Kaladin looked up at his friend. “I think she left because of the plot to kill the king, Moash. I don’t think a Radiant could be involved in something like this.”
“Shouldn’t a Radiant care about doing what is right? Even if it means a difficult decision?”
“Sometimes lives must be spent for the greater good,” Kaladin said.
“Yes, exactly!”
“That’s what Amaram said. In regards to my friends, whom he murdered to cover up his secrets.”
“Well, that’s different, obviously. He’s a lighteyes.”
Kaladin looked to Moash, whose eyes had turned as light a tan as those of any Brightlord. Same color as Amaram’s, actually. “So are you.”
“Kal,” Moash said. “You’re worrying me. Don’t say things like that.”
Kaladin looked away.
“The king wanted me to deliver a message,” Moash said. “That’s my excuse for being here. He wants you to come talk to him.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. He’s been dipping into the wine, now that Dalinar is gone. Not the orange stuff, either. I’ll tell him you’re too wounded to come.”
Kaladin nodded.
“Kal,” Moash said. “We can trust you, right? You’re not having second thoughts?”
“You said it yourself,” Kaladin said. “I don’t have to do anything. I just have to stay away.” What could I do, anyway? Wounded, with no spren?
Everything was in motion. It was too far along for him to stop.
“Great,” Moash said. “You heal up, all right?”
Moash walked out, leaving Kaladin in the darkness again.
78. Contradictions
AhbuttheywereleftbehindItisobviousfromthenatureofthebondButwherewherewherewhereSetoffObviousRealizationlikeapricityTheyarewiththeShinWemustfindoneCanwemaketouseaTruthlessCanwecraftaweapon
From the Diagram, Floorboard 17: paragraph 2, every second letter starting with the first
In the darkness, Shallan’s violet spheres gave life to the rain. Without the spheres, she couldn’t see the drops, only hear their deaths upon the stones and the cloth of her pavilion. With the light, each falling speck of water flashed briefly, like starspren.
She sat at the edge of the pavilion, as she liked to watch the rainfall between bouts of sketching, while the other scholars sat closer to the center. So did Vathah and a couple of his soldiers, watching over her like nesting skyeels with a single pup. It amused her that they’d grown so protective; they seemed actively proud to be her soldiers. She’d honestly expected them to run off after gaining their clemency.
Four days into the Weeping, and she still enjoyed the weather. Why did the soft sound of gentle rain make her feel more imaginative? Around her, creationspren slowly vanished, most having taken the shapes of things about the camp. Swords that sheathed and unsheathed repeatedly, tiny tents that untied and blew in unseen wind. Her picture was of Jasnah as she’d been on that night just over a month ago, when Shallan had last seen her. Leaning upon the desk of a darkened ship’s cabin, hand pushing back hair freed from its customary twists and braids. Exhausted, overwhelmed, terrified.
The drawing didn’t depict a single faithful Memory, not as Shallan usually did them. This was a re-creation of what she remembered, an interpretation that was not exact. Shallan was proud of it, as she’d captured Jasnah’s contradictions.
Contradictions. Those were what made people real. Jasnah exhausted, yet somehow still strong—stronger, even, because of the vulnerability she revealed. Jasnah terrified, yet also brave, for one allowed the other to exist. Jasnah overwhelmed, yet powerful.
Shallan had recently been trying to do more drawings like this—ones synthesized from her own imaginings. Her illusions would suffer if she could only reproduce what she’d experienced. She needed to be able to create, not just copy.
The last creationspren faded away, this one imitating a puddle that was being splashed by a boot. Her sheet of paper dimpled as Pattern moved up onto it.
He sniffed. “Useless things.”
“The creationspren?”
“They don’t do anything. They flit around and watch, admire. Most spren have a purpose. These are merely attracted by someone else’s purpose.”
Shallan sat back, thinking on that, as Jasnah had taught her. Nearby, the scholars and ardents argued about how large Stormseat had been. Navani had done her part well—better than Shallan could have hoped. The army’s scholars now worked at Shallan’s command.
Around her in the night, an uncountable array of lights both near and far indicated the breadth of the army. The rain continued to sprinkle down, catching the purple spherelight. She had chosen all spheres of one color.
“The artist Eleseth,” Shallan observed to Pattern, “once did an experiment. She set out only ruby spheres, in their strength, to light her studio. She wanted to see what effect the all-red light would have upon her art.”
“Mmmm,” Pattern said. “To what result?”
“At first, during a painting session, the color of light affected her strongly. She would use too little red, and fields of blossoms would look washed out.”
“Not unexpected.”
“The interesting thing, however, was what happened if she continued working,” Shallan said. “If she painted for hours by that light, the effects diminished. The colors of her reproductions grew more balanced, the pictures of flowers more vivid. She eventually concluded that her mind compensated for the colors she saw. Indeed, if she switched the color of the light during a session, she’d continue for a time to paint as if the room were still red, reacting against the new color.”
“Mmmmmm…” Pattern said, content. “Humans can see the world as it is not. It is why your lies can be so strong. You are able to not admit that they are lies.”
“It frightens me.”
“Why? It is wonderful.”
To him, she was a subject of study. For a moment, she understood how Kaladin must have seen Shallan as she spoke of the chasmfiend. Admiring its beauty, the form of its creation, oblivious to the present reality of its danger.
“It frightens me,” Shallan said, “because we all see the world by some kind of light personal to us, and that light changes our perception. I don’t see clearly. I want to, but I don’t know if I ever truly can.”
Eventually, a pattern broke through the sound of rain, and Dalinar Kholin entered the tent. Straight-backed and greying, he looked more like a general than a king. She had no sketches of him. It seemed a gross omission on her part, so she took a Memory of him walking into the pavilion, an aide holding an umbrella for him.
He strode up to Shallan. “Ah, here you are. The one who has taken command of this expedition.”
Shallan belatedly scrambled to her feet and bowed. “Highprince?”
“You have co-opted my scribes and cartographers,” Dalinar said, sounding amused. “They hum of it like the rainfall. Urithiru. Stormseat. How did you do it?”
“I didn’t. Brightness Navani did.”
“She says you convinced her.”
“I…” Shallan blushed. “I was really just there, and she changed her mind…”