sheep

hahah, someone pointed that out. There's an explanation for that! People who read Latin letters read left to right, so when I drew the "good side" I arranged them in the most natural way that most people take in a picture. I made the "bad side" go the opposite way so it feels more unnatural, and you see their weapons first. I had originally intended for Shallan to be summoning an illusion, but it's not really a weapon like a Blade or spear, and then I went "hang on, she has a sword, doesn't she?". But then I realised you can't hold a sword while in a safesleeve, so I drew her summoning the sword rather than using it, since you can summon a sword with either hand. So it is Shallan, but me taking artistic license for the sake of coolness value. Let's have some more art here!!!! Character design sketches: Jasnah costume design Dalinar and Renarin in Shardplate (yeah I don't know what Dalinar's Plate looks like either so I made it up.) Szeth and Honorblade. (just messing around here. I draw Szeth as kind of cute and innocent looking, like the Discworld History Monks. They are bald and harmless beggars who can kick your chull!) Adolin costume design (pretty much blatant fanservice here.) Modern Earth AU design (yes I know but I am shameless) (dat official Bridge Four t-shirt ) Detail of the skateboard deck I like to draw characters in a hyperstylised cartoon version because I think it gets across main features of character detail and expression very effectively. And you can look at it without wondering to yourself "what race is she/he supposed to be?" which ruins the immersion for fantasy stories in other worlds. This is why I think SA is better in 2D than live action, but probably not a hardcore moe anime style . A painted style is better for backgrounds and showing texture and depth in an image, but it takes way, way, way longer and I sometimes I am lazy.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 31

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART THIRTY ONE The rest of meeting passed as Shallan sat numbly staring at her untouched cup of tea. She remembered bits of it – blurs of colour, mostly in shades of blue – and the sounds of men shuffling about, and stamping away when slips of paper containing fresh orders were sent off to the couriers’ barracks in the stable yard – and Major Khal’s improvised promotion ceremony, where he knelt before the seemingly indifferent King to kiss his seal ring, and had his new commission papers hastily written and stamped on the spot. There was even a ritual prayer burning, lengths of linen-paper painted with glyphs for excellence and swift victory. It was unusual for it to be done in this fashion in a stately home: most grand houses had a combined prayer room and scriptorium with incense and braziers intended solely for such devotions. It was unfashionable for one of noble rank to be openly pious, but even more unfashionable for one to lack such a room, for it was distinction enough to divide Grand House from common house. When it was finished, Shallan felt weary and drained, wishing she had drunk her tea, even though it had gone cold and the powdered ridgebark had collected into a grey sludge at the bottom of the cup. She pushed her chair back, slung her satchel over her shoulder, and left the room. There were still soldiers and officers in blue uniforms lingering behind; Prince Dalinar had called a meeting of the Dukes – who had by now woken up and breakfasted – with the intention of informing them to prepare for war. It was no Family meeting, and she was not invited, and she saw that Jasnah and the few female hangers-on were leaving as well – presumably to the ladies’ parlour for morning tea and refreshments. In the hallway, Adolin’s voice called her name. “Shallan!” “Adolin.” She continued walking until she reached a branch off the main hallway; it would allow some semblance of privacy. She turned around. “I’m sorry – I know I am selfish. It must be a shock–” said Adolin. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, and his hands hung limp by his sides. “You do not want to live in regret. I understand. Courage. And strength,” Shallan said, her downcast eyes on the carpet. “You have them within – and you are finding them. And there you will find your peace.” Adolin took a step closer, and his voice with low with emotion. “For so long I have been afraid. I choose not to be afraid anymore. I have to do – what has to be done. Not to prove that I am not weak, but rather because I know I am not weak.” “You would regret it for ever if you didn’t.” His arms wrapped around her, and surrounded her with the warmth of his body and the scent of his cologne, and his lips brushed against her forehead. “No-one should live with regret,” he murmured. “And it is the right thing to do. I am not a soldier because it was the role I was born to be, but because it is the one I choose for myself. The difference – the freedom – it comes from choice. It is my duty to do what is right, because it is right – and not because I am told it is right. It has taken me so long to see it, but I see it now.” “Your peace has come at last,” said Shallan. Hot tears itched beneath her lashes. It was not all sadness, or melancholy; nor could they be tears of joy, or exultant delight. No, she was glad to see that Adolin had found a door in the self-imposed cage he called his weakness, and found his own key, and the courage to take it and turn it in the lock and enter the great and unexplored wilderness beyond. He sighed, and set the fine feathering tendrils of hair at her temple fluttering. “My peace, and my purpose. But only a part of it. Just the very first step.” “I wish you the best of luck.” “Shallan.” His voice caught in his throat. “I do not intend for it to be an end – for us. I will come back, I promise.” “You oughtn’t to make promises you can’t keep.” “I will keep this one. Will you wait for me?” “I will do what I can.” “It is all I ask, Shallan,” he whispered. She felt his lips grazing the lobe of her ear. “I love you.” His palm cupped her cheek, and the golden band of the seal ring slid across the line of her jaw. Adolin’s lips found hers, and she did not cringe away at those words, words that no longer battered at her own self-imposed cage. They were words that he had torn away from where they had been so very closely held – and hidden – around an unscarred spirit, one that had healing bruises upon further examination. They were words he laid at her feet, and she could not tread them into the dust, just as she could not force them back in through his lips – his warm and gentle lips. Those lips that were now pressed against hers. Shallan shuffled back one step, then another, until her shoulders collided with the wall; she slipped her hands under Adolin’s coat and drew him closer to her. His fingers tangled into her hair, and she pulled him close and her knee rose up so that her inner thigh – covered by a layer of fabric – scraped against his hip. He groaned, and she muffled the sound with another deep kiss, and a nibble at his lower lip, followed by a flick of tongue. He had her gasping when his teeth grazed against the sensitive flesh of her throat; her arms around his waist squeezed sharply every time he gave a little nip. There was a slight pause when his hands pulled open the high collar of her underdress and found the links of the necklace, warmed by her skin; he raised his head, and his eyes met hers, and she saw his expression – soft with the tender emotions he felt for her – and flushed with desire. Then his tongue swept against that pink mark on her collar, and she shut her eyes and tried to forget that Adolin’s newfound discovery of choice would lead to a door opening far away, in another country, and another Continent… An apologetic false cough from the hallway interrupted her thoughts. Shallan’s eyes opened reluctantly. Adolin growled; his breath whistled through his clenched teeth, and then he pushed himself away, tugging at his cuffs, and adjusting the hang of his coat to cover – Shallan paused, and then suppressed the thought with a pinch of sly amusement. It would be, no doubt, the new and unseemly set of wrinkles that marred the perfect lines of his previously ironed waistcoat and neckcloth. “Lieutenant Colonel Khal,” Adolin said, with uncharacteristic irritation; he managed to contain it, but Shallan could observe a certain stiffness in his carriage and the set of his shoulders. “Sir,” said the new Lieutenant Colonel. He scratched at his nose, aware that he was an unwelcome intruder in what might be politely described as a private conversation. “The Dukes have been summoned and your father the Prince requests your presence in the library. Immediately would be, ah, preferable.” “Of course, thank you. I will be there shortly,” Adolin answered. He glanced back at Shallan. “I shall look forward to seeing you,” he said, and then bent his head close for a quick peck to her lips. Shallan’s hands curled around his lapels and pulled him in for a longer kiss, and he did not resist. “Good-bye,” said Shallan quietly as he and Lieutenant Colonel Khal turned away and made to leave. “It does not have to be one,” Adolin said, and he smiled, and Shallan wished she could be as good-humoured and light-hearted as he was, and that he could stay longer to show her how it was done, so they could the two of them be bright and carefree in laughter together, and alone. But he was soon away down the hall, and she heard Khal say, “I find her looks charmingly exotic. Have you been courting long?” “Long enough,” Adolin replied, “to know that I…” The rest of the conversation was too faint to hear. Shallan went to the water closet to compose herself in privacy. When she had finished, and wiped her eyes dry with the lace edging of her sleeve, she felt the scratch of the bit of pasteboard tucked inside. She tugged it out. It was the visiting card she had picked up from the floor of the servants’ hall, dropped by a mysterious member of the Organisation. A man who had hidden himself in darkness and spoken to her about joining their cause. Shallan tossed the card into the close stool’s porcelain bowl. The three printed diamonds of the face design dropped into the water; the blank back darkened on the edges and grew soggy. She reached for the pump handle, but stayed her hand when lines of pink-violet emerged on the surface of the damp pasteboard. Lines – parallel lines – perfectly straight, and crossed by perpendicular lines, and squares in a row, all very neat and orderly like a view of a town from above. A map. She knelt on the floor over the bowl and peered down into the water. Hazy handwritten text faded into existence. “Waterlô,” she read. It was a town in the East Continent, and she had a vague idea of its location, but she would require an atlas just to be sure. Someone rapped impatiently at the door. “Are you finished in there, Miss Davar?” called Kaladin’s voice from outside. “No,” she said loudly, uncomfortably aware that it was unbecoming for a lady to raise her voice. “Go away!” There was a pause. “Too bad,” she heard Kaladin say. Then the doorknob rattled and turned. Shallan leapt to her feet and pulled the pump handle, and the card and the water swirled down into the drainpipe. She whirled round to see Kaladin a few steps from the door, his brows darkly furrowed in anger; his eyes were black in his displeasure, and there was something else – an anxious concern, perhaps – in his face that showed a marked change from his usual stoic demeanour. His lips thinned with grim disapproval. “Damnation,” he snarled, seizing her wrist and dragging her out of the room. He slammed the door shut behind him. “I thought we had discussed this particular habit of yours. And I see you indulging in it now, while you make yourself tardy for an appointment for that other habit.” “It’s none of your business,” hissed Shallan, trying to pull her arm away. Kaladin’s grip loosened, but he did not let go. She let him lead her down the corridors to the North Wing. “It is,” he snapped. “Damnation. I make it my business.” He lowered his voice. “When did you last have your courses?” Shallan almost reeled in shock from such a brazen enquiry. “I don’t know,” she finally managed. “You do. Think,” said Kaladin. “If that is not completely beyond you.” “Seven weeks ago,” Shallan mumbled after a time, twin patches of red burning warmly on her cheeks. “And you haven’t–” “No.” Kaladin made an irritated grunting noise. It was rather unpleasant. He was silent for a minute, and when he spoke, his voice was more moderated. “When you and the Duke begin … knowing one another intimately … you must speak to me before. It would be best for both of you to see me.” Shallan’s face warmed up even more, and the warmth spread to her ears. “Why? What have our – intimate relations – got to do with you?” she asked. She could guess one or two reasons why, but none of them seemed like anything Kaladin would ever lower himself to be involved with. Kaladin kept walking, and Shallan followed, until they reached the brass nameplate of the stillroom door. “Preventative measures,” he said, sounding unexpectedly strained. “Adolin would say that you are not up to foaling weight, and in that I agree. A wait of one-and-a-half to two years before it should not pose a risk to your health. As long as you don’t resort to – purging.” “Who said we would even do anything requiring preventatives,” Shallan huffed indignantly. She crossed her arms. “Please, Miss Davar. You throw yourself at him every time he looks your way.” “Well! I will not be a – a broodmare! I refuse!” Kaladin rolled his eyes. “We both know he doesn’t think of you like that.” “You do! You think–” The stillroom door opened, and Renarin blinked at them from behind his spectacles. Shallan’s mouth snapped shut, and she glared at Kaladin, who looked away unconcerned. He flicked a bit of dust from his epaulet and yawned. “Renarin,” she said, pasting on a smile and dipping into a respectful, if informal, curtsey. He surprised her by stepping forward and lightly brushing a kiss to either side of her face. His lips were cool on her burning cheeks, and then they were just as quickly gone. “Sister,” he said quietly, in his peculiarly toneless way. But there was something of his true sentiments in there, subtly tucked away – he was pleased to see her; he would not have greeted her with such familiarity otherwise. “It looks lovely on you. Congratulations.” Kaladin’s eyes flicked downwards at her hands, searching for something that was not apparently there to be found. He turned his back to her and strode to the glass-fronted cabinets on the wall. “Give your progressionals to Renarin. He will check them while I change your bandages.” He jerked his head at the surgical table, which now had a layer of padding over the steel sheeting, and buckled leather restraints that dangled from hooks underneath the tabletop. “Get up, then.” Shallan unslung her satchel and pulled out her sketchbook. The progressionals were there, tucked inside, just as she had left them days ago; most of the calculations were completed but for the temperature part, which she had left blank. She handed them tentatively over to Renarin, who looked at her outstretched hand and the offered papers for a few long seconds. She thought he might refuse them, or refuse her, or– He took the folded pages then wandered over to the side benches by the window, where he had pulled up a chair. The benchtop in front of him had a neat stack of paper and four pencils lined up by size, and a few slim reference books. The closest one had a blue cover embossed with: Royal Anglethi Medical Corps Index of Calculations for Ether Dosing second edition Prepared by Major Renarin Kholin, Marquess Kholinshire Kaladin cleared his throat. Shallan hopped onto the table – much softer with the padding now – and unbuttoned her dress, and then her underdress. She dragged them down to her waist and waited. She heard the thump as Kaladin’s medical kit bag was placed on the table beside her, and the click of the catch, and a rustle as the Doctor rummaged inside. Then she felt his warm hands on her bare shoulder from behind, but they were withdrawn, and he was silent, and she waited for him to say something. “He gave you the chain.” “He gave me the set of brushes too,” said Shallan, closing her eyes as his hands returned to business, undoing her bandages and cleaning the wounds, and salving them with the herbal paste. “You are welcome to borrow them at any time. But I cannot imagine it should do much to improve your appearance.” “What is perfect does not need improvement, Miss Davar,” remarked Kaladin. She could sense the smugness in his tone, and she laughed. “But the chain is special. Adolin calls it his good luck charm. He has it on him before every duel, and before every charge in every field action.” “He finds me in obvious need of good luck, then,” Shallan replied. She winced as her burn was swabbed. “As you can see.” “Perhaps he thinks it looks lovely on you.” “What is perfect does not need improvement,” she said, echoing his earlier line with a layer of undisguised sarcasm. “Of course not,” said Kaladin coolly, pressing a new pad of bandage over her ribs and tying it on. “Do not think of it as an improvement. It is more like a garnish – like the sprig of parsley, or the reserved feathers on a roasted pheasant.” “But they don’t do anything,” Shallan said, frowning. “They are taken off before one can start eating.” “Yes.” Kaladin’s voice was infuriatingly calm. She could never tell if he was making an attempt to be droll. “You may dress yourself now. Those new rashes of yours are really quite unsightly.” Shallan sighed and buttoned herself up again; she sat on the padded tabletop, swinging her legs idly back and forth and setting the dangling straps jingling merrily. Kaladin returned to the cabinets, inspecting the ether bottles, putting some back, and finally deciding on a selection of five. He placed them on a tray, next to five stacked steel bowls. He went over to the curtained section in the corner of the room and a minute later came out with a rolling trolley constructed of two steel shelf-like tiers on a frame of sturdy wood. He set the tray on the top, and pushed it, rattling, to the head of the surgical table. “Doctor Kaladin,” said Renarin suddenly, not bothering to look up from the papers fanned out in front of him. “You said you wanted the calculations adjusted with the page sixty-two formulae–” “Yes,” said Kaladin. Then he walked over to Renarin’s work table and peered over his shoulder. “The nu – the sigma – should be extended in the series here and here to compensate.” Renarin’s pencil scratched over the pages. “It will give you less than three minutes. Should that do?” “Yes.” He glanced back at Shallan, his face carefully expressionless. “Miss Davar, make yourself comfortable. It is standard to remove one’s shoes and loosen one’s top buttons.” Shallan lay back and closed her eyes, letting her mind sink into tranquillity, until each breath was slow and even and regular. The dandies who hired their watchers and arithmeticians often hired a musician as well, to gently relax them whilst they entered and awoke from the drift. The manuals said that a calming background stimulus in the half-lucid aftermath of the waking-drift brought a lingering peace, and it was an easier transition for the mind compared to the shock of smelling salts that she had experienced. She had been roughly jarred awake a week ago, and it had made her disoriented in her own mind, and had led to rash behaviours and unintended actions. Shallan, however, certainly could not feel regret for them. Wealthy dandies who frolicked hired harpists or flautists to accompany them. Public drifting dens – at least the more respectable ones – had them also, sometimes with a lutist and a piper – anyone who had skill enough to keep time and carry a tune. She, now, had Renarin and Kaladin. Kaladin was, if anything else, competent, she decided, and Renarin was … well, precise and meticulous, even if she thought that he completely lacked artistic inclinations and the ability to turn his hand to improvisation. They would do, and they would do a better job than she could do herself, or had ever done for Jushu and Balat. It did not matter that neither of the gentlemen could or would sing for her, as she had sung for her father. They had hourglasses to keep time, anyway. She cleared her mind bit by bit, until she felt awareness seep out of her to encompass the whole room. She could hear the flip, flip, flip of Renarin shuffling papers about, and she could hear the tread of Kaladin’s scuffed uniform boots, and the clink of glass on steel surgical tray. Then a book snapped shut, and Renarin’s chair scraped over the flagged floor. “Please begin, Doctor,” he said. Then his head bent over hers. “Your ninety minutes starts now, Sister.” She heard the tap as an hourglass was upended, and the glugging sound of ether poured into a bowl. She smelled the fumes, and breathed them in, and they stung her nostrils with tingling familiarity. She embraced the scent, and the dizzying near-pain of it burning warm through her nose, sizzling at the back of her tongue, and down into her throat. Kaladin pressed the cold soaked pad over her nose and lips, and she inhaled. The first breath hurt the most, but she breathed slowly and savoured it, until her face began to numb and her lips began to feel like they belonged to someone else. The ether-doused pad was removed; she breathed in fresh air for a few seconds, and then it was replaced. Kaladin counted down the seconds; she could hear him; she could hear everything. But her own thoughts slowed to a trickle, and she couldn’t think of herself – she was perfectly aware of the things that happened and were happening around her, but the feelings, the urges, and the senses of her own body grew distant and far-removed, and she couldn’t care what happened to it. No wonder ether was so commonly used in surgery and dentistry. “Two minutes and thirty-eight seconds,” called Renarin. “Not three.” “Right,” said Kaladin. “Miss Davar. Shallan.” His hand gripped her wrist, feeling for her pulse. “…Kaladin…” Shallan murmured, eyes closed, and smiling. Kaladin lowered the pad over her nose, and she breathed. Each breath was better than the last. It was fresh, and cooling, and brisk, and – delicious. Like the first breath of air on a clear and crisp winter day in the highlands, when one ventured outside after an evening spent in the stale coal-fug of the Loch Davar manor house. His warm breath whispered by her ear, and she giggled insensibly. “Do you love me?” he asked, in a soft voice. Her numb lips answered his question; the words slipped out, completely bypassing her brain and her memory. She did not know what she said, and she could not recall his question afterwards, nor did she consider the significance of it. It didn’t matter; it was transient; everything was transient and fleeting and nowhere near as bright as the colours she could see playing out in her own mind. “Do you love Adolin?” he asked. Her clumsy tongue twitched, and her lips moved, and she answered that question as well. It did not take long to find an answer, or else time seemed to work differently when she had nothing by which to measure but the flickering colours of memory and false-memory. Kaladin let go of her wrist when he heard her answer, but her hand rose upwards, and traced the white officers’ piping of his coat sleeve, and her fingers trailed up his forearm. “I do not count them a blemish,” Shallan found herself saying, as memory trundled backward and her mind fell backward as well. She would have fallen backward too, if she hadn’t been laying down. Faster and faster it went, until it all blurred into vivid streaks. Black and green and yellow and white, streaks and stripes of colour in the warp and weft of her life… “Forty-seven seconds,” Renarin said. “I am finished,” said Kaladin. “The fifty-five then, Doctor.” The sound of pouring once again, and then a fresh pad was placed over her mouth and nose – this time stronger than the last. The vapours filled her, and she embraced them, but she was too far gone to feel shame at this wretched indulgence of a deplorable habit. She smiled with numbed and buzzing lips, and she filled herself with the invisible ether fumes and let them enter her, and surround her with their wondrously beautiful sights, and sounds, and colours, and sensations. And everything was so real and bright and clear and lively it was like she was there, that she was back home – but she could not be back, for these were no true memories, she realised. They were versions of memories, exaggerated beyond true life and coloured with the rosy forgetfulness and the complacent blindness of nostalgia. But they were still beautiful, and Shallan did not turn them away. She was an artist. There was beauty, and she could appreciate it, and find the real truth hidden within. She saw the wedding day again, the day Father married Malise, when she and her brothers still carried hope in their hearts that Father could change, and it would change everything. They had hoped – they had wanted, so very desperately – for Father to move on from his grieving over Mother’s death, for him to put aside the past, to continue with a life that did not involve evenings alone with the whisky bottle, or long walks around the lake with a fowling piece, returning empty-handed but covered in dirt and blood and feathers. That day was her last day of happiness, before her hopes had been crushed out of her and replaced with despair and emptiness, until she had left Loch Davar for good. It was happiness, naïve and childish happiness born of ignorance and a severe absence of foresight, tinged with the myopic eyes of wistful sentimentality. But it was warm with the familiarity of a favourite lavender-scented blanket, and Shallan had not felt that warmth for so long … but somehow, it was different to the warmth she felt when Adolin laughed at something she said, and when he looked at her– Malise, the beautiful bride, wore a woven coronet of lavender and heather on her hair, which was unusually streaked with blonde. She had pale skin, and a small button nose, and her cheeks bloomed with joy on her wedding day. For Malise was the youngest daughter of a minor squire, and although she was much younger than Laird Davar, she was old for a first bride. She was less than a decade older than Shallan, and had only a few years over Helaran Davar. So she was naturally grateful, and exceptionally ecstatic, at being the new Baroness – it was a prestigious match, and much better than could be expected for a young woman of the lower gentry who boasted no favourable connection. Husbands and wives often did not love each other on their wedding day; there was no requirement that they had to, when the banns were read. Malise thought that Lin Davar could love her, one day. And when Shallan saw the woman who was to be her new step-mother, graceful and gracious and beautiful in the red and black and striped cream of the Gevelmar tartan, she thought if she could love Malise, then Father could too. She remembered the scratch of her own tartans, the same new set she had worn for her presentation to The McValam, and her Scots bonnet with her clan badge, lovingly polished the night before, and proudly worn on the day. She remembered the taste of sparkling wine tingling up her nose, and the first time she had tried unwatered whisky, given to her by Jushu. It had burned on her throat just like ether vapours. She remembered the taste of butter cake made with expensive white sugar and decorated with imported candied cashews. They were memories that were so close to life that she could almost accept that they were the real thing. But they were soft and blurred on the edges, and if she looked further, she could see things that she hadn’t seen at the time. When Father had unwrapped Malise’s Gevelmar tartan, and Helaran had handed up a new woollen McValam tartan for him to drape over her shoulders, Helaran’s face had been twisted into a scowl of resentment. It was the beginning of his falling-out with Father. But Malise was happy when the green and black of the McValam tartan was lowered over her shoulders and pinned in place with a clan badge, and Shallan clung to that happiness, relishing in the sensation, drifting in it, and remembering these false memories of a home built on a foundation of lies and deceit and pain and secrets. She ignored everything else and let in all the good things, the way she had done for a third of her life – as a means of self-defence. This was indulgence, and she would let herself indulge, just this once – this one last time. She breathed in, and breathed out, slowly and peacefully, and let the colours and sounds take her elsewhere. To the place she could call home, only when all the terrible things were blocked out and completely excised from memory. It was much better that way, when it was so distant she could only touch it from her mind, and it could not touch her at all. When she had a doctor and her new brother to watch over her as her blood brothers could never have done. She trusted them. And that was enough for her to feel safe. “Sixty minutes,” said a voice. “Not long left, then.” “No.” The pad over her nose was lifted. Shallan kept her eyes closed, lingering in the vapours. It was a replaced with a new cloth, soaked in ether and diluted with distilled water. She could tell she was regaining her lucidity. She relaxed, and took deep, slow breaths. “Time?” “Seventy-nine minutes.” “Soon.” The pad was changed once again, and then lifted away, and not replaced. Shallan did not open her eyes. Author's Notes: The Ghostblood card - it's an invisible ink. Waterlô, or Waterloo, is an important town for any stories involving Napoleon. Kaladin the ambiguously ethical doctor - he has no spren, and follows in the "as long as I feel like it's right" school of ethics. This means he will invade people's privacy if he feels like it's necessary, as he has done to Shallan multiple times.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 30

