“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 lacquer on the back of his hand. He nodded in satisfaction and reached for the drawing. “A piece such as this should not be allowed to risk smudging.”
“I can lacquer it,” Shallan said. “No need to trouble yourself.”
“It is no trouble; it’s an honor. Besides, I am an ardent. We don’t know what to do with ourselves when we aren’t busying about, doing things others could do for themselves. It is best just to humor me.” He began to apply the lacquer, dusting the page with careful puffs.
She had trouble keeping herself from reaching to snatch the sketch away. Fortunately, his hands were careful, and the lacquer went on evenly. He’d obviously done this before.
“You are from Jah Keved, I presume?” he asked.
“From the hair?” she asked, raising a hand to her red locks. “Or from the accent?”
“From the way you treat ardents. The Veden Church is by far the most traditional. I have visited your lovely country on two occasions; while your food sits well in my stomach, the amount of bowing and scraping you show ardents made me uncomfortable.”
“Perhaps you should have danced on a few tables.”
“I considered it,” he said, “but my brother and sister ardents from your country would likely have dropped dead of embarrassment. I would hate to have that on my conscience. The Almighty is not kind toward those who kill his priests.”
“I should think that killing in general would be frowned upon,” she responded, still watching him apply the lacquer. It felt odd to let someone else work on her art.
“What does Brightness Jasnah think of your skill?” he asked as he worked.
“I don’t think she cares,” Shallan said, grimacing and remembering her conversation with the woman. “She doesn’t seem terribly appreciative of the visual arts.”
“So I have heard. It’s one of her few faults, unfortunately.”
“Another being that little matter of her heresy?”
“Indeed,” Kabsal said, smiling. “I must admit, I stepped in here expecting indifference, not deference. How did you come to be part of her entourage?”
Shallan started, realizing for the first time that Brother Kabsal must have assumed her to be one of the Brightlady Kholin’s attendants. Perhaps a ward.
“Bother,” she said to herself.
“Hum?”
“It appears I’ve inadvertently misled you, Brother Kabsal. I’m not associated with Brightness Jasnah. Not yet, anyway. I’ve been trying to get her to take me on as a ward.”
“Ah,” he said, finishing his lacquering.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? You did nothing wrong.” He blew on the picture, then turned it for her to see. It was perfectly lacquered, without any smears. “If you would do me a favor, child?” he said, setting the page aside.