Shallan Quotes

Ah, the outdoors,' Shallan said. 'I visited that mythical place once.

The only time you seem honest is when you’re insulting someone!” “The only honest things I can say to you are insults.

I can see what you’re up to.” “Five foot six inches,” Shallan said. “I suspect that’s all I will ever be up to, unfortunately.

Words are where most change begins.

Brightness...I believe you stray into sarcasm." "Funny.I thought I'd run straight into it,screaming at the top of my lungs.

No one ever accomplished anything by being content with who they were, Shallan,” Adolin said. “We accomplish great things by reaching toward who we could become.” “As long as it’s what you want to become. Not what someone else thinks you should become.

The world isn't fair? What a huge revelation! Some people in power abuse those they have power over? Amazing! When did this start happening?

Expectation wasn't just about what people expected of you. It was about what you expected of yourself.

It’s not a lie,” Shallan said, “if everyone understands and knows what it means.” “Mm. Those are some of the best lies.

You want to change the world, Shallan. That’s well and good. But be careful. The world predates you. She has seniority.

I seek the truth,” Shallan said. “Wherever it may be, whoever may hold it. That’s who I am.

We actually killed the thing.” “Sad, I know,” she said, feeling depressed. “It was beautiful.” “It would be more beautiful if it hadn't tried to eat me.” “From my perspective,” Shallan noted, “it didn't try, it succeeded.” “Nonsense,” Kaladin said. “It didn't manage to swallow me. Doesn't count.

Storms, woman,” [Kaladin] said. “I don’t know what to make of you.” “Preferably not a corpse.” “I’m surprised someone hasn't already done that.

Are you that afraid of being wrong? One would assume you’d be accustomed to it by now.” He grunted. “Be careful, girl. You wouldn’t want to accidentally insult a man.” “The last thing I’d want to do is accidentally insult you, Vathah,” Shallan said. “To think that I couldn’t manage it on purpose if I wanted!

When did you get so peppy?” she shouted. “Ever since I assumed I was dead, then I suddenly wasn't.” “Then remind me to try to kill you once in a while,” she snapped. “If I succeed, it will make me feel better, and if I fail, it will make you feel better. Everyone wins!

I’m not good with relationships, Shallan.” “Is there anyone who actually is? I mean, is there really someone out there who looks at relationships and thinks, ‘You know what, I’ve got this’? Personally, I rather think we’re all collectively idiots about it.

Shallan, weren't you supposed to be reading?” “I . . . had trouble concentrating.” “So you came up on deck,” Jasnah said, “to sketch pictures of young men working without their shirts on. You expected this to help your concentration?

ah,the outdoors," Shallan said. "I visited that mythical place once. It was so very long ago, I've nearly forgotten it. Tell me, does the sun still shine, or is that just my dreamy recollection' 'Surely your studies aren't that bad.

Logically,” Shallan said, “the bright side is the only side you can look on, because the other side is dark.

Kaladin followed [Shallan]. What else could he do? Explain to Adolin? Yes, princeling. I let your betrothed wander off alone in the darkness to get eaten by a chasmfiend. No, I didn't go with her. Yes, I’m a coward.

This is insanity!" "No, this is scholarship!

That caravan looks as if it’s all Vorin. Also, you look a little spindly for a Horneater.” “Did you just insult the princess’s weight?” Tyn asked, aghast. Storms! She was good. She actually managed to produce angerspren with the remark. Well, nothing to do but soldier on. “I am offend!” Shallan yelled. “You have offended Her Highness again!” “Very offend!” “You’d better apologize.” “No apologize!” Shallan declared. “Boots!

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.

I know what you are,” Shallan whispered. “You’re the blankness upon my memories. The part of me that looks away. The part of my mind that protects me from my past.” “Of course I am,” Veil said. “I’m your veil, Shallan.

Adolin is right,” Veil said. “He’s always been right about you. Tell me. Who is the strongest of mind? The woman whose emotions are always on her side? Or the woman whose own thoughts betray her? You have fought this fight every day of your life, Shallan. And you are not weak.