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART THIRTY Shallan and Adolin took their time ambling through the hallways, passing servants and soldiers in blue uniforms bearing muskets. The servants bowed to Adolin as they went by, both those in ducal livery, and those who wore the colours of another house. Shallan looked down and picked at the buckle of her satchel – she had brought it, with the papers tucked inside, in preparation for the appointment that had been agreed upon the evening before. She did not meet their eyes, nor the eyes of the soldiers who greeted Adolin with a hand-to-breast salute. There was still a part of her that saw herself as ungainly and plain; it caused her to feel self-conscious in the face of unconcealed scrutiny. Her recent realisations of identity and self-awareness were still raw within her, and they were still changing into something else, something different – and even though she did not shrink away, she could not bear what she knew was an attentive assessment of her character and her connections – and her relationship to the Duke. If she had had the time brace herself, to analyse their persons and their perceptions, she would have been able to construct a face in order to portray the young lady of confidence and poise who showed herself unambiguously to be Adolin’s match and equal. But these servants and low-ranking soldiers were not nobles and gentry, those whose expectations she was familiar enough that appearing poised and assured was merely second nature. No, they were people whose entire existence, whose thoughts and opinions and sentiments, she had mostly overlooked or dismissed as beneath notice. So she found herself suddenly shy – she had been one of them only an evening ago – and was glad that Adolin was by her side. He was polite and friendly to everyone: he knew what words to say when Shallan groped for the words they expected to hear. She knew Adolin bore the chains of perception as she did, but the natural ease he had with people was his own; it was not artificial, for it was the part of him that made him good-natured to the core, and she admired that in him, and she liked it – she liked it quite a lot. They made their way downstairs, expecting the foyer to be abuzz with personal servants bearing travelling valises and carpet bags to the waiting carriages outside. It was half a day’s ride from Kholinar Court to the City; the ladies and gentlemen guests would have the leisure to sleep off the unseemly effects of overconsumption before returning to their own town houses. There were servants, yes, and they were loading the carriages by the portico, but there were new people arriving. They were all soldiers in the blue and white of the Kholin Regiments – short blue jackets with double rows of buttons and the shield-shaped patch of the Duke’s arms high on their shoulders. They all had muskets, and had powder horns slung from their white belt webbings, and they were shod in short hobnailed leather shoes that looked like simpler copies of Adolin’s ghillie boots. When she and Adolin reached the top of the stairs at the head of the foyer, still hung with decorative banners, she was startled by the shrilling of a tin whistle. The soldiers stamped their feet to attention and brought their muskets around to bear, and saluted Adolin in perfect unison. A man – in regimental frock coat and an officer’s epaulets – detached himself from the group and strode up the stairs, two at a time. He saluted Adolin smartly, and seeing Shallan at his side, wavered for a second, then gave her a cursory bow; Shallan thought it rather more functional than courtly. “Lieutenant Colonel, sir,” he said. “Major Khal,” said Adolin. “I see you got my letter.” “Three days ago, sir. We were to discuss – the re-organisation. And that other matter.” “Yes,” said Adolin. “As I promised. Father is here, and the rest of the brass. I shall see to it; you have my word.” Major Khal seemed suddenly very pleased at that; he relaxed perceptibly. “The men, sir? We received a summons last night, ordering the whole company to march – and we marched until dawn to get here. I had only planned to bring the staff officers, knowing the quarters were limited.” “You may have the use of the tents on the front lawns for a mess. The couriers’ barracks in the stableyard for the men – you may have to pitch your own tents on the courtyard. The officers are to have what guestrooms have been vacated; ask the housekeeper for pallets in the antechambers if they cannot all fit. Make free with the kitchens. We are well-stocked on food.” Adolin rattled off orders with a comfortable authority that Shallan had never seen from him before. Jasnah displayed that trait at all times; it was evident in her serene bearing and refined carriage, and it dripped off every word she spoke. Kaladin had a certain amount of it too, but it was mostly in the form of a particularly irritating – and smugly knowing – arrogance. Adolin had always been brightly convivial with her in company – and in private, he was thoughtful, and gentle, and – responsive. She almost blushed, but caught herself in time. This was a side of him, Shallan speculated, that was the product of years of martial education, just as she had been moulded by her own years of feminine education. “Two platoons to secure the perimeter and relieve the Prince’s personal guards – have the adjutant run up a watch rotation for the essentials,” continued Adolin. “Marksmen by the gatehouse, of course, and ensure all who enter and leave are identified. Assign a cavalry patrol on the road, a five-mile sweep north to Courtlea, and south to the Forest.” Major Khal nodded, and opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by the butler and under-butler who had managed to slide up soundlessly by Adolin’s elbow. The butler cleared his throat. Major Khal shut his mouth and rolled his eyes upwards, and then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like civvies. “My lord, there are soldiers everywhere!” cried the butler. The under-butler whipped out his wallet diary. “Whatever are we to do with them? This House is no barracks – they ought to have been quartered in the village!” “They are here for the protection of the guests,” said Adolin calmly. “You shall do as Major Khal asks. For what reason would a Grand House be called ‘grand’ if it cannot even match the hospitality of Fort Shulin?” The butler bowed, aware of his being gently chastened. “Of course, my lord. We shall uphold the honour of the Court, as you desire. The extra help will be kept on, sir?” “Do whatever you deem necessary to help Major Khal,” Adolin said. Major Khal inclined his head in polite acknowledgement. Shallan notice him glancing at her out of the corner of his eye; he probably thought her just another of the Duke’s girls. “And arrangements for breakfast?” “Lady Jasnah has requested breakfast with Lady Shallan in the Teal Room at her earliest convenience. We are sending up trays to the rest of the Family in their quarters, if you should like one, my lord.” “I shall join Lady Shallan. Please have food sent out to the tents for the men – if there is no soup or porridge, then make do with what’s left from the Feast.” The butler bowed once more to Adolin, his face twisting into a look of panic. The under-butler frowned, and exchanged a silent signal with the butler; he glanced at the ranks of soldiers in the foyer – still standing at parade attention – and bowed, and withdrew. When he reached the end of the hall, he leaped unexpectedly into a sprint. Adolin took Shallan’s hand and they walked back upstairs to the Teal Room. Major Khal and the butler watched them take their leave, hand in hand, with quizzical – no, bemused – expressions on their faces. A gentleman accompanying a lady typically led her by the arm, and refrained from skin contact, for to do otherwise was an unmistakeable acknowledgement of familiarity – and a not so subtle hint of a present or future attachment. Shallan knew all of that. When she held Adolin’s hand, things around them seemed to hold less relevance; they seemed less important, less real. They were also decidedly less colourful, and when she glanced at the passers-by passing by, she could tell nothing of them but the superficial; it was a stark contrast to when she looked at Adolin, and unspoken words and understanding skipped back and forth through their linked hands. A footman held open the door of the Teal Room for them; he didn’t bat an eye at the appearance of an extra, unaccounted for guest, which in most situations would have led to an awkward pause as extra table settings or even a larger table were sent for. Perhaps the under-butler had managed to send warning beforehand. Active anticipation and preparation for the Family’s needs before they ever reached a distinct awareness of needing was the means through which superior servants earned their keep and their rank in the belowstairs hierarchy. Jasnah was sitting at the dining table, flipping through a sheaf of papers bound inside a waxed leather folio. She looked up and saw Shallan, and then her eyes flicked to Adolin, who held her hand in his. Her lips twitched with an inscrutable emotion, and with the barest hint of haughty resignation, she rose to her feet and offered a shallow bow to Adolin – to politely acknowledge his rank as a social equal and, Shallan knew, as one worthy of respect. Adolin returned her bow, and kissed her on both cheeks, and murmured ‘Cousin’ to her, for he not only had to observe the rules of decorum for Jasnah as Countess, and social co-hostess, and also as a scion of House Kholin who shared his blood. “Shallan, I expected to see you in the Family’s apartments yesterday evening, to hear your report on that unfortunate incident,” said Jasnah, seating herself at the table, and handing off her papers to the footman who shook out her napkin and placed it over her lap. Shallan waited for Adolin to push in her chair and find his own seat. “I’m afraid I was not – presentable at the time. And I am not Family.” Jasnah’s eyes flicked from Shallan and Adolin and back, and she smiled at them as a cup of clear beef broth was placed in front of them, followed by the arrival of the toast racks and pots of preserves. “And Cousin Adolin – I looked for your presence too, to hear the report from your men. I stayed up rather late and all I had to entertain me in the early hours was watching your brother trounce my brother at draughts.” A perfect eyebrow arched upwards. “I rather think gambling would be best avoided with either of them.” Adolin laughed, and drained his teacup. “Most men look to the battlefield to enhance their fortunes, but I think Renarin does it well enough with a ledger book.” “And no-one seems to have noticed,” replied Jasnah, segmenting her peeled grapefruit. “But your presence – or your lack of it – was noticed last evening. I hope to hear an explanation, and sincerely hope it will not disappoint me.” Her eyes fell on Shallan, and she pursed her red-painted lips. Shallan knew what Jasnah expected of her – a confirmation, and a truthful one. One of the conditions of Shallan’s being taken on as ward was to never lie to, or steal from the Countess; scholars were immensely protective of their unpublished research findings, their libraries of resources, and their rare primary documents. “Adolin spent the night with me.” That was the truth, and it was better just to be transparent about it than to let worse presumptions spring to life around an ambiguous half-truth. But she winced when she heard herself aloud. That was rather too transparent, and it said so much more than a deliberately enigmatic half-answer could ever say. Adolin flushed a very charming shade of pink and looked at Shallan and then down at his plate. He did not deny it; it would not be gentlemanly because it was true, even if certain occurrences had not managed to transpire; a vehement denial would only make it all the more evident that something indecent had happened. One of Jasnah’s perfectly arched brows rose, and then it was followed by the other, and a thoughtful smile spread across her face. She covered it up with a slow sip from her teacup, and silence passed between them. Shallan could imagine that the footmen’s ears were almost twitching with the desire to hear what was said next. “Cousin?” prompted Jasnah, after a while. “It was no indecency – I proposed my intentions first, and they were accepted. I do not mean to put Shallan – Lady Shallan – in an undignified position. It would not be honourable,” Adolin said, face reddening, eyes flicking to the table and the moulding on the ceiling, and the paintings on the wall behind his cousin. “We are affianced,” said Shallan, her voice flat. “There it is.” “My goodness,” remarked Jasnah, amused. “After only a bit more than a week. Congratulations.” Shallan did not for one second believe it was an honest expression of joy at any impending nuptials; she was confirmed in her sentiments when Jasnah went on. “I could not have done a better job of it myself. You have done very well for yourself, Shallan.” “I did not do it for you. Or even for me,” Shallan said. Her hand dropped under the table and searched for Adolin’s. She found it, and squeezed it, and his calloused fingers squeezed back. Above the table, Adolin sent her a grateful smile that had her hidden doves all a-flutter with the genuine fondness in gaze. “I shan't be joining you at Ivory Lane.” “I should not expect you to. Not until after you–” Shallan glared at the Countess, who cleared her throat and continued. “Adolin, your father has called a meeting for House Kholin and attached functionaries, scheduled for after breakfast. You would know this if you had been–” Jasnah paused, and saw that neither Shallan nor Adolin were in a mood to be chided in the manner of misbehaving children. They, as they were now, were anything but. “You must make the announcement then. Shallan will be welcome, as a Family member rather than my ward. I shall require her assistance for my own presentation. Your father has decided to share his own – conclusions.” “After last night, his suspicions will be proven as fact.” Adolin dug into his omelette. He looked at Jasnah. “What Shallan found – in the forest – and these men, these false Ardents. They were no coincidence?” “No.” “Does Father know?” “If he doesn’t already, he shall know soon.” “Why wasn’t I told earlier?” Shallan met Jasnah’s eyes. She could tell what Jasnah wanted to say, but she did not want Adolin to hear it. She said what she thought was true, instead. “Because no-one would have believed us. They would have said we were gone soft like your cousin the King – or your father. We had no proof, and had not expected the proof to find us so suddenly.” Adolin looked at both of them, and his knee brushed against Shallan’s skirts. “Next time, I think I deserve to know.” “You do. I will tell you all I can,” said Shallan. Adolin seemed to accept that as an answer. If it were Kaladin, he would have been more discriminating in his securing of an explanation. Because Kaladin did not trust anyone, even if he was fond of a few specific people. He would trust that they were likely to behave in certain predictable patterns, and he might find them trustworthy, and worthy of trust, but he could not allow himself to trust entirely in their judgement. Adolin had faith in her. And that gave her reason to find faith in herself. So she told him about Jasnah’s research – the vague outlines of her hypotheses, concerning the search for lost relics of the legendary Heralds. Jasnah ventured no comment, nor did she volunteer any explanation on the details; she merely dismissed the servants from the room and sat silently observing, and Shallan recognised it for a test of her memory and her discretion. Adolin did not even blink when Shallan mentioned the potentially questionable parts of their research: the folk tales and religious myths regarding the Almighty and His eternal opposition. He did not declaim them as presumptuous anti-zealots, as those even the least bit devoted to Vorinism would have done. He nodded, and when she was finished – Shallan had not told him about Kabsal, or the visiting card she had been given an evening before – he informed them that he had already known most of it. For his Aunt Navani had often made disparaging remarks in her correspondence, about Jasnah’s wilfully squandering the generous dowry bestowed upon her by her late father – on excursions abroad, or buying antique children’s books at auction. “I am appreciative of your honesty, Shallan,” Adolin said at last. “Though I must admit that this whole time you have been perfectly honest, even if you did spare me much of the detail.” “Honest? Was I?” said Shallan, shocked but not daring to show a flicker of it in her expression. “Yes. When you said there was a lost treasure in the forest, you were being truthful in that. If you had told the truth – of Heralds’ relics, it would have been so truthful that I do not think I would have believed you.” “And we ended up coming away empty-handed.” Shallan picked at the crust of toast on her plate, sighing. “I would not say that.” And Adolin grinned, and in that he was perfectly honest too. He was also perfectly guileless, and it was enough to make Jasnah roll her eyes at the unseemly display of affection. If Jasnah could not find enjoyment in the company of men, and only tolerated them with painful sufferance – even her own blood cousin – Shallan did not see why she herself should live by the same standards. In her own life, she had seen that men and women both were capable of terrible deeds, and they did not have to take the form of physical agony, such as a knife drawn over the ribs, or a gunshot in the dark. No, in her early life, the miseries she had felt had not been physical; she was certain if they had, they would have been so much easier to bear – and to heal. She thus felt an incipient twinge of impatience for Jasnah’s attitude toward Adolin. Not all men were bad, just as all men were not good. Jasnah did not even consider her uncle the Prince Dalinar a good man, for he was a man; she thought him adequate, more tolerable than most; she respected his habit of keeping by his word, and reading certain books long gone out of favour – but she had not trusted him with her confidences. Shallan found she disagreed with Jasnah in this – and she had not often disagreed with her teacher and mentor, and never vocally. But lately she had been disagreeing with Jasnah more and more, usually with regards to her treatment of other people, which Shallan considered approached coarseness even if Jasnah followed the letter of etiquette, and her words could never be considered rude or cutting, not even by the most fastidious of Society matrons. It was something in her intonation that suggested she would happily cut those she addressed if she could – if she had not needed their connections, or their influence, for some goal or other of hers. “We might join the rest of the Family in the library,” said Jasnah, setting down her teacup with a barest clink of the saucer. “They will have had breakfast themselves by now – we all of us had a late night. The guards wouldn’t let us return to our own rooms until they had searched them thoroughly.” She shot Adolin a pointed look. “Perhaps you might have your handlers brush your dogs once in a while. I frankly do not enjoy having hair on my pillows that is not my own.” When they reached the library – the same one Shallan had visited with Kaladin in her search for astronomy charts – they observed that most of the attendees had already arrived, with only a handful of latecomers hurriedly filtering in. The room was awash in a sea of blue uniforms – there were no servants; guards in the short jackets of common soldiers had the door, and stood by the windows. They saluted Adolin upon identifying him; his hair was quite distinctive, and he wore the long coat of an officer. The Family members and their highest ranking associates were gathered around the map table. The top panels of the table had been unfolded to reveal a very detailed topographic map of Anglekar and the Anglethi Isles, and the north and western coasts of the East Continent. Small figurines were placed around the map in strategic locations; they bore the shapes of miniature soldiers in blue, and ships in blue, and forts, and cannons, and horses. Orderlies in blue uniforms circulated amongst the seated high officers and nobility, offering cups of tea from the samovar whistling away on a folding table. Shallan took a cup, and grimaced when she sipped it. It was tea, but thickly brewed and laced with powdered ridgebark, dreadfully bitter and alkaline on the tongue. Ridgebark had the effect of temporarily awakening the senses and staving off fatigue; it was similar in that way to the much more palatable coffee – but coffee was an expensive imported indulgence and, Shallan supposed, very hard to find when one was on the battlefield for a campaign. Soldiers would be acclimated to the taste of it, for they were eagerly wanting of the alertness it brought. But it was an acquired taste, and Shallan had not acquired it. She set her cup aside. “We bring this meeting to order,” announced Prince Dalinar, standing at the head of the table. He sat down, and there was a rustle and creak as those who had precedence sat down as well; the junior officers and common soldiers stood in ranks behind and around. Shallan had her own chair with Adolin on her right hand, and Jasnah on her left. Jasnah’s folio of pages lay open on the table in front of her. Kaladin, a warrant officer, did not have a seat, she noticed. He stood at the front rank, behind Renarin and Major Khal seated opposite her. “The events of last night have proved that my suspicious of foreign saboteurs are not unfounded,” said Dalinar. “We were attacked, and we were unprepared – and we cannot – we shall not – let this go ignored.” He glanced at the man on his right, and Shallan felt a small pang of shock as she realised that the man was the King. King Elhokar did not much resemble Jasnah, apart from the typical Anglethi tendency toward long limbs and lofty stature, and a similar colouring to their complexion and hair. He could be considered handsome with his even features and attentive grooming, but there was no outward appearance of aloof severity in him that both Jasnah and her mother the Queen Dowager Navani possessed. Neither did he have the charisma or almost-palpable presence of his uncle Dalinar. He did not deliberately shrink away from sight, or unintentionally avoid detection in that curious manner of Renarin’s, but there was something, or a lack of something in him, that made one consider him somehow less important than the people around him; he was simply not very worthy of a second glance once one had graced him with a perfunctory first. Shallan did not pay much attention to Dalinar’s greetings of all his senior officers and staff, or his rousting speech describing the events of last night – she already knew what had happened, and very intimately so. She watched the King. His eyes had dark rings pouching underneath from a lack of sleep, and his hands dipped under the table to bring out a silver flask; he tipped some of its contents into his ridgebark tea. Shallan did not think it a particularly healthful habit, especially not this early in the morning, and she saw Kaladin eyeing it with one brow quirked up in bemusement; he looked at her, and their eyes met, and she looked away. The king, she could see, wore no officer’s uniform, only a modishly cut day suit with a coat of finely combed dark blue wool, with starched collar and a snowy, layered neckcloth. He did not even wear a crown or circlet, because he was not attending a social gala, nor was he presiding over his Royal Court. Courtly protocol demanded proper observation of courtly styles and formalities, but this was officially only a Family meeting. “… One recent incident involving these assassins was brought to my attention,” said Dalinar. “My niece Jasnah was tangentially involved. These are no mere hired killers – they had an ulterior motive. Jasnah?” Jasnah rose to her feet to the polite, but definitely far from friendly acknowledgment of the ranked officers. She explained the purposes of her research – again, a vague explanation much like Shallan’s – which was familiar to a number of people. Lady Navani’s lacquered fingernails tapped against the tabletop in restless impatience. “The rumour of incredible wealth hidden by the ancients,” Jasnah said, not the least bit ruffled by the cool reception from the assorted guests. “Drew the eyes of these foreigners. There must be some substance to the stories – if they were worth sending an investigative – and invasive – party to the King’s own Home Counties.” There was silence. The officers glanced at one another and then at Prince Dalinar. The King was not even appearing to pay attention; he stirred his tea with a silver teaspoon and occasionally turned his head to peer out through the window. Then Doctor Kaladin cleared his throat, and Adolin spoke. “I myself have seen the results of these assassins’ interest,” he said, “and I do not dismiss them as hysteric fancies. There is a hidden treasure, and though our first excursion found us leaving without answers, the soldiers I sent to reconnoitre and patrol the Kholinshire Forest did find something noteworthy. Mr Karsten, if you please?” Karsten, the groundskeeper in mottled green-grey, pushed through the crowd of officers, bearing a sack in one hand. To Adolin’s nod of approval, he set the mysterious parcel on the table in front of Dalinar. Karsten unknotted the twine at the top, and the burlap sacking dropped open to reveal a lantern with curved glass sides and a gold frame. There was no oil reservoir, and no wick; inside was a rough chunk of colourless glass or lead crystal clamped to a small stand. “Doctor Kaladin first observed that there were strange lanterns in the ancient structure we found in the Forest,” continued Adolin. “And when I sent men back to look further, we found that these lanterns were truly strange – beyond our expectations. These lanterns were brought back, and I had them assayed. The stone inside is diamond.” Karsten flicked open a latch on the side and pulled out the diamond. From his belt he drew his working knife, of a plain make with a worn leather-bound handle – but the blade was of quality steel. The groundskeeper scraped the very roughly faceted diamond down the blade and held it up – a deep scratch marred the silvery finish of its side. The officers began to mutter. “There is something of value in Jasnah’s research, though perhaps it is not as exciting as a long-lost sword of heroes,” said Adolin. “But it is enough to inspire greed from foreign eyes. Doctor Kaladin?” Kaladin stepped forward, and spoke. “We arrested all the Ardents who were guests to last evening’s Feast. Most of them, including Brother Kadash, were nothing more than simple Courtlea clerics who were released after a search and interrogation. There were three others that attempted to run when we sent guards to collect them from the ballroom, and we set the dogs when they tried to escape onto the estate grounds. “One got away – there was a coach prepared for a getaway on the road to Courtlea, before we had even set a cavalry patrol. The second one we found dead on the grounds with a broken ankle – he had done away with himself before we could capture him. The third we brought in for questioning. He spoke a Continental tongue, and when we gave no guarantee of a future repatriation, poisoned himself with a capsule hidden in a false tooth. And the last, the tattooed one killed in the retiring room. There may be more, but we do not know for certain.” “I have heard enough. Gentlemen,” said Dalinar, gravely. He stood. “We must prepare for war.” The library was in uproar after his solemn announcement. When the atmosphere had calmed slightly – it was still tense with a strained and gnawing apprehension – Dalinar spoke again. “War with the Continent is inevitable. We felt the first tremors in the colonies, and saw evidence of foreign interference in Ireland. My brother’s death six years ago started a war we were not entirely prepared for. My nephew’s death would have started another. But we have the opportunity now – to prepare properly.” “I will gather the Dukes, and we will have one last push against the marshpeople. One final and conclusive victory to whet the appetite for new victories – and then the front shall be moved to the Continent. Admiral Teleb, have the HMS Cobalt Guardian brought out of dry-dock.” He took up a stick with a hooked end and pushed the statuettes across the map table. “We must have the Stormwarden, the Countess von Iriale, and Sunraiser refitted as transports. The Home Regiments must be split, and Major Khal has the landing – we shall choose Flanders for our base of operations; for now it is neutral ground and will not violate any treaties extant. Adolin, you will return to the marshlands with me–” “No.” The background hum of conversation cut off abruptly. Adolin looked around, then pushed his chair back. “Soldier?” asked Dalinar. He set the stick down, and straightened. His bearing was forbidding and his face grim; he was clearly unused to being contradicted. “You cannot gather the Dukes when you are away. Parliament does not respond to promises and cajoling. They are as flighty children – their attention wanders and they forget themselves as soon as something else comes along,” said Adolin quietly. His words fell into the silence; they swiftly dissipated in the uneasy emptiness. “You must unite them, Father – you must show them the fist beneath the glove – and you must stay to do it.” Dalinar nodded slowly. “Proceed.” “We haven’t the resources on hand – the last war has drained us – for an immediate display of aggression. We must fight defensively, at least at first, and use geography to our benefit. Blockade the Channel, offer letters of marque, cut off their golden lifeblood, and amass our own men, and ships, and allies until we can have our great push from Flanders. Bide our time, and in the meanwhile show them why the Anglethi Navy is the best in the world.” Adolin exchanged a glance with Major Khal, and continued. “Major Khal is to have his step to Lieutenant Colonel, and he shall join his father the Field Marshal in Ireland. They have worked in concert before – their mutual experience in coordinated pushes and retreats will serve to advantage, and will show a fine example to the other ducal regiments. Father, you must be the one to call the muster. When the men come at the drums to take the King’s shilling, they must be shown why.” The Prince Dalinar’s disciplined stance relaxed ever so slightly. He pushed the stick over the table to Adolin, and calmly found his seat. “You have finished the book, then?” “I finished it years ago. It is only recently that I have to come to understand its meaning,” said Adolin, his hand reaching out and reluctantly picking up the hooked wooden stick. He brought it to the map table and rearranged the figurines, placing the ships in the Channel between Kholinshire and Roionshire and the north coast of the Continent. “And soldier – what of you?” This was the question that Shallan had been wondering. Adolin had made strategic decisions for the other major players. All, excepting himself. Adolin drew a slow breath. Then he looked down at Shallan, whose slippered foot pressed against his own boots under the table. He smiled, and there was bright and tender affection for her in his blue eyes, and something else lurked within them that was hard and bleak in its resolve; it was a seizure of one’s destiny, and a decision made and channelled to intention and then to action. She recognised it; she had seen it before, very recently, and in herself. It made her tremble. No, she thought, please, no. “I will go to Flanders.” Author's Notes: "Major Khal" - He is this AU's equivalent of Captain Khal, the son of General Khal from SA-canon. Obviously I have no idea what a battalionlord is supposed to be, so I went with the period accurate ranks. The matter he wanted to discuss was the promised promotion. Fort Shulin is by the city of Shulin, the only other named town in the canon Kholin Princedom. "Quartered in the village" - IRL revolutions were fought because civilians didn't like being forced to house soldiers in their own homes, back when armies didn't carry food supplies with them and needed to forage/requisition/loot from farmers to eat. It's not something Dalinar or Adolin agree with. Remember, no Soulcasters. Renarin and gambling - this kid has hustle. Too bad you have to talk to other people to do it - if internet poker was invented in Roshar, Renarin would be a professional. On Shallan and Jasnah - Shallan started in awe of Jasnah, admiring her and wanting to be smart and in control all the time. But after character development, she is more independent, and wants something different, because Jasnah's way of life won't make her happy. Ridgebark - Adolin eats this stuff after Szeth bursts through the wall in WoR, and stays up all night at his dad's door in his Shardplate, with the coffee shakes. In this AU, it's soldier coffee since coffee is only grown and imported from the colonies. Most people drink tea. The lamp - Kaladin mentioned finding one in the tower. He thought it was glass instead of a gemstone. "Arrested the Ardents" - Kabsal got away. The man who left a calling card was Mraize dressed as a guest. On Dalinar and Adolin - a partial throwback to canon-Adolin wanting his dad to let him duel again, and going to meet Eshonai alone. It's also a sign of character development that he wants to make decisions instead of being on the backseat to The Dalinar Show. He is a competent commander, but his fears of failure have crippled him in the past, but when he stops caring about approval and says what he thinks, he can be a better strategist than Dalinar. And he does pay attention to Renarin's numbers, even if he thinks arithmetic is for chumps. Earlier in the story, Adolin shows his awareness of economics and the big picture, and it marks his difference from Dalinar who can be more Blackthorn when it comes to war. The big picture says that Dalinar is indispensable. "King's shilling" - historical lingo for enlisting and taking the signing bonus. Flanders and Napoleon - things are different in this AU compared to IRL timeline. But some major things will stay the same. There is no set year for this story, since in-universe references to technology and culture go all the way up to the 1880's. Just early 1800's if it bothers you.

