“To open the Oathgate,” Shallan said. “Save the city.”
Pattern hummed.
“Lofty goals,” Wit said.
“What’s the point of goals, if not to spur you to something lofty?”
“Yes, yes. Aim for the sun. That way if you miss, at least your arrow will fall far away, and the person it kills will likely be someone you don’t know.”
The innkeeper chose that moment to arrive with some food. Shallan didn’t feel particularly hungry; seeing all those starving people outside had stolen her appetite.
The small plates held crumbly cakes of Soulcast grain topped with a single steamed cremling—a variety known as a skrip, with a flat tail, two large claws, and long antennae. Eating cremlings wasn’t uncommon, but it wasn’t particularly fine dining.
The only difference between Shallan’s meal and Wit’s was the sauce—hers sweet, his spicy, though his had the sauce in a cup at the side. Food supplies were tight, and the kitchen wasn’t preparing both masculine and feminine dishes.
The innkeeper frowned at her hair, then shook his head and left. She got the impression he was accustomed to oddities around Wit.
Shallan looked down at her food. Could she give this to someone else? Someone who deserved it more than she did?
“Eat up,” Wit said, rising and walking to the small window. “Don’t waste what you’re given.”
Reluctantly, she did as he instructed. It wasn’t particularly good, but it wasn’t terrible. “Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.
“I’m smart enough not to follow my own advice, thank you very much.” He sounded distracted. Outside the window, a procession from the Cult of Moments was passing.
“I want to learn to be like you,” Shallan said, feeling silly as she said it.
“No you don’t.”
“You’re funny, and charming, and—”
“Yes, yes. I’m so storming clever that half the time, even I can’t follow what I’m talking about.”
“—and you change things, Wit. When you came to me, in Jah Keved, you changed everything. I want to be able to do that. I want to be able to change the world.”
He didn’t seem at all interested in his food. Does he eat? she wondered. Or is he … like some kind of spren?
“Who came with you to the city?” he asked her.
“Kaladin. Adolin. Elhokar. Some of our servants.”
“King Elhokar? Here?”
“He’s determined to save the city.”
“Most days, Elhokar has trouble saving face, let alone cities.”
“I like him,” Shallan said. “Despite his … Elhokarness.”
“He does grow on you, I suppose. Like a fungus.”
“He really wants to do what is right. You should hear him talk about it lately. He wants to be remembered as a good king.”
“Vanity.”
“You don’t care about how you’ll be remembered?”
“I’ll remember myself, which is enough. Elhokar though, he worries about the wrong things. His father wore a simple crown because he needed no reminder of his authority. Elhokar wears a simple crown because he worries that something more lavish might make people look at it, instead of at him. He doesn’t want the competition.”
Wit turned away from his inspection of the hearth and chimney. “You want to change the world, Shallan. That’s well and good. But be careful. The world predates you. She has seniority.”
“I’m a Radiant,” Shallan said, shoving another forkful of crumbly, sweet bread into her mouth. “Saving the world is in the job description.”
“Then be wise about it. There are two kinds of important men, Shallan. There are those who, when the boulder of time rolls toward them, stand up in front of it and hold out their hands. All their lives, they’ve been told how great they are. They assume the world itself will bend to their whims as their nurse did when fetching them a fresh cup of milk.
“Those men end up squished.
“Other men stand to the side when the boulder of time passes, but are quick to say, ‘See what I did! I made the boulder roll there. Don’t make me do it again!’
“These men end up getting everyone else squished.”
“Is there not a third type of person?”
“There is, but they are oh so rare. These know they can’t stop the boulder. So they walk beside it, study it, and bide their time. Then they shove it—ever so slightly—to create a deviation in its path.
“These are the men … well, these are the men who actually change the world. And they terrify me. For men never see as far as they think they do.”
Shallan frowned, then looked at her empty plate. She hadn’t thought she was hungry, but once she’d started eating …
Wit walked past and deftly lifted her plate away, then swapped it with his full one.
“Wit … I can’t eat that.”
“Don’t be persnickety,” he said. “How are you going to save the world if you starve yourself?”
“I’m not starving myself.” But she took a little bite to satisfy him. “You make it sound like having the power to change the world is a bad thing.”
“Bad? No. Abhorrent, depressing, ghastly. Having power is a terrible burden, the worst thing imaginable, except for every other alternative.” He turned and studied her. “What is power to you, Shallan?”
“It’s…” Shallan cut at the cremling, separating it from its shell. “It’s what I said earlier—the ability to change things.”
“Things?”
“Other people’s lives. Power is the ability to make life better or worse for the people around you.”
“And yourself too, of course.”
“I don’t matter.”
“You should.”
“Selflessness is a Vorin virtue, Wit.”
“Oh, bother that. You’ve got to live life, Shallan, enjoy life. Drink of what you’re proposing to give everyone else! That’s what I do.”
“You … do seem to enjoy yourself a great deal.”
“I like to live every day like it’s my last.”
Shallan nodded.
“And by that I mean lying in a puddle of my own urine, calling for the nurse to bring me more pudding.”
She almost choked on a bite of cremling. Her cup was empty, but Wit walked past and put his in her hand. She gulped it down.
“Power is a knife,” Wit said, taking his seat. “A terrible, dangerous knife that can’t be wielded without cutting yourself. We joked about stupidity, but in reality most people aren’t stupid. Many are simply frustrated at how little control they have over their lives. They lash out. Sometimes in spectacular ways…”
“The Cult of Moments. They reportedly claim to see a transformed world coming upon us.”
“Be wary of anyone who claims to be able to see the future, Shallan.”
“Except you, of course. Didn’t you say you can see where you need to be?”
“Be wary,” he repeated, “of anyone who claims to be able to see the future, Shallan.”
Pattern rippled on the table, not humming, only changing more quickly, forming new shapes in a rapid sequence. Shallan swallowed. To her surprise, her plate was empty again. “The cult has control of the Oathgate platform,” she said. “Do you know what they do up there every night?”