I’m sorry that your mystical, godlike powers do not instantly work as you would like them to.

Shallan’s mental image of Jasnah Kholin was of someone almost divine. It was, upon reflection, an odd way to regard a determined atheist.

Brightness,” the man said as she stepped up to him, “we aren't what you think we are.” “No,” Shallan replied. “You aren't what you think yourselves to be.

You have quite the clever tongue on you!” “I’ve never actually had someone’s tongue on me,” Shallan said, turning a page and not looking up, “clever or not. I’d hazard to consider it an unpleasant experience.” “It ain’t so bad,” Gaz said.

I’d rather walk these chasms with a compulsive murderer than you. At least then, when the conversation got tedious, I’d have an easy way out.” “And your feet stink,” [Shallan] said. “See? Too early. I can’t possibly be witty at this hour. So no arguments.” She hesitated, then continued more softly. “Besides, no murderer would agree to accompany you. Everyone needs to have some standards, after all.

I had a splinter once," Shallan noted. "It eventually got out of hand.

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 word 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 who actually change the world. And they terrify me. For men never see as far as they think they do.

It frightens me,” Shallan said, “because we all see the world by some kind of light personal to us, and that light changes our perception. I don’t see clearly. I want to, but I don’t know if I ever truly can.

I wasn't complaining', Pattern complained.

I don’t know. ‘Errorgant,’ perhaps.” Jasnah raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It means to be twice as certain as someone who is merely arrogant,” Shallan said, “while possessing only one-tenth the requisite facts.

To be human is to seek beauty, Shallan. Do not despair, do not end the hunt because thorns grow in your way.

The sensation—it’s not sorrow, but something deeper—of being broken. Of being crushed so often, and so hatefully, that emotion becomes something you can only wish for. If only you could cry, because then you’d feel something. Instead, you feel nothing. Just . . . haze and smoke inside. Like you’re already dead.

Your ego doesn’t count as a separate individual, Shallan.

… I can’t do it.” He smiled. “There are certain things I know, Shallan. This is one of them. You can. Find the balance. Accept the pain, but don’t accept that you deserved it.

I know. I’m sorry.” Adolin grimaced. “I’m not explaining it well. I just … I don’t think Shallan is as weak as you say. Weakness doesn’t make someone weak, you see. It’s the opposite.

I can see why we need fellows who know how to light fires,” Bluth said. “But I don’t see why we need people to use fancy words.” “Shhhh,” Shallan said. “Don’t say that so loudly. If the lighteyes hear, they might stop wasting their time making up new words, and instead start interfering with the business of honest men.

Please,” Shallan said to the sphere. “I need you to become fire.” Pattern buzzed, speaking with a new voice, interpreting the sphere’s words. “I am a stick,” he said. He sounded satisfied. “You could be fire,” Shallan said. “I am a stick.” The stick was not particularly eloquent. She supposed that she shouldn’t be surprised. “Why don’t you become fire instead?” “I am a stick.” “How do I make it change?” Shallan asked of Pattern. “Mm . . . I do not know. You must persuade it. Offer it truths, I think?” He sounded agitated. “This place is dangerous for you. For us. Please. Speed.” She looked back at the stick. “You want to burn.” “I am a stick.” “Think how much fun it would be?” “I am a stick.” “Stormlight,” Shallan said. “You could have it! All that I’m holding.” A pause. Finally, “I am a stick.” “Sticks need Stormlight. For . . . things . . .” Shallan blinked away tears of fatigue. “I am—” “—a stick,” Shallan said.

Please,” she whispered, sounding more frantic. “Don’t leave me down in these chasms alone.” He smiled wryly. “Is it really this hard for you to let me win one single argument?” “Yes!

So it’s our fault.” “Yes. Like everything else. War. Famine. Bad hair.” “Wait. Bad hair?” Shallan blew a lock of it out of her eyes. “Loud. Stubborn. Oblivious to our attempts to fix it. The Almighty gave us messy hair to prepare us for living with men.