I think it has been years since I got upset from something I read on the internet – it’s probably easier that way, when you get desensitised to things early. Screamer vids don’t do anything for me anymore! It says something when people who try to critique Brandon’s work can only think of his not killing characters off in an “anyone can die” way as a flaw in his writing. It’s not really that bad, when it comes down to it. And this is from someone who goes to Goodreads when I can’t decide whether or not I should buy a book or not, and sorts by worst ratings first. The harsh and honest book reviews are the funniest to me. From what I have seen of Brandon’s blog and how he has changed the order of the books without changing the narrative of the story too much, I think he has the overarching plot outline and the character arcs mapped out to the ending, but he leaves off the detail until he gets to the point of writing chapter drafts. If he kills off a character too early, he narrows his choices for the ways he can tie up the ending – and that’s why he has kept Adolin kicking around. Yeah, he’s not going to end up as Odium’s champion, but he has potential because of how the story has fleshed out his personality and skills, and it makes him a good Chekhov’s gunman. And since Brandon is very active with fan communication, and I think his awareness of how popular Adolin will mean that he will keep him around, or at least throw in cameos if he survives past SA#5. It’s pretty crazy how people get attached to minor characters, even the ones that get barely any screentime, like Renarin and THE STICK. But as you described it before, people respond well to characters that reflect themselves. The MC’s of any fiction are reflections of the author, and are often the author’s favourite, and that is why they find it pretty strange when people don’t like the MC as much as they do. People like Jasnah because she’s an atheist, and Renarin because he’s on the spectrum. Every time I see a Renarin discussion thread, it seems like the people who defend his character the most are people who understand his problems because they have the same ones, or have friends and family who do. And the people who bash Renarin (the old “why does this get a spren when he lives the fancy life” argument) get bashed themselves because neurotypicals can never empathise with his struggles. I feel that Brandon is more of world-author than a character writer. The existence of Interludes is pretty much shamelessly indulging in adding colour and depth to the world. Sure they’re cute, but they don’t really add that much but occasional comic relief or breathers between Act 2 and Act 3. IMO they were weaker in WoK than WoR and if you took them out, you wouldn’t miss anything at all plot-wise. I am not knocking his character-building skills – if you write multiple PoVs, you have to build character so each viewpoint has a unique voice, because otherwise they overlap and add nothing fresh to the story. But Brandon writes mostly high fantasy with created worlds, and from reading his other books, I have gotten the impression his characters are just tools to get the story from Point A to Point B. It’s why he likes to use similar character types between his different novels. And similar plot set-ups too, like his favourite one, the arranged marriage. But in the end, I think I am just a boring person. I am not really a person who speculates on what happens in the next book, when the next book is going to come out on a regular schedule. I mean, you are either wrong or right in your predictions. If you’re wrong, then you just wrote 100 pages of posts on the internet that just became outdated. And if you’re right … you can pat yourself on the back I guess? I am just the person who reads the books, and when finished with it, moves onto the next one because why spend time thinking about what might not even happen when you can read what happens in the next good book. That way, you don’t feel like your expectations got ripped into little pieces and burned. You have an Adolin-addiction!!! I think this is what happens when you spend too much time thinking about him. I only started reading Brandon books 2-ish years ago, and before that, I read many books in many genres, and unlike many Brandon fans, I don’t see him as OMG THE BEST AUTHOR IN THE WORLD. I know there are many people who get angry and defensive when people criticise Brandon, but there are people out there who write better characters, and people who write better prose. Brandon rolled a lot of skill points in the writing department, and has them evenly distributed in world-building, character, and prose. Not the best when considered individually, but his triple combo makes him better than a lot of people. There are other young male characters in fiction who have similar traits to Adolin’s, who follow similar growth stories revolving around answering the questions “What is the right thing to do?” and “Where is my place in the world?”. His problems are equal to the problems faced by the official MC’s even if he gets less screentime to develop them. But there are many other books whose MC’s face the same problems, and answer the same questions, without being Adolin. If you think your Adolin-addiction has ruined your enjoyment of other characters and other books in other series, then you must admit you have a problem! You could read it out loud to him? If it’s not too weird to read aloud in English when you normally speak French at home. Some people are just not readers, and that is why audiobooks exist. When you write something, you should think about what is best for moving the story along, rather than what you like the best. I understand that writing fanfiction is pretty much a form of self-indulgence, especially when it has OOC and non-canon stuff happening, like deaths, revivals, crossovers, and shipping. You can write about what you like – because why bother to write if you don’t like it? – but if you pander to things only you like, other people might not want to read it. Like the trauma stick. I am a person who can’t take it when it hits too hard. You think my prose is beautiful. That makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. If you have read Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy, it has beautiful writing and everything is so colourful when I read it, and I tried to write in colour like he does. If you are not ashamed to share your story, and want a really honest critique, you could send me the first chapter of it. First chapters are like the first episode of a TV show – it sets the tone and style of the content, and you can tell whether you want to keep watching or if you want to stop. Ugh, what happened to “It’s better to be embarrassed than dead”? Outside of taking stupid risks in the battlefield when his dad wasn’t looking, I always thought Adolin was more of a battle pragmatist. The guy who balances out Kaladin’s “honour before reason” approach and does the sensible thing, like a retreat when it’s necessary. Is Adolin just out of his mind from guilt and a concussion that he is ignoring basic rules of being a commander, like making sure he prepared to rise for battle? If there’s a rule against drinking before battle, there probably is a rule to sleep before battle too. Kaladin is major addicted to Stormlight. Shallan doesn’t even like Pattern, and probably would trade Radiant status for a normal happy childhood. I think most of the MC’s have problems forming meaningful relationships, or keeping them once they have them. Adolin isn’t that special for not having friends, he’s just special for not being able to keep a girlfriend. Kaladin has the same no friends problem – you could say it’s the bridgemen worshipping him, but it’s not like he wants to open up to them either, since he doesn’t tell them about Amaram, and doesn’t like going to the pub with them. I don’t think Shallan is good at making friends either. Or Dalinar. His friends are backstabbers. Kaladin will never be anything but pure squeaky clean as long as he has Syl. Sad but true. I would also like to see him be something more than a boring perfect protagonist, as long as it doesn’t involve endless angsting about what he should do or how sucky his life is. Yes! Your story is tragic! You took out all the magic of Roshar and replaced it with a sad IRL homelife full of people who do bad things, and one MC who is surrounded by all this sad, while being sad on the inside himself. Too much trauma stick – I can’t take it without feeling sad, unless you add some ray of hope or something. Everyone needs to be revealed to have reddeming qualities!!! Early on, not 10 pages from the end! On the age gap between Adolin and Shallan – do you not like it in canon-SA, or do you not like in the context of an Earth AU? In canon, they are both perceived as consenting adults who can make decisions to get married or do the things, and it seems pretty normal for lighteye girls to be married at age 16. In an Earth AU, it can be a bit weird, especially if you put your younger character in high school (ew pls no), but if they’re both in university, it’s a bit unusual, but not that weird. I personally don’t think it’s an issue in-story or IRL as long as both people have the same maturity level. And Adolin has stunted his own personal development with his insecurity so I think they match up, even with the 5-6 year age gap (depending on their exact birthdays). And depending on the setting, 20 would be too young for alcohol. If you made everyone Canadian in an AU, Adolin would be playing hockey instead of football. If you want to do a dramatic reveal of characterisation, you need a dramatic first chapter for the story. The best way is to show Adolin at an afterparty for winning the local championship game, with everyone cheering him on, and girls trying to hook up with him. Then he goes home sees his dad passed out and vomit on the floor. Instant slap on the face with the trauma stick. The thing with most fiction is that when there is a decision between saving the world, or saving your girlfriend, the hero is never actually put into a position where he actually has to make that choice. Because helpful sidekicks jump in, or the villain makes a stupid decision and falls into his own piranha tank, or the girl dies for some reason the hero couldn’t prevent no matter what. And whenever the choice is forced, the hero chooses the “right” one, which is always the girlfriend or best friend, and the world is still saved anyway because Deus ex Machina. Because viewers and humans don’t like it when the girl dies. Even in the 4:1 duel, we still don’t know if Dalinar would have jumped in at the last second or not, because Kaladin did it. Yes, Dalinar sat back down, but he still thinks his son is a better man than he is, and he wouldn’t let him be crippled for life, would he? I felt it could have gone either way if no one helped Adolin and Renarin. Because seriously, two sons has to be more valuable than useless Elhokar. Even if Dalinar chose not to help, I think it’s kind of refreshing to have a good guy unashamedly believe in the greater good. Usually it’s the bad people who prioritise the world over the lives of loved ones. And this is where Adolin gets hit over the head multiple times by the trauma stick. Dalinar is a Bondsmith now, and hasn’t been fully Blackthorn for probably 5 years. His character is static because he already had his character development before the events of the story, and that is why his flashbacks are more interesting than how he is in the current timeline. It makes him kinda boring in WoR when he figures his visions are real, but sometimes it’s good to have a break from the Kaladin angst show. Adolin is a man with feelings and urges too. As you said before, a man can manage his own needs without needing anyone else to help. I think Kaladin is too honourable to be involved in an “adventure” if you know what I mean. He might want to, and be tempted to do it, and think about doing it, but he wouldn’t go along with it because it’s wrong. Just like Moash’s plan for Elhokar. Shallan might not mind it if she wanted it, but I think Kaladin would refuse her if she goes too far and he feels like it’s dirty and wrong. Lighteye girls are useful for having around if you need to use the women’s script. There aren’t many darkeyes who would need it if they are relatively high nahn and can already read the glyphs. From Laral’s wanting Kaladin to fight a Shardbearer, it still seems like lighteye girls wouldn’t willingly choose to marry a darkeyed man, unless their parents made them, and once did they did, they would always be thinking to themselves that they could have done better. Poor Kal. That is a soap opera type of reveal. But hey, if Dalinar can be Elhokar’s father, what if Gavilar was Adolin’s father. The stick goes both ways! As far as I remember, Gavilar was the hot brother, so wouldn’t he be better looking half naked? And Dalinar was still honourable enough to avoid Navani for 10 years after she married his brother. Okay, maybe it was because he wanted to cut out any chance at temptation, but he still did it, and the thought counts for something. Adolin being rejected by Jakamav hurt him really bad, and he wasn’t even really good friends with anyone at that point, because he didn’t make an effort to open up to people – he just liked having drinking buddies to hang out with. So I would expect when he has his real feelings involved in a relationship he actually wants to maintain, it will break his heart. His reaction would be more likely him being on the shelf for the rest his life rather than hitting the cathouses for a two month bender. Maybe his father will send him to Iri or something. People pay less attention to Renarin than Adolin. Dalinar takes Adolin for granted, but he doesn’t really think about Renarin, except for feeling guilty that his son is a weakling and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Then he goes and gives him a present. Is Renarin expected to find a wife too? No one knows or cares. :mellow: The sad thing is, when reading fanfics that have been dropped halfway through, nothing is really lost when they are unfinished. Because honestly, the majority of fan content is mediocre, or just written by people who didn’t have any cohesive vision or plan, and there is no plotting. Just events happening one after the other, with no sense of a unified story. That is why most fic writers stick to short one-shots, because it doesn’t require maintaining in-universe continuity and consistency in prose and characterisation. But I’ve pretty much finished the story, and tied up the ends, so no angry tears here. Sadly. The good bit is that Elhokar might have the ambition to be famous and loved, but he is not a very competent person, so any plan he has is bound to fail. He will probably drag other people down with him when he does, but he will end up learning a hard lesson, so he does get his journey and his destination! But only if Brandon thinks he is worth developing his character. If Elhokar really is Dalinar’s Tien, and doesn’t get picked by a spren, he will die to teach Dalinar a lesson on leadership. All Tiens have to die – that is their sole purpose in the story. :lol: Do Canadians love leggings or something? I have a Canadian friend and she pretty much wears leggings non-stop. Fleece lined leggings in the winter, plain black ones for chilling and watching TV, leggings for the weekend. Leggings all day every day. I prefer flannel PJ pants. They are more comfortable. Ivy League preppy is way too colourful to be formal outside of daytime at the country club. The outfits with only one bright colour with plain grey or brown wool jackets are more professional looking. But they are clothes that require taking good care and maintenance, and visiting the tailor to get a perfect fit, and ironing before wearing. To a suit and tie guy like Dalinar, it would look too flashy and youthful to fit in at corporate, but to Kaladin, it’s super fancy. Anything that you have to dry clean instead of tossing in the washing machine he probably considers fancy. I don’t think he would even bother sorting the dark from the light clothes. All of his clothes are the same dingy faded greyish colour. Adolin doesn’t get cut off!!! If his card stops working, he just uses cash, and his wallet is full of cash. No trauma stick! And then he goes home and it turns out his card got upgraded to the next level up and Dalinar forgot to tell him or something. Do they even have payphones these days? After Kaladin is late meeting Adolin and Shallan at the movies for the third time, they would just buy him a phone and force him to use it. But he wouldn’t accept a fancy one, so they get him a Nokia brick. They’re indestructible. You could build a suit of Shardplate with them. :ph34r: I would like to see the relationship between Elhokar and Adolin explored, even if they don’t turn to be best buddies in the end. Brandon seems to be using them to explore Dalinar’s character development, with Elhokar as a link to his past and a reminder of his duty to his dead brother. Adolin to Dalinar is the man he should have been, good and noble from the start. So Brandon has built a contrast to make interactions with Dalinar more interesting, but if he wanted to flesh out the secondary characters more, he should put Elhokar and Adolin alone in a room. They are similar in certain ways, having the pressure of expectations put on them from birth, and severely dependent on Dalinar in their daily lives. The cousins likely don’t think they have much in common in-universe, since Elhokar is the useless millstone, and Adolin was the ace before Kaladin came along with his magical Stormblessed reputation saving the Kholin army. In WoK, Elhokar comments that Adolin is the best duellist in the family, better than Dalinar and himself. I wonder if there’s some level of jealousy in there, like he’s jealous of the way the soldiers love Kaladin. Or if he has gotten to the point where he thinks he sucks so much there’s no point in comparing himself to other people. If they actually talked to each other, they’d find they have more in common than they think. There’s only around 5 years’ age gap between them, and it’s only a bit bigger than Adolin’s age gap with Renarin, who he gets along with fine. They only understand one another superficially, but each of them has sadness on the inside – if only they would share it! Because Elhokar is like an alternate universe version of Adolin gone bad. Elhokar’s father read the Way of Kings, and he never believed in it himself. He had the arranged marriage chosen for him, and has a wife who he presumably doesn’t really care that much about, since no one ever mentions Aesudan outside the interlude. He has had responsibility put on him from the beginning of the War of Reckoning, but cracked under the pressure, whereas Adolin turned into the unwilling soldier and commander. I would expect Shards to be important up to SA#5, and they get slowly replaced by living spren blades in the second series. It takes a while for Radiants to realise their abilities and gather in Urithiru, especially if only a few of them have the travelling abilities of teleporting or lashing, or the knowledge of Oathgates. Shardblades are indestructible too, so even if a blade revival will be a once in a lifetime event, people will still keep theirs around. If Alethi are still going to be Alethi even if the end of the world is coming, having a Shardplate and Shardblade will be useful for making sure your neighbours don’t attack your land and try to steal it in border skirmishes like the ones Amaram used to fight. Use living blades to fight voidbringers, but use deadblades to fight your neighbours. Because most of these lighteyes can be dangerously nearsighted, if Sadeas is an example. Thousands are a stretch when many thousands of spren died in the past during the Recreance. But then again we don’t know that much about the spren families in Shadesmar so who knows. I don’t think they are books you would like. You like the trauma stick, but these books are pretty dark, getting into grimdark territory where people get killed off to add flavour to how violent and scary the setting is. Broken Empire was way too much trauma stick for me, and made people uncomfortable with how tragic the backstory was, since it involves nonconsenting acts in the style of Captain Kennet. It was like Captain Kennet getting his own trilogy since the MC is pretty much a sociopath. Yeah, not re-reading. I like historical fiction of most genres, as long as the setting is well-explored and accurate and the story is well written. I do not like fiction claiming to be “historical” when all the characters think and speak like modern people, which is jarring for something set in Roman times, for example, with a Roman noble character talking about how slavery is wrong. That is one of things that breaks immersion for me. For a shorter read with good character development and bromance, I recommend “The Eagle of the Ninth”, a standalone story set in Roman-era Britain. It’s so beautifully written, and has a bleh movie version with Channing Tatum. I recently finished “Newt’s Emerald” which is a Regency romance with magic, which I thought was an adorable story. It’s like urban fantasy but in the past! I have a soft spot for historical romances, and read modern ones when the old ones like Austen or Heyer can be too slow or too vanilla. ;) Adolin made out with Danlan. He can’t be judgy judgy on Shallan kissing someone else when he kissed another girl and danced with all of them! I made a mention of that, just so something like being walked in on kissing couldn’t lead to a ship abandoning moment. Adolin wouldn’t just leave like that without an explanation, for a kiss, because that would be too much of a soap opera. And he is too reasonable of a guy to jump to conclusions when there might be a reasonable explanation for it, because he doesn’t want to believe. He loves Shallan. What would make him have that knee-jerk reaction is to walk in on Shallan and Kaladin in the bedroom. Because that is way more serious than kissing and you can’t just explain it away without being pretty unambiguous about there being feelings between them. But Kaladin wouldn’t do that to his BFF, so there would have to be a pretty contrived explanation to have both of them undressed in the same room.

I looked up the Graphic Audio cover artworks, and they are all so beautiful. The Shallan one especially. :wub: Most people end up imagining her the same way; it's really very strange. And the Pattern chapter heading picture is superimposed on her sleeve. It's a nice touch. Dalinar's amour wasn't drawn in any of the WoK/WoR artwork, so it's pretty cool to see it here. Stylistically it looks like the King's Plate from the WoR sketchbook page, especially the raised neck collar thingy. Click pictures to open up full size. Drawing Shardplate is hard. It was super intimidating to me at first, when I saw the official illustrations and they all were very detailed and had all those little bits and knobs and things. But then I practiced on it and it's not so scary if you try to imagine the shape of a human under there and ignore all the fiddly bits for later. In my mind, Shardplate's load-bearing back plate is like the racing hump in those MotoGP leather suits And because I'm a filthy shipper who should be exiled to Tumblr, why not put good skills to questionable purposes... :lol: In Shard training, they make you eat a fancy dinner in Plate. It only makes sense if you have to learn to go to the movies or the theatre in your Plate, and walk a girl home afterwards.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 29

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART TWENTY NINE Shallan rolled over. Her burnt shoulder chafed against its wrappings. The effects of Kaladin’s herbal paste had given out during the night; a crust had formed over the raw burnt patches on her skin, and now it felt as if the fine linen of the bandage was abrading it away. She groaned, and her eyes opened. The velvet canopy was closed, but a dim orange light – wan dawn sunlight – leaked in through a gap in the curtains. There was a lump on the opposite end of the bed, and Shallan remembered where she was – and whose company she was sharing. Still tired and wanting to return to sleep, she vaguely recalled the agreement from the previous night; she corrected herself: it had been very early that same morning. She began to pile pillows to divide the bed into two halves. The bed had more pillows than one really needed; it took some time to find all of them scattered in the dark, on the bed-cover and on the floor. Shallan tugged at a pillow underneath Adolin’s arm. “Shallan…” he mumbled, eyes closed, fingers blindly groping for the missing pillow. “Good morning.” She hadn’t meant to wake him. She had rather wanted to let him continue sleeping, so she could watch him. It was for nothing improper, of course – for artistic research purposes only! Adolin’s hand reached out and grabbed his pillow back, and the pillow wall separated; it developed an empty gap right where it had been the most necessary to ensure their mutual moral respectability. Adolin hugged the pillow to his chest. “Mmm, Shallan,” he murmured sleepily, and sighed. Shallan covered her mouth to stifle her snickering. She did not do a very good job, for Adolin’s eyelashes fluttered, and his eyes blinked, and he opened them and saw her sitting beside him, behind the half-toppled failure of a pillow divider. He loosened his grip on the pillow, and scrubbed at his eyes, yawning. “Were you awake the whole time?” he asked. He pulled himself up to a reclining position. “Or do you never sleep, like Kal?” Shallan traced the edge of her bandage under a drooping flounce of her shift. “No. I was burned yesterday – it started hurting, and it woke me.” Adolin’s eyes flicked over to the white wrapping under her white shift. “Is it a powder burn? May I see?” Shallan unbuttoned her shift and pulled the fabric of the shoulder down; she felt Adolin’s gentle fingers loosening the bandage and pulling it open. She turned away and closed her eyes. The skin was warm and inflamed, and it had leaked a clear fluid that stuck to the fibres of the linen wrapping. She could feel the sting when the dried crust of it separated from her swollen flesh. She took a deep breath. It was no worse than ether on a wound, and was by far less severe than the cut on her ribs. “Kaladin says it will scar,” she said dully. Adolin tugged the bandage back up and drew her shift over her shoulder. “We all have scars. I do not count them a blemish.” “Everything my governess taught me about men I find is wrong at every turn,” Shallan said, a trace of a smile on her lips. “It is a good thing I was never very fond of doing what I’m told.” “Powder burns are not that bad, as scars go. Yours will heal up fine.” Adolin dragged the bed curtain open a few inches to let in the warm dawn sunlight, and undid open the button at his cuff; he rolled his right sleeve up to reveal the tanned flesh of his forearm. “I have powder scars too.” She saw that the smooth skin on the inside of his wrist was dusted with tiny specks of white; if she had not been told what to look for, she would not have seen anything unusual unless she had had the opportunity for a very close examination. “Yours are more heroic,” said Adolin. “I only have mine because I was careless – it was from my own pistol.” Shallan laughed, and fell back onto the bed. “I scarcely consider myself heroic. I was running away when it happened, and I did not do what I did to be a hero.” “You know, most officer casualties are from nobles trying to look like heroes. Heroes are people who have the courage to do things for the right reasons – and not because they want to get their step.” Shallan rolled over; she turned to look at him through the gap in the pillows. “You never wanted to be a Prince,” she whispered. Adolin was silent for a moment. “Not for any right reasons.” “It helps when you don’t think about the reasons, when you do not think of wrong or right or good or bad. It’s easier that way – to do the things you want – and it often makes the best choice in the end.” Shallan released the handful of blanket scrunched in her fist, and went on. “I would rather be selfish than live in regret. That is my right reason.” “I do not want to live in regret.” “No-one does. The people who tell you what is right only do it so they do not feel regret themselves. That you feel it matters little.” These words of newfound truth constricted her throat with memories of feeling constricted – and helpless. It explained why in her own life, she had been surrounded with people intent on controlling her, people who sought to guide her actions in paths that they had chosen – to satisfy their own visions of what was right and good. These people – her father – her mother – were so righteous in their self-assurance that they had become … monsters. And they had not seen it, and she had not wanted to see it out of her own twisted love for them, and the people they used to be. She had twisted her own idea of love into a grotesque parody of its original intention, to match the grotesque transformation of her parents’ souls. It was not how families were supposed to be. It was not how love was supposed to be, nor how it was supposed to feel, and it had twisted her until she felt fear at the sight of it, and made her so that she flinched back at the touch of it, or at the mention of its name. And this came to her, and she knew it, with a distressing certainty that prickled at her eyes and burned with acrid clarity on her tongue. The pillows between them moved aside and Adolin’s face peered down at her. “How is it that you know this?” She could sense the concern under his curiosity. “We all know it,” said Shallan, “but no-one ever speaks of it. People just like going through life with the belief that they are the good people. But the real good people are rare.” “I know that a good person is sitting right here on this bed.” Shallan laughed and laughed. “Tell me,” she said, as she pulled apart the pillow wall and tossed them to the side, and off the bed. “Do you think a good person would do this?” She sprang across the distance between them, throwing a leg over his stomach and sitting astride him with an unexpected suddenness that had all the air rushing out of him in a whoosh. Adolin struggled to sit up from where he lay surrounded by abandoned pillows. Shallan shoved him down again and swatted his hands away when he reached out for her. “And what about this?” she asked, bending down and planting a rough kiss on his lips, her fingers scrabbling at the buttons of his shirt, tearing it open, and yanking his shirt-tails out of where he had tucked it into his trousers. How did anyone go to sleep with their shirt tucked in and wake up with it still tucked? Was there some ingenious pin or clip device inside the trousers? She supposed she would have to check whenever an excuse presented itself. Her kisses were clumsy with the blundering muddle-headedness found in every morning of hers, especially an early morning like this. When her mouth pressed against Adolin’s, it was not just a mingling of lips, but tooth and tongue and strands of her unbound hair that draped her face and his like a second set of canopy curtains. It was another layer of concealment that made the outside world feel distant and detached, and made their inside world of fumbling intimacy feel warmly familiar, rather than an act of indecorous knavery. Shallan allowed Adolin to sit up so she could have his shirt off, and paused for a moment to admire the view. His shoulders and chest could be described, if one was not particularly imaginative, as solid; they tapered to a trim waist that was very pleasingly ridged with muscle – and here Shallan blushed – with a faint trail of yellow and black hair that descended from his navel and disappeared from view at the band of his trouser belt. She thought it rather curious – his chest was smooth, and the hair on his forearms was very light, mostly blond, and almost invisible. “Would a good person,” said Adolin, his hands on her waist tightening and swinging her off; her back hit the bed with a creak of the mattress ropes. “Do this?” She all but dragged him atop her and his mouth found hers, and her knees gave a friendly squeeze to either side of his hips. Adolin almost wrenched himself away at this, but she held him down; he buried his face into the hollow of her shoulder and gave a strangled groan. “Shallan…” “Good people must come from somewhere,” she said, “since spontaneous generation is–” His lips covered hers and she found she could not speak; she could barely think – no, she corrected herself – she could think. But no thoughts of painful memories, or foreign saboteurs, or demanding countesses came to her; she thought of the young man in her arms who, though unpractised as she was, still managed to be gentle in his eagerness – he carried his weight in his shoulders and elbows to spare her bandaged ribs. He was the young man – a young gentleman – who held open a door that she could step through if she chose: a door that would lead to another life, another home, and another family. Shallan caught the sound of the door handle rattling. “Adolin,” she hissed, turning her head away. He hadn’t appeared to have heard, being distracted by other things, so she repeated herself. “Adolin. Adolin!” He pushed himself up as the door opened – Shallan could see it through a gap in the curtains – and they heard the tread of a pair of feet that entered, and paused, and stopped only a short distance from the bed. “Hallo?” called out an uncertain voice. “Is anyone there?” Shallan recognised it as Finnie, her maid. She glanced at Adolin, and then seized a pillow and placed it in the middle of the bed; she did it with another, and Adolin picked up on the idea, and began snatching up pillows of his own. The canopy curtain of the bed twitched; it was drawn back, and Finnie’s shocked face stared at them in surprise, her eyes darting from one equally shocked face to another. Her mouth opened, and then closed, and then opened again; a bundle of laundry and Shallan’s tartan shawl fell to the carpeted floor. Shallan, who held a pillow in upraised hands, thought quickly. “Um. Pillow fight!” she said, and then whacked Adolin on the back with it. A feather flew out and drifted to the floor. *** In the end, they sent Finnie to fetch Adolin’s valet for a change of clothes and any supplies necessary for ensuring a neat and presentable appearance. It would appear rather – exceedingly – questionable if a gentleman were to leave a lady’s bedchamber and walk through the House in his dressing robe early in the morning. However, it would merely appear inconclusively respectable if the gentleman were to depart fully clothed and well-groomed. If his rank made him first-rate within the peerage, then that would likely grant lenience enough that observers would accept it as an unconventionally early social call. Perhaps a gentleman guest wished to leave his visiting card to a lady he had danced with the previous evening, before her carriage departed for the City. Winks and nods were unavoidable, but they would not be sly winks and knowing nods. Adolin’s valet arrived with a valise, and they left for the bathing chamber to change and shave, leaving two boxes behind for Shallan. “They’re for you,” Adolin said, tying on his dressing robe. He, thankfully, still had his trousers on. His valet silently collected the discarded boots and shirt. A valet, the gentleman’s gentleman, a master’s master-servant – that was a role that required loyalty and discretion, for gentlemen did not travel without their valets, and they often shared each other’s company with more frequency than the gentleman shared with his own wife. The lady’s maid was an equivalent position, and the trust bestowed upon them by a Family member elevated them to the status of superior servant – below the retainer-rank of a land steward or a personal physician, but still highly prized, especially positions in the households of peers of the first rank. Shallan could trust Adolin’s valet not to gossip in the servants’ hall, even he did form his own assumptions and judge for himself what – or what had not – transpired between the two of them. The problem was encountering other servants in the hallway, who would not be so restrained – and the real danger was running into other nobles’ personal servants who would undoubtedly tell their masters and mistresses about what had been seen or heard. She knew City Society was run on threads of gossip passed up and down the ranks, and through various households when a lady of quality paid social calls with her maid, or her mother’s maid, in tow as chaperon. It was only Loch Davar’s isolation and her father’s social reputation as irrevocably – tainted – that had spared their being run through the gossip mill. It had worked out to their benefit, fortunately: the word of their insolvency had taken its time to get out – enough time for Jushu to quietly liquidate some of their assets for coal and food and other essentials, before the creditors could descend and leave them with absolutely nothing. When Adolin had gone, Shallan sat at her vanity feeling rather disappointed. Finnie collected the pillows and the bed-cover that had slipped to the floor, making a tutting sound when she shook it out and saw the brown dirt streaked over it from Adolin’s riding boots the previous afternoon. “I hope you had a grand evening, my lady,” said Finnie. There was no sign at all of criticism or condemnation in her voice. She sounded cheery. “I’m sorry about the marks on the bed.” Shallan looked at the boxes. One was large and rectangular in shape, the size of a hatbox. The second one was smaller and square, but no more than two inches in depth. “Oh, it is no bother,” the maid replied. She stripped the sheets off the bed with the efficiency of long practice, and folded them into a rough pile on the floor. “Was he very generous to you, my lady?” “We didn’t–” Shallan began indignantly, but then stopped. She could deny anything she wanted to, but she could not deny how it must have looked. Her own shift was half-unbuttoned, and its neckline gaped open. She pulled it to the side and inspected her collar. “He bit me, see?” Finnie’s hand rose up and covered an indulgent smile. “Some men like that sort of thing, and some men are all take and no give,” she said, very mysteriously. “But you can train them up if you mean to have them for a while.” “Like dogs?” Finnie opened the drawer and pulled out the roll of brushes. One brush was missing from the set. “Men are like hounds.” She winked in the mirror. “They can learn to bark at the dinner bell if you ring it long and loud enough.” “But I don’t have a bell to ring!” “It’s not a real bell, my lady.” “So how would I even train a man up, as you say?” “You have to know what you like,” answered Finnie. “I s’pose.” Shallan frowned. “But I don’t even know what I like! I think I like all of it! And I wouldn’t even know what there is to like!” “My lady, you will just have to try it and see, wouldn’t you? Men are not very picky about these things, anyway.” Shallan was silent as Finnie brushed her hair and tied it into neat braids. She lifted the lid of the larger box, and nestled in layered sheets of white tissue were her heeled satin dancing slippers that she had abandoned in the ballroom yesterday – when she had seen Kabsal, and had run from him. The toes were scuffed from being stepped on multiple times by Kaladin, but they looked salvageable, at least after a thorough brushing and a touch of soda. “He brought me my shoes,” said Shallan softly. She dropped the lid back down over the box. “In a lady’s serialised adventure, he would have put them on my feet. But I suppose that is something Princes do, and Adolin is only a Duke.” Only a Duke. She would still have liked him, and felt affection for him, even if he was no Duke. Even if he was just a stablehand, or just a soldier … or just a surgeon. She never could have married him, of course – but if she knew how it was to enjoy the company of a good man, she could never have been satisfied with the company of an intolerable one, even if he might be her lawful husband. Malise could not have known, thought Shallan suddenly. She opened the second, smaller box. In it was a silver chain necklace, of simple design. Each link clinked with the clear ringing of pure silver. It almost looked like that aluminium necklace her father had presented her with years ago, but where that necklace was light and silvery, this necklace was heavy and cold, and her hand trembled when she lifted it out of the blue velvet cloth wrappings and turned it over in her hands. There were the tiniest of scratches on the links and clasp, signs that it had been polished multiple times in the past, but it was still in very good condition and they were scarcely noticeable. It was not the most extravagant of gifts – a chain of the same size in aluminium or gold would have been much dearer, and this one had been worn by someone else before Adolin had given it to her. “Will you wear it, my lady?” Finnie asked, when Shallan had not said anything for some time. “Yes.” She did not think Adolin would give gifts for the sake of giving them – not to her, at least. The depth of affection he felt, she was sure, would rather lead to his being extraordinarily careful in his treatment of her. Gifts between gentlemen and ladies were not just gifts, but messages, and often these messages were promises. Promises that could not hold up in any court of law – they were, nevertheless, assurances of commitment; when poorly done, they had the potential to result in misrepresentation and a humiliating disgrace, usually heaped upon the lesser ranking party. So. Adolin would not risk anything poorly done, and he would not act without genuine meaning and intention, even if she had perceived that he was not one markedly prone to deliberation before action. He had already made an offer, and she had accepted it. It would not hurt if this was just a demonstration of good faith and feeling in his proposition. How fitting it was, Shallan mused, as the necklace was clasped around her throat, that it came in the form of a chain. “It is very beautiful, my lady,” said Finnie. “Is it a courting gift? It is generous indeed – many girls get nothing more than a ribbon and a nosegay from their young men.” “It’s not a courting gift.” “Oh.” The maid hesitated as she brought a dress from the wardrobe and shook it out. “If it is a parting gift, you will be well set-up for your trouble.” Shallan stood and pulled her shift over her head, and looked at her own reflection in the mirror. Her chest was swathed in bandage, and so was her shoulder; her collar bore a small pink mark of dubious origin, and around her neck hung a chain. She was very different to the Shallan who had arrived a little longer than week ago, and very different to the Shallan of Loch Davar. In Scotland, she had worn a different chain, one that was light in weight, but heavy on the mind. She spoke. “It is no parting gift either.” Finnie laced her bodice and helped her into a clean underdress with a high collar. “Is it–” “Yes.” “Oh – my lady! Congratulations! I always thought that gentlemen often need a nudge in the right direction–” she glanced at the bed. “–To make up their minds.” She straightened Shallan’s collar, smiling. “It is a shame to hide the necklace – but we must cover up that mark of yours.” “They will say I seduced him into a – an arrangement,” Shallan sighed, and stepped into the dress of the day. “Didn’t you, my lady?” “No! I would not have – I would never have – it would not be proper!” Shallan flushed, and her ears warmed. Propriety seemed a foreign concept when she was in the presence of those who shared with her a mutual familiarity. It was one thing with Kaladin, when she did not bother with the careful observation of social protocol, and another thing with Adolin, when she could not remember anything of the standards of decency and indecency upon which polite civilisation had been founded. “Well, my lady,” said Finnie calmly, buttoning Shallan up, “when you are Duchess you will be beyond reproach. And they will be upset at themselves for not thinking of it sooner.” “When I am Duchess…” Shallan whispered. Then, remembering something, she went to her travelling trunk at the foot of her bed. Adolin had folded her clothes in the evening, when she had invited him in, and on top of the knit bonnet were the two bits of paper. One was the visiting card with the printed design of three diamonds – she tucked that one into her sleeve – and the other was the wagering slip from the bookmaker belowstairs. “Here, for you,” she said, holding it out to her maid. Finnie took it, and scanned the numbers on the paper. She looked up at Shallan and down again, and covered her mouth. “You had it made out to me?” “You were the one who told me that the men were running a book.” “But – my lady! Thirty-five spheres sterling – that’s over a year’s–” “Please. I would be grateful for your discretion.” Shallan thought of the best way to phrase it. There were really no good way, for this was a subject that was not discussed aloud, and never near the gentle ears of gentle ladies. She went for the suggestively opaque approach. “And perhaps later, your advice.” “Advice? What on, my lady?” “On – gentlemen. I haven’t ever–” “You didn’t–?” “No!” “Surely His Lordship has, erm, in the past, managed…” Finnie seemed quite abashed in her speech; she struggled with the words – it was not the place of a servant to make comment on their employer’s habits, or speculate on what was done in privacy by their betters. Adolin did not seem the type – not when he had had so much trouble proving his fondness at The Sign of the White Boar. If he had only kissed girls he was truly fond of, what sentiments would be required for that? If had confessed a singular depth of emotion for anyone else, surely he would have been married by now. The social mores expected that both parties, gentlemen and ladies, would indulge in indecency only when it was ceremonially declared no longer an indecency. But gentlemen, especially those born with rank and privilege, were not required to be constantly accompanied by chaperons. Not when they held positions as soldiers and officers, away from their own homes and firesides and the structured social rigidity of the City. The warcamps of the marshlands had their own rules and expectations, and most of them were concerned with the effectiveness of leadership rather than the moral purity of the officers. They were expected to fight to kill, and be surrounded by death: of enemies, and comrades, and civilians, and beasts of burden. Whilst they were on the front, they would be given license to indulge – and Shallan knew that the majority of ether-wretches were those who had seen combat. A blind eye would be turned, so long as they reported to duty with punctuality the next day. The Prince Kholinar was considered the strange one for being a staunch and inflexible proponent of both superior morality and superior effectiveness. And Adolin had shown embarrassment at the mention of bawdy-houses. “I do not think it likely,” said Shallan, blushing furiously. “Hmm.” Finnie put away Shallan’s black dress from the evening before. “Beg your pardon for prying, but how far have you gotten, my lady? “Oh – just kissing,” Shallan said, red-faced. “I know what happens next, of course. But in the books, the chapter always ends when they kiss. What occurs in between? Is there even anything between this and – that?” “Plenty, my lady,” said Finnie, confidently. Shallan felt much better at this, although she was concerned at the state of her own ignorance. The ladies’ novels ended with a kiss, and if there was epilogue, it showed the lady and her gentleman happily married. She had long surmised that there was intervening step – or steps – but no-one had told her what they were, apart from the very unromantic mechanics of ... heredity. She could imagine herself kissing Adolin, quite vividly so, and she supposed she could imagine herself engaged in the associated procedures necessary to fulfil contractual obligations, but she could not begin to imagine how one got from one point to the other. She could only presume it was extremely embarrassing for both parties involved. No wonder such things were commonly managed in darkness. A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Finnie went to answer it. “Shallan,” said Adolin. He passed Finnie at the door, and when he reached Shallan, he embraced her, and she pressed herself against him and breathed in the spiced herbal scent of his toilet water. He looked very proper and dignified when he wore his crisply pressed regimental uniform as he was now; it made a charming contrast with his cheerful and open-featured face, and his softly tousled hair. But she had seen him stained with gunpowder soot and her own blood, and she had not found that objectionable. “Good morning,” Shallan said. “I suppose it is only good – but it could have been better.” She laughed, and Adolin arms tightened around her. “It is good, then, that a good morning can be had every day.” “I think it would be better with breakfast.” Author's Notes: Light-hearted situational comedy because this is supposed to be a romance story. The drama bits are coming soon, don't you worry. On Adolin and the pillow - we shall just say that Adolin enjoys not having to sleep alone for once. Officer casualties - junior officers who prove themselves by leading the first charge often get considered for promotion for their bravery. Leads to lots of junior officers end up dying too. In this AU, officers who win battles get knighted and granted lands and peerages by the King, which is why they bother with it even if they would rather stay in the City. It's equivalent to young lighteyes taking risks to win Shards. "Spontaneous generation" - belief that organisms can just pop into existence, like maggots on meat, or getting sick from leaving the window open at night. Disproven by Pasteur in the 1830's. Shallan is attempting to make an off-colour joke here. The necklace - part of SA-Adolin's pre-duel ritual. Chicken for breakfast, burn the prayer, talk to the sword, carry Mother's chain. "What occurs in between?" - Shallan has no idea what happens in between first base and home plate. They don't teach this stuff at school!

