taught by my parents.”
“But, what is right and wrong, you’ve…Well, you’ve discarded that.”
“Just because I do not accept the teachings of the devotaries does not mean I’ve discarded a belief in right and wrong.”
“But the Almighty determines what is right!”
“Must someone, some unseen thing, declare what is right for it to be right? I believe that my own morality—which answers only to my heart—is more sure and true than the morality of those who do right only because they fear retribution.”
“But that is the soul of law,” the king said, sounding confused. “If there is no punishment, there can be only chaos.”
“If there were no law, some men would do as they wish, yes,” Jasnah said. “But isn’t it remarkable that, given the chance for personal gain at the cost of others, so many people choose what is right?”
“Because they fear the Almighty.”
“No,” Jasnah said. “I think something innate in us understands that seeking the good of society is usually best for the individual as well. Humankind is noble, when we give it the chance to be. That nobility is something that exists independent of any god’s decree.”
“I just don’t see how anything could be outside God’s decrees.” The king shook his head, bemused. “Brightness Jasnah, I don’t mean to argue, but isn’t the very definition of the Almighty that all things exist because of him?”
“If you add one and one, that makes two, does it not?”
“Well, yes.”
“No god needs declare it so for it to be true,” Jasnah said. “So, could we not say that mathematics exists outside the Almighty, independent of him?”
“Perhaps.”
“Well,” Jasnah said, “I simply claim that morality and human will are independent of him too.”
“If you say that,” the king said, chuckling, “then you’ve removed all purpose for the Almighty’s existence!”
“Indeed.”
The balcony fell silent. Jasnah’s sphere lamps cast a cool, even white light across them. For an uncomfortable moment, the only sound was the scratching of Shallan’s charcoal on her drawing pad. She worked with quick, scraping motions, disturbed by the things that Jasnah had said. They made her feel hollow inside. That was partly because the king, for all his affability, was not good at arguing. He was a dear man, but no match for Jasnah in a conversation.
“Well,” Taravangian said, “I must say that you make your points quite effectively. I don’t accept them, though.”
“My intention is not to convert, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said. “I am content keeping my beliefs to myself, something most of my colleagues in the devotaries have difficulty doing. Shallan, have you finished yet?”
“Quite nearly, Brightness.”
“But it’s been barely a few minutes!” the king said.
“She has remarkable skill, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said. “As I believe I mentioned.”
Shallan sat back, inspecting her piece. She’d been so focused on the conversation, she’d just let her hands do the drawing, trusting in her instincts. The sketch depicted the king, sitting in his chair with a wise expression, the turretlike balcony walls behind him. The doorway into the balcony was to his right. Yes, it was a good likeness. Not her best work, but—
Shallan froze, her breath catching, her heart lurching in her chest. She had drawn something standing in the doorway behind the king. Two tall and willowy creatures with cloaks that split down the front and hung at the sides too stiffly, as if they were made of glass. Above the stiff, high collars, where the creatures’ heads should be, each had a large, floating symbol of twisted design full of impossible angles and geometries.
Shallan sat, stunned. Why had she drawn those things? What had driven her to—
She snapped her head up. The hallway was empty. The creatures hadn’t been part of the Memory she’d taken. Her hands had simply drawn them of their accord.
“Shallan?” Jasnah said.
By reflex, Shallan dropped her charcoal and grabbed the sheet in her freehand, crumpling it. “I’m sorry, Brightness. I paid too much attention to the conversation. I let myself grow sloppy.”
“Well, certainly we can at least see it, child,” the king said, standing.
Shallan tightened her grip. “Please, no!”
“She has an artist’s temperament at times, Your Majesty.” Jasnah sighed. “There will be no getting it out of her.”
“I’ll do you another, Your Majesty,” Shallan said. “I’m so sorry.”
He rubbed his wispy beard. “Yes, well, it was going to be a gift for my granddaughter….”
“By the end of the day,” Shallan promised.
“That would be wonderful. You’re certain you don’t need me to pose?”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary, Your Majesty,” Shallan said. Her pulse was still racing and she couldn’t shake the image of those two distorted figures from her mind, so she took another Memory of the king. She could use that to create a more suitable picture.
“Well then,” the king said. “I suppose I should be going. I wish to visit one of the hospitals and the sick. You can send the drawing to my rooms, but take your time. Really, it is quite all right.”
Shallan curtsied, crushed paper still held to her breast. The king withdrew with his attendants, several parshmen entering to remove the table.
“I’ve never known you to make a mistake in drawing,” Jasnah said, sitting back down at the desk. “At least not one so horrible that you destroyed the paper.”
Shallan blushed.
“Even the master of an art may err, I suppose. Go ahead and take the next hour to do His Majesty a proper portrait.”
Shallan looked down at the ruined sketch. The creatures were simply her fancy, the product of letting her mind wander. That was all. Just imagination. Perhaps there was something in her subconscious that she’d needed to express. But what could the figures mean, then?
“I noticed that at one point when you were speaking to the king, you hesitated,” Jasnah said. “What didn’t you say?”
“Something inappropriate.”
“But clever?”
“Cleverness never seems quite so impressive when regarded outside the moment, Brightness. It was just a silly thought.”
“And you replaced it with an empty compliment. I think you misunderstood what I was trying to explain, child. I do not wish for you to remain silent. It is good to be clever.”
“But if I’d spoken,” Shallan said, “I’d have insulted the king, perhaps confused him as well, which would have caused him embarrassment. I am certain he knows what people say about his slowness of thought.”
Jasnah sniffed. “Idle words. From foolish people. But perhaps it was wise not to speak, though keep in mind that channeling your capacities and stifling them are two separate things. I’d much prefer you to think of something both clever and appropriate.”
“Yes, Brightness.”
“Besides,” Jasnah said, “I believe you might have made Taravangian laugh. He seems haunted by something lately.”
“You don’t find him dull, then?” Shallan asked, curious. She herself didn’t think the king dull or a fool, but she’d thought someone as intelligent and learned as Jasnah might not have patience for a man like him.
“Taravangian is a wonderful man,” Jasnah said, “and worth a hundred self-proclaimed experts on courtly ways. He reminds me of my uncle Dalinar. Earnest, sincere, concerned.”
“The lighteyes here say he’s weak,” Shallan said. “Because he panders to so many other monarchs, because he fears war, because he doesn’t have a Shardblade.”