I don’t hate you, Pattern,” Shallan said. “I hate the sword.” “But—” “The sword isn’t you. The sword is me, my father, the life we led, and the way it got twisted all about.

It is beautiful because it could have been. It should have been.

Perhaps I am an insensitive rich woman. That doesn't change the fact that you can be downright mean and offensive, Kaladin Stormblessed.

Actually, no," Shallan said. "I'm just fond of hyperbole." "I'm not," he said. "It's a real bastard to spell" "Kabsal!

You should never debate an idiot, Shallan. No more than you’d use your best sword to spread butter.

I probably shouldn't mock our family. House Davar is distinctive and enduring." Jushu raised his cup. Wikim nodded sharply. "Of course," she added, "the same could be said for a wart.

You still think I’m too optimistic, don’t you?” Shallan said. “It’s not your fault,” Kaladin said. “I’d rather be like you. I’d rather not have lived the life I have. I would that the world was only full of people like you, Shallan Davar.” “People who don’t understand pain.” “Oh, all people understand pain,” Kaladin said. “That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s . . .” “The sorrow,” Shallan said softly, “of watching a life crumble? Of struggling to grab it and hold on, but feeling hope become stringy sinew and blood beneath your fingers as everything collapses?” “Yes.” “The sensation—it’s not sorrow, but something deeper—of being broken. Of being crushed so often, and so hatefully, that emotion becomes something you can only wish for. If only you could cry, because then you’d feel something. Instead, you feel nothing. Just . . . haze and smoke inside. Like you’re already dead.” He stopped in the chasm. She turned and looked to him. “The crushing guilt,” she said, “of being powerless. Of wishing they’d hurt you instead of those around you. Of screaming and scrambling and hating as those you love are ruined, popped like a boil. And you have to watch their joy seeping away while you can’t do anything. They break the ones you love, and not you. And you plead. Can’t you just beat me instead?” “Yes,” he whispered. Shallan nodded, holding his eyes. “Yes. It would be nice if nobody in the world knew of those things, Kaladin Stormblessed. I agree. With everything I have.” He saw it in her eyes. The anguish, the frustration. The terrible nothing that clawed inside and sought to smother her. She knew. It was there, inside. She had been broken. Then she smiled. Oh, storms. She smiled anyway. It was the single most beautiful thing he’d seen in his entire life. “How?” he asked.

Besides, you scowl at everyone like an old man anyway. You'll be a great fit." Kaladin glowered at her. "Perfect! Keep it up!

Shallan had found that no matter how bad things got, someone would be making tea.

It’s not a lie,” Shallan said, “if everyone understands and knows what it means.” “Mm. Those are some of the best lies.

Truth is individual.” “What? No it’s not. Truth is . . . it’s Truth. Reality.” “Your truth is what you see,” Pattern said, sounding confused. “What else could it be? That is the truth that you spoke to me, the truth that brings power.

Love . . . love is like a classical melody.’ Shallan grinned. ‘If you end your performance too quickly, your audience is disappointed?’ ‘Shallan!’ Balat said. Wikim, however, was rolling on the ground.

You’re still human,” Shallan said, reaching across, putting her hand on Navani’s knee. “We can’t all be emotionless chunks of rock like Jasnah.” Navani smiled. “She sometimes had the empathy of a corpse, didn’t she?

Murder?” Pattern said, placing another soldier. He’d built a surprisingly tall pyramid. “Oh, you mean murder! Shallan is good at murder. Yes, mmmmm…” “Pattern,” she said, “please don’t say it that way.” “She is good,” Pattern corrected himself, “at making people who were once alive and threatening, unalive and unthreatening. Mmmm. Very good at it.

You like lies?” Shallan asked. “Good lies,” Pattern said. “That lie. Good lie.” “What makes a lie good?” Shallan asked, taking careful notes, recording Pattern’s exact words. “True lies.” “Pattern, those two are opposites.” “Hmmmm . . . Light makes shadow. Truth makes lies. Hmmmm.

Can something be "almost" an accident?' Pattern asked, genuinely curious.