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 28

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART TWENTY EIGHT Of course Shallan knew who it was. She felt something inside her shrink away in shame; her conscience stung at her own willing and humiliating blindness. She had overlooked something whose existence had been staring at her so obviously that other people had noticed immediately – and Adolin was only the most recent on the list of perceptive observers. Shallan had always thought herself clever, but she was not – not in this matter, at least. Kaladin’s hand caught her elbow. She kept walking. She enjoyed his company. That was true. She enjoyed his companionship, and his conversation. He kept her on her toes, and not only because she had to be if she wanted to glare at him eye to eye. He was intelligent, and insightful, and he had cared about her before she had thought there was anything in her worth caring about. She had seen the first two points but had been reluctant to admit them until very recently, and the last one was something she had only just discovered. She ducked under the staircase leading upwards to the servants’ sleeping quarters. It was empty; everyone was in the servants’ hall, and she could hear the clatter of tableware, and distant echoing music, and someone singing a folk tune. She turned around. Kaladin faced her, casting a shadow; his broad shoulders blocked out the light from the hall lamps. For all that she had thought his eyebrows unpleasant, they were expressive, even when the rest of his face was set into stoic grimness. He carried himself assertively, and had around him an aura of confidence and surety; he had his own appeal that was much different from Adolin’s pleasant openness. No, it wasn’t exactly appealing, at least not her, she thought. The quality that other ladies found appealing in him was the latent potential for being … dangerous. It was strength withheld, command curtailed, passion leashed. All of it was held within one man, who could not quite successfully represent himself to be the image of a mild-mannered country doctor. “Doctor Kaladin.” “Miss Davar.” Shallan took a slow breath. “You call me Miss Davar,” she said, picking out her words with care. “And I at first presumed it to be cheek, but we grew acquaintanced, and I began to think it was not just rudeness or disrespect. This whole time, and every time you call me that, you were seeking familiarity.” “It is as you say.” His voice was soft and thoughtful. “What of it?” “You are – fond – of me.” “Yes. More, perhaps. And you?” “I am fonder of myself than I was yesterday.” “I am glad to hear that, but you know that is not what I meant.” One eyebrow rose upwards. Shallan pursed her lips. She did not know what to say to this question, just as she did not know what to say when Adolin had said those words to her for the first time. But at least she was spared of them now, or she would have stood frozen on the spot as her mind ran in panicked circles, shrieking in horror and confusion. “I do not know.” She paused, and bit her lip, thinking of what else to do or say. “Close your eyes.” Kaladin didn’t close his eyes. He just stared at her with one brow impudently raised. Shallan huffed, and then she placed one hand very lightly on his shoulder; she got to her toes and leaned forward. Then, abandoning prudence and good judgment, her hand on his shoulder slid into his hair and angled his head downwards. Shallan placed one soft kiss on his lips. It was two seconds long – she’d counted – and as long as it took to hold a curtsey; she then stepped back. It didn’t feel like anything other than lip on lip. She didn’t tingle, and she didn’t feel out of breath, and her heart didn’t skip any beats. The cagéd doves within her didn’t flutter about and coo, or give any indication at all that they noticed anything interesting outside their cage. They were silent; she was silent, Kaladin was silent, and the silence stretched on and on. He looked at her, and there was something in his eyes that seemed distressingly familiar to her, but she did not know its name, because she did not want to know its name. “Shallan,” he breathed, and he took one step closer, then another step, until the toes of his scuffed uniform boots kissed the toes of her calf-hide slippers. One scarred hand found her waist, and it was just like when he had danced the Continental waltz with her three times earlier that afternoon; it was as gentle as he had been every morning as he changed her bandages. The hand slid around to the small of her back, and pulled her close to him. Then with startling suddenness, the arm around her tightened, and it pulled her up until her feet left the ground and there was nothing but empty air beneath her toes. Kaladin pressed her against the wall in the small alcove beneath the stairs, his hair tickled her cheeks, and his mouth sought hers with desperate hunger. Shallan squeaked in surprise as his arms held her firmly around the waist; her hands instinctively reached for something – anything – as she was lifted up and off balance; they tangled into his black hair, and their lips met once again. He was passionate, and almost aggressive in his embrace. His lips angled against hers with the intensity of long-suppressed yearning; his chest pressed against hers, just as her back pressed against the wall. His tongue slid across her lower lip in heated supplication. Shallan opened her eyes. She could see the feverish extent of his desire in the lamplight; it glinted in his dark eyes under their dark brows. Those eyes – something blazed inside them, fierce and restless and hungry – they wanted something, and it was something Shallan did not have in her to give. Those eyes blinked. Sense returned. Shallan was lowered back to her feet. She felt the rasp of his stubbling whiskers against her jaw, and his hand cupped her chin. “Shallan,” he whispered, and he placed one slow and tender kiss on her cheek; she could feel his warm breath as a sigh left him, releasing all of the regret and bitterness of his disappointment into the world. “Don’t cry,” he said, and his thumb stroked against her cheek and wiped away a tear and she wondered where it had come from, because she wasn’t crying, she couldn’t be! “I felt – nothing,” Shallan said. Her hands fell limply to her sides, and she sagged against the wall. “I am sorry. It was never meant to be.” “It never could have been.” His voice was gentle, and controlled; she could discern no anger, or blame, or residual disappointment. But then something caught in his throat, for he made a queer coughing sound. It was almost like a laugh. “Hah,” he said, “love for a noble lady is nothing but a foolish hope–” Shallan knew he was echoing something she had said earlier that day. “Hush, that is self-pity.” Amusement twisted a corner of his lips. “You caught me there.” Shallan sank to the floor, and pulled her knees up to her chin. After a moment, Kaladin joined her with a rustle of his coat. She leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder, in the shadow of the staircase. She felt sad and drained, even though it hadn’t been her that had borne the blow of rejection. No, it was because Kaladin had borne it, and he had suffered, and he was still suffering, even if he gave no indication of how he felt beneath the discipline of his outwards appearance. And she was the one who had dealt it, for she had made this caring man, this true friend of hers, have to find his peace again when he thought he had already found it years ago. It was a different peace for a different sort of brokenness, but the journey was always the same painful struggle. “You called me utterly unsuitable once,” she said. She gazed into the lamplight and the yellow brightness filled her eyes and burned out her night-vision until she could not see his face, or even his body adjacent to hers. “You were right. And I didn’t even know it. I didn’t know many things and I am only starting to know them now. For instance – Adolin. He thinks I am perfect and beautiful. You think of me as flawed and broken.” “You are all of these things. And more,” came his reply. Shallan shut her eyes. The afterimage of the lamp’s flame hovered blurred and violet in her mind. “No. I am done with brokenness. I will have nothing to do with it. Not anymore.” “I see.” “You see,” she continued, scraping together her thoughts into a coherent whole. “You and I are too much alike. I think that is why I could not like you upon our first introduction. You were competition to me; I felt threatened – I was afraid that you were everything like me, but better.” “I suppose the feeling was mutual.” “We think the same way – or similar. When I am with Adolin, I learn something more from him every day, and he from me. With you, I see a reflection of myself. Wiser perhaps, and steps ahead, but still recognisable. I do not want that, and I cannot conceive myself wanting it.” She hesitated, and ploughed on. “Not in that way – you know which. Please, shall we remain mutual acquaintances? Friends, if you will have it?” “Friends,” said Kaladin carefully. “I should like that very much. For as long as you are here.” “I am staying.” She felt his arm twitch ever so slightly when she said those three words. They were three words that sounded like simple words, but they had in them a singular depth of meaning, and an implication of many words unsaid and words that could never ever be said because they had been said first by another. They were three words that closed the door firmly and permanently on whatever hopes Kaladin had left in him. “I suppose a congratulations would be in order,” he said flatly. “I want a gift.” “Noble ladies really are all the same.” “Not a material gift. Just your time. And just this once–” “No. No – not that.” “You said to ask again in a week. It has been a week now, and I am asking.” “Why?” He sounded resigned. “I just wanted to see if it was different … Just once. I shall never ask it of you again. Please.” She did not resort to pleading. She knew it would not have worked. “For you – just this once.” “Thank you.” “There is one condition.” “What is it?” “Renarin will be there.” “I accept,” she said immediately, and she began to suspect something that she had not caught onto earlier. She wondered how many things had passed her by unawares. Probably many things, so many she couldn’t begin to guess. “To-morrow, then, in the stillroom.” Shallan was silent, and then some minutes passed, and Kaladin got quietly to his feet and left her sitting under the stairs. When he was gone, she sniffed, and wiped her eyes, and wiped them again, because the tears did not seem like they were able to stop, and she could not do anything to stop them. The road untaken, the path unchosen, the words unspoken. If the twists and turns in her life had gone another way, perhaps she would have found her peace on her own – without needing the guidance of another. Or even if her life had been re-directed from its origin of despair, six years ago, and she had never had to do the things she had done, things that filled up her aching nothingness with dark and tarry corruption. Then there would exist a chance – a good chance – she would have found Kaladin’s intimate companionship an appealing prospect, and returned his affections, if things had been different. But Kaladin would not have felt affection for her if she had been nothing but beautiful perfection inside and out. And Adolin would not have revealed his own private self if he had only seen nothing but a façade of beautiful perfection in her. Shallan clasped her hands around her folded legs, and the high collar of her underdress grew damp. It had felt like a betrayal of a friend, to do that – to cause such pain and sorrow, no matter how subtly hidden – to Kaladin. If it had been her, it would have felt like someone had reached beneath her ribs and wrung the necks of her sleeping doves. To think that she would have thought nothing of doing it to Adolin at one time. Adolin had held himself apart and away from true intimacy in emotion for five years – or possibly even more, because some part of him – a part he was still blindly grappling in darkness to find – was afraid of a rejection, a true and merciless confirmation of his own unworthiness. It would have been a mark on his spirit, and one so deep and unfamiliar and unconsciously feared as to have torn it straight through. She and Kaladin had felt the pain of such scars; her first had come from her own dear and demented mother, but now it had long since scabbed up and the pain was now only memory. They were used to bearing their marks. Kaladin would find his peace in time. Adolin, however, needed her help, and she would give it willingly, because she – she – The stairs above creaked. Shallan rose, and brushed the dust off her skirts. She looked upwards, but she only saw a shadow on the stairs above her, wearing the black of either a servant’s livery, or a formal dining suit. She could see no face, only a pair of folded arms that rested casually on the wooden banister of the landing. “Mademoiselle,” said the shadow. It was a male voice, calm and reserved in tone, with the precise enunciation of a native speaker to this Continental tongue. Shallan scrubbed her sleeve over her face. “Go away. I want nothing to do with you.” “Citizen Kabsal sends his best regards.” “I want nothing to do with him,” she growled. “You have proven yourself worthy.” He was restrained in his speech, but it could not be said to be completely emotionless; if he had emotion, she doubted that they were benevolently disposed towards her. His accent in the Anglethi tongue was not Kholinar standard, but neither was it anything she could recall having heard before. “I do not need your validation.” “But you share our purpose, as your presence here indicates.” He paused, as if considering something important. Then he continued. “Egalité is one of the virtues we hold dear.” Shallan said nothing. She heard approaching footsteps at the end of the hallway, from the direction of the servants’ hall. “Come find us. We shall be waiting.” The stairs above creaked. A small oblong of white pasteboard fluttered down from above and fell to the ground. It landed in front of Shallan’s feet, and showed a printed design of three diamonds on its face. She scooped it up, and turned it around – it had the dimensions and appearance of a common visiting card. The back was blank. “Shallan!” called Adolin’s voice from the end of the hallway. “There you are!” She tucked the card into her sleeve, next to her betting slip. She cleared her throat. “Adolin.” He stepped forward, and hesitated. “Shallan – are you crying?” “No. Yes. I was. But not anymore,” she said, and with a deep sigh, wrapped her arms around him, and laid her head against his chest. Her bonnet slipped off and dropped to the floor. “It’s not melancholy, or not exactly. It is six years’ worth of stifled things that I hid away and now they are showing themselves all at once. But I am better. I think I am. I want to be better.” “For to-night, we are new people – different people,” whispered Adolin. “I don’t want to think about being better. I don’t want to think about other people thinking I should be better.” “That comes to-morrow.” Shallan laughed, pulled herself way, and bent down to pick up her bonnet. She tugged it over her hair. “When the clock strikes midnight.” “Until then, we can be knight and princess, and we can slay bog monsters.” He held out his hand. “Or we can have one dance together.” They danced the quadrille, which was more intimate and less stylised than the formal cotillion danced in the ballroom, and Shallan was glad to find that Adolin was well-familiar with the steps; he did not tread on her toes even once. Shallan was also glad that there was no courtly minuet – she had always hated it when Madame Tyn had made her learn it with Jushu. There were even some lively folk dances that had Adolin blushing when more than just ankles were revealed with some particularly athletic high kicks. Dancing in the servants’ hall to the music of musicians who had never rehearsed together before: these must be completely new experiences to Adolin, and to Shallan, experiences in which she had not partaken for a number of years. She had, in the past, listened to musicians and watched roguish dance performances in the gambling tents at Middlefest, but these were things of which young ladies should never admit. Shallan also marvelled at the servants’ lack of interest in observing the rules of proper social etiquette. No-one commented on her dancing with Adolin the whole night, or that both of them had turned away every other enquiry for the single-pair dances. Perhaps others did disapprove that she, as a master-servant, was higher in precedence than Adolin the groundsman, but that was no obstruction to their enjoying their one Feast night. Above stairs, accepting a dance with the same person three times in a single evening would have been an expression of serious interest: it would have indicated that one would be sure to pay a social call within the week. And an unmarried and unengaged young lady who declined an offer to dance would have been expected to decline every other gentleman for the rest of the evening; to turn away a single gentleman would have been blatant and cutting rudeness. When she danced the reel, pink-cheeked in her exertion, she allowed herself to forget all the terrible things that happened in the day; for those few minutes she was a new woman. She imagined herself as a version of the old Shallan who had found her divergent path and her peace within, without having to leave her highland home. It felt like the days before Mother had changed and Father had gone away and returned as his own new – and terrible – man. The days when the family were honoured clansmen to The McValam, and they all dressed in clean new tartans with bright shiny badges and brooches and buckles for the annual clan moot. It reminded her of the days when her brothers could laugh without needing her help. It felt like happiness. It was a strange and unfamiliar word. It was a strange and unfamiliar sensation. When the clock struck midnight, and reality descended with its leaden mundanity, the feeling didn’t go away. It was almost as if, in the emptiness within her, the small sparks of forgiveness and peace had shuffled aside to make room for that new and novel feeling. It was a gentle invitation, an encouragement to stay, but only if it wanted to. How very strange indeed. The personal servants in black began drifting away to prepare the rooms of their charges for bed; it would be at least another hour for the Feast to start winding down, but bed-warmers needed to be warmed, and pots of restorative teas needed brewing in order to forestall the results of excess. She and Adolin headed for the baize door, to a few inquisitive stares of other servants. Shallan blushed, and strode away quickly. Grounds staff had their own quarters outside, by the stables, and should normally have exited the servants’ hall by the trades entrance – they were not usually to be seen in the House proper. Unless, of course, they had an invitation and a motive. Adolin walked her back to her room, and she showed him her repertoire of collected accents. It was not as extensive, or varied, or as well-practiced as Madame Tyn’s, but Shallan still considered it respectable. She could pass as a member of any social class by voice alone; it was only her appearance that needed adjustment – most Anglethi women were taller, more generously proportioned, and were darker of hair and complexion. Well, she mused, she could always pass as a foreigner if the situation demanded. “The first time I met Doctor Kaladin, at the Black Thorn Inn in Courtlea,” said Shallan, “I used my Scottish accent, and I mocked his hair. He never liked me, right from the start – but I suppose I deserved it.” “The first time I met Kal.” Adolin scratched his head. “It was around two years ago, in a bawdy-house. I heard screaming from inside, and I rushed in, and it turned out one of the girls was having a – you know. I panicked and sent for a physician – I didn’t know they had midwives for these things – and Kal came.” Shallan laughed as she tried to imagine Adolin, of all people, in a house of ill-repute. Her imagination failed her; it fell disappointingly short. “Did they call you the hero of the bawdy-house afterwards?” Adolin flushed; he ducked his head. “I barracked with an infantry platoon for two months as a training exercise, and that is exactly what they called me.” “I’m surprised they didn’t offer you free service for your trouble.” “They did.” Adolin’s face reddened further. It was so wonderfully charming. Shallan burst out into uproarious laughter; she covered her mouth for propriety’s sake, but it made her laughs sound like snorts, and soon Adolin was laughing with her, and they were laughing together at the thought of that bizarre situation that almost boggled the mind with its sheer ridiculousness. It felt good to laugh. It was something that she had never done in Kaladin’s presence. Shallan hiccupped, and giggled. They had reached the door of her bedchamber. “Will you bid me good-night?” she asked. Then she threw respectability to the winds. “Or might you stay?” Adolin hesitated. “I shouldn’t stay. Not to-night, at least. But I can bid you good-night.” He took up her right hand with his left, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. Shallan almost rolled her eyes. “It is past midnight, but we are still in costume, and there are no chaperons. If that is how you say good-night, then I ought to show you how I say it.” “How do you say it?” “Like this.” She placed her hands on Adolin’s shoulders and propelled him to the wall; his back hit the wall with a thump. He stared down at her, eyes wide – there was more eager curiosity than shock in them. Shallan smiled, then her hand swung upwards, and she tossed his cap to the floor. His striped yellow-and-black hair stuck up in hedgehogs’ spikes. Shallan rose to her toes and pressed her lips to his, first very lightly, and then with more force. She could not say aloud the words he wanted to hear, for they would have burned her lips – but she could show him how her lips burned, and perhaps he could feel what she felt in their act of silent communication. He would understand that when he laid himself open beyond flesh and muscle and bone, and given her something of his that could not be given back, it had not gone lost and forgotten; it was kept, and repaid, in what little way she thought she was capable of showing. Adolin’s arms circled her waist, and he held her close, and their noses brushed, and she felt the flutter of his lashes. She kissed him again, and laid a hand on his cheek; in a moment of inspiration, she swept her tongue over his lips. He balked in surprise, but he was pressed against the wall, and Shallan was pressed against him, and there was nowhere for him to turn. Kaladin might not be an agreeable person, and she could not consider him appealing in that way, but he could not be faulted for his competence. It was irksome, no doubt, but here was an occasion where his proficiency could be found unexpectedly useful. Adolin recovered rather quickly, and kissed her back, and he was smiling when he kissed her – she could feel his teeth grazing her lips. She gave him one last enthusiastic peck before pulling away; she felt exultant and breathless all at once, and by the rise and fall of his chest, she could see that he felt the same way. “Well,” said Adolin weakly, leaning heavily on the wall, “I do not think I have been bidden good-night quite like that before.” “Isn’t it a convenient thing that a good-night can be had at least once per day, then?” “A good-night like that could make any night a good one.” “It has been many years since anyone has wished me a good-night.” “Yes,” said Adolin. His eyes closed, and he was silent for a moment. “My mother was the only one. When I was a child, she used to say ‘Adilein, ab ins Bett!’ every evening before blowing out the lamps.” “‘Adilein’?” Shallan had not been taught to fluency all of the Continental languages, of which there were many, but she had the sneaking suspicion that Adolin’s mother’s farewell was not quite a literal good-night. “‘Adilein’, or ‘Adi’ was what she called me when Father wasn’t around. Which he wasn’t, most of the time.” “I didn’t know you could speak other languages,” said Shallan. “I don’t – I can’t – I have not heard it spoken for years,” Adolin admitted. “Renarin speaks it better, but he was always fonder of the tutoring room than I.” “I do not have fluency in your mother’s tongue, but my governess lived in the Varshava embassy in her childhood. I can show you a different flavour of good-night, if you’d like.” “I would like it.” Shallan closed her eyes, and remembered the Kujawiak shepherdess act she and Madame Tyn had played out one rainy day – the governess had even been so thorough as to ensure that Shallan knew how to rope a ewe. There were words she wanted to say; they lingered and she felt their warmth – but it was like staring at the sun. She would be blinded and burned if she looked at it directly, but if she glanced quickly out of the corner of her eye, or wore smoked glass lenses that filtered the light, the brilliance would not hurt. She could not say those words – not right now – but she could still say them, in her own way. “Jeżeli mnie kochasz, zatem moje serce należy do ciebie,” she whispered into his ear. The words warmed her tongue and filled her chest, but they did not burn her, or choke her in her deception. She did not think they were a deception. “Yesheli minyeh–” repeated Adolin, and then stopped, embarrassed. “What does it mean?” “You must speak it with more of a whistle – and it is a greeting for the closest of companions.” That was true. “I am flattered, then.” He grinned at her, and she wondered what he would say, or how he would look if – when – she could say the real words to him and truly mean it. “You would not hesitate to say the same thing to me.” Shallan brushed a kiss on his cheek, and then said very softly, “Wealth is not the only language. We should find them – and learn them together. And then you might show me how a good-night is meant to be said.” Shallan picked up Adolin’s fallen cap, and pressed it into his hands. She opened the door of her bedchamber, entered, and closed the door; she then threw herself on the bed, disregarding the streaks of dirt on the bed-cover, left from Adolin’s boots. She kicked off her own slippers, and unbuttoned her dress; the two white pieces of paper tucked into her sleeve flitted to the floor, and she lay staring at the canopy in her bodice and underdress. Her sketchbook and pen box were still on the bed next to her, and her silver hairbrush on the side table. The other pillow had an indentation in the down stuffing from where Adolin’s head had rested. She missed him already. Adolin was different from Kaladin, as he was different from her. She could not miss herself: her true self was something she had done her best to forget and ignore for so many long years, and even now she had found her peace, she did not perceive it as something worthy of an eager embrace; it was not a flaw to her character, but neither could it be considered a credit. Kaladin might see her scars as a medal of bravery in the face of a difficult circumstance, but Shallan could not. Not yet. For now, they were just scars. Adolin was new, but he was no short-lived bloom of novelty. He was the unfamiliar that was slowly becoming familiar, and that was something she looked forward to, not something she would grow tired of. Kaladin had asked if she had had anything in common with him, and Shallan, in her pragmatism, did not consider that a vital foundation for any intimate connection. Few people did, rich or poor alike. No: she and Adolin had an understanding, and they understood one another, and they would find things to learn and teach and share in their own time. Shallan had not thought herself a lonely person – not for years, at least. She had once joked with Jasnah that her sarcastic humour was the result of her tiring of tiresome company; it was the most suitable solution to the avoidance of boredom. She liked to be the undisputed winner in every conversation, for she detested dull conversation; she had often conversed with herself in her own mind when there was no-one else who could spare her the time or attention. She had not known she was lonely – because she had not known what it was like to have friends. And now she had these friends she had found without seeking, and one of them was – more than a friend. He sought her companionship, and she did not shy away from the prospect of his being her … life companion. She did not feel the urge to win or compete with Adolin as she did with Kaladin; he delighted in her humour, and she had discovered that that was more appealing than being established as an uncontested wit. Conversation as a contest had not won her friends: instead, she had caused Kaladin to dislike her from their first introduction. There was a knock on the door, a brief and tentative tap that was followed by another that was even more cautiously tentative, if that were possible. Shallan’s eyes opened and she rose, and opened the door. Adolin stood outside, hand raised for another knock. He had no coat or waistcoat, only a blue dressing robe thrown over his white shirt and trousers. His boots were half unlaced; the strings trailed on the ground. “Adolin, what are you doing–” “A good-night isn’t a good night unless there is a good-morning. And I wanted to say good-morning.” “But it’s not morning.” “I wanted to find out how a good-morning is meant to be said.” Shallan stepped aside, and waved him in. Adolin glanced both ways down the hall before entering. He stood, shuffling his feet, nervous fingers twisting at the waist-tie of his open dressing robe. He had no neckcloth, and his shirt’s top two buttons were undone, as if he had been interrupted in the midst of changing his clothes. Shallan’s own dress and bonnet and slippers lay on the floor in disarray. Shallan sat on the bed, and after a moment, Adolin cleared away the sketchbook and pen box; he sat down adjacent. Shallan kicked her legs against the wooden frame of the bed, and cleared her throat. “That night in the forest – when I woke up, you had already gone,” she said. “I – I did not think it was proper. And I did not want to present myself unfavourably.” He looked down at his hands, and dropped the strings of his dressing robe. “The Codes state that an officer must always be prepared at all times – he mustn’t tarry, and he must always maintain the standards of appearance.” He was silent for a moment, and glanced over at her, and a shy smile tugged at his lips. “I didn’t want you to take exception at my state. So I went to shave.” “I do not mind it – it tickles.” Shallan giggled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. A thought occurred, and she would have been timid in its enquiry in the past, but not now. “What colour do your whiskers grow in?” “Oh – the same colour as my hair,” replied Adolin, taken somewhat aback at her question. He could not know that she had pondered the answer to that very question – and others – the first time she had seen him, when she had been presented to him at the courtyard pavilion. She could not have – could never have – guessed that she might find him alone with her in her room, on her bed, only days later. “Will you leave before dawn, then?” “I ought to. The Feast would be ended – and duty calls. The Codes would not allow me here, even now.” He barked out a laugh, but it was hollow in its resentment. Shallan took his hand. “If an assassin burst in through the wall or the window, I should think two pairs of hands would be better than one at catching him.” She slipped her fingers through his and gave his hand a fierce squeeze; she met his eyes. “I think your own father disregards the Codes when it suits him.” Adolin’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? How?” “Your father and the Queen Dowager have an … understanding. I did not recognise it, until I recognised what true affection was truly like. If he chooses to obey what Codes he finds reasonable, I cannot see why you should not do the same. It is your own journey, and your destination,” she said, and then added, “if he grants you your choice of wife, it would not make sense for him to forbid you to see her.” “My ... wife,” said Adolin reluctantly. They seemed unfamiliar words to describe an unfamiliar concept. “You make much sense – all of it is true.” “I am well-known for my honesty,” Shallan said, smiling. “Shall I blow out the lamps?” She did so, and Adolin helped by collecting and folding her abandoned clothing into a neat pile on top of her travelling trunk; he even went to close the canopy curtains. When Shallan untucked the bed-cover and the blankets, Adolin made to slide in on the opposite side. “Wait,” she called. He started, and dropped the corner of the blanket. “Do – do you want me to – should I leave?” “No,” Shallan laughed. “No! Your shoes are still are on, and ghillie boots have hobnails on the soles. I do not think I could explain away the bloodstains on the bed if you kicked in your sleep and gashed my leg.” She stifled a chuckle, and continued. “Actually, I think I could explain it away, but it would not do either of us any favours.” Adolin blushed an exquisitely endearing red at that, and swiftly bent to unlace and throw off his shoes. He got into the bed in his shirt and trousers; his socks were left on. Shallan slipped in beneath the covers, and reached for his hand under the blanket. “Good-night,” she whispered. “Good-night, Shallan,” he answered, and his toes in their woollen socks brushed against her bare feet. They agreed that whoever woke up first before dawn would wake the other to build a pillow barrier between the two sides of the bed, for propriety’s sake. It did not do to go lax on the standards, of course. Codes or not, at the end of every day – or the beginning of the next – gentle breeding won out. Author's Notes: On Kaladin and Shallan - Just because two people are honest and less guarded around each other, doesn't mean they are mutually romantically compatible. Maybe they could be, if they worked at it, but Shallan has more chemistry and instant attraction with Adolin. "Love for a noble lady" - Kaladin is referencing Shallan's line "Noble ladies know that love and happy marriages are just foolish hopes". "Utterly unsuitable" - Kaladin being always right must feel like a curse sometimes. "The bawdy-house" - reference to Kaladin and Adolin and the courtesan in WoK. "The Kujawiak shepherdess" - mentioned a few chapters ago, because where the heck is Bavland. In IRL Earth, it is a region called Kuyavia. Shallan's words translate to "If you love me, my heart is yours". They are the sweetest words you can say to your cudownego chłopaka, and they are guaranteed to make his heart go doki-doki. Adolin is so pure and innocent when it comes to certain things that it's super cute. Military training never prepared him for any of this!

