The Way of Kings

through reading, filling in the gaps by taking advantage of my own curious nature. But I will not be capable of matching knowledge with someone who has been given the benefit of a formal-and expensive- education.

Why is this an argument that you should accept me? Because everything I have learned has come by way of great personal struggle. What others were handed, I had to hunt. I believe that because of this, my education-limited though it is-has extra worth and merit. I respect your decisions, but I do ask you to reconsider. Which would you rather have? A ward who is able to repeat the correct answers because an overpriced tutor drilled them into her, or a ward who had to struggle and fight for everything she has learned?

I assure you that one of those two will prize your teachings far more than the other.

She raised her brush. Her arguments seemed imperfect now that she considered them. She exposed her ignorance, then expected Jasnah to welcome her? Still, it seemed the right thing to do, for all the fact that this letter was a lie. A lie built of truths. She hadn’t truly come to partake of Jasnah’s knowledge. She had come as a thief.

That made her conscience itch, and she nearly reached out and crumpled the page. Steps in the hallway outside made her freeze. She leaped to her feet, spinning, safehand held to her breast. She fumbled for words to explain her presence to Jasnah Kholin.

Light and shadows flickered in the hallway, then a figure hesitantly looked into the alcove, a single white sphere cupped in one hand for light. It was not Jasnah. It was a man in his early twenties wearing simple grey robes. An ardent. Shallan relaxed.

The young man noticed her. His face was narrow, his blue eyes keen. His beard was trimmed short and square, his head shaved. When he spoke, his voice had a cultured tone. “Ah, excuse me, Brightness. I thought this was the alcove of Jasnah Kholin.”

“It is,” Shallan said.

“Oh. You’re waiting for her too?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind terribly if I waited with you?” He had a faint Herdazian accent.

“Of course not, Ardent.” She nodded her head in respect, then gathered up her things in haste, preparing the seat for him.

“I can’t take your seat, Brightness! I’ll fetch another for myself.”

She raised a hand in protest, but he had already retreated. He returned a few moments later, carrying a chair from another alcove. He was tall and lean, and-she decided with slight discomfort-rather handsome. Her father had owned only three ardents, all elderly men. They had traveled his lands and visited the villages, ministering to the people, helping them reach Points in their Glories and Callings. She had their faces in her collection of portraits.

The ardent set down his chair. He hesitated before sitting, glancing at the table. “My, my,” he said in surprise.

For a moment, Shallan thought he was reading her letter, and she felt an irrational surge of panic. The ardent, however, was regarding the three drawings that lay at the head of the table, awaiting lacquer.

“You did these, Brightness?” he said.

“Yes, Ardent,” Shallan said, lowering her eyes.

“No need to be so formal!” the ardent said, leaning down and adjusting his spectacles as he studied her work. “Please, I am Brother Kabsal, or just Kabsal. Really, it’s fine. And you are?”

“Shallan Davar.”

“By Vedeledev’s golden keys, Brightness!” Brother Kabsal said, seating himself. “Did Jasnah Kholin teach you this skill with the pencil?”

“No, Ardent,” she said, still standing.

“Still so formal,” he said, smiling at her. “Tell me, am I so intimidating as that?”

“I have been brought up to show respect to ardents.”

“Well, I myself find that respect is like manure. Use it where needed, and growth will flourish. Spread it on too thick, and things just start to smell.” His eyes twinkled.

Had an ardent-a servant of the Almighty-just spoken of manure? “An ardent is a representative of the Almighty himself,” she said. “To show you lack of respect would be to show it to the Almighty.”

“I see. And this is how you’d respond if the Almighty himself appeared to you here? All of this formality and bowing?”

She hesitated. “Well, no.”

“Ah, and how would you react?”

“I suspect with screams of pain,” she said, letting her thought slip out too easily. “As it is written that the Almighty’s glory is such that any who look upon him would immediately be burned to ash.”

The ardent laughed at that. “Wisely spoken indeed. Please, do sit, though.”

She did so, hesitant.

“You still appear conflicted,” he said, holding up her portrait of Jasnah. “What must I do to put you at ease? Shall I step up onto this desk here and do a jig?”

She blinked in surprise.

“No objection?” Brother Kabsal said. “Well, then…” He set down the portrait and began to climb up on his chair.

“No, please!” Shallan said, holding out her freehand.

“Are you certain?” he glanced at the desk appraisingly.

“Yes,” Shallan said, imagining the ardent teetering and making a misstep, then falling off the balcony and plunging dozens of feet to the ground below. “Please, I promise not to respect you any longer!”

He chuckled, hopping down and seating himself. He leaned closer to her, as if conspiratorially. “The table jig threat almost always works. I’ve only ever had to go through with it once, due to a lost bet against Brother Lhanin. The master ardent of our monastery nearly keeled over in shock.”

Shallan found herself smiling. “You’re an ardent; you’re forbidden to have possessions. What did you bet?”

“Two deep breaths of a winter rose’s fragrance,” said Brother Kabsal, “and the sunlight’s warmth on your skin.” He smiled. “We can be rather creative at times. Years spent marinating in a monastery can do that to a man. Now, you were about to explain to me where you learned such skill with a pencil.”

“Practice,” Shallan said. “I should suspect that is how everyone learns, eventually.”

“Wise words again. I am beginning to wonder which of us it the ardent. But surely you had a master to teach you.”

“Dandos the Oilsworn.”

“Ah, a true master of pencils if there ever was one. Now, not that I doubt your word, Brightness, but I’m rather intrigued how Dandos Heraldin could have trained you in arts, as-last I checked-he’s suffering a rather terminal and perpetual ailment. Namely, that of being dead. For three hundred years.”

Shallan blushed. “My father had a book of his instruction.”

“You learned this,” Kabsal said, lifting up her drawing of Jasnah, “from a book.”

“Er…yes?”

He looked back at the picture. “I need to read more.”

Shallan found herself laughing at the ardent’s expression, and she took a Memory of him sitting there, admiration and perplexity blending on his face as he studied the picture, rubbing his bearded chin with one finger.

He smiled pleasantly, setting down the picture. “You have lacquer?”

“I do,” she said, getting it out of her satchel. It was contained in a bulb sprayer of the type often used for perfume.

He accepted the small jar and twisted the clasp on the front, then gave the bottle a shake and tested the