Shallan sat down on the plush, white bed, and sank almost down to her neck. What had they made the thing out of? Air and wishes? It felt luxurious.

Jasnah raised an eyebrow. “You will find wise men in any religion, Shallan, and good men in every nation. Those who truly seek wisdom are those who will acknowledge the virtue in their adversaries and who will learn from those who disabuse them of error. All others—heretic, Vorin, Ysperist, or Maakian—are equally closed-minded.

Tell me. Who is the strongest of mind? The woman whose emotions are always on her side? Or the woman whose own thoughts betray her? You have fought this fight every day of your life, Shallan. And you are not weak.

A group of people in black robes stood around her, each holding a brightly shining diamond broam in one palm. She blinked at the sharp light. Their hoods looked a fair bit more comfortable than her sack. Each robe was embroidered with the Double Eye of the Almighty, and Shallan had a fleeting thought, wondering at the seamstress they’d hired to do all this work. What had they told her? “Yes, we want twenty identical, mysterious robes, sewn with ancient arcane symbols. They’re for … parties.

No. Hedonism has never been enjoyment, Shallan, but the opposite. They take the wonderful things of life and indulge until they lose savor. It’s listening to beautiful music, performed so loud as to eliminate all subtlety—taking something beautiful and making it carnal.

As there was nothing left for Veil to protect Shallan from feeling, she began to fade. But as she faded, one last question surfaced: Did I do well?

Well, I like sincere people,” Shallan said, raising her cup. “It’s delightful how surprised they look when you push them down the stairs.

Logically," Shallan said, "the bright side is the only side you can look on, because the other side is dark.

It frightens me," Shallan said, "because we all see the world by some kind of light personal to us, and that light changes perception. I don't see clearly. I want to, but I don't know if I ever truly can.

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?” The messenger smiled. “To be human is to seek beauty, Shallan. Do not despair, do not end the hunt because thorns grow in your way. Tell me, what is the most beautiful thing you can imagine?” .... “I see,” the messenger said softly. “You do not yet understand the nature of lies. I had that trouble myself, long ago. The Shards here are very strict. You will have to see the truth, child, before you can expand upon it. Just as a man should know the law before he breaks it.

Yes,” he whispered. Shallan nodded, holding his eyes. “Yes. It would be nice if nobody in the world knew of those things, Kaladin Stormblessed. I agree. With everything I have.” He saw it in her eyes. The anguish, the frustration. The terrible nothing that clawed inside and sought to smother her. She knew. It was there, inside. She had been broken. Then she smiled. Oh, storms. She smiled anyway. It was the single most beautiful thing he’d seen in his entire life. “How?” he asked. She shrugged lightly. “Helps if you’re crazy. Come on.

Shallan grinned. “Have you ever considered, bridgeman, that bad art does more for the world than good art? Artists spend more of their lives making bad practice pieces than they do masterworks, particularly at the start. And even when an artist becomes a master, some pieces don’t work out. Still others are somehow just wrong until the last stroke. “You learn more from bad art than you do from good art, as your mistakes are more important than your successes. Plus, good art usually evokes the same emotions in people—most good art is the same kind of good. But bad pieces can each be bad in their own unique way. So I’m glad we have bad art, and I’m sure the Almighty agrees.

Oh!” Pattern said suddenly, bursting up from the bowl to hover in the air. “You were talking about mating! I’m to make sure you don’t accidentally mate, as mating is forbidden by human society until you have first performed appropriate rituals! Yes, yes. Mmmm. Dictates of custom require following certain patterns before you copulate. I’ve been studying this!

Jasnah was different. She gave Shallan a topic and the freedom to pursue it as she wished. Jasnah offered encouragement and speculation, but nearly all of their conversations turned to topics like the true nature of scholarship, the purpose of studying, the beauty of knowledge and its application.

Power is an illusion of perception.” Shallan frowned. “Don’t mistake me,” Jasnah continued. “Some kinds of power are real—power to command armies, power to Soulcast. These come into play far less often than you would think. On an individual basis, in most interactions, this thing we call power—authority—exists only as it is perceived.