Brandon doesn't kill characters off just because someone has to die, thankfully. They only die when the plot is done with them, which is usually the last book. So Adolin will probably last until then. If Adolin did die in SA3, it would probably give Dalinar a jumpstart in his own character development, like Gavilar's death did to him, but it would be a very very heavy-handed and unsatisfying way to do it. Adolin is a gold mine or golden goose to an author interested in developing his characters into three-dimensional people that have problems and overcome their struggles. But to an author who would rather develop the world and the over-arching lore of the universe, Adolin is just another plot thread that needs to be resolved. The more time and pages spent on developing and exploring Adolin's personal issues is less time spent on the main plot narrative of the story and series, since Brandon has a page limit of something like 1100 per book. Like a sitcom with multiple threads going on at the same time, there is an A-plot and a B-plot, and Adolin as a supporting character probably falls under C-plot level. So the more he explores Adolin, the more need to have a satisfying resolution to it. Sometimes it's easier and simpler just not to mention him too much - and that probably explains why he won't get as many PoV chapters in future books as you want. SA has an ensemble cast, and I don't think Brandon intended that people get fixated on any one character, apart from the main PoV/flashback character of the book. Sometimes I think your Adolin bias will make the series unenjoyable for you. If you show up just for the Adolin show, you will leave disappointed because, as you have noticed, so far he hasn't been shown to have a clear role for furthering the overarching plot. He swims in a small pond and his struggles are realistic and internal. That is what makes his character appealing to you, but in the grand scheme of things, it's a tiny blip to the major struggles and themes of the series, which is pretty much philosophy of morality and ethics and dynamics of wielding authority and power. Sad but true. If you want to stop worrying about where the series is headed, trust in the Branderbot and enjoy the Cosmere for what it is, rather than what you want it to be. Otherwise, why read for entertainment if it will just make you upset? Book series with thriller-style plots, or ones focused on world-building and magical systems often do not have good characterisation. And that is true the other way around, and this is why "deep" and "thought provoking" literary fiction bestsellers are usually set on modern day Earth, so they don't have to waste pages on describing the setting because you know what IRL is like already. I have read many popcorn thrillers and romances and the characters are just so shallow they are hilarious to read, as long as you don't take it seriously. When a MC female is seriously described as "gorgeously curvy, with eyes like limpid aqua pools" it makes me laugh so hard. The best part is when the romance novel male love interest is introduced and he is literally described as "ridiculously ripped" and "yummy". :lol: I think it has been ages since I have been personally invested in a fictional series. Proofread thoroughly! And get a beta reader to check afterwards. Sometimes it helps to read what you've written out loud, so you will hear what bits sound awkward. And honestly, it doesn't matter how you end the story as long as you write it well. You could everyone off if you wanted. I don't think I could get Adolin's words right, either. But if you are writing in an AU and not canon-verse, you can take more liberties with his dialogue, as long as you get the tone right. He pretty much says what he thinks and doesn't use a lot of big words. Also in SA-canon, no one says the word "Okay" except Wit, for some reason. I checked after reading a fanfic where the characters used it a lot. So you have to be careful about mentioning Earth things or using Earth phrases that wouldn't make sense on Roshar. Adolin's Shardplate training says he needs to take a break to eat and drink (and poop? ) every 10-15 minutes in battle. He already knows it's better to be ashamed than to be dead. It's possible he would pass out from not eating or sleeping for 2 days, but only if it was a really dangerous situation with nothing to eat and nowhere to safely sleep. But if he's just chilling in Urithiru with everyone else, I think he would be too smart to wear himself out like that. He doesn't feel the Thrill anymore and, and chicken is too important a ritual to him. I think Stormlight is mostly a psychological addiction rather than a physical one. People who take it feel stronger, more aware, more secure in their ability to handle whatever gets thrown at them. They rely on it, and it makes them feel safe and strong, and they enjoy the feeling when life has been so sucky and scary to them - it's like a security blanket that makes them invincible as long as they have their infused spheres. Maybe addiction is a strong word to describe it, but it's like being someone who wears glasses to see, and having them taken away. Yeah, you can live perfectly well without them, but it feels really really bad. Kaladin and Shallan could have fixed their problems without a spren, if they had someone they could trust completely and see as an equal. But there was no one for them they could talk to that fit their requirements, because Kaladin was hero-worshipped by Bridge Four and Moash turned out to be a donuthole, and all of Shallan's potential role model lady guides (Jasnah and Tyn) died before she get to the point of trust. That is why Adolin might be able to fix his own problems without breaking enough to get a spren, or even needing a spren at all. He just has to trust Kaladin and Shallan and maybe Renarin enough, and they have to trust him. But we shall see... Kaladin is so angry on the outside, that it's jarring for him to be incorruptible pure pureness on the inside. That is why I think it's more fitting for his character that even if he chooses to do the right thing, it's still a struggle for him to decide what is right. He should be able to do possibly questionable things "as long as it is right", and he should feel conflicted about it, or he just becomes a boring MC hero who is good at everything. The way I write AU Kaladin is how I would like to read a Kaladin who didn't have a spren to tell him what is right. That is why AU Kaladin, who thinks using ether is bad and addicting and scars the soul, made an exception for Shallan. It's a romance story, not a tragedy! There isn't a monster hidden behind every corner! And I can't just throw in bad things when I'm resolving loose ends. You can relax instead of imagining a bad thing is just about to happen. It's supposed to be light entertainment, or at least that is my intention when I wrote it. Because I hate contrived bad things coming out nowhere just to mess with the MC's. Everything is so tragic. It makes me sad how much you like the trauma stick. You would have to make Dalinar and Renarin extra broken for them to be incapable of functioning normally without Adolin's help, since they are on the quirky level of dysfunctional in SA-canon. To make a more realistic story, since Shallan would be arrested for stealing things if she got caught, I think it would be better if she tried to make Adolin her sugar daddy. If you steal stuff and don't get arrested, you never get invited back. If you make a guy fall in love with you and ask him to buy you things, you can keep getting gifts to sell. It's the difference between the golden eggs and golden goose. If you wrote it, I would read it. Especially if you fit in a love triangle because you can't have stories with Shallan, Kaladin and Adolin without a love triangle. It's like a fry up with no bacon. Apart from the Kholin army, I think the Sadeas army, outside the bridgemen, would be glad he's dead too. Because AFAIK, soldiers who annoyed their officers would get sent to the bridge crews as punishment, which is why there were non-slaves in the crews getting twice the slaves' pay. And in the political pragmatism side, getting rid of Sadeas breaks up the factions that have formed in the warcamps. Most people are either pro-Dalinar, or pro-Sadeas, with a couple of people in between who are too afraid or too apathetic to side with either prince. With Sadeas gone, there is a political power vacuum waiting to be filled, if Sadeas turns out not to have a male heir, or his heir is too far away to reach the Oathgate to Urithiru. Other highprinces might be glad to see Sadeas gone because it makes a repeat of the Yenev situation, and one lucky person gets a rank upgrade. I think everyone is overestimating what Ialai can do. Navani became politically powerless when Gavilar died, so I foresee the same thing happening to Ialai. She may have spies and money, but she can't do any direct actions unless someone admits their guilt in front of witnesses. IMO, Sadeas's death isn't just a character turning point for Adolin and his "start of darkness", but it's a turning point for the tone of the rest of the series. Breaking with precedent and killing a highprince outside of battle or a formal duel is a sign that social rules and expectations of normality in Alethkar and Roshar are changing very very quickly. If the Vengeance Pact war can end after years of fighting, and a bridgeman can become a Radiant, then maybe Adolin could get away, or at least not be super harshly punished for ganking a prince in the dark. What he did sets a precedent, but precedent has been changing day by day, and I think people would be too busy freaking out about the end of the world to care about Adolin being brought to justice in an "eye for an eye" way. The only people who would want it are the people who are closest involved, and the people closely affected, which is Adolin himself, Dalinar and probably Ialai. We are likely to only see it as a reason for Dalinar to question his own leadership role of authority vs. tyranny. Maybe he gets to explore more of his struggle of inflexibility vs. change. Because he needs some character development. And SA3 is pretty much his book. When Shallan meets Adolin in the winebar, she stares at him the whole time and imagines making out with him. I think she has more instant attraction for Adolin than Kaladin, and even if she thinks he's a tolerable person when he shares his backstory, it doesn't mean that she is interested in doing the things with him. If she doesn't have an ingrained stigma against relationships with darkeyes, like Adolin has. Well, at least this is where the Veil x Kaladin crack ship comes in. I also think Kaladin is too honourable to knowingly get into an "adventure" with Shallan. Sure, he would do 2-3 kisses if she initiated, but after that he would feel too guilty about it to let her do anything more. I think he is also aware of their eye-colour difference, even if he got over his lighteye hate. Kaladin would be wondering about what he would bring to a relationship, like Adolin has with his bags of cash. I noticed that the mixed-eye relationships in SA-canon are all lighteye males with darkeye females. There was Sebarial and Palona, Graves and his wife, and that Veden highprince with the one-eye son. Maybe it is like how it was in IRL Earth history, where it's more socially acceptable when it's a white man with his Madame Butterfly than it is the other way around. I expect lighteyed fathers would be upset if their lighteyed daughter married a darkeye who would normally never get promoted past a junior officer because of his eye colour. It would be a waste of an expensive education. I don't think Elhokar is Dalinar's son. Elhokar's eye colour is the same as Gavilar's, and I think as soon as Gavilar showed interest in Navani, or Navani in him, Dalinar would immediately back off. He wouldn't do that to his own brother! Navani wouldn't do that either, because Dalinar was still pretty scary and bloodthirsty. If Navani told Shallan to reject Adolin, they would both be stomping on Adolin's heart. I think at this point in their relationship, Adolin likes her more than any other girl he had previously courted. If he did get dumped, he wouldn't want to consider marrying or courting anyone else, at least not for a long time. And then he would become a true Christmas cake spinster just like Jasnah. And of course no one will even notice because they think Adolin will just get over it, because it's just emotions, and there are more important things to worry about. Of course open communication would be good, between Shallan and Adolin and Dalinar and Adolin, but everyone is so self-focused that it won't happen because the drama pot needs to be stirred ... with the trauma stick!!!! Everyone takes Adolin for granted. People want him to become fire, but they never consider that he might not want to, because he's just a stick. That whole scene was a deep allegory for the whole series, btw. I wonder how people would feel if I just dropped it before finishing it. It makes me mad when I get into a story and check the last update date and it was sometime in 2012. Ah, all those delicious schadenfreude tears. I liked Malta by the end. When I first read her character, I hated her because she was pretty much a mini-Kyle. But she got better by the end, thank the Almighty!!! Kyle's character was just written to be the hate sink of the series. He has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. He is just so unambiguously unlikable that it HAD to be on purpose. Urgh, his dialogue made me want to punch him. It is rare that I hate characters as much as I hate Kyle. It is rare for series to have a hate sink like him. Even Sadeas wasn't as bad. I can easily see Elhokar becoming a Regal Farseer. But the end of WoR showed that he had potential to be an okay guy, and there are hints that time he spent with the Lopen family could have made him less of a paranoid jerk. So who knows - maybe he will get some decent development there to stop being the family load now that Renarin leveled up. My leather pants are not as shiny and not as tight. They're made from real leather so there's no plasticky look, and not like an '80s rockstar at all. It's something like this, except in black. Your mental imagery of AU Adolin's wardrobe reminds me of Asian popstars, seriously. Especially the last one. I would not call them preppy. They are closer to smart-street. Graphic t-shirts, big sneakers, and pants with the dropped crotch are very street style. Smart-casual but practical autumn/winter. Korean popstars because I couldn't resist. I wouldn't be surprised if Adolin's character was inspired by Brandon's time in Korea. This is what true preppy is. It's Ivy League Academic, with lots of inspirations from rich people hobbies like yachting, golfing, and horse riding. They mix equestrian style coats with golfing trews, with deck shoes. AKA, everything from a Ralph Lauren photoshoot. There are cards higher than platinum, but they are pretty rare. Like black cards, or those special edition cards that are pieces of steel or titanium with your numbers engraved on it. They are so flashy that when you use them in a shop it pretty much screams "please kidnap and ransom me". The day that his card is declined is the day Adolin's heart breaks. While Kaladin just laughs at him and tells him it's his welcome to the real world. Adolin likes going to the mall to buy and try on clothes. Shallan likes watching him try on clothes. Kaladin hates malls and the pop music being blasted from the speakers. His jeans have frayed hems and his shoelaces have worn away, but he replaced them with cable ties, and people make fun of them, but he shrugs and says that they work and that's good enough. The only nice clothes he owns were gifts, because he never buys anything nice for himself. He gets socks as a birthday present because his have holes and he doesn't care. His underwear probably has holes too. Shallan and Adolin are that annoying couple, at least to Kaladin. They send each other text messages that just consist of a heart emoticon. Sometimes followed by a message that says "p.s. ur cute", which is replied with "no ur cuter <3". Kaladin probably has a Nokia brickphone. :lol: I felt the revised ending was Kaladin going wishy-washy on "I can kill to protect". The flashbacks of WoK established Kaladin is a different person than his pacifist father, when he wanted to be a soldier over a surgeon, when he was shocked when his father took the spheres. If Brandon had published the corrected version without us ever seeing the original hardcore Kaladin version, I would have accepted it, but the new ending feels kind of "off" to me. The Szeth hate comes from him being a doormat, which makes him a boring character. If he had been taken prisoner, it would have made an even more boring story, because he wouldn't run away. He would just sit quietly in his cell staring at the wall and wishing he was dead. If you read it, you might feel it's a better ending that fits with Kaladin's newly discovered morals, but it would still duller than Kaladin's prison scene. We can only hope that Szeth before he was Truthless was not such a doormat, even though it seems like Shin culture is full of ultra-polite doormats. In the Signings board, you can request someone ask a question for you if you can't be there. Maybe you have to keep lurking there, you 'd eventually get it answered. If/When Adolin does go on his journey of self-discovery, I don't think it will be as hard as some people think it is. You think he is Dalinar's clockwork soldier, following orders because he's a teacher's pet, but there are hints of individuality that are mentioned now and then but go mostly ignored. The uniform regulations that Dalinar has for all the Kholin army officers - Adolin in WoK thinks they're ridiculously strict, even if he doesn't complain about it because complaining is for babies. Because there are only 2 choices - summer uniform and winter uniform. He gets his silver buttons and fancy boots, but he doesn't agree with the uniform codes, until he realises why they are important, on his own time. He doesn't accept Dalinar's explanation of "An officer must be prepared at all times", even if he goes along with it, until he sees for himself how the officers from other warcamps are like. So he rebels against Dalinar in small ways, and that one big way at the end of WoR. His main problem is that isn't his lack of self-confidence. I think it's actually his lack of self-awareness. When he separates the idea of his own identity, and his own values and morality, from Dalinar's, that is when he can grow as an individual. Maybe he will get his chance when Dalinar is too busy overseeing Radiant things to bother with his non-Radiant son. The same thing would really help Elhokar too. Elhokar doesn't seem to have self-awareness unless he's really really drunk. He is like the bad foil of Adolin, with probably the same overbearing father problems, but without Adolin's competence and social skills, he really has no redeeming features. Maybe Adolin and Elhokar will help each other grow. Elhokar's weird heretic sister became a Radiant, just like Adolin's disabled and sickly brother. If Adolin loses his Shards, he can drink the things stronger than yellow wine. Who knows, maybe there is self-discovery at the bottom of a wine glass. I would say that Shards will still be useful, since the Shardplate is impervious to the lightning attacks from the Parshendi. Even the Radiants don't have Plate yet, which isn't made from the screaming bodies of dead spren. Why can't they rely on Shards? Even if there is a tortured spren in each one, it's better to use them to save the world rather them wasting them and then losing to Odium. Life before death, strength before weakness, etc. Since they had no Heralds to prepare them for the Desolation, it's better to take what they can get, rather than let people die because you don't like another guy's magical sword. And not all Radiants will be combat suited, like Shallan. So even if the Radiant number increases - which is questionable, since some of the spren types only sent one volunteer into the physical realm to find a bond partner, they will still be outnumbered by trained Shardbearers, especially in Alethkar, which has something around 30 Shards. There will be conflict, but there aren't enough Radiants, and Shards were made to fight Voidbringers. I bet if Radiants told the Shardbearers that their Shards were dead spren being tortured for eternity, they would think it's Radiant lies to make them abandon their Shards, so the Kholins could collect 'em all like Pokemon and take over Alethkar like everyone knows they want to. Because these things are literally priceless, and the dahn rankings of a bunch of families depend on their owning one. Alethi culture is too warlike and they value Shards too much to throw them away, when their Shardbearers outnumber Radiants by far. The Kholin Radiants will just have to find a way to work with them, because the amount of Shards the family owns gives them power and influence. I do not think you would like Powder Mage either. Unless you like the steampunk aesthetic. It's just one of those military action books that get hyped a lot like the Emperor's Blades trilogy, or Broken Empire. Some people like them, because they run off coolness and explosions, but they are not for everyone. I have read them all, and I don't feel they are worthy of a re-read, sadly. I don't mind military in fiction, but I prefer it as a sidestory or flavour for the setting rather than what the main plot is centred on. The only real-life fiction I enjoy reading is historical fiction or period dramas. They tend to be more character focused, and have some descriptive world-building to be historically accurate, but since it is based on IRL Earth, you don't have to think to hard to imagine what it's like. And the older period romances that are at least 30 years old tend to have decent writing, which I can really appreciate. I'm not a huge fan of the urban fantasy genre, especially the ones with female MC's, because a lot of the time they are just bad romance novels with a supernatural love interest. Hah, I'm glad you saw understood it! I don't pick them all out in the notes because I want people to figure it out on their own. I've been dropping hints the whole way through to foreshadow how Shallan and Kaladin are not-so-different. Kaladin sees their similarities and likes Shallan for it, but to Shallan they are reasons why she can't see him as a romantic partner. Because she doesn't like herself much. Seriously, what bad things can actually happen? :ph34r: Ninjas jumping out of the fireplace? If Adolin walked in on Kaladin and Shallan making out, nothing too dramatic would come of it. Adolin would just be really sad and leave. He wouldn't even call Kaladin out for it. I don't know if you noticed, but in the fic, Adolin was upset at Jakamav and Toral because they were hitting on Shallan in a frat-boy way. Adolin would tell them to back off, but he wouldn't say it to Kaladin because he sees Kaladin as a worthy equal, and better than him in a lot of ways.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 27

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART TWENTY SEVEN The minutes crept away, until an hour had gone, and then another hour, and it had not felt like any time had passed at all. Shallan lay with her head nestled against Adolin’s chest; she felt its steady rise and fall under her cheek, and the steady gust of his breath as it wafted against her hair; she listened to the steady beating of his heart, past ten heartbeats, past a hundred, past a hundred hundred until she found that she could not care enough to count. His arms held her, and her arms held him and what the world did as it happened around them was fleeting and transient in their minds; it would not solidify into the cold and clinging clutches of reality until they rose from their perfect peaceful moment. There was a restful comfort to be found in the embrace of a companion, thought Shallan. Now she knew why respectable girls of respectable family would risk their respectability for this – it could not be described as unpleasant, no, not at all. One could not feel misgivings in the moment; the aftermath, whenever it came, was the real test of regret. But Shallan now understood the appeal of it, and why the lower classes mingled unrepentantly, and why Finnie had encouraged her to pursue Doctor Kaladin, a man well-known for his considerate nature. To lay with a man whose company she found intolerable would have been immensely disagreeable – no doubt it would have firmed the impression of all men being intolerable. And now that she knew how it felt to share the company of a man she well-liked, she did not think she could suffer such intimacy from anyone she did not like quite so much. She was grateful, that although Adolin had not impinged upon her honour in that particular regard, he had offered to make good the loss of her social dignity. Shallan was pragmatic in her thinking: if she had been ruined and discarded by a Duke, she doubted she would ever be able to secure a match to her advantage, and never anything close to another Duke or ducal heir. She would be lucky to marry a third son of the gentry; she might even have had to settle for middle class. Those thoughts were beneath her now, Shallan reminded herself. She was not ruined, and she had not been discarded – and Adolin had not made the offer merely to appease his guilt, or to behave responsibly as compelled by the tenets of social obligation. He had made the offer not as an act of true generosity, but because he was truly genuine in his sentiment. Adolin. She felt his fingers drawing lines across her back, and she could smell the spice of his toilet water. He was not a page in Jasnah’s Great Purpose, or an infinite ledger book, and he was certainly no golden goose – but here her artistically-minded instincts rebelled and declared that yes, he could be golden in the right light, with his clothes off – or at least dramatically disarrayed – to reveal his tanned skin, with perhaps a sunset backdrop to show his hair as something more luminous than a mundane yellow-blond. She could not help herself; she giggled at the mental image. “What is so funny?” asked Adolin. “Oh, nothing – merely a saucy thought,” said Shallan airily. “I do not think they should count as saucy anymore, anyway.” “Why not?” “If the church says that immodesty between husband and wife is not immodesty, then I do not think Society would say that saucy thoughts of one’s future husband or wife are saucy.” “Future wife,” Adolin rolled the words around solemnly. “Wife. What a strange word – it must be something I ought to accustom myself.” He sat up abruptly, and brushed his hair off his forehead. “The House’s master apartments have been mothballed for years. I suppose I should order them re-opened and cleaned.” “It shan’t need to be rushed.” Shallan stretched her arms above her head and yawned. Her shift rose upwards, and revealed a flounce of her pantalets, and one bare knee, faintly freckled. “And I thought husbands and wives slept in separate rooms. It would be barbaric to do otherwise. I do not mind this room so much, and I am sure you mind having to move from yours.” Adolin’s cheeks pinked, his breath caught in his throat; he had been about to say something, but he amended himself, and said, “The master apartment has separate rooms with an adjoining dining parlour – for breakfasts. They open to one another without going through the hall.” “I have walked through half the House in my shift and I do not find it so terrible.” “I shouldn’t find myself partial to the prospect of walking through half the House in my drawers.” Shallan looked at him, and a blush spread across her face; she could feel her ears warming under her hair. She smiled, and the smile grew larger, and she giggled. It was not what he had said that was so funny – it was the presence of a strange and tentative tension between them, one that hummed along almost beneath notice, and it made the both of them shy and skittish in their intimacy. It was a curious tension, and it was definitely not apprehension or unease – it arose from their slowly aligning imagination to expectation. Shallan was sure – well, she was, at least – of how married couples proceeded: Madame Tyn had explained the procedures and mechanics of such things years ago; for Adolin, with his familiarity with horses, this subject could not easily be avoided. But things one read in books were not full explanations. Shallan had read descriptions of how swine’s feathers were used to turn aside cavalry charges, and she had read formulae handbooks for driftwatching, but neither was anything close to how they had been in reality. Shallan could annotate those books with all the information that had been missed. Shallan laughed, and Adolin laughed too; she pressed her palms against his cheeks and held his face in her hands, and they were two people laughing about nothing. They knew each other well – Shallan could read each flicker of emotion that passed over his face, and she could sense the trust he shared with her in his easy bearing; he was open in his demeanour, and he was transparent in his feeling. And yet they had only known one another for a little more than a week – it felt like much longer – so they had only barely begun to know each other. It was the very beginning of a journey, one that was far from any trial by fire. It was an adventure that would not require daring heroism, only patience and reciprocation; although both lacked the wisdom of experience, she was not daunted by the vast and boundless journey unfurling before them. A grand adventure. “We never got to dance, and I have lost my dance card,” Shallan said. “And I think we have missed dinner,” Adolin replied glumly. “We could pay a call to the pantry.” “I’m not sure if they would want us there – not after last time.” “Then dress like a servant. There are enough servants brought in with the guests’ retinues that we shan’t be recognised – we shall just have to wear caps to cover our hair.” Shallan pulled herself upright, and swung her legs off the bed. “Go find the plainest clothes you own – something you can have on without your valet – and I will meet you by the landing in twenty minutes.” “We were meant to stay upstairs – there might be more assassins–” “They would not attack servants, would they? And are you not hungry?” Shallan paused a moment. “Or you could go downstairs to ring for a servant and ask for two sets of everything – and you will risk bumping into someone you know while the food is brought out. This is your Feast, and you are co-host: you cannot brush off a guest without appearing to cut him straight to the marrow.” “Oh,” Adolin sighed. He rose to his feet, picked up the fallen hairbrush, and placed it on the night table. “My social graces are woefully dusty – my education in etiquette was mostly sacrificed in favour of military training.” “Your rank excuses you from the letter of propriety. I imagine your brother and Jasnah take full of advantage of it.” Adolin went to the vanity and picked up his side-sword; he had thrown it and his coat over the vanity chair. “I do not think we should go our separate ways: I will wait in the hall while you change, and you might do the same for me.” “A little help might be required for the bodice.” Shallan opened the wardrobe door, and Adolin dutifully presented his back to her. She found a bodice and pulled it around herself, plucking at the knotted laces. “You may turn around now.” Adolin twisted around and immediately twisted back. “You aren’t finished.” His voice came out strained. “Because I’m waiting for you to help, silly.” She heard Adolin step over, and felt his fingers fumbling at the laces. “It would help if you did it with your eyes open,” she remarked. Shallan shut her eyes and breathed evenly as Adolin’s fingers brushed against the bare skin of her shoulder; the laces were suddenly jerked very tight, and she gasped as the boning squeezed against her bandages. “My goodness,” she coughed, struggling to breathe. “It’s not supposed to be on that tight! A bodice on me is only supposed to provide a bit of shape, not hold everything in.” Adolin loosened the laces. “I thought it was like a girth strap,” he muttered, sounding embarrassed. “The older horses try to trick you, so you have to watch their breathing when you buckle it on. Otherwise they will throw off their saddles.” “I think,” said Shallan, “that if you are not sure about how some feature or other on horses translates to women, you might ask.” “You have never asked about – men things. And so far you have done nothing wrong – nothing I should object to, at least.” Adolin tied off the laces and withdrew, turning his back to her. Shallan shrugged on her underdress – a plain white one, no lace – and buttoned it up, and reached for a black dress in hard-wearing wool. It was simple and severely cut, but that allowed it to look presentable years after more modish styles passed into obsolescence. “I think of the things I would like, and I do it. It seems to work just fine.” “And what other people think: do you think of those before you act?” “I think myself the best judge of what I like, and what is best for me,” said Shallan, pulling on the dress. She reached around for the buttons, but they were carved wood, and easy to manage alone. “If I cared a whit for every single thing thought about me by other people, I should never leave my room. Especially after to-night. The Almighty blessed us with the capacity and the agency to choose our own path, and our Callings. You should know well that both are the essence of command.” “They are. But the entirety of my life–” “My life too,” Shallan cut in. She was all too familiar with what he spoke. She lowered her voice, speaking more gently. “What binds you is merely perception. It is nothing real – unless you think it is. I killed a man but I am no killer. You have done the same – and yet you call yourself a soldier. Just for to-night, we will wear the faces of new people. The rest shall come in time.” She braided her hair, pinned it up, and jammed it in under a knit bonnet. It was no maid’s mobcap, but in her black dress, Shallan was shamming the appearance of a master-servant: a superior servant in the uniform of a qualified lady’s maid. Small stylistic touches were allowed to upper servants who interacted daily with their Family; they were the frequent recipient of unwanted or disused garments or notions. She followed Adolin to his own room, letting him lead the way, several yards ahead. Occasionally they passed soldiers in regimental uniform, who saluted him with the closed fist to breast; Shallan was ignored completely. She smiled to herself; the luxury of choice was true freedom, but only if one had made themselves aware of the variety of choices available to them. It was something she had known when she had studied with Madame Tyn, and had never considered that it could be applied to all of her, and not just the exterior. To throw off the shackles of identity, to become a new woman for one evening – some might call it depravity, blasphemy, and a deliberate perversion of the hierarchy established by the Almighty, but Shallan saw it as an evaluation of skill. A new woman, in the affectionate company of a new man. Was she Shallan, who had found peace within, and within that, forgiveness? Or was it the lady’s maid in the black of a master-servant, who held the arm of a man in the green-grey of a grounds-servant? “You smell like gunpowder,” Shallan noted. “These are the clothes I wear to the range. The only things I hunt are clay pigeons.” Adolin adjusted the set of his cap; he had tucked his yellow hair into it, to hide the mark of his obvious foreign blood. There were few nobles with that colouring, and even fewer workers. Shallan’s own hair was rather distinctive, but shades of it were not uncommonly found in northern Anglekar, near the Scottish border. “You look very smart.” Shallan thought he did look fine, exceptionally fine – perhaps better than what might be expected for a grounds-servant. Servants did not have jackets with an interior lining of bright blue silk; grounds staff certainly did not have their ghillie boots polished to a spit-shine. They waited for a uniformed soldier with a musket over his shoulder to disappear around the corner, then they descended several staircases to reach the baize-tacked door of the servants’ hall. Adolin reached for the door handle. “Wait,” called Shallan. “Take off your ring – it would not do us much good if you were to be accused of thievery before we even got to the food.” She switched to the accent of an educated worker; she had not practiced the country Kholinshire accent much, but she had heard enough of it to incorporate it into a long disused upper servants’ accent: it had the tones of one exposed to gentle education, if lacking in the true phonetic perfection of gentle breeding. There was not much Scottish lilt to that accent – it was fashionable for the northern gentry to emulate the King’s tongue, which was based on the Kholinar standard. She could not pass as a local, but she would not be detected as noble. “Your voice changed,” Adolin observed. He slipped off his gold signet, and placed it in an inside pocket of his jacket. The lining flashed a cheerful blue, and Shallan winced. “I did tell you that my governess had an interest in languages,” said Shallan. “Try not to speak much; if you cannot feign an accent, you will surely be caught out in conversation.” “Caught out in my own house. Somehow I keep being drawn into the strangest of situations when I am with you.” A smile tugged at his lips as he pulled open the door. It slid open smoothly with no squeaking of hinges. “One should take new experiences when one can find them. If you find them unpleasant, you must be sure to tell me.” “They are not unpleasant.” Shallan smiled up at him, and they stepped into the warmth and bustle of the servants’ hall. It smelled of food, and hummed with the chatter of numerous conversations all at once; she heard the clinking of glasses and tableware, and the piping of flutes and fiddles in the distance to the clapping of hands and the stamping of feet. Servants bustled past, pushing trolleys of dishes that had been only very lightly picked at, and she and Adolin were ignored. She knew it was not considered respectable to venture belowstairs uninvited; there were boundaries greater than the gap of income between the Family of the House, and the servants who served them. There was blood, and breeding, and dignity – and shame. Shallan had perceived long ago – but had never thought much of it until now – that servants did not want the gentle eyes of their employers to see how they lived, or how much work was required to uphold the standards. It was illusion and perception that everything done was done with effortless and efficient ease. One only saw the monkey on the organ grinder’s cabinet, and that was all what wanted to see; the whistling pipes and cranking wheels on the inside were completely forgotten. It was an intrusion into the privacy of another family’s home, the family who lived belowstairs to the Family, and she would be found unwelcome – if she were found at all. She glanced at Adolin. It was likely he didn’t even know; it was the butler’s duty to ensure that the inner workings of the House were kept away from the master, and the only thing he got to see was the account book that was signed off at the end of each week. The servants’ dining table was overflowing with the leftover dishes from the luncheon buffet, and the grand dinner that she and Adolin had missed. There were servants in the blue and white ducal livery of Kholinar Court, and the livery of other Dukes: they wore jackets and knee-breeches in the colours of the house standards, with the Family’s glyph pair embroidered over the breast. The servants in the retinue of minor nobility were clad in hard-wearing grey or black or brown, with waistcoats in their Families’ colours; the master-servants dressed in all black, with occasional touches of very dark grey. There were not enough chairs for all, or enough room to fit them; the diners filled their plates and either wandered about to make conversation, or left to the kitchens where there was more room to eat. Adolin left her side and started immediately for the food, and left Shallan to stroll around and eavesdrop to her heart’s content. “They don’t touch their food but they keep asking why their glasses are empty,” she heard a footman say. “They drink like fish, don’t they?” replied a second footman. “Slimy and chinless the lot of them; it must be something in the City water.” Shallan moved on. She passed a small circle of younger women in the black of master-servants. Their curled and braided hair peeked out from underneath small circular lace caps that perched decoratively on their heads; they didn’t appear to cover anything that the ladies considered worth showing. The collars of their underdresses were edged with thin lace trimmings that did not dare to go so far as to proclaim garish wealth, only the tasteful elegance of a connection to a stylish lady of quality. “If you ladies are interested in bettering your position,” said one woman with tight corkscrew curls that fell over her forehead like a sheepdog’s forelock, “I hear there’s a good chance of a new Duchess Kholinar.” “I daresay the position of Miss Kholinar is bound to be up any day – much better than holding one’s breath for a shot at Miss Kholinshire,” remarked another woman. She had silver ribbons stitched around the neck of her dress. “What say you, Miss Morakotha?” asked the first to the third, a slim lady with hair braided around wooden hairspikes in plain black lacquer. Shallan remembered that ladies’ maids – and personal servants in general – when guesting in the residence of another household, addressed one another by the hereditary titles of their Families; they did this rather than defer to the brazen familiarity of Vorin names. Adolin’s valet, had he been present, would have been referred to as Mr Kholinar, and Renarin’s as Mr Kholinshire. Miss Morakotha tossed her head and smiled thinly; Shallan began to develop an instant dislike towards her. “Miss Khal, I think there’s a good chance I might get my step and end up a Miss Kholinar without the whole rigmarole of audiences and referrals.” The other ladies looked at each other meaningfully, then the second woman with the silver ribbons hesitantly said, “I heard Lady Danlan is rather set on landing a certain Duke.” “I say she has a good chance of landing him, Miss Lustow,” said Miss Morakotha. “She told me that she managed two sets with him, and a kiss before dinner.” The ladies tittered, and sipped their drinks, and Shallan’s face reddened. Her fists scrunched up folds of her skirt and she clenched her teeth to keep herself composed. Miss Morakotha raised an eyebrow at Shallan. She gestured her over. “Miss, you are perfectly welcome to join in our conversation. Has your own lady got her sights set on any eligible Duke?” The other ladies turned their heads to Shallan and gave her polite nods; they made room for her in their circle and eyed her dress, which had no small features to make it individual – no lace edging, no porcelain or shell buttons, or interior linings of dark purple or dark blue or dark red in scraps of silk or cotton passed down as gifts from a generous employer-patroness. “Miss Valam,” said Shallan, nodding to the other ladies. She spoke in her artificial accent, and threw in a touch of a northern burr to soften the consonants. “My own lady is married to a cousin of Duke Hatham. I sincerely doubt that she intends to annul her own marriage of thirty years for a southern estate like this one, no matter how grand it is.” The ladies seemed to accept her explanation; they looked at one another and smiled, and did not appear to see her as a threat to their future employment. “Have you looked at the books?” said Miss Morakotha, jerking her head in the direction of an archway; there was a trestle on the other side, in the direction of the kitchens. Shallan saw men in waistcoats and shirtsleeves with their heads bent around a ledger in the centre; one young man with the sleeve covers of a bootboy scribbled intently into the book. “There’s a book on who will be the next lucky Duchess Kholinar. One will get you two on Lady Danlan.” “Well, one mustn’t count their chickens,” answered Shallan. “Who else is in the running?” “Lady Melali is one for three,” Miss Lustow said. “And my own Lady Janala is one for five.” “Any northern girls with good prospects?” Shallan inquired. Her interest had been piqued; she had always been fascinated with the applied arithmetic of fortune and chance – it was something she and Wikim had occasionally Jushu had looked into when they’d found out one could cheat at cards if one had the numbers. And she was curious about another thing. “I’d like to see a good northern lass well set-up. Nothing wrong with southern girls, of course, but I should think that northern lassies have a bit more spit to them.” Miss Khal spoke. “The Scottish one, that Lady Shallan, was one for eight the last time I checked. She was higher up in the ranks earlier for being a personal guest of His Grace, but she didn’t even dance a single set with him.” “You see.” Miss Morakotha smiled. “A good chance indeed.” Then her eyes flicked over Shallan’s shoulder, and she straightened up, patting at her hair and her little lace headpiece. The other ladies turned as one. It was Adolin, approaching whilst nibbling on a slice of pie, a full plate in his hands. He nodded to the ladies with his habitual courtesy, and glanced at Shallan. “Shal–” Shallan made a quick gesture with one hand, and Adolin corrected himself. “Shal – are you hungry? There’s plenty of food if you want any. And I didn’t see any things you can’t eat.” “I shall join you in a few more minutes – please do not wait for me.” She smiled at Adolin, who smiled back, ignoring the ladies who were inspecting Adolin with an appreciative eye. Adolin soon re-joined the queue at the dining table, and the ladies turned back to their conversation. Miss Morakotha sniffed and shot Shallan an appraising look. “Miss Valam, I should say you could do much better than a gamekeeper or groundsman.” “He is not bad to look at,” said Miss Lustow. She twisted a curl around her finger idly. “He speaks decently well – and has height and leg enough to make the roster of household staff should he want it. You might encourage him to better himself. Lace and new kid gloves don’t buy themselves, you know.” “The horses make him happy, and that is good enough for me,” said Shallan, rather defensively. “Not everything has to be about wealth.” “But most things are, Miss Valam. It seems to me that your northern lasses may have more spit than sense if they cannot understand that simple fact of life.” Miss Morakotha smiled an obnoxious smile, and Shallan struggled against the impulse to strike her. “Excuse me, ladies. I find myself quite faint and out of sorts – and in need of a restorative bite.” Shallan nodded to the ladies’ maids, who nodded back, and went to find Adolin. She knew without having to listen that the ladies were discussing – criticising – her being so disagreeably contrary in her attitudes. She found Adolin, and tapped him on the shoulder, and he grinned. “They have spiced chicken!” He took up a serving spoon and ladled spicy gravy onto his plate. “It’s my favourite. Do you want some?” “Why not? How much money do you have on you?” “What – why? I don’t think we have to pay for this food; I already bought it–” “There is a little wager I would like win.” “Oh! Wagers! I suppose they are only fun if people are willing to bet against you.” Adolin handed her his plate, and dug into a pocket of his trousers, and then checked the pockets of his coat. While she waited, she nibbled at his chicken. It was very good, though it was served colder here than originally intended, and spicier than she was used to. Adolin held out a hand. “Here – this is all I have. I don’t have my billfold on me, but will this do?” Shallan took the money, and counted it up. Three guineas and one sovereign. It was enough money to buy over a hundred pounds of oats, and still have enough left for butter and eggs. Of course it was nothing to Adolin. “It is more than enough – thank you!” She gave him his plate back, and went to find the men running the books. Shallan swept past the archway – and into the kitchens. She had been here before, after that embarrassing pantry incident. The string bags of onions hanging from the rafters were familiar to her, as were the barrels of flour and meal and lard against the walls. But now the central working tables were not full of cook’s assistants preparing food, but servants with their jackets off eating, drinking, laughing and – placing bets. There were the menservants bent over the ledger. One man had a small wooden rack of beads; another man, the one with the sleeve covers spotted with drops of ink, was writing with a dip pen and occasionally wetting it in an ink bottle with a brass wire-bound cork. There were other men opposite, and Shallan saw money changing hands, and little slips of paper being exchanged. “I would like to place a wager on the new Duchess Kholinar,” Shallan announced. The man at the ledger looked up, eyes narrowing. He scratched his chin, and flipped over to a new page in his book. “Another for Lady Danlan, then?” “No – what are the odds for Lady Shallan?” Flip, flip, flip went the pages. “One gets you eight and a half. Long odds, unless you’d like to take the risk.” “Here.” Shallan dropped the money onto the book. They hit the paper with a series of muted taps. Shallan was disappointed; a clatter and a slow roll to a gentle stop would have been much more dramatic. But the gold gleamed with the warmth of high purity, and the faces of King Elhokar I winked at her in the light of the overhead lamps, and that was striking enough. “For Lady Shallan.” The man gazed down at the coins, and he picked one up. “Eighty-three sphere shillings. Over two months’ wages.” He looked at Shallan and back at the coins, and there was there was greed in his eyes. “Right. Who should I make it out to?” “Second chambermaid Finnie, if you please.” He wrote the payment into his ledger, and then a receipt – two copies. One of them was torn out and handed over to Shallan. “Here. Good luck, darling.” He chuckled, and swept the coins into a lockbox. “Do you pay out in instalments? I imagine it might be hard to have out over thirty-five spheres sterling at once,” Shallan said. “Payout is only for winners,” said the man, smirking. He looked at the other man with the racked beads. “All wagers are final, Miss. No coming back to us in tears when you’ve skinned yourself well and true.” “Of course not.” She tucked the slip of paper into her sleeve and left them to their business. Shallan strolled deeper into the kitchens, looking about. She was an inquisitive person, and she could not see that a thirst for knowledge could ever be a flaw, even if it had led to unfortunate occurrences in the recent past. But that was not the fault of an existence of her investigative nature; rather people, for some reason she did not understand, objected to it. It was not like she purposefully pried into their affairs: she just found things interesting that often people did not particularly want her to know. She passed into the inner kitchens, with their cooling racks – now mostly empty – and the bread baskets, which were uncovered now, revealing lonely crumbs scattered on the bottoms of the muslin sackcloth basket linings. She heard the low murmur of conversation, and saw the blue of regimental uniforms; they were common soldiers – the Prince’s guardsmen – eating their dinners. One of them wore a uniform coat with the epaulets of an officer. She hesitated for a brief moment, and then immediately wheeled around, back to the safety of the outer kitchens. “Miss Davar,” a voice called out behind her. She heard the scrape of a chair. The conversation of the soldiers tapered off; they fell to silence. There were footsteps behind her. Author's Notes: "Loss of social dignity" - just some period-realistic Regency flavour in there. Girls can't get away with nuthin', but guys can philander all they want if they're discrete about it (meaning no obvious illegitimacies), or if they're just really rich/powerful/connected. Which is why young ladies aren't supposed to commit unless they get a confirmation of commitment from the guy. Most people get married for economic reasons in that period. Any man with an income of over £4000 a year is considered extremely eligible. For the purposes of this story, Adolin has £60 000 a year as top ranking nobele, and Kaladin gets £2000 as upper middle class. "Aligning imagination to expectation" - winky wink. ;-) It has always been disappointing to me that Brandon Sanderson can't write believable romance. It's just so ambiguous that you are left wondering what just happened, and he says he does it on purpose. I always figured that realistically, young people will always be curious about these things, even in very strict Regency setting. "Cut him straight to the marrow" - if you know a person after being introduced to him in the past, you have to acknowledge his presence every time you see him in a social situation, or you imply you are "cutting" him from your social network. Aka de-friending him publicly. Connections are super important in this era when there's no Facebook. "New woman" - Imagine how many fun shenanigans could be had if Shallan was Veil with someone else other than Iyatil. Adolin would be very bad at disguises and go under the codename "Niloda". "Miss Morakotha" - SA-canon Adolin dumped Danlan for smacktalking his family to her friends. I would like to imagine Danlan as the classic annoying romantic rival. Her maid should be equally annoying and encouraging of annoying behaviour.

