I visited another place, she thought. I think… I think I spoke with the spirit of the goblet. Did a goblet, of all things, have a soul? Upon opening her pouch to check on the Soulcaster, she’d found that the sphere Kabsal had given her had stopped glowing. She could remember a vague feeling of light and beauty, a raging storm inside of her.
She’d taken the light from the sphere and given it to the goblet – the spren of the goblet – as a bribe to transform. Was that how Soulcasting worked? Or was she just struggling to make connections?
Shallan lowered the sketchpad as visitors entered the room and began moving among the patients. Most of the women sat up excitedly as they saw King Taravangian, with his orange robes and kindly, aged air. He paused at each bed to chat. She’d heard that he visited frequently, at least once a week.
Eventually he reached Shallan’s bedside. He smiled at her, sitting as one of his many attendants placed a padded stool for him. “And young Shallan Davar. I was so terribly saddened to hear of your accident. I apologize for not coming earlier. Duties of state kept me.”
“It is quite all right, Your Majesty.”
“No, no, it is not,” he said. “But it is what must be. There are many who complain that I spend too much of my time here.”
Shallan smiled. Those complaints were never vociferous. The landlords and house lords who played politics in court were quite content with a king who spent so much of his time outside the palace, ignoring their schemes.
“This hospital is amazing, Your Majesty,” she said. “I can’t believe how well everyone is cared for.”
He smiled widely. “My great triumph. Lighteyes and darkeyes alike, nobody turned away – not beggar, not whore, not sailor from afar. It’s all paid for by the Palanaeum, you know. In a way, even the most obscure and useless record is helping heal the sick.”
“I’m glad to be here.”
“I doubt that, child. A hospital such as this one is, perhaps, the only thing a man could pour so much money into and be delighted if it were never used. It is a tragedy that you must become my guest.”
“What I meant was that I’d rather be sick here than somewhere else. Though I suppose that’s a little like saying it’s better to choke on wine than on dishwater.”
He laughed. “What a sweet thing you are,” he said, rising. “Is there anything I can do to improve your stay?”
“End it?”
“I’m afraid that I can’t allow that,” he said, eyes softening. “I must defer to the wisdom of my surgeons and nurses. They say that you are still at risk. We must think of your health.”
“Keeping me here gives me health at the expense of my wellness, Your Majesty.”
He shook his head. “You mustn’t be allowed to have another accident.”
“I… I understand. But I promise that I’m feeling much better. The episode that struck me was caused by overwork. Now that I’m relaxed, I’m not in any further danger.”
“That is good,” he said. “But we still need to keep you for a few more days.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. But could I at least have visitors?” So far, the hospital staff had insisted that she was not to be bothered.
“Yes… I can see how that might help you. I’ll speak to the ardents and suggest that you be allowed a few visitors.” He hesitated. “Once you are well again, it might be best for you to suspend your training.”
She pasted a grimace on her face, trying not to feel sick at the charade. “I hate to do that, Your Majesty. But I have been missing my family greatly. Perhaps I should return to them.”
“An excellent idea. I’m certain the ardents will be more likely to release you if they know you’ll be going home.” He smiled in a kindly way, resting a hand on her shoulder. “This world, it is a tempest sometimes. But remember, the sun always rises again.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
The king moved away, visiting other patients, then speaking quietly with the ardents. Not five minutes passed before Jasnah walked through the doorway with her characteristic straight-backed stride. She wore a beautiful dress, deep blue with golden embroidery. Her sleek black hair was done in braids and pierced by six thin golden spikes; her cheeks glowed with blush, her lips bloodred with lip paint. She stood out in the white room like a flower upon a field of barren stone.
She glided toward Shallan on feet hidden beneath the loose folds of her silk skirt, carrying a thick book under her arm. An ardent brought her a stool, and she sat down where the king had just stood.
Jasnah regarded Shallan, face stiff, impassive. “I have been told that my tutelage is demanding, perhaps harsh. This is one reason why I often refuse to take wards.”
“I apologize for my weakness, Brightness,” Shallan said, looking down.
Jasnah seemed displeased. “I did not mean to suggest fault in you, child. I was attempting the opposite. Unfortunately I’m… unaccustomed to such behavior.”
“Apologizing?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you see,” Shallan said, “in order to grow proficient at apologizing, you must first make mistakes. That’s your problem, Jasnah. You’re absolutely terrible at making them.”
The woman’s expression softened. “The king mentioned to me that you would be returning to your family.”
“What? When?”
“When he met me in the hallway outside,” she said, “and finally gave me permission to visit you.”
“You make it sound as if you were waiting out there.”
Jasnah didn’t reply.
“But your research!”
“Can be done in the hospital waiting chamber.” She hesitated. “It has been somewhat difficult for me to focus these last few days.”
“Jasnah! That’s quite nearly human of you!”
Jasnah regarded her reprovingly, and Shallan winced, immediately regretting the words. “I’m sorry. I’ve learned poorly, haven’t I?”
“Or perhaps you are just practicing the art of the apology. So that you will not be unsettled when the need arises, as I am.”
“How very clever of me.”
“Indeed.”
“Can I stop now, then?” Shallan asked. “I think I’ve had quite enough practice.”
“I should think,” Jasnah said, “that apology is an art of which we could use a few more masters. Do not use me as a model in this. Pride is often mistaken for faultlessness.” She leaned forward. “I am sorry, Shallan Davar. In overworking you, I may have done the world a disservice and stolen from it one of the great scholars of the rising generation.”
Shallan blushed, feeling more foolish and guilty. Shallan’s eyes flickered to her mistress’s hand. Jasnah wore the black glove that hid the fake. In the fingers of her safehand, Shallan grasped the pouch holding the Soulcaster. If Jasnah only knew.
Jasnah took the book from beneath her arm and set it on the bed beside Shallan. “This is for you.”
Shallan picked it up. She opened to the front page, but it was blank. The next one was as well, as were all inside of it. Her frown deepened, and she looked up at Jasnah.
“It’s called the Book of Endless Pages,” Jasnah said.
“Er, I’m pretty sure it’s not endless, Brightness.” She flipped to the last page and held it up.
Jasnah smiled. “It’s a metaphor, Shallan. Many years ago, someone dear to me made a very good attempt at converting me to Vorinism. This was the method he used.”
Shallan cocked her head.
“You search for truth,” Jasnah said, “but you also hold to your faith. There is much to admire in that. Seek out the Devotary of Sincerity. They are one of the very smallest of the devotaries, but this book is their guide.”
“One with blank pages?”
“Indeed. They worship the Almighty, but are guided by the belief that there are always more answers to be found. The book cannot be filled, as there is always something to learn. This devotary is a place where one is never penalized for questions, even those challenging Vorinism’s own tenets.” She shook her head. “I cannot explain their ways. You should be able to find them in Vedenar, though there are none in Kharbranth.”