He doesn’t want me to be me, or even him. He wants me to be this imagined perfect child who was born better than he ever could be.” “And that makes you not a person,” Shallan said, nodding. “It erases your ability to make choices or mistakes. Because you’re perfect. You were born to be perfect. So you can never earn anything on your own.

The water didn’t seem to have any scents or soaps applied to it, so Shallan raised the small basin and then took a long, slurping drink. “I washed my feet in that,” Adolin noted.

Yes, very brave,” Shallan said. “We humans are known to bite.” “Ha ha. Yes, bite. And break your oaths and murder your spren. Ha ha.

You live lies,” Pattern said. “It gives you strength. But the truth . . . Without speaking truths you will not be able to grow, Shallan. I know this somehow.

She looped one side of the closed necklace around it, and in twisting, pulled the chain very tight around Father’s throat. “Now go to sleep,” she whispered, “in chasms deep, with darkness all around you . . .” A lullaby. Shallan spoke the song through her tears—the song he’d sung for her as a child, when she was frightened. Red blood speckled his face and covered her hands. “Though rock and dread may be your bed, so sleep my baby dear.” She felt his eyes on her. Her skin squirmed as she held the necklace tight. “Now comes the storm,” she whispered, “but you’ll be warm, the wind will rock your basket . . .” Shallan had to watch as his eyes bulged out, his face turning colors. His body trembling, straining, trying to move. The eyes looked to her, demanding, betrayed. Almost, Shallan could imagine that the storm’s howls were part of a nightmare. That soon she would awaken in terror, and Father would sing to her. As he’d done when she was a child . . . “The crystals fine . . . will glow sublime . . .” Father stopped moving. “And with a song . . . you’ll sleep . . . my baby dear.

The Windrunners or Skybreakers might have had trouble being so glib with a broken promise, but Shallan’s order was founded on the idea that all people lied, especially to themselves.

Each robe was embroidered with the Double Eye of the Almighty, and Shallan had a fleeting thought, wondering at the seamstress they’d hired to do all this work. What had they told her? “Yes, we want twenty identical, mysterious robes, sewn with ancient arcane symbols. They’re for … parties.

Shallan shook her head. “It strikes me that religion—in its essence—seeks to take natural events and ascribe supernatural causes to them. I, however, seek to take supernatural events and find the natural meanings behind them. Perhaps that is the final dividing line between science and religion. Opposite sides of a card.” “So

To be honest, ‘arrogant’ doesn’t feel like quite the right word. It’s not specific enough.” “And what would be the right word, then?” “I don’t know. ‘Errorgant,’ perhaps.” Jasnah raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It means to be twice as certain as someone who is merely arrogant,” Shallan said, “while possessing only one-tenth the requisite facts.

Pero las expectativas eran como la porcelana fina. Cuanto más fuerte te agarrabas a ellas, más probable era que se rompiesen.

Well,” Shallan said to the captain, blushing but still eager to speak, “I was just thinking this: You say that my beauty coaxed the winds to deliver us to Kharbranth with haste. But wouldn’t that imply that on other trips, my lack of beauty was to blame for us arriving late?” “Well … er …” “So in reality,” Shallan said, “you’re telling me I’m beautiful precisely one-sixth of the time.

Vathah shut the door for her, then looked in the window. “Most men are idiots.” “Nonsense,” Shallan said, smiling. “By the law of averages, only half of them are.” He grunted. She was learning to interpret those, which was essential to speaking Vathahese. This one roughly meant, “I’m not going to acknowledge that joke because it would spoil my reputation as a complete and utter dunnard.

I started to create a new persona. Formless. A... version of me, but..." How did she explain it? "A version of me with no face. A version of me who could do terrible things. I walked away from it, Wit, but that capacity is still inside me." "Shallan," he said, and she looked up, meeting his eyes. "If it weren't for that capacity, then what good would choices be? If we never had the power to do terrible things, the what heroism would it be to resist?