Thanks guys! I am glad to see you guys like it. For some strange reason, when I read books, I imagine it in my head in 2D. Which is why my character designs are pretty stylised - it's really difficult for me to imagine Rosharans as real 3D people. When I draw, I read their personalities, pick out their main character traits and try to portray them visually. I also forgot a picture from the OP, so I might as well do it here. "Missing Mother" I also draw a lot of silly stuff that never gets anywhere. At least it ends up as warm-up or practice at details. How the heck does the back of Shardplate work! I just made it up lol. Oh, and just in case you were wondering, or maybe you want to have a laugh, I will share my inspirations for the character designs. I have discovered that if you hold an image or impression in your mind of something while you draw, you can channel its spiritual aspect into your Physical Realm drawing. Pretty cool, right? Thinking happy thoughts => happy looking picture. Dalinar - inspired by Chief Powhatan (Pocahontas) and Sam Vimes (Discworld). I wanted to show authority and command, but still be a dad making hard decisions in a scary world. Navani - inspired by Pharoah Seti (Prince of Egypt). I know it's a dude, but I really liked his aesthetics and tried to translate them in a way that was regal and still exotic looking. Kaladin - inspired by Prince Moses (Prince of Egypt) and Archer (Fate Stay Night). Serious guy with a hero complex. I just liked listening to "Deliver Us" from the Prince of Egypt OST when reading the bridge runs. Jasnah - inspired by Idina Menzel, no kidding. I think it's the chin. Shallan - princess classic. Pick a princess, or pick all of them. Adolin - inspired by Fred (Scooby Doo) seriously, and Gilgamesh (Fate Zero). He's a nice guy who seems like an arrogant guy at first. My depictions of him swing back and forth between and cute face and hot face, but I think I end up drawing the wholesome "boy-next-door" over "lifeguard hunk". Gilgamesh: Renarin - inspired by that glasses aristocrat character from any anime. Like that goat guy from Nichijou. And I know my art style goes all over the place. I try to keep it cohesive!!!

So, I know there's a gallery, but it only allows you to post one picture at a time, and I thought it would be a cool idea to share fanart illustrations I've done. SA is really colourful and reads like a graphic novel in my head sometimes, and I like creating character designs after finishing a book. Inspired by many many years of watching cartoons, as you can probably tell. Feel free to ask questions, give feedback, or whatever. This is just my take on SA, so artistic license disclaimer. Click to open spoilers, click picture to open up full size. Illustrated scenes "Visions from God" "Honor is Dead" "Lashed to the Ceiling" "Blossoms and Cake" "The Chasms are Mine" Character portraits "Kaladin" "Dalinar" "Navani" "Jasnah" "Shallan" "Adolin" "Renarin" Character designs "The Kholins" "Shardplate Proportions" "Dalinar and Navani" "Eshonai and Szeth" "PoV Portraits" "Frenemies" Shallan's sketchbook pages "AK + SD" "Stormfather" "Unconscious Brother" "Oathgate" "Adolin" "More Adolin" Silly stuff "Arena Groupies" "Eshonai the Explorer" "Mornings" "Kaladin Valentine" "Adolin Valentine" The end!

Reading fiction featuring characters who do stupid things without realising how stupid they are. It's like watching scary movies with that one cheerleader character who wanders off from the group to see what is behind that mysterious door that has bloody handprints on it. The problem with people and characters like that is that you can't help them unless they actually want to be helped. And with IRL people, you can't just flip to the end to see if they get better, so you know if it's worth spending your time on them. If Adolin is supposed to be a recurring character for the whole series, and not just killed off in SA3, then his character development will be inevitable. The only think you have to worry about is how long it will take, since he'll be a tertiary/supporting character the whole way through. If SA was a romance novel, the MC would be forced to confront and solve their inner problems by themselves before they are worthy or functional enough for their happy ending marriage. In ensemble or overall-plot driven fiction, the characters' development is driven by interactions with other characters, or interactions with the setting/plot elements. It is purely reactionary, so what it means is that development and exploration of a character's psyche is proportional to how much screen-time they have. So Adolin will only get to work his own problems out if his character as a whole is important to the overall plot of the series. Maybe he's more useful when he stays messed up or broken, because Rule of Drama. The main themes in SA are morality and right vs. wrong and Adolin's problems are based around his ideas self-worth and value, so character development and getting a Eureka moment of revelation (like Kaladin realising Elhokar is Dalinar's Tien) would only realistically happen when all the themes intersect. SA will pretty much be an essay on philosophy in a fantasy setting. All of the different Radiant orders live by a different set of values that would make any student of law or economics want to endlessly analyse how pre-Recreance government works. If you are afraid that SA will turn into theological or philosophical rambling, you should be! Because it will! You like Adolin because he is an unambiguous good guy in a world full of grey guys and bad guys. And down-to-earth normal-on-the-outside characters are common in non-fantasy literature, but it's rare that books in that genre will have more than one character (Primary Antagonist) who is morally grey or unambiguously bad. And you also like it when such characters get hit by the trauma stick multiple times. You have very specific tastes. I feel that Brandon's main characters are on-par on development and dimension with the MC's of other fiction. But the other ensemble and supporting characters can be pretty boring, undeveloped, or 2D. For example, half of Bridge Four are just humourous props. So I would not say Brandon's characterisation is amazing. It's just that he has original and thoughtfully built settings compared to other authors. Just imagine a scene in your head, and imagine the dialogue that happens between the characters. Write down what they are saying, like a script. It's pretty much how it works - it's easier if you think of it like describing a TV show episode, minute by minute. But it's all in your head!!!! You are the profession Adoliner! I would have thought you could write Adolin better than me, because you are more familiar with every aspect of his character. More than I am, at least. All of the surgebinder main characters make Stormlight seem pretty cool and amazing MAGIC, but if you view it objectively, they're addicted to it, emotionally if not physically. It doesn't have bad side effects other than making you feel weak and tired when you don't have it, but the characters are subconsciously reaching for it all the time, so they can do unhealthy things like staying up for a week straight with no sleep. Do they get withdrawals during Weepings or when they want to use Stormlight but ran out? It reminds me of crazy things people ate in WWII, like Panzerschokolade. And also savants from Mistborn. And that is why I find the idea of the Nahel bond undesirable. Because you do get addicted to it, and even if the sprens like you and can't harm you directly, they still have an agenda for you that is either part of their spiritual intention, or a job given to them by their spren families. They can't force you onto their path, but they can get you addicted to Stormlight, and withhold it from you aren't following their rules, like when Kaladin tried to fight Adolin in the training arena. Syl likes Kaladin, but she has implied she has had other Radiants before him, and she values her own individual identity - which is why she wants to stay sentient with a bond - and also has a self-preservation instinct. She cares for Kaladin, but like all sprens, they care for themselves. Which comes first. Who knows. :ph34r: Maybe it's the neurotypical in me speaking, but I just think it's more satisfying and healthier for a person to fix their own problems. But I have never experienced the level of suffering where fixing is impossible without magical intervention so I dunno. I just feel that in terms of character development in fiction, and personal development IRL, you should improve yourself because you want to be improved, and not because you want a spren at the end of it. Journey before destination. Which is why I would be happy to see Adolin get his happy ending marriage :ph34r: if he fixes himself. I don't even care if he doesn't get a spren. Brandon isn't Oprah, he doesn't have to give everyone a spren. Honorblades don't work with Shardplate. Elhokar is too much of a chicken to go into battle without his Plate, I think. Maybe Dalinar will use it for himself, since he doesn't have a Stormfatherblade. And Honorblades aren't dangerous, they just use a ridiculously wasteful amount of Stormlight. The real dangerous blade would be Nightblood. Syl wouldn't have wanted Kaladin unless he was super honourable. If he had no Syl, and wanted to kill Amaram, he would probably make it to Amaram's bed in the middle of the night, and then panic and go home when he's holding the knife above the guy's head. Syl would just tell him to back off as soon as he thinks of doing it. So the ending is the same thing, but Syl stops the thoughts because they weaken the bond, and Kaladin never learns his lesson himself, which is why he keeps thinking those bad bad thoughts. Until there's no Syl to correct him, and the lesson hits him in the chest and breaks his ribs. AU Kaladin feels no problem killing people who are actively trying to kill him. If he was in another Roshone situation, he wouldn't cut the artery, because that is actively killing someone who isn't actively trying to kill him. The IRL Hippocratic Oaths for doctors are summarised into "Do not knowingly do harm", so Kaladin wouldn't be able to kill a man that way. But in an AU without Syl, Kaladin would be allowed to do harm by neglect or inaction. AU Kaladin won't kill a man, but he will allow a man to die, "as long as it is right". I didn't discuss it in the story, but Shallan passing out in the carriage was Kaladin doing harm by neglect, because he thought she deserved it for dissing his dead brother. Obviously he didn't know it would go that far, or it would open a can of worms. He thought she would just have a fun frolic and make funny faces, so he could laugh at her later. Are you going to write a 50 Shades of Blue AU Adolin fic? Mysterious Casanova businessman Adolin and quirky magazine photographer Shallan. :ph34r: I think in-universe, most people are going to be happy that someone got rid of Sadeas. With the exception of maybe 3 highprinces and Ialai. So Adolin's redemption arc is more likely to be a forgiveness arc. Because the person who has to get over it the most is himself. And Szeth gets the redemption. Dark characters and stories are hard to read when you have read other dark characters. You always need to take a break between books with characters with tragic backstories or serious mental issues, because they can be real downers. Watch stupid comedy movies or sitcoms, or shallow romances, and they will refresh you between grimdark novels. I don't think Kaladin gets a "feel good" ending in WoK, and it only happens in WoR, if you count "Awesome Moment" as something that makes you feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. I remember when the 4:1 duel ended and the Interlude started, I flipped back and forth to the prison scene, and back to the duel. I couldn't believe that it was so abrupt, with no chapter in between to show what happened to Dalinar and Adolin, and I thought that there were pages missing or something. But then I counted the pages and was disappointed. That is why I thought Dalinar getting his second Shardblade came out of nowhere, because I skimmed over the one line where it said he was sick for a few days. PS, stop wanting bad things to happen to Adolin or they might come true!!!! Kaladin realised he was the one who killed Helaran when they were sitting in the cave. He had the whole 5 (?) hour walk back to the warcamps from the chasm before the 5 days in Urithiru. He could have told her anytime!!! And that is why I do not think Shalladin can happen on the basis of their being so honest with each other. Because they were not totally honest with each other, and they weren't honest for the sake of honesty. They did it because they were afraid they were going to die. If Adolin cannot even consider marrying or doing the things with a darkeyes, would that be typical thinking for the average high ranking lighteyes? Because Shallan is third or fourth dahn, and that is pretty far from a tenner. Would she never consider a darkeyes appealing for a romantic partner in the same way that Adolin thinks, or does she not really care about it? Adolin can look at a darkeye waitress's butt, and Shallan can look at a darkeye labourer's muscles, but would either of them be seriously attracted to a darkeyes? I do not think Shallan would have liked Kabsal if he had been a darkeyes, even if it's not supposed to matter in Ardents. Holy crem, I just did the calculations and if Dalinar is in his early 50's, and Navani is the same age or slightly younger, and Jasnah is 34, then Navani really did get married and have a baby as a teenager. I never realised that. No wonder Shallan comments that Jasnah is old enough to be her mother. I think Navani's bitterness is kind of biased, even if she doesn't realise that she is. If she was a scholar who never married a king, she would never have the access to the resources to study the things she wants to. At least as the King's mother, she gets all the gemstones she wants, and can choose which research is done, even if she can't do it herself. Jasnah can only do independent research instead of joining the retinue of a wealthy patron because she has the family's money to support her. I always thought of Jasnah - and I write her - as an ice queen. Because feelings get in the way of logical thinking. And she is so afraid of marriage because she doesn't want to be bound or beholden to a man. Maybe she has feelings, but they're so deeply hidden that no one will ever know for sure until she gets her own PoV book. Because they have other things to worry about! No one commented on Renarin not wearing his glasses. Everyone is too focused on themselves, or the whole world. Also tough guys don't need people to hold their hands and ask how their day has been. How complex would it have to be before he feels he has to spill the beans?? :ph34r: Two kisses? Or three? Would he crash a wedding in his bean spilling? Most people assume that a guy who can get girls would not need to see to his needs on his own. :ph34r: Most people assume that guys who don't need girls to see their needs are guys who can't get girls. But that doesn't apply to Adolin, so the assumptions pile up. It's not going to be a complete tragedy, because that would take too long to resolve. And even if it's not SA length currently, it's past the length of most YA novels and is heading into legit novel length territory. It will end without being dragged out! Omg Malta. Malta and Kyle were the characters that made me want to throw the book across the room. Malta got better, and she earned her happy-ish ending with Reyn with her character development. But every single scene with Kyle Haven made me so irrationally angry. I feel like Robin Hobb wrote his character as stubborn and near-sighted and stupid on purpose just to mess with the readers. No one can be that stupid, not even Regal Farseer. Renarin never probably developed hobbies because he thought they were a waste of time, and the real purposeful hobby he should be doing is learning how to fight. Dalinar thought Renarin wouldn't get a fit in Shardplate, or if he did get a seizure, he wouldn't get hurt. I think that was his logic for giving him his Shardplate. It doesn't make him a better fighter in battle, since he doesn't even know how to hold a sword. It just makes him a liability since he can't defend himself and his safety is only guaranteed as long as he has Stormlight in the Plate. In an AU where men are sent to school and are taught to read, I think Renarin would have had a healthier childhood. If he could have read books on his own as a kid, he wouldn't be so desperate to be a soldier. At trendy shops like Zara, they have leather leggings. And in other places, they have "pleather" or "leather look" pants, which are made of fake leather. When you get a real leather pair that fit, and you break them in, they mould to the shape of your body, and are really comfortable. Of course it will get hot and sweaty in the summer, or if you try to run in them, but leather is made of skin, and skin has little pores. You will get sweaty, but it's not sticky and doesn't get smelly. As long as you hang your pants out to dry for a few hours after you take them off, the sweat will evaporate and they won't get mildew. I own leather pants! Everyone should wear some if they can!!! I hope Adolin doesn't wear his shirts with the collar popped. That is what people do when they think they are preppy. But it's not, it's just douchey. I wonder if Adolin would be like most men, who just buy things off the rack and are too lazy to try it on in the changing room, because they want to get in and out of the shop as fast as they can. Or does he like trying everything on, in the fancy stores where they have assistants to bring you all the clothes and serve champagne in the dressing room. Because you can get the fancy treatment when you use your dad's platinum credit card. Adolin doesn't ignore Renarin! They just sit on opposite sides of the same carriage, because Adolin wants to look cool. And Renarin isn't really much of a talker. Renarin feels more comfortable writing messages on his phone than having a conversation. So it works out better for both of them. And Adolin can text message Shallan at the same time. She oversleeps her alarm most of the time, so she asks Adolin what to wear for the day and includes pictures. Because when they coordinate their outfits, it annoys Kaladin. Regarding Szeth's "death", I know Brandon wrote it to be more merciful, and to put it in line with Kaladin's interpretation of morality. But to me, it just felt weak. Seriously, what is the point of putting "as long as it is right" at the end of this oath, when he can't even use it? Maybe Szeth wasn't in control of his actions but Kaladin doesn't know it - all he sees is a serial killer. And his oaths don't require knowing the full story to act. I have the original version and I will keep it. It doesn't even matter which version you read and believe is your head-canon anyway, since Szeth doesn't even die for real. Which was another reason why I felt the change was unnecessary. Yeah, you can post the alternate ending on your blog, but when the original ending has been published, you can't just take it back! And it didn't really work; half the people who read it still prefer the original. AREDOR - it's the name of a mountain, or a kingdom. Or a fortress or castle on a mountain. Surrounded by a giant orc army and a giant moat full of piranhas and sharks with lasers!! Or maybe it is a man who has a scar over one eye, and an eyepatch on the other. He wears a chainmail shirt and a hilariously oversized codpiece, and when he flexes his arms, little links of chainmail fly off from the pressure, and hit enemies straight in the eye. MERRIN - the fifth hobbit in the Fellowship. It's Merry and Pippin in one person, with twice the appetite! Merrin isn't a hero's name, it's a sidekick. This is the guy who has to pick up Aredor's bits of chainmail out of the dead bodies of his enemies, and polish his codpiece while Aredor picks up chicks in the local tavern. Instead of descending into 100% angst, I wonder if Adolin is secretly relieved and grateful that he isn't expected to be the hero protector anymore. Because Kaladin turns out to be the hero that Dalinar was looking for all along, and Kaladin gets treated as almost a son. All the pressures that Adolin had on him for his whole life aren't on him now - some of it gets diverted to Kaladin, and Renarin and Shallan. I know Adolin isn't a shirker, but his father's expectations have been his millstone for so long, so it must feel good that he gets a little leeway now. Even though that led to him ganking Sadeas when no one was looking. And since you are so Adolin biased, and focused on what Adolin thinks about the New World Order, I wonder what the other highprinces think of it. Because they are supposed to be equal, with the King on top, but what happens when one of them is a Knight Radiant? If Adolin worries about his own status when his girlfriend Shallan is a Radiant, everyone must be wondering where Dalinar stands. Not just the other princes, but Elhokar too. And maybe Hatham, or whoever else was the other highprince with a Ryshadium. Because how they decide what rank Radiance makes a person will likely set some context for how Adolin will perceive his own status in society, and with Shallan. He is heir to a princedom, so what value can that be in the new world? Value is only a perception. Adolin will have to find his value as a person too, and that is a whole other struggle. I would also that Radiants don'thate Shardbearers. There are a number of Radiants who were former Shardbearers. It's just the spren that hate them, and they hate the Blades existing rather than the Shardbearers themselves. None of the Shardbearers were the ones who killed the sprens in the blades, because that was the Knights before the Recreance. They are innocent, and up until now, no one even knew that they were dead spren. Since the Knights' words are "Life before Death" they would understand that Shardbearers can fill in the gaps in the ranks when only 10 Radiants are alive in all of Roshar. Shardbearers don't have to work side-by-side with Radiants, even if Kaladin would be ok with it, but they're important for military strategy. You can't just re-train 10 armies used to being led by a charging Shardbearer in one afternoon. I don't think Adolin would be impacted by the thought of hurting his sword unless he starts developing a proto-bond with it and can feel it screaming in his head, or feels sick when he summons it. He doesn't even know it's a dead spren in there, and would have to be told by Kaladin or Shallan, and if is going to spend a few months avoiding people out of shame, no one will ever get the chance to speak to him. Because I support Australian literature, I recommend Garth Nix's Old Kingdom Trilogy. He lives in my city and does signings. <3 The first book (Sabriel) has a strong female protagonist and cast of 2-3 characters. The second book (Lirael) has a strong female protagonist and cast of 2-3 characters, and major character development arcs that I think you would like. Nowhere near as frustrating as Robin Hobb or Kaladin. The third book is pretty much the second half of book 2. It's one story split into two novels. I tried to read Guy Gavriel Kay books because people said they were good, but I just couldn't get into them. I was pretty much bored 100 pages in and that is the line where I give up reading and switch to something else that I don't have to force myself through. I finished all three books of the Powder Mage Trilogy and if you like military fantasy, you would like it. But it is a plot driven, ensemble cast story, and by the time I finished the last page of the last book, I had already forgotten what had happened in the first book. I don't think it is something that is worth a re-read, at least to me. I read them all at once, but the story didn't have any lasting impact on me. YMMV, whatever. If you want deep character arcs, fantasy isn't the best genre to find them. It's okay, I write Kaladin's lines to be ambiguous and have multiple meanings to everyone, for irony purposes. Kaladin says one thing, and Shallan hears another, and the readers will interpret it as they will. All meanings are valid! For example one of Kaladin's lines is "I am not - nor do I wish to be - your brother". Shallan thinks that he means that he doesn't want to be like her brothers, who are either addicts or dead. Kaladin's meaning is that he doesn't want to be considered a brother, because that pretty much cancels out any chance of them being romantically involved. They are all true, but it adds an extra twist of irony for the reader to be aware of the extra implications. So Shallan can be the goose in a number of ways. Her character is just so focused on herself that she doesn't really think about anything other than the literal meaning.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 26

