The Way of Kings, Part 1 (The Stormlight Archive #1.1)

“Your company is never an interruption, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said. She had to be as surprised as Shallan was, yet didn’t display a moment of discomfort or anxiety. “We were soon to take lunch, anyway.”

“I know, Brightness,” Taravangian said. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you.” A group of servants began bringing in food and a table.

“Not at all,” Jasnah said.

The servants hurried to set things up, putting two different tablecloths on the round table to separate the genders during dining. They secured the half-moons of cloth—red for the king, blue for the women—with weights at the center. Covered plates filled with food followed: a clear, cold stew with sweet vegetables for the women, a spicy-smelling broth for the king. Kharbranthians preferred soups for their lunches.

Shallan was surprised to see them set a place for her. Her father had never eaten at the same table as his children—even she, his favorite, had been relegated to her own table. Once Jasnah sat, Shallan did likewise. Her stomach growled again, and the king waved for them to begin. His motions seemed ungainly compared with Jasnah’s elegance.

Shallan was soon eating contentedly—with grace, as a woman should, safehand in her lap, using her freehand and a skewer to spear chunks of vegetable or fruit. The king slurped, but he wasn’t as noisy as many men. Why had he deigned to visit? Wouldn’t a formal dinner invitation have been more proper? Of course, she’d learned that Taravangian wasn’t known for his mastery of protocol. He was a popular king, beloved by the dark-eyes as a builder of hospitals. However, the lighteyes considered him less than bright.

He was not an idiot. In lighteyed politics, unfortunately, being only average was a disadvantage. As they ate, the silence drew out, becoming awkward. Several times, the king looked as if he wanted to say something, but then turned back to his soup. He seemed intimidated by Jasnah.

“And how is your granddaughter, Your Majesty?” Jasnah eventually asked. “She is recovering well?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Taravangian said, as if relieved to begin conversing. “Though she now avoids the narrower corridors of the Conclave. I do want to thank you for your aid.”

“It is always fulfilling to be of service, Your Majesty.”

“If you will forgive my saying so, the ardents do not think much of your service,” Taravangian said. “I realize it is likely a sensitive topic. Perhaps I shouldn’t mention it, but—”

“No, feel free,” Jasnah said, eating a small green lurnip from the end of her skewer. “I am not ashamed of my choices.”

“Then you’ll forgive an old man’s curiosity?”

“I always forgive curiosity, Your Majesty,” Jasnah said. “It strikes me as one of the most genuine of emotions.”

“Then where did you find it?” Taravangian asked, nodding toward the Soulcaster, which Jasnah wore covered by a black glove. “How did you keep it from the devotaries?”

“One might find those questions dangerous, Your Majesty.”

“I’ve already acquired some new enemies by welcoming you.”

“You will be forgiven,” Jasnah said. “Depending on the devotary you have chosen.”

“Forgiven? Me?” The elderly man seemed to find that amusing, and for a moment, Shallan thought she saw deep regret in his expression. “Unlikely. But that is something else entirely. Please. I stand by my questions.”

“And I stand by my evasiveness, Your Majesty. I’m sorry. I do forgive your curiosity, but I cannot reward it. These secrets are mine.”

“Of course, of course.” The king sat back, looking embarrassed. “Now you probably assume I brought this meal simply to ambush you about the fabrial.”

“You had another purpose, then?”

“Well, you see, I’ve heard the most wonderful things about your ward’s artistic skill. I thought that maybe …” He smiled at Shallan.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Shallan said. “I’d be happy to draw your likeness.”

He beamed as she stood, leaving her meal half eaten and gathering her things. She glanced at Jasnah, but the older woman’s face was unreadable.

“Would you prefer a simple portrait against a white background?” Shallan asked. “Or would you prefer a broader perspective, including surroundings?”

“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.