I find sleeping very odd,” Pattern said. “I know that all beings in the Physical Realm engage in it. Do you find it pleasant? You fear nonexistence, but is not unconsciousness the same thing?” “With sleep, it’s only temporary.” “Ah. It is all right, because in the morning, you each return to sentience.” “Well, that depends on the person,” Shallan said absently. “For many of them, ‘sentience’ might be too generous a term. . . .” Pattern hummed, trying to sort through to the meaning of what she said. Finally, he buzzed an approximation of a laugh. Shallan cocked an eyebrow at him. “I have guessed that what you said is humorous,” Pattern said. “Though I do not know why. It was not a joke. I know of jokes. A soldier came running into camp after going to see the prostitutes. He was white in the face. His friends asked if he had found a good time. He said that he had not. They asked why. He said that when he’d asked how much the woman charged, she’d said one mark plus the tip. He told his friends that he hadn’t realized they were charging body parts now.

Nothing in here except some empty wine bottles,” Red said, opening drawers and cabinets on the hutch. “Wait! I think I found Gaz’s sense of humor.” He held up something small between two fingers. “Nope. Just a withered old piece of fruit.” Gaz had found a small bedchamber at the rear of the room, through the door that Veil had noticed. “If you do find my sense of humor, kill it,” he called from inside. “That will be more merciful than forcing it to deal with your jokes, Red.” “Brightness Shallan thinks they’re funny. Right?” “Anything that annoys Gaz is funny, Red,” she said. “Well, I annoy myself!” Gaz called. (less)

Did you just insult the princess’s weight?’ Tyn asked, aghast. Storms! She was good. She actually managed to produce angerspren with the remark. Well, nothing to do but soldier on. ‘I am offend!’ Shallan yelled. ‘You have offended Her Highness again!’ ‘Very offend!’ ‘You’d better apologize.’ ‘No apologize!’ Shallan declared. ‘Boots!’ Kal leaned back, looking between the two of them, trying to parse what had just been said. ‘Boots?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ Shallan said. ‘I am liking your boots. You will apology with boots.’ ‘You . . . want my boots?’ ‘Did you not hear Her Highness?’ Tyn asked, arms folded. ‘Are soldiers of this Dalinar Kholin’s army so disrespectful?’ ‘I’m not disrespectful,’ Kal said. ‘But I’m not giving her my boots.’ ‘You insult!’ Shallan declared, stepping forward, pointing at him.

I couldn’t think of anything funny.” He hesitated. “Though that hasn’t ever stopped you.” Shallan grinned. “Have you ever considered, bridgeman, that bad art does more for the world than good art? Artists spend more of their lives making bad practice pieces than they do masterworks, particularly at the start. And even when an artist becomes a master, some pieces don’t work out. Still others are somehow just wrong until the last stroke. “You learn more from bad art than you do from good art, as your mistakes are more important than your successes. Plus, good art usually evokes the same emotions in people—most good art is the same kind of good. But bad pieces can each be bad in their own unique way. So I’m glad we have bad art, and I’m sure the Almighty agrees.” “All this,” Adolin said, amused, “to justify your sense of humor, Shallan?” “My sense of humor? No, I’m merely trying to justify the creation of Captain Kaladin.

Though I do not know why. It was not a joke. I know of jokes. A soldier came running into camp after going to see the prostitutes. He was white in the face. His friends asked if he had found a good time. He said that he had not. They asked why. He said that when he’d asked how much the woman charged, she’d said one mark plus the tip. He told his friends that he hadn’t realized they were charging body parts now.” Shallan grimaced. “You heard that from Vathah’s men, didn’t you?” “Yes. It is funny because the word ‘tip’ means several different things. A payment made in addition to the sum initially charged, usually given voluntarily, and the top piece of something. In addition, I believe that ‘the tip’ means something in the slang of the soldiers, and so the man in the joke thought she was going to cut off his—” “Yes, thank you,” Shallan said. “That is a joke,” Pattern continued. “I understand why it is funny. Ha ha. Sarcasm is similar. You replace an expected result with one grossly unexpected, and the humor is in the juxtaposition. But why was your earlier comment funny?