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART TWENTY SIX They chattered about inane things and ignored the curious stares of passers-by, until they reached the landing and Shallan had to direct him to the guest wing where her bedchamber was situated. Apparently, the guests and Family quarters were on opposite ends of the House to discourage the occurrence of tarnished reputations. Shallan had been seen wandering the halls in her undergarments and the coat and the company of a man who was not her husband; her reputation had already been tarnished, and she could not care to protect something that no longer existed. They reached the bathing chamber, and Shallan opened the door. Adolin followed her in hesitantly, looking around at the tiles and the pictures of stylised towers in frames of blue and gilt. “Am I allowed to be in here?” “There’s no maid – so who else will fill the tub?” said Shallan, pointing to the pump handles by the porcelain bathtub. “I was burned on my right shoulder so it would take me half a day to do it with my left.” Shallan sat on the maid’s stool and watched eagerly as Adolin unbuckled his side-sword and laid it on the stack of towels. He rolled his sleeves up his tanned forearms and worked the pump handle – the hot water one first, and then the cold water. Damp steam roiled out of the faucet and the tub and clung to his shirt, outlining the corded muscle of his shoulders and upper arms. It was a shame he still had on his waistcoat, thought Shallan, enjoying the view immensely. Shallan shed the uniform coat and began undoing the buttons of her underdress. Adolin looked up, and said, “I’ve finished filling the tub–” His voice choked off with a strained gurgle; he spun on his heel with military precision until his back was presented to her. “Ah. I should go now. Yes. It would probably be a good idea.” “Haven’t you ever seen a lady disrobed?” asked Shallan, amused. She could have been shyer about it, and she would have been if she were still at Loch Davar. But she had grown used to being unclothed in front of her maid, and Jasnah, and Kaladin too, now that she thought of it. “Um. No?” She dropped her bloodstained dress to the floor, and walked over to the bathtub. Adolin shifted about to keep his back to her. It was marvellously endearing. She poured scented oils and powdered soap and a whole jar of dried flower petals into the water. “Not even all those – other girls? Before you met me, of course,” said Shallan, as she slipped off her pantalets and stepped into the hot water. She was curious – and felt unwelcome sense of dread about receiving an answer to that question. It was something she had never thought about; she had always told herself she didn’t – wouldn’t – care about what Adolin got up to in his own time, and the girls he went through one per month in the City didn’t matter as long as it was her he chose in the end. “No,” he answered promptly. And then a queer note entered his voice. “Have you?” “I’m looking at a lady disrobed right now, Adolin.” He was blushing. She could tell it without looking at him; she knew him well enough by now. She splashed the water and giggled. “I meant,” here he spoke tentatively, “gentlemen. Disrobed.” “Why, yes. Four of them.” “What?” He whirled around red-faced, saw her laughing in a tub full of bubbles, and spun back so he did not have to see her in her state of indecency. “I have four brothers,” Shallan said, and splashed about to cover her stifled laughter at his reaction. Was that – could that be jealousy, of all things? “In Scotland, men wear skirts, and there is a traditional technique to put them on that does not appeal to the dignified sensibilities of Anglethis. The trick is to do it laying on your back.” She paused, then continued. “And it’s traditional not to wear anything underneath.” “You needn’t tell me anything more; I think I have heard quite enough,” said Adolin. “I should go down to dinner. They must have already started it by now. Unless they are still toasting.” “It has only been something like twenty minutes,” remarked Shallan. “Your little friends will no doubt be waiting for tales of your daring exploits. But I suppose if you are hungry, by all means, go down. Leave your sword so I might be prepared for assassination attempt – I imagine I could drown a man in the bathtub, but it would be drearily tedious.” “No,” said Adolin, coming to a decision. “I shall wait outside the door, then.” He took up his side-sword, and with one quick glance at her – she pretended not to notice it – he pulled open the door and shut it with a firm click. When Shallan was finished, she wrapped one towel around her waist and another over her shoulders – there was no maid to bring fresh clothes, and she did not want to put on the bloodstained dress that she had dropped into the linen basket on the floor. She took a breath and opened the door. Adolin was outside, holding his sword above his head; his eyes were closed. They flicked open, and he lowered the sword slowly; he re-sheathed it in its scabbard with a soft snick. “Sword forms – Ironstance,” he explained. “I haven’t had much opportunity to practice these last few days...” He trailed off. “Are – are you naked?” Shallan laughed and tossed him his coat. “Here’s a little secret for you,” she said, and then leaned forward to whisper into his ear. “We’re all naked under our clothes.” Adolin flushed and unrolled his sleeves; he pushed them down and straightened the cuffs. “Shall I walk you to your room now?” Shallan led the way down the hall, putting a swing to her hips in the way Madame Tyn had taught her. She had always thought it a ridiculous idea that men might be attracted to the way one walked, but the governess had just waved her reed switch and beckoned her to do another round of the gallery with a book on her head. Shallan had never thought it would ever be of use – she had been under the assumption that the exercise was a waste of time which could be more productively spent on reading or drawing. Shallan opened the door. “Will you come in?” “But there’s no chaperon. It’s indecent–” “I have read The Way of Kings, and it doesn’t say anything about accompanying unaccompanied ladies to their rooms,” Shallan said, trying to keep her face serious. It was difficult to keep her expression level – she did not want to scare Adolin away; he was much different than Kaladin in this: Kaladin would have barged in, invitation or no. Adolin needed to be led gently – and she remembered Jasnah saying that it could be done by convincing him it was of his own volition. She brushed that thought away. She had looked forward to an instance where she could speak to Adolin without chaperons, without other pressing duties – courting as she wished they could have done from the beginning. But here she was, with her reputation irrevocably tarnished, and she could not care that she was indulging in what society deemed licentious behaviour. Well, she had killed a man only hours ago, and whatever society made of that, it could not be any worse. “There was that bit–” “I’m not a courtesan, and you’re not on duty,” she interjected. “Unless you think I am a courtesan. In that case, I demand payment for that eyeful I’m sure you managed in the bathing room.” “You’re not a courtesan,” Adolin conceded, and then he glanced both ways down the hallway before she let him in and closed the door behind him. “Society ladies would say differently,” said Shallan, humming, as she went to the wardrobe to fetch her dressing gown and a clean shift. She kept the door open and hid behind it to change. “And after to-night, there might be some truth in it. My reputation, I’m afraid, is in shambles.” “It doesn’t have to be. It can be fixed.” “By taking the waters, I suppose. Or perhaps a Grand Tour – Jasnah has wanted to travel the Continent for some time.” “No. I can fix it. Am I not Duke?” Shallan tied closed her dressing gown. She closed the wardrobe door. “What do you mean by that?” “I – I caused this. Your reputation can be salvaged, Shallan,” he said. He looked at her, and he opened his mouth, and spoke three words that clanged down like bars on a prison door. They were words that could not be taken back, serious words of serious intention that she had not expected to hear, not so soon – and in the part of mind that saw herself as homely and graceless – not to her. Shallan’s hands trembled. “I do not want it,” she said slowly, “if the offer is made out of obligation and nothing else.” “I feel – responsible. But it is not obligation that impels me to make the offer. There is something else,” he said, fingers tugging nervously at his cuffs. And then he spoke three more words that soared out on wings of hope and honesty, soft words with a terrible implacable force behind them; they battered against her one after the other and she almost cringed back from their frightening sincerity. Three words. The words were completely unambiguous. They were words that fluttered with light and hope and warmth, but could easily disguise chains and shackles that one was not aware of – until it was too late. She wanted all that was represented by the former, but the latter – she was petrified; she recognised it as the bonds that connected her to Loch Davar, the reason why she had called it home when she had been so afraid to leave its bounds – when she had been absolutely miserable there. But those bonds were ones that formed around her, so slowly and malevolently; they had covered her mouth and her eyes, so she did not even know they were there until they were suddenly gone, and she could not speak of or understand their existence … until now. He was silent, and she was silent; the silence stretched on as Adolin waited for her response with desperate anticipation, and Shallan tried to think of a response that would neither encourage nor deny him in his sentiments. She did not know what to say – the words he most wanted to hear would have burned with their deceit when they left her lips. She did not feel what he felt to the same degree as he did. She felt something ... but it could not be named with that word, and her mind assured its own protection by searing it out of her when it entered via her ears. “Shallan,” Adolin said finally, “do you feel affection for another? I could not blame you if you did.” That woke her from a downwards plunge into her myriad of prepared responses. “What?” ”I admit I did not see it until the ball – when you danced three sets with Kal. When he looked at you, there was true affection, and I felt myself – extraneous.” “Are you implying – me and Kaladin?” “Yes. He is a good man – he is cleverer than I, and sharper than most. My father treats him as a son – more son than Renarin sometimes, perhaps. If you and he have an understanding–” “We don't. He has never given any indication of his feelings for me. He thinks me a nuisance!” “Have you not ... kissed him?” Adolin suddenly looked guilty; he could not meet her eyes. “No,” Shallan replied. “Why? Have you?” “No!” Adolin flushed, and he bit his lip whilst searching for an explanation. “I kissed Danlan. Or Danlan kissed me – she cornered me in the hallway – and when she pressed against me, all I could think about was how I rathered it be you, and when she kissed me, there was – nothing. I felt nothing from it, just her lips on mine. And I realised afterwards that it was because I did not care for her, and she did not care about me.” “Oh,” said Shallan. Things between herself and Kaladin were beginning to make more sense – how it had been a long time since he had been deliberately antagonistic in his treatment of her; how they played verbal racquets for the fun of the game rather than the satisfaction of winning; how he had been nothing but understanding when she revealed glimpses of the terrible person she had long been ashamed of. She had thought they were becoming mutual, perhaps friendly, acquaintances –and she had never considered that he might possibly feel anything for anyone, let alone her of all people. “Then do you – accept my proposal?” “I do not feel what you do. Not to the same extent.” That was a truth. She could not lie to him about that; it would have hurt both of them in the end if she did. And she did not want to hurt Adolin if she did not have to; Jasnah’s self-centredness in her scheming was now monstrously repugnant to her. It was ruthless, and coldly brutal, and though Shallan saw the importance of Jasnah’s Great Purpose, she could not toss someone aside just to further the plan. The world, she thought, was not worth saving when good people were hurt in the process. The good people were what made the worth preserving; if they did not exist, she would happily stand aside and let the Almighty bring on his chaos and destruction and his final Ending. “Do you think perhaps you might could – one day, given time – whatever it takes, I shan’t begrudge you –” Adolin was hesitant and halting; it appeared to take much effort for him to say such intimately personal things aloud. “Yes. I could.” And that was a truth. She did not think she would have been able to say it; she would not have allowed herself to – if she had been asked just yesterday. But something had changed within her, and she did not feel the torn and divided loyalties as she had felt so very recently. It was enormously freeing to know that. “Oh – that is all I wanted to hear – it is more than I expected,” he said, and he caught her around the waist – she gasped – and he swung her around and around, pressing exuberant kisses to her cheeks and nose and throat. He whispered those three words again, the words that fell heavily into place from above, like a latch on a cage. “Be my Duchess.” “A proposal only then – nothing permanent?” she found herself asking. “A proposal – an engagement – a betrothal. Only a promise, and not a contract,” said Adolin, his arms around her holding her close. She rested her head against his shoulder. “For now?” “For as long as you like – for as long as you need.” Suddenly the latch had no lock – there was no key either – and it was simply a door. A door that she could enter and leave, and peer outside on occasion, and come back inside when it was raining, when she wanted to draw without getting her pages wet. And it was not a cage, so it could not be called a prison. It was a house, a House, and perhaps one day a home. A place where she did not have to be alone, or miserable: it could be a place where friends awaited her arrival with fond welcome, and upon her departure, looked forward to her return with eager anticipation. “Then I accept.” Adolin gave her an enthusiastic squeeze, and she raised her arms up and twined them around his shoulders. “Shallan, Shallan, Shallan,” he murmured, nuzzling against her neck. “Oh, I am acting the fool, but you have made me so very happy. I had not imagined it would be – quite like this. It is strange, passing strange, but I shouldn’t mind growing used to this. In fact, I think I would very much enjoy it.” Shallan was more subdued. Of course, she was glad to see Adolin in such high spirits, but she was more reserved in her own feeling. She had no uneasiness for the prospect of Adolin’s company, she knew – it was just that doing so, at least for the long term, had with it attached a number of responsibilities, and expectations, and duties. She had wanted to be the Duchess, before she had even met Adolin, or come to Kholinar Court, but now that there was a good chance of its becoming a distinct reality, it was nothing but intimidating. A new name, a new home, a new family, a new life – changes all around her; they surrounded her, and carried her away on a torrent of commitment and obligation. She did not loathe change if it happened to be progress, but she longed for the touch of the familiar – something recognisable, something routine; it would help her to hold onto the part of her identity that was purely Shallan. Shallan pushed away from Adolin’s arms and opened the vanity drawer. She set the roll of brushes and her sketchbook on the table, along with her pen box. Adolin stepped in beside her, and flicked open the button closure of the brush roll. “I had hoped you liked them.” “I didn’t know they were a gift. My maid brought them in one day. The day before – that incident in the forest.” “I thought you might refuse if I gave them to you directly, as a courting gift. They were my mother’s,” he said, and slipped a brush out. “My father’s gift to her.” It pained her; it was painful to perceive the depth of affection that Adolin felt for her – that she did not, for now at least, return. He had felt more of it, and had felt it much earlier than she had. For one with such a notorious reputation as a rake and a flirt, Adolin really did wear his heart on his sleeve. He was open and expressive, and Shallan knew him well enough to read his face with ease; she saw that he was emotive, and every emotion was etched upon his features. He could not hide himself like Kaladin did, or she herself did. It was frightfully intimate. But she liked him all the more for his honesty. Shallan brought her sketchbook to the bed, and slid open the lid of her pen box. She flipped through the pages, past the old drawings, past the empty section where a whole bound signature full of copied mural sketches had been cut out of it, past the half dozen folded up sheets of calculated arithmetic progressionals, until she found a fresh page. She started tracing out ovals and lines – her impressions of the guests she had met in the ballroom. The bed dipped slightly as Adolin settled his weight on it next to her. She felt his fingers twitch a lock of her hair over her shoulder, and something pulled at her hair. She turned around to look. Adolin had the silver hairbrush in his hand, and was running it through her hair – until he found a tangled knot. He stopped when he met her eyes. “My maid usually does that,” she said. “I do not mind doing it. I do it for the horses – and I find it relaxing. But the grooms, like your maid, would probably think it beneath me.” “I sometimes think you are more familiar with horses than women.” “Sometimes I think that too.” They were silent as Shallan sketched her thoughts in the comforting blankness of her artist’s trance; it was easier to sort her thoughts and emotions out, so she could draw from pure visual memory. She knew Adolin was looking over her shoulder, and emptying her mind allowed her to feel less self-conscious – people who watched her draw often asked busybody questions, but Adolin said nothing. He just brushed her hair and gently untangled knots whenever he found them. After a while, Adolin spoke. “Will you tell me of Scotland?” Shallan blinked; the pencil fell still. “Why?” she asked. “What do you want to know about it?” “I want to hear about the place you call home,” he said. The mattress bounced as he shifted his weight. “I do not think there is any place I could call that.” “Home is not always a place. It is people, and feelings, and sounds and tastes and memories.” Adolin was silent. “Very well,” said Shallan. She could talk about this now, with him. It was not a personal prying question. These were safe memories, the happy ones. “Loch Davar is a manor house by the lake,” she began, rolling the pencil between her fingers. Adolin resumed his brushing. “With miles of bog and hills on all sides, with little villages and farms that mostly grow oats and cows and sheep. “I spent most of my childhood rambling the hillsides – it’s beautiful when you climb to the top and watch the sun burst through the clouds onto the heather. Like a purple carpet for a King, only it was made by Almighty, and just for me. “My brother Helaran brought me paints and inks and paper, and my brother Balat taught me to ride on those wee Loch ponies with the shaggy hair that sticks to your tartans and gets in your luncheon bannock no matter what you do. I would go out with my brother Jushu to the little hidden valleys between the hills, and we would play make-believe, and read storybooks aloud. “He would pretend to be a knight, and I a princess, and we would fight the bog monsters together. And afterwards, I would paint our imaginary battles, and he would keep all of them folded in his sporran. In the evenings, he would show the family after dinner, and share our grand adventures in front of the fire…” Shallan recounted these memories of her childhood, when Loch Davar had been perfect and bright and happy, and Adolin laughed and sighed at all the right places. They were the days when the manor house’s roof didn’t leak, and even in the coldest darkest winters, joy and pleasure could still be found in slides over the frozen lake, and whimsically shaped treacle sweets poured into the snow, and the cakes and candles of Yule celebrations that blasphemously flaunted Vorin tradition. When she was finished, Adolin said, “You sound different when you speak of home. Your accent changes.” “My governess would chide me for my lapse.” “I find it charming – I like it very much.” His fingers trailed over the skin at the back of her neck. They were warm, and they brushed lightly against her and lifted away. “I like everything about you. And Scotland – it sounds wonderful. I wish I had a childhood like that.” “Did you not get to go out and play? I thought that it was what all children did.” “No,” said Adolin wistfully. “Not much of it – not enough to know what I had been missing. I began my military training when I was six years old.” Shallan tapped her pencil against her open sketchbook; she turned a page, and started a new drawing. “Drummer boys and courier light-weights and midshipmen aren’t taken up until they’re at least twelve.” “Things are different when you are born in a position that requires privilege to match duty.” “Will you tell me of your childhood?” “I suppose I should – since you have,” said Adolin, and he resumed brushing her hair while he described a lonely childhood with a distant father who was always away and abroad, overseeing one campaign or another, and a foreign mother who struggled to express her thoughts in the Anglethi tongue, who preferred the company of her foreign waiting ladies when her sons had been taken away for their education. He spoke of military training, and even when he was playing, all of the games were structured exercise meant to improve his skills in some manner or other. There were no friends or playmates, only subordinates and associates, and every day was bound up in little blocks of time, tied together with a great list of expectations, duties, and standing orders, so that he forgot what it felt like to make a decision for himself, and the prospect became so unfamiliar as to be terrifyingly inconceivable. “When I was sixteen,” he said, “I was the youngest member ever to reach the leader-board at the Kholinar Duelling Club. Then the King was killed, and the Pact was formed, and I was dragged from the clubs and salons of the City to the battlefields of the marshlands. “I saw battle, and I led charges for the first time, when I was seventeen. The year after that was my debut into Society and my aunt foisted girl after girl on me to secure a match. I was not in a particularly – receptive – mood then, and I found ways to reject them all, and it became a pattern; it soon happened that I was rid of them without even trying, no matter if I wanted to know them more or not. “I thought it was something wrong with all of them, but after five years – well, I suppose it began to gnaw on me. Then I met you, and I saw there was nothing wrong with you – that everything was because there was something wrong with me, and I hadn’t even known what it was–” Shallan snapped the covers of her sketchbook shut. She twisted around so quickly that Adolin dropped the hairbrush onto the carpet in his surprise; she leaped forward and pushed him down onto the bed and sat on his stomach and pinned his shoulders to the mattress with her knees. He wheezed a bit but made no move to push her off. She crossed her arms. “No! There is nothing wrong with you!” she snarled. “And if there is, it is only because you think it. Whatever it is – fear, shame, weakness – whatever you call it, you have a choice not to accept it. Turn it away – find peace within you, and you can leave it all behind. And no-one will ever have to know that it existed at all.” Adolin lifted his head and gazed at her; he dropped back into the pillows with a long sighing breath. “Oh, Shallan. Will you help me?” “Yes. Of course.” “If only I could have found you earlier–” “A wise book once said that it is not the destination that matters–” “–But the journey. My father quotes that wise book all the time.” They laughed, and Shallan slid herself off him and rolled aside, until Adolin caught her around the waist and pulled her back. They lay together on the bed, and she rested her head on his chest; he stroked her hair and their legs were twined together – it was not very comfortable as her feet were bare, and he still had on his polished riding boots. No doubt they would leave brown streaks of dirt on the bed-covers, but at least it gave him a reasonable defence against the tarnishing of his own reputation. Shallan stared up at the velvet canopy drapes as she had done many mornings, and wondered if Adolin’s own bed had a canopy. She did not think soldiers would have them, because they woke at dawn and had no need for shutting out the sunlight like a lady did, when she required her beauty sleep to recover from a long night of dancing with handsome gentlemen. Shallan was suddenly reminded that she had never even got to dance with Adolin. Minutes passed, and each enjoyed the peaceful, silent company of the other; no words needed to be said, because they knew all the words already. “I should like to visit Scotland someday,” said Adolin softly. Shallan stirred, and lifted her head off his chest; she moved across to the pillow next to his. They stared at each other; his hand held hers, and she thought that if she woke up like this one morning, she should not mind it so much. Mornings could not be considered invariably dreadful and dreadfully invariable if now and then one had good company – someone who did not fault her for drooling on occasion. It was strange, but pleasantly so, to meet eye to eye whilst horizontal. It was the same view as it was when they were standing, she supposed, but she did not have to crane her neck backwards to do so. “Haven’t you ever been?” “We have an estate in the north – near the McHanavar lands, I think. It’s a glorified hunting lodge, and I have never been one for hunting. Cousin Elhokar is High King of the clan chiefs – I imagine we have a Family tartan too, but I have never worn it.” Shallan took in this information. Then she smiled. “You are Duke.” “Yes?” Adolin looked puzzled. “If you have a tartan, you are equivalent to clan chief.” “Is that amusing to you?” “Yes,” she said, and she laughed. “It means you are The McKholin!” “Shouldn’t you address me as Your Chiefliness?” “The proper style is Himself.” “Himself?” “Yes.” “Heralds,” Adolin said, chuckling. “Scots are strange people.” “I thought you said I was charming.” “You are.” He gripped her hand tightly. “It is what makes you so Shallan-y.” “Hm.” Adolin dropped her hand and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He looked at her, and she looked at him, and he did not say anything – he just bent his head and brushed a kiss against her cheek. His hand rose up and stroked against the line of her jaw, and then he kissed her on the lips. Shallan kissed him back, and undid the ribbon waist-tie of her dressing gown; she slid it off and tossed it away. Perhaps it was scandalously forward of her, but until now, she had only felt the touch of two men whilst in her shift – Kaladin and the false Ardent. Neither of them could be considered romantic embraces – they were very very far from that; she still shivered at the memory of the soaking rag of ether on the torn skin of her fresh wound. She wanted to replace those memories with good ones, and she did; she pressed against Adolin and felt the lean muscle of his chest and torso through his waistcoat, but she made no move to unbutton it. Adolin’s fingers twined through hers, and she felt the scrape of the stubbly beginnings of his whiskers against her neck. She giggled when he breathed his warm breath against her throat; she hissed when gave a friendly nip to her collar, on the opposite side to the one he had given her a few days ago. A matched pair, she thought. How fitting. “Shallan?” he whispered. “Hm?” And then she felt his lips at her ear, and she felt the breath of his exhalation swirling the tiny soft hairs at her temple, and he spoke those three words again. This time she did not quail at the sound of them; she let them pass through her and away and into silence. The little doves tucked beneath her ribs cooed; they lacked the tongues of men so they could not speak, but they could sing, and they sang to one another, and they sang to Shallan, a song that no-one else could hear. They fluttered their wings as if they were eager to stretch them, eager to venture outside their cage of skin and bone, and their flutter-flutter matched the fluttering of Adolin's heart inside his own ribs. But no – it was no longer inside his ribs. The physical chambers of bloody muscle were still inside him, but the essence of it, the spirit beyond the flesh, was gone. He had laid himself bare, and he had given it to her, and she had not the slightest idea of what to do with it. She could hardly hold his nose and shove it back in through his open mouth. She decided to hold onto it for now, and hold it gently until she came up with an answer. Adolin had said she had all the time she might need, and time was a gift she would willingly take, for it held no constraints on her like a guarantee of protection or safety. She closed her eyes, and buried her face into Adolin’s shoulder, and let his neckcloth blot away her tears. Author's Notes: On tarnished reputations - remember when Shallan was thinking up ways to convince Adolin into eloping with her? One of them was letting him see her bathing. But now she doesn't care about eloping, and it shows that she's comfortable with being around him (in that way), even if he's uncomfortable with her. She's also kinda pervy. "I'm not a courtesan" - Adolin refuses a courtesan in WoK for reasons. I didn't think it was just because he was on duty or that his dad would kill him. He doesn't refuse Shallan. :-) "Taking the waters"/"Grand Tour" - rich people activities that mean going on holiday for several months and coming back when the gossip has died down. Obviously Adolin doesn't want Shallan going away for months. "Have you not kissed him?"/"Why? Have you?" - here's a little poke at all those people who like to turn a love triangle into an OT3. Sorry guys, it wasn't going to happen in this story. On Adolin's childhood - I never thought he had a perfect fairytale prince childhood in WoR either. I felt that there had to be a justification for why Adolin is such a good duellist, and why Renarin turned out to be so messed up. Shallan's feelings on Adolin - read it as you will. xDDD

