“That doesn’t mean you can’t study,” Shallan said. “I gathered those from Father’s books, equations for determining highstorm timing. I translated and simplified the writing to glyphs, so you could read them. I figured you could try to guess when the next ones would come…”
He shuffled through the papers. “You copied and translated it all, even the drawings. Storms, Shallan. How long did this take you?”
She shrugged. It had taken weeks, but she had nothing but time. Days sitting in the gardens, evenings sitting in her room, the occasional visit to the ardents for some peaceful tutoring about the Almighty. It was good to have things to do.
“This is stupid,” Wikim said, lowering the papers. “What do you think you’ll accomplish? I can’t believe you wasted so much time on this.”
Shallan bowed her head and then, blinking tears, scrambled out of the carriage. It felt horrible—not just Wikim’s words, but the way her emotions betrayed her. She couldn’t hold them in.
She hastened away from the carriages, hoping the coachmen wouldn’t see her wiping her eyes with her safehand. She sat down on a stone and tried to compose herself, but failed, tears flowing freely. She turned her head aside as a few parshmen trotted past, running their master’s axehounds. There would be several hunts as part of the festivities.
“Axehound,” a voice said from behind her.
Shallan jumped, safehand to breast, and spun.
He rested up on a tree limb, wearing his black outfit. He moved as she saw him, and the spiky leaves around him retreated in a wave of vanishing red and orange. It was the messenger who had spoken to Father earlier.
“I have wondered,” the messenger said, “if any of you find the term odd. You know what an axe is. But what is a hound?”
“Why does that matter?” Shallan asked.
“Because it is a word,” the messenger replied. “A simple word with a world embedded inside, like a bud waiting to open.” He studied her. “I did not expect to find you here.”
“I…” Her instincts told her to back away from this strange man. And yet, he had news of Helaran—news her father would never share. “Where did you expect to find me? At the dueling grounds?”
The man swung around the branch and dropped to the ground.
Shallan stepped backward.
“No need for that,” the man said, settling onto a rock. “You needn’t fear me. I’m terribly ineffective at hurting people. I blame my upbringing.”
“You have news of my brother Helaran.”
The messenger nodded. “He is a very determined young man.”
“Where is he?”
“Doing things he finds very important. I would fault him for it, as I find nothing more frightening than a man trying to do what he has decided is important. Very little in the world has ever gone astray—at least on a grand scale—because a person decided to be frivolous.”
“He is well, though?” she asked.
“Well enough. The message for your father was that he has eyes nearby, and is watching.”
No wonder it had put Father in a bad mood. “Where is he?” Shallan said, timidly stepping forward. “Did he tell you to speak to me?”
“I’m sorry, young one,” the man said, expression softening. “He gave me only that brief message for your father, and that only because I mentioned I would be traveling this direction.”
“Oh! I assumed he’d sent you here. I mean, that coming to us was your primary purpose.”
“Turns out that it was. Tell me, young one. Do spren speak to you?”
The lights going out, life drained from them.
Twisted symbols the eye should not see.
Her mother’s soul in a box.
“I…” she said. “No. Why would a spren speak to me?”
“No voices?” the man said, leaning forward. “Do spheres go dark when you are near?”
“I’m sorry,” Shallan said, “but I should be getting back to my father. He will be missing me.”
“Your father is slowly destroying your family,” the messenger said. “Your brother was right on that count. He was wrong about everything else.”
“Such as?”
“Look.” The man nodded back toward the carriages. She was at the right angle to see into the window of her father’s carriage. She squinted.
Inside, Wikim leaned forward, using a pencil taken from her satchel—which she’d left behind. He scribbled at the mathematical problems she’d left.
He was smiling.
Warmth. That warmth she felt, a deep glow, was like the joy she had known before. Long ago. Before everything had gone wrong. Before Mother.
The messenger whispered. “Two blind men waited at the end of an era, contemplating beauty. They sat atop the world’s highest cliff, overlooking the land and seeing nothing.”
“Huh?” She looked to him.
“‘Can beauty be taken from a man?’ the first asked the second.
“‘It was taken from me,’ the second replied. ‘For I cannot remember it.’ This man was blinded in a childhood accident. ‘I pray to the God Beyond each night to restore my sight, so that I may find beauty again.’
“‘Is beauty something one must see, then?’ the first asked.
“‘Of course. That is its nature. How can you appreciate a work of art without seeing it?’
“‘I can hear a work of music,’ the first said.
“‘Very well, you can hear some kinds of beauty—but you cannot know full beauty without sight. You can know only a small portion of beauty.’
“‘A sculpture,’ the first said. ‘Can I not feel its curves and slopes, the touch of the chisel that transformed common rock into uncommon wonder?’
“‘I suppose,’ said the second, ‘that you can know the beauty of a sculpture.’
“‘And what of the beauty of food? Is it not a work of art when a chef crafts a masterpiece to delight the tastes?’
“‘I suppose,’ said the second, ‘that you can know the beauty of a chef’s art.’
“‘And what of the beauty of a woman,’ the first said. ‘Can I not know her beauty in the softness of her caress, the kindness of her voice, the keenness of her mind as she reads philosophy to me? Can I not know this beauty? Can I not know most kinds of beauty, even without my eyes?’
“‘Very well,’ said the second. ‘But what if your ears were removed, your hearing taken away? Your tongue taken out, your mouth forced shut, your sense of smell destroyed? What if your skin were burned so that you could no longer feel? What if all that remained to you was pain? You could not know beauty then. It can be taken from a man.’”
The messenger stopped, cocking his head at Shallan.
“What?” she asked.
“What think you? Can beauty be taken from a man? If he could not touch, taste, smell, hear, see… what if all he knew was pain? Has that man had beauty taken from him?”
“I…” What did this have to do with anything? “Does the pain change day by day?”
“Let us say it does,” the messenger said.
“Then beauty, to that person, would be the times when the pain lessens. Why are you telling me this story?”