She tried to make herself relax, drawing a fanciful image of sunlight streaming around him. That, however, made the four Cryptics start humming in excitement. “Could you all step back and give me more room?” Shallan asked the creatures. They didn’t cock their heads like humans might have, but she could sense confusion in the way their patterns sped up. Then, as if one, all four took exactly one step backward. They then proceeded to lean in even closer. Shallan sighed, and as she kept drawing, she got Ua’pam’s arm wrong. Spren were hard, because they didn’t quite have human proportions. The Cryptics started humming with excitement. “That’s not a lie!” Shallan said, reaching for her eraser. “It’s a mistake, you nitwits.” “Mmmm…” Ornament said. Beryl’s Cryptic had a fine pattern, delicate like lace, and a squeaky voice. “Nitwit! I am a nitwit. Mmmm.” “A nitwit is a stupid person or spren,” Pattern explained. “But she said it in an endearing way!” “Stupidly endearing!” Mosaic said. She was Vathah’s Cryptic, and her pattern had sharp lines to it. She often included rapid fast sections that waved like the women’s script. “Contradiction! Wonderful and blessed contradiction of nonsense and human complication to be alive!

You still think I’m too optimistic, don’t you?’ Shallan said. ‘It’s not your fault,’ Kaladin said. ‘I’d rather be like you. I’d rather not have lived the life I have. I would that the world was only full of people like you, Shallan Davar.’ ‘People who don’t understand pain.’ ‘Oh, all people understand pain,’ Kaladin said. ‘That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s . . .’ ‘The sorrow,’ Shallan said softly, ‘of watching a life crumble? Of struggling to grab it and hold on, but feeling hope become stringy sinew and blood beneath your fingers as everything collapses?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘The sensation – it’s not sorrow, but something deeper – of being broken. Of being crushed so often, and so hatefully, that emotion becomes something you can only wish for. If only you could cry, because then you’d feel something. Instead, you feel nothing. Just . . . haze and smoke inside. Like you’re already dead.’ He stopped in the chasm. She turned and looked to him. ‘The crushing guilt,’ she said, ‘of being powerless. Of wishing they’d hurt you instead of those around you. Of screaming and scrambling and hating as those you love are ruined, popped like a boil. And you have to watch their joy seeping away while you can’t do anything. They break the ones you love, and not you. And you plead. Can’t you just beat me instead?’ ‘Yes,’ he whispered. Shallan nodded, holding his eyes. ‘Yes. It would be nice if nobody in the world knew of those things, Kaladin Stormblessed. I agree. With everything I have.’ He saw it in her eyes. The anguish, the frustration. The terrible nothing that clawed inside and sought to smother her. She knew. It was there, inside. She had been broken. Then she smiled. Oh, storms. She smiled anyway. It was the single most beautiful thing he’d seen in his entire life. ‘How?’ he asked. She shrugged lightly. ‘Helps if you’re crazy.

Crying for a brother that now, once and for all, Shallan knew was dead.

Please. The world is wrong now. Nothing makes sense. But you . . . your group . . . you know things. I don't want to be blind anymore." Shallan hesitated. She could understand that desire to do something rather than just feeling the world tremble and shake.

You will draw more,” Pattern whispered. “I don’t want to.” Shallan blinked free more tears. “I will not stop vibrating. The wind will not stop blowing. You will not stop drawing.

I don’t know. ‘Errorgant,’ perhaps.” Jasnah raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It means to be twice as certain as someone who is merely arrogant,” Shallan said, “while possessing only one-tenth the requisite facts.” Her

My jokes are not bad. They’re incredible. And they take a ton of work to create on the spot for the exact perfect situation.” “A ton of work. To create on the spot. As if you don’t prepare them ahead of time?” “Never.” “Yeah? I’ve noticed you often seem to have one ready when you meet someone.” “Well, of course. That kind of joke is a great greeting. They’re supposed to be hilarious.” He frowned. “As in,” she added, “not goodbyelarious.” He stared at her. Then he went a little cross-eyed. Ha! Veil thought. HA! “Oh dear,” Shallan said. “Did I break you?