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 25

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART TWENTY FIVE The first indication that reality had returned was the sound of voices in the corridor outside the open the door of the retiring room. “I gave Adolin plenty of choice,” said the first voice. Shallan recognised it after some seconds as Lady Navani, the Queen Dowager. Her voice sounded very different when it wasn’t tinged with the cold imperiousness of royal authority. “Your choice, Navani,” the second voice replied. “Not his.” It was a deep voice, almost gruff, but refined in its accents; the words were spoken softly, and if his manner could not be described as kindly, it was nevertheless coloured with warmth. There was an obvious affection between him – the Prince Kholinar – and his sister-by-marriage, the Queen Dowager. “I do not understand why you insist on – on choice!” she murmured. “It is a luxury we can little afford.” “A commanding officer does not deny his subordinates what he does not deny himself. I had my choice – and you had yours.” “The circumstances were simpler, back then. I–” “–Do you smell that?” “What is it?” “Fluids … and gunpowder. Stay behind me; I shall investigate.” Shallan heard booted feet crunch on broken glass; she heard the tinkle as shards of smashed wineglasses and brandy snifters were kicked aside. It was dark in the retiring room compared to the well-lit halls outside; there were only three lamps lit at the very end of the room. “Whoever is there!” called the Prince Kholinar. “Present yourself slowly.” Shallan sighed and slid out of the armchair, her handle-less knife gripped with one shaking hand. She could present herself, but she was hardly presentable in her stained underdress. “Your Highness,” she said, stepping out from behind the armchair. She could see the Prince silhouetted in the doorway. He held out a pistol with a firm grip; one hand was on the stock, and the other was braced underneath to hold the gun steady when it kicked. Shallan knew all too well how hard a gun could kick. “You – the girl. Lady Shallan?” The muzzle of the gun did not drop. “Yes.” She curtsied, her knife still in hand. She clutched it fiercely so that her trembling would not show. “Do you recognise the sign of three diamonds, Highness? Adolin once said you’d warned him of foreign saboteurs. I imagine they were somehow invited to his Feast.” “They – here?” He was silent for some time, and then the point of the gun fell and he tucked it away into his regimental frock coat. “Child, what have you done? What is this?” “They are the same people who want what Jasnah knows. They came after me – they wanted someone to use against her, Highness,” said Shallan, words tumbling out. They were true words, but it was not the whole truth. She did not intend to share the fruits of Jasnah’s research without Jasnah’s presence – it was something of a scholar’s grasping and close-mouthed secrecy, she knew. One should never reveal research before it was published under one’s name: every scholar was endlessly paranoid of plagiarists. Prince Dalinar and Lady Navani entered the room; the Dowager grimaced as she stepped through broken glass in her heeled slippers. Shallan was now very aware of her state of indecency, and her blood-spattered bare feet; she could tell that the soles of her feet would be red. Navani gasped when she saw the body on the carpet in front of the sofa. The two broken billiard cues stuck out at odd angles, like the wings of a perching dragonfly; the sleeves were still rolled up to reveal the tattoo of three diamonds. Dalinar twitched when came to the body; his hand automatically reached for his holstered pistol. He turned his gaze to her, and looked her up and down with inscrutable deliberation; his eyes must have adjusted to the gloom. “Oh – child,” cried Navani, hands clasped in horror under her drooping lace sleeves. Her voice – did the Dowager tremor in her speech? “Jasnah brought you to us – to protect you. I did not see it – I did not think her fears were legitimate – I had thought she was working for her own aggrandisement. And now I am proven wrong, and I am truly sorry.” Dalinar nudged the body with a foot. “Are these – pool cues?” he said. “One in the back, followed by one in the front. You are meticulous.” “Yes,” said Shallan, suddenly hesitant. She was well aware of what she had done, but she did not want to discuss it. Not until she had had some more time to herself, to draw, and to arrange her fragmented thoughts into a meaningful narrative. “I had no gun. And Adolin and Doctor Kaladin and I met some other – saboteur assassins – in the Kholinshire Forest a few days ago. They collected a number of knives–” here Shallan shuffled to the billiards table and ducked under it; she returned with her bodice and dance card and the box of knives; she placed the first two items on the covered table, and held the box open to Dalinar. “I remembered where they put them, and used them. Some of them had the sign of three diamonds.” She showed him the marked knife blade. Dalinar took the blade and his lips thinned when he saw the dried blood crusted to its edge; it flaked, brown and dusty, onto his fingers. He dropped it back into the box. “I expect Adolin to give me a full accounting of this last week.” His eyes met hers; she looked down and away. “Whatever has been done was done out of necessity, child. I do not think any less of you. Nor does Navani.” With one last glance at her, Prince Dalinar drew Navani aside, and they returned to the lit doorway to hold a whispered conversation to which Shallan was not privy. Navani soon left, and Dalinar pushed the broken sidebar cabinet out of the way and back to its original position; he stood at the doorway as guard. Shallan could not leave the room. She had no shoes, and the carpet was littered with broken glass, and she did not look forward to walking the guest-filled hallways in her undergarments. “Lady Shallan,” said Dalinar softly, his back to her. “When Jasnah first told me of you – and her intentions – when she visited me in the City, and invited me to to-night’s Feast, I must admit I was rather wary of yet another failed scheme to secure a match with my son. “But you have acquitted yourself honourably to-night, beyond anyone’s expectations. And beyond mine.” Shallan flushed. “Thank you.” “I am impressed that, though you are Scottish and not Anglethi, you considered the King’s safety and drew the assassin away from the guests. Loyalty to King and Country is a heavy duty for anyone to bear, and I am pleased to find it so evident in yourself.” “Thank you, Highness,” said Shallan. She had not even remembered the King, but she did not contradict Prince Dalinar. It was better that he think favourably of her. “I would trust that next time, you and Jasnah might not keep your confidences so close,” Dalinar said. He lowered his voice. “For we are all of us House Kholin; we are family. And thus we must make the effort to stand together, so shall we all weather the storm. ” The storm. Old folk takes said that the legendary storms swept in from east to west. “The man who – died,” said Shallan slowly, piecing her thoughts together. “He came from the East Continent, I think. He did not speak like an Anglethi. His accent did not sound like any man from the Isles.” “No. I have long said that they come from directly south of the Channel,” Dalinar answered. “The wars on the Continent have been brewing for years – decades. Have you ever heard the name Napoleodium?” “I have not,” said Shallan. “It is not–” Tramping feet pounded through the halls. Dalinar straightened at his post. There were calls of “Sir!” from a number of men approaching at speed. “Report!” barked Dalinar. “Sir,” came the voice from outside. Was that – Kaladin? “Lady Navani came to us, and I summoned the guards to arrest all the Ardents. We are currently conducting a room by room search of the House, and have men at the gate and all roads to halt any guests leaving in a hurry.” “Good. Do not let there be a panic. See to the safety of the Family.” “Already done, sir. We’ve sent them all to the Family’s floor and blocked off the stairways. Except for Adolin. He refused.” Dalinar sighed. “Have your men inspect the body. And the girl.” “The girl?” “Jasnah’s ward. Check for wounds and interrogate her. Gently. I am for the library – the map room will be headquarters from now. See to it, soldier.” “Yes, sir.” Dalinar left, and she heard him ordering men about outside; his voice receded into the distance. Kaladin stood in the doorway; the silhouettes of a number of other men behind him. He hesitated over the threshold, then crunched over the broken glass, medical kit bag in hand. Men with pistols in hand followed him in, lighting the lamps and muttering when they saw the corpse in the robes of an Ardent on the carpet. “Shallan?” he said, with strained urgency. “Doctor. I’m fine,” Shallan said. She was cold, and her voice was tight with the effort to keep the quaver out. “Are you hurt?” He now sounded more like himself, like a professional physician. “I smell gunpowder – have you been shot? Any cuts?” “No – no shots.” She rubbed her arms; they were pimpled with chickenflesh, and she was still in her breezy underdress. In a moment of self-consciousness, she crossed her arms over her chest. It was likely that there was nothing to see – Shallan could not be admitted to be any degree of well-endowed – but she was the only woman in a room full of men, even if one of those men happened to be a self-appointed chaperon, one who had seen everything beneath the dress, on multiple occasions. “I must inspect your wound for signs of broken stitches or torn skin,” said Kaladin. “I haven't my surgical table – the billiards table will have to do.” She sighed and pulled herself onto the table. Kaladin eyed the unlaced bodice and dance card, but he did not say anything and set his kit bag down. Shallan began undoing her buttons with fumbling fingers. She noticed the men – in blue regimental uniforms, but no officers’ piping or epaulettes – averting their gaze when she met their eyes. Shallan smelled the fumes of ether – why did he have to use it in a closed room? – and heard him scrub his hands together and shake them off, and then he pulled her unbuttoned underdress down her shoulders and she felt him prodding at her ribs. “They haven’t broken – but what happened to the bandages?” he said, looking up. “If you wanted to change them, you needn’t have done it yourself.” “I cut them off,” said Shallan. “I didn’t have any ropes.” She glanced at the body on the floor. The men had cut the robes off and were inspecting it for hidden weapons or clues or more tattoos – she could not guess. Kaladin turned and gazed at it very briefly; a second later, his eyes returned to hers. “Spears?” “I had no gun.” “You could have one if you asked. I would be more than happy to accompany you to the range here.” “I had presumed my well-being would be in the charge of yourself and Adolin,” said Shallan, sighing. “It would be,” said Kaladin reproachfully, “if you hadn’t run off. Next time you do run off, it would be much appreciated if you remembered to take one of us with you. Now, get dressed.” Shallan pulled her dress over her shoulders; she paused when Kaladin’s eyes swept over her, and suddenly stopped. His eyes narrowed. “Doctor?” “There are burn speckles on your dress. Turn around.” She did so, and she felt his warm hands on her shoulders, dragging her dress down to her waist. Then she heard the medical bag open, and a clinking sound he as he dug through it, and found his supplies. He swabbed the back of her right arm with a low concentration of ether, and then smeared a cooling ointment, which was followed by bandage rolled around her upper arm. “Will it leave a scar, Doctor?” “No-one will be able to tell it apart from the spots you already have.” “Oh, I had forgotten that I–” “Shallan!” It was Adolin’s voice, from the doorway. Shallan peered over Kaladin’s shoulder as he tied knots to secure the bandage. Adolin was treading through the carpet of glass shards, holding his sleeve over his face at the smell of the leaking corpse. She turned back and closed her eyes. She did not want to face him after had seen him with those – other girls. He made her feel things she had no interest in feeling, things that clouded her thoughts and swayed decisions that she had thought were already firmly decided. She held no eager anticipation for addressing those nascent, tender emotions that surrounded thoughts of herself and Adolin. Thoughts of herself with Adolin. Perhaps they were better off forgotten and ignored. Kaladin stepped away to allow her to dress herself in relative privacy. He and Adolin wandered over to the other men stripping the corpse and rolling it onto a stretcher; they held a low conversation. Adolin occasionally shot worried glances at her, but she turned away, and hid behind her hair, and did up her front buttons. After a while, Shallan finished dressing – it was only a simple underdress she wore, easily done and undone – and picked up her bodice. She wondered how she might put it on and wear it without the laces. It wouldn’t stay on, would it? She heard footsteps behind her, and she did not turn around to look. She knew who it was. “Shallan,” said Adolin, softly solemn, “forgive me. Once again. If you can.” Shallan squeezed her eyes shut. She twisted the bodice between her fingers, and the boning creaked. “There is nothing to forgive. I do not care about your – other women,” she hissed. She felt heat prickle in her eyes; she took a breath to compose herself. It did not bother her. She could not let it. Her emotional outburst was caused by the stress – and distress – of killing yet another man. He was silent. Perhaps he was taken aback at her curt manner – women did not usually criticise the habits and actions of men, at least not this directly. Then, finally, he spoke. “I do not care about them either.” “Well,” said Shallan callously, “now we know why you’re almost an old maid.” It was cruel of her, but she had been hurt to-day, and so many thoughts and memories had rushed through her in such a short time that she felt a part of her mind had burned through; it was hollowed out and wrung dry with no more capacity for softer things. Hunger and pain, she was certain she was capable of discerning, but she did not think she could summon up enough for sympathy and compassion. “I do not care about them, because I care only for you.” He sounded pained. “It may have – it has – taken me too long to realise that. Perhaps it is too late; I would not be surprised. It always happens, time and again, so I do not let myself care – it is easier that way.” He swallowed, and searched for words. “It would not surprise me if this time is no different. But – what I meant – I wanted to apologise, for inviting the Ardents.” “The Ardents?” Adolin’s words, earnest but disturbing personal truths, had Shallan feeling guilty for her own. Now she felt confusion. “I invited them to announce the construction of a new infirmary wing for the Courtlea church. I did not know they would be the saboteurs – that there were assassins hidden amongst them,” said Adolin. “And I had promised two days ago that you would be spared bloodshed when you were here with us.” “You oughtn’t to make promises you can’t keep.” “So my father always says.” Adolin choked out a forced laugh. “I am unworthy. I know it. And now you do too.” “If you wanted to apologise for inviting the Ardents, then I forgive you for it. The assassins would have come with or without your invitation. They are assassins, you know. Not tea-time callers.” Adolin stepped closer, and rested a hand on the wooden cover of the billiards table. Shallan glanced down at it. His fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm. “I could have done something – something to help, anything at all. But instead I was cavorting with girls I cared nothing about, while the one person I did care about had to – to –” “Had to do what had to be done,” Shallan finished. She turned and saw that Adolin’s head was downcast; she could see the whorl of hair on the top of his head where the black and yellow stripes radiated. On impulse, she patted it. His hair was fluffy and soft. He raised his head. He looked – miserable. Shallan decided that smiling suited him more. “And I wish you hadn’t had to,” he whispered. “My royal uncle – the late King – died at a Feast just like this one. My father was in his cups – and did nothing while an assassin stabbed the King and pushed him off a balcony. The guilt afterwards almost destroyed him. He still isn’t the same as he was before.” “I am not dead – so you needn’t feel guilt,” said Shallan. “You can trust me to guarantee my own safety.” “Perhaps you are better off without me.” Shallan swung her legs around and off the table. She slid off; her skirt bunched up around her thighs and revealed a flash of pale leg. She caught Adolin’s eyes flicking down to them, but then he looked up, and they met eye to eye. “Do you think you would be better off without me?” she asked. He did not say anything for a while, but his hand reached out and hovered over hers. But he did not touch her; his hand dropped limply to his side. “No,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair distractedly, and made as if to withdraw. Shallan caught him by the wrist. “If you must leave, it would be with the deepest regret. And I have lived a life with too many regrets.” Adolin turned back, and his eyes shone in the lamplight. “Is that forgiveness?” “There is nothing to forgive.” He wrapped her in his embrace, and for the first time since she had entered the retiring room, she felt warm. It was not just the physical warmth of having his body pressed against hers, but the warmth of knowing that she did not have to be alone. For what use was finding peace and forgiveness within herself, and healing the emptiness within her, if she must have lonely emptiness around her for the rest of her life? Understanding choice – that was the lesson she had learned mere hours ago. She had chosen not to be weak, or to be a victim, or to be a murderess. She was only a victim if she allowed herself to be, and she was only a murderess if she continued to bear the strangling, baseless guilt of her father’s death. Perhaps it was choice, or perhaps it was all perception – but she found meaning in the choice of life before death, and strength before weakness. Shallan knew those words to be trite phrases torn direct from The Way of Kings, but they seemed good words to live one’s life by, and made a curiously fitting frame for the fractured thoughts that she was still piecing together. They were unoriginal words, and no doubt read and internalised by a great many young men yearning for glory in the bored tedium of a tutoring room, but here she found them unexpectedly appropriate for herself. If only she had known it earlier. But she could not have found these truths if she had never left Loch Davar. They would not have come to her unless she had sought them for herself. Loch Davar was a cage in her mind where she had hidden herself away, for her own safety, never realising it was she who held the key, and that she could have ventured out any time – if she was brave enough to face the outside world. And now she had, and she had seen truth, and it was devastating and terrible and gruesome and painful and the scars on her disfigured heart ached all the more because she had done all of it and could not deny it any longer. She no longer felt guilt for the things she had done, things that had been done out of what she now accepted was pure necessity – those questionable deeds had not been heaped upon her as punishment for possessing an inherently bad soul, as if she deserved it. Her mother, in her dementia, had said those words to her, as a child. A child. They could not be true. And she would not accept them. She had seen that the terrible world had good people, who, just perhaps, balanced out the terrible people. These good people were not good all the way through – they were more fittingly called decent people – and they were just people, like her. They had in them honesty, and wisdom, and kindness, and that was enough. It wasn’t goodness or badness inherent in one’s soul, or the nobility and Grace of high or low blood that defined a person as a decent sort, or a bad one. It was the choices one made. Adolin pulled away eventually, and when Shallan looked at his crisp regimental uniform and compared it to her bloodstained underdress and bare feet, she almost laughed. “I need a bath,” she said. “Shall I walk you to your room?” he asked. He looked her over and noticed her abandoned on bodice on the billiards table, and blushed. “You oughtn’t to go alone – there could be other assassins.” “I have no shoes. I do not relish the prospect of walking over broken glass – it is no trial by fire, but I am sure I have already passed my test of courage to-day. Perhaps you might carry me.” “Oh – of course,” Adolin stammered, and then he held out his arms and hoisted her up. His boots scattered the glass with a chiming tinkle, and he carried her out to the end of the hallway – there were small shards of glass on the floor outside the doorway, brought out with the soldiers who had collected the assassin’s body. He put her down gently. “Adolin,” said Shallan, peeking around the corner, “might I borrow your coat? I shouldn’t like to be seen by the guests in nothing but my shift. It’s cold – and I haven’t my bodice.” Adolin shrugged off his coat, and draped it over her shoulders. Shallan slipped her arms into the sleeves – they dangled over her hands – and tugged the lapels over the dried bloodstain on her front. The coat, which stopped at Adolin’s knees, went almost to her ankles. The white lace of her underdress peeped out from underneath. “Do I look less of a mess now?” she said, smiling up at Adolin. “Your Feast dress looked nice; this is just as nice – but I think you look nice regardless of what you wear,” he replied. They walked hand in hand, passing guests in the foyer who stared at them and tutted to each other and shook their heads – she heard the words “standards of decency these days” and “impatience of youth”. Adolin was blushing, and she was certain her own faced matched. “Adolin!” called a voice behind them. They stopped and turned. It was the young man she had seen in the ballroom, with green eyes and a stylishly cut dress coat and lace neckcloth with an emerald stickpin. Another young man caught up with him; he adjusted the hang of his cuffs and looked them over with a dubious eye. “Jakamav,” said Adolin. He gripped her hand fiercely. “We’re going through to dinner,” Jakamav said, giving Shallan a head-to-toe inspection. Shallan pulled the oversized coat tighter around herself. “Will you join us?” “I’m afraid I have other business that must be seen to,” said Adolin quietly. “Well,” said Jakamav casually, “I’m sure you can take care of it quickly–” he smirked in Shallan’s direction, “–and join us when you’re finished.” “My business is none of yours.” Jakamav sighed and turned to Shallan. “Being seen with Adolin isn’t good for one’s reputation these days. If you tire of the quaint country life, come to the City – Toral here will ensure you won’t leave disappointed.” He nudged the man next to him, and they grinned at one another – and at Shallan. Toral winked. “I obviously don’t look like I care about my reputation,” said Shallan coldly. “As you can probably tell. And I can tell quite obviously that you do not care about respectability – and you look it. You should know that the floral pattern lace on your neckcloth is the débutante’s traditional. You might pay a call on your couturier to demand your money back.” Toral snorted; Jakamav reddened. “There’s no accounting for taste,” said Jakamav, “not that I should expect you to understand.” He turned from them and strode away. Toral looked back apologetically. They heard him whisper. “So Adolin has got himself a girl at last. About time.” “I had always thought him impotent,” Jakamav replied, loud enough that he wanted them to overhear. “I should keep my peace unless he comes to dinner in ten minutes and begs your advice.” Adolin squeezed her hand very hard. Shallan tugged at it. He loosened his grip. “I should call them out for – that,” he said hotly. Shallan laughed, and turned to him, resting a hand on his cheek. “They’re all just jealous.” He was silent for a brief moment, and a grin split his face; he hugged her, burying his face into her hair. “I did say that once, didn’t I?” “I do listen,” said Shallan, smiling. “Wouldn’t you be jealous of anyone privileged with basking in my innate Grace?” She plucked at the front of her bloodstained dress. “I mean, just look at me! I’m honestly surprised that I don’t wake up every day jealous of myself!” “Oh, Shallan,” Adolin chuckled, and took up her hand once more. Author's Notes: On Navani - under the ice queen exterior, she's still a mother. She wanted a strong Duchess, but when she sees that Shallan can kill a man in cold blood, she realises that Shallan can do things that she afraid of doing. Dalinar, on the other hand, is impressed by her creativity and quick thinking. "Napoleodium" - Remember what time period and setting this is supposed to be in? The reason why Jasnah thinks a marshpeople rebellion is going to happen is because of the Revolution. Of course, all of that is just worldbuilding colour and irrelevant to the main plot. "If you remembered to take one of us with you" - Kaladin snark and metajoke here, meaning STOP WITH THE TRIANGLING AND PICK ONE FOR ALMIGHTY'S SAKE. Shallan's feelings on Adolin's Other Girls - she tells herself that she's okay with it and she doesn't care, but you can read deeper into it. There's a reason why it's the first thing she jumps onto when he apologises. She's thinking about it a lot, unconsciously, and is possibly (who knows???) jealous. "I could have done something" - Adolin's reaction is supposed to mirror his response to the time Szeth burst in through the wall like the Kool-Aid Guy in WoR. "It would be with the deepest regret" - ironic echo. I like to do it a lot, and you can pick them out for yourself. It makes things more dramatic. On Jakamav - a douchebag and a jerk, and Adolin gets annoyed because he doesn't like how he treats Shallan. "Adolin isn't good for one's reputation" comes from the scene in WoR when Jak tells Adolin after a plateau battle to stop asking him to hang out until he's cool again.

Adolin's self-induced difficulties put me in mind of the type of girls who always date jerks, and when they break up with their jerk bf, they date another jerk. Then they complain about why are all guys jerks, where have all the good men gone, etc. After a while, all you want to do is is shake them and yell at them why they can't just open their eyes!!1!1! Whenever fictional characters (and IRL people too) go down the self-pity hole and say things like "why does my life suck?" and "no one understands my struggles!" I get the same kind of reaction. Guess I'm not a very patient person. I don't think Adoiln is afraid of marital life either. With Vorinism and warcamps the way they are, I don't think his life would be that different, at least outside of performing those "husbandly duties" . I don't think he would be afraid of husbandly duties. Dalinar has clerks and scribes who are the wives and daughters of his officers, and if Adolin gets married, he just gets his own personal secretary instead of having to go to an Ardent to have things read. Not really a huge change since his whole working day stays pretty much the same. He is just afraid of picking the wrong girl. Or picking a girl in general. If Brandon was a character author, I feel like Adolin would have become self-aware of his issues way earlier. But as it is, SA is an ensemble fantasy, and Adolin only gets to level up in character development as a reaction from some outside plot feature. Like fighting Szeth, or the 4:1 duel. He doesn't analyse, and he is only reactionary; he only re-frames his paradigms when it's shaken up by something beyond his control. It fits the style of the series and the people who like massive universes, but it's disappointing for character readers. At least Dalinar and Kaladin get more introspection, even if you consider it boring. That is what one-shot fiction is for. Short stories one chapter long. You don't need a long plot or anything. You can write in your own language or get a beta reader to proofread! You're being such an Adolin. PS, I seriously think all the lighteyes laugh about Adolin and tell each other to stop being Adolins, or acting like an Adolin, etc. :lol: I still think that sprens get more out of the Nahel bond/Radiant relationship than the actual Radiant. They're little pieces of Honor or Cultivation, and what they really want is to keep Roshar from being eaten alive by Odium. That is their entire purpose of existing, and why they copied the format of the Herald's Honorblades. Sure, the Radiants get magical abilities, but they can only use them while bound by their Oaths, and it's usually only to fight magical Voidbringers. So yeah, you get a magical companion out of the deal to act as your karma meter, but you can easily get the same thing without a spren - you just need to talk to people you trust about your problems. But I guess being broken means you have no self-esteem/confidence and no trust either. A broken person can heal themselves over time, but it's the spren who forces it to happen or speeds it up. And yes it makes it feel like a cop-out if the people with severe mental issues just get magically cured. And that is why I will be happy if Adolin gets his turn in the spotlight after solving his problems on his own, and realising "Oh, it's ok if I don't get a spren, I don't need outside confirmation to know that I have value as a person", and then WHAM, he gets a spren. But then his reaction will have to be "I don't care if I have a spren or not, but since I have one, that's cool too" otherwise it will just be regression back to his previous flawed personality. That would make me throw the book at the wall. Kaladin has an Honorblade now, and if Dalinar isn't going to use it, I would see it going to Adolin. It would help cure some of those Token Normal pity-parties, if he's not too messed up from ganking Sadeas to use it. If you want awesome, two Windrunner Surgebinders at one time is awesome. Enough awesome to make up for terrible lines of dialogue like "STRETCH FORTH THY HAND" or "THE SKIES ARE MINE". Seriously, it's the kind of thing that makes you shake your head at how overdramatic it is. The Lego Movie is a good movie if you like the standard Hero's Journey. You know what to expect and then it gets shaken upside down, and you will forget it's a movie made for kids because it's hilariously random. I enjoyed it a lot, and I'm not ashamed to say. The way I read, I thought it was because he lived in a small town and knew everyone. If he practices enough, he will get desensitised to it all, and they cover patients faces with pads of anesthetic so you won't hear them screaming and you won't see their expressions when you cut into them. I extrapolated a bit for what future Kal would be if he had done all or most of his character development as a surgeon rather than a soldier - he still has the "protect everyone" but no spren so he can do the "as long as it's right" whenever he feels like it's appropriate. AU Kaladin with no spren would save his friend first. Unless he knows the friend can't be saved, so it doesn't matter what he'd do, the ending still sucks. In other triage situations, you help the most desperate case if one patient's wounds are minor enough that he will survive even without your help. Adolin decided that grey washed him out and that beige or a natural linen colour suited his skintone better. Then Kaladin tells him it's just a metaphor and the colours aren't real, and then Adolin pats him on the back and says it's okay if bridgemen can't afford colours, they're in the army now and he can have all the colours he wants, as long as it's blue. Well, maybe redemption is better for anti-hero type characters. For morally pure Kaladin, it's more Hero's Reward for putting up with the suffering he went through. It's a feel good story. On a side note, as soon as heard the heroic one liner from Kaladin "Honor is dead", I knew that the 4:1 duel wouldn't have ended in a beatdown. It's freaking Kaladin!!!! So Adolin didn't get the beating you expected him to get. It was a massive mood whiplash to me that the chapter ended with a an Interlude :rolleyes: :rolleyes: that I didn't care about and skipped to see what happened next ... only it jumped straight into the prison scene. That was a book-hitting-the-wall scene like no other. Seriously I can't think of any other chapters that made me so annoyed. I can't even think of many other books that have annoyed me so much like that did. I thought it was too optimistic that Shallan and Kaladin's honesty was compatibility. Because Kaladin wasn't completely honest with her - he killed her brother and didn't even tell her. IMHO, it only happened because Shallan had no reason to develop a good relationship with Kaladin, because he's just a guard captain, so she says what she likes and is less inhibited because he doesn't matter, and his opinion of her doesn't matter. That's why she and Tyn played with him with the boots scene, because it was just some people they'd probably never meet again. In terms of long-term compatibility, I think canon-Kaladin likes canon-Shallan more than she likes him, and more than she would ever like him. It reflects Kaladin and Laral's relationship, and their rank difference. Even if Radiants are all the same rank when their eyes glow, I think there is some part of Shallan who could never see herself in a relationship with a darkeyes. If you look at Adolin, has he ever considered a darkeyed woman seriously as a match? Sure he looks at waitresses, but it's mainly just their butts, and he doesn't even contemplate anything serious like marriage. I think it's some internal lighteyed prejudice going on in there. Is canon-Kaladin using Adolin? I don't think so. Kaladin is too lone ranger to want to depend on other people, especially lighteyes. It takes a life and death experience for him to trust Shallan enough to lead the way. I don't think Navani was forced into a secondary role. There was some level of consent in there, at least at first, when she married Gavilar. Since she was described as a political player in WoK, I always assumed that she liked power, and being Queen was part of her decision to get married. And also that Blackthorn Dalinar was way too scary. There are women in the Ardentry, and if a woman in Roshar really wants to avoid getting married, and she really wants to be a scho, she could run away to the church. But Jasnah doesn't do it because she likes having money. Jasnah was born with a heart two sizes too small, like the Grinch. If her heart was normally sized at birth, she shrunk it to make it more convenient. It's travel sized. I don't think she is someone who has ever fallen in love with someone, either because she doesn't let any men get close enough for it to happen, or because she thinks that she's too smart to fall in love, and love is for stupid people and fools. She doesn't understand love, so that is why she doesn't care that that she might hurt Adolin by manipulating him. She isn't even aware that she is hurting him, because if it were her in that position, she wouldn't feel a thing. That is why she cares more about protecting Shallan than Adolin. She can picture herself in Shallan's situation, possibly because it happened to her years ago. She's not picking on Adolin particularly. She just has a lack of concern for everyone. It's Misjasnahistic. You read the characters exactly as I would there. :ph34r: If Shallan approached Kaladin first, he would only put up token resistance so that he doesn't feel like he's betraying Adolin. But then "if it feels right" kicks in. The question is, would Kaladin tell Adolin? Shallan obviously wouldn't. Adolin would feel like he got kicked in the other parts if it turns out Kaladin is a better kisser. Adolin is a young guy, and young guys have needs. I think people would feel it is very strange if a young guy wasn't seeing to his "needs" on a regular basis. You have such an obvious Adolin bias. I'm not killing Sureblood. It's an obvious drama hook, and I think it's unnecessary in fueling character development as it would be in SA3. My feelings about Captain Kennit were an emotional rollercoaster. First he was freeing slaves, and I was happy, and then he went after the family ship. Then it showed how much he loved his mother, and then he did that thing to Althea, and back and forth and back and forth. Prolonged agony, exactly. I was glad he died because my poor heart couldn't take it any longer, and I think it shows that he was a bad guy in the end. Sometimes it's good when people who seem to be the hero character don't go on the typical and expected hero's journey, and you ride the rollercoaster to see how they find their happy ending. It's not boring or typical, but sometimes the trauma stick never stops. If Renarin developed hobbies and interests instead of spending all of his time sulking, that was how I thought his character might turn out. He likes fabrials a lot, and wine, so I thought he was the kind of guy to go all geeky on certain subjects. I can't remember if the time Renarin was freaking out at the Oathgate was Shallan's first meeting of him. He's such a background character that they have met earlier, but never talked. But in my AU, Shallan still thinks he's kind of weird. She wouldn't call him creepy, but he's so knowing and accurate that it's disturbing. These days, the store mannequins are wearing leather pants. At least the stores aimed at cool people under the age of 25. I do not think Adolin is so old man that he dresses in chinos and Topsiders and cardigans all day like an Ivy League dad. Sure, it's preppy, but Adolin is more fashionable than that. Adolin rides the train and sometimes he bumps into Renarin at the train station, so he walks to the other end of the carriage so they won't be seen together. They text message each other on the trip but don't talk because being seen with your little brother is not cool, brah. Sometimes he text messages Shallan but she doesn't reply because she's still sleeping. Then she wakes up and realises she's late and if she misses the train she has to wait 30 minutes for the next one. :ph34r: So she calls Kaladin to pick her up in his car and he is already on the road while she is still in her PJ's. Because this guy doesn't sleep, like, ever. Either that or he wakes up at 4:30am so he can do his morning workout. Dalinar's car doesn't get scratched, and Dalinar can't complain about that. But after a while he starts to wonder why the car never gets driven. IT'S BECAUSE IT LOOKS LIKE A LITERAL LUMP OF CREM. -_- BUT YOU TREAT IT LIKE DIAMONDS. After the revised ending for WoR came out. :lol: The Kaladin vs Szeth battle in the sky. Many people, or most people, I think, preferred the first and original ending because it was cooler, and the revised version was lamer, even though Brandon corrected it to feel more in line with the characters' development and morality. The response and uproar was a prime example of how most readers just care about the cool and the implications for the characters' personalities comes later. Many people didn't even see the point, or why it even needed to be corrected, because they never read into the characters at all. At least not Szeth's, and only superficially into Kaladin's. Also Adolin 1.0 from WoK Prime. :lol: AREDOR. Oh gosh, that name gives me the giggles because it's so stereotypically heroic to the point of absurdity. If you hear the name and say it out loud and don't assume it's a country south of Gondor and west of Cair Paravel, you will imagine a typical fantasy hero with a jaw so square an architect could use it to draft a blueprint. Bonus long hair and face scar and sword carried on the back. This kind of name is so heroic that he would never be Odium's champion unless he was forcibly brainwashed, but then he'd only be turned into an anti-hero and not a villain all the way. I think Adolin's struggle for identity in a changing world is a bit exaggerated, because there are only something like less than 20 Radiants in all of Roshar. But a quarter of them are his family members or living in his house, so he feels worse about it than he should be, objectively. Oh, the mental struggles of perception. Shardblades and Plate aren't obsolete, because they are the best weapons available to fight Voidbringers, and there are only 30 or so Alethi full Shardbearers. Adolin may think that he's still running stagecoaches when everyone has switched to steam, but in a world of limited resources like Roshar is, at least in terms of military tech, I think Radiants and Shardbearers will end up figuring out a parallel role that uses everyone's talents. No Radiant so far has Plate, and few of them