A large population of ardents like this one would have true masters in every art and trade. Perhaps she should come and seek Dalinar’s artists for training.
She winced, wondering where she would find time for such a thing. What with courting Adolin, infiltrating the Ghostbloods, researching the Shattered Plains, and doing Sebarial’s ledgers, it was a wonder she had time to sleep. Still, it felt impious of her to expect success in her duties while ignoring the Almighty. She did need to have more concern for such things.
And what is the Almighty to think of you? she wondered. And the lies you’re growing so proficient at producing. Honesty was among the divine attributes of the Almighty, after all, which everyone was supposed to seek.
The temple complex here included more than one building, though most people would only visit the main structure. Mraize’s instructions had included a map, so she knew the specific building she needed—one near the back, where the ardent healers saw to the sick and cared for people with long-term illnesses.
“It will not be easy to enter,” Iyatil said. “The ardents are protective of their charges, and have them locked away in the back, kept from the eyes of other men. They will not welcome an attempt at intrusion.”
“The instructions indicated that today was the perfect time to sneak in,” Shallan said. “I was to make haste to not miss the opportunity.”
“Once a month,” Iyatil said, “all may come to the temple to ask questions or see a physician with no offering requested. Today will be a busy day, a day of confusion. That will make for an easier time infiltrating, but it does not mean they will simply let you saunter in.”
Shallan nodded.
“If you would rather do this at night,” Iyatil said, “perhaps I can persuade Mraize that the matter can wait until then.”
Shallan shook her head. She had no experience sneaking about in the darkness. She’d just make a fool of herself.
But how to get in…
“Porter,” she commanded, sticking her head out the window and pointing, “take us to that building there, then set us down. Send one of your number to seek the master healers. Tell them I need their aid.”
The tenner who led the parshmen—hired with Shallan’s spheres—nodded brusquely. Tenners were a strange lot. This one didn’t own the parshmen; he just worked for the woman who rented them out. Veil, with dark eyes, would be beneath him socially, but was also the one paying his wage, and so he just treated her as he would any other master.
The palanquin settled down and one of the parshmen walked off to deliver her request.
“Going to feign sickness?” Iyatil asked.
“Something like that,” Shallan said as footsteps arrived outside. She climbed out to meet a pair of square-bearded ardents, conferring as the parshmen led them in her direction. They looked her over, noting her dark eyes and her clothing—which was well-made but obviously intended for rugged use. Likely, they placed her in one of the upper-middle nahns, a citizen, but not a particularly important one.
“What is the problem, young woman?” asked the older of the two ardents.
“It is my sister,” Shallan said. “She has put on this strange mask and refuses to remove it.”
A soft groan rose from inside the palanquin.
“Child,” said the lead ardent, his tone suffering, “a stubborn sister is not a matter for the ardents.”
“I understand, good brother,” Shallan said, raising her hands before her. “But this is no simple stubbornness. I think… I think one of the Voidbringers has inhabited her!”
She pushed aside the curtains of the palanquin, revealing Iyatil inside. Her strange mask made the ardents pull back and break off their objections. The younger of the two men peered in at Iyatil with wide eyes.
Iyatil turned to Shallan, and with an almost inaudible sigh, started rocking back and forth in place. “Should we kill them?” she muttered. “No. No, we shouldn’t. But someone will see! No, do not say these things. No. I will not listen to you.” She started humming.
The younger ardent turned to look back at the senior.
“This is dire,” the ardent said, nodding. “Porter, come. Have your parshmen bring the palanquin.”
* * *
A short time later, Shallan waited in the corner of a small monastery room, watching Iyatil sit and resist the ministration of several ardents. She kept warning them that if they removed her mask, she would have to kill them.
That did not seem to be part of the act.
Fortunately, she otherwise played her part well. Her ravings, mixed with her hidden face, gave even Shallan shivers. The ardents seemed alternately fascinated and horrified.
Concentrate on the drawing, Shallan thought to herself. It was a sketch of one of the ardents, a portly man about her own height. The drawing was rushed but capable. She idly found herself wondering what a beard would feel like. Would it itch? But no, hair on your head didn’t itch, so why should hair on your face? How did they keep food out of the things?
She finished with a few quick marks, then rose quietly. Iyatil kept the ardents’ attention with a new bout of raving. Shallan nodded to her in thanks, then slipped out of the door, entering the hallway. After glancing to the sides to see that she was alone, she used a cloud of Stormlight to transform into the ardent. That done, she reached up and tucked her straight red hair—the only part of her that threatened to pop out of the illusion—inside the back of her coat.
“Pattern,” she whispered, turning and walking down the hallway with a relaxed demeanor.
“Mmm?”
“Find him,” she said, removing from her satchel a sketch of the madman that Mraize had left in the tree. The sketch had been done at a distance, and wasn’t terribly good. Hopefully…
“Second hallway on the left,” Pattern said.
Shallan looked down at him, though her new costume—an ardent’s robe—obscured him where he sat on her coat. “How do you know?”
“You were distracted by your drawing,” he said. “I peeked about. There is a very interesting woman four doors down. She appears to be rubbing excrement on the wall.”
“Ew.” Shallan thought she could smell it.
“Patterns…” he said as they walked. “I did not get a good look at what she was writing, but it seemed very interesting. I think I shall go and—”
“No,” Shallan whispered, “stay with me.” She smiled, nodding to several ardents who strolled past. They didn’t speak to her, fortunately, merely nodding back.
The monastery building, like most everything in Dalinar’s warcamp, was sliced through with dull, unornamented hallways. Shallan followed Pattern’s instructions to a thick door set into the stone. The lock clicked open with Pattern’s help, and Shallan quietly slipped inside.
A single small window—more of a slit—proved insufficient to fully illuminate the large figure sitting on the bed. Dark-skinned, like a man from the Makabaki kingdoms, he had dark, ragged hair and hulking arms. Those were the arms of either a laborer or a soldier. The man sat slumped, back bowed, head down, frail light from the window cutting a slice across his back in white. It made for a grim, powerful silhouette.
The man was whispering. Shallan couldn’t make out the words. She shivered, her back to the door, and held up the sketch Mraize had given her. This seemed to be the same person—at least, the skin color and stout build were the same, though this man was far more muscled than the picture indicated. Storms… those hands of his looked as if they could crush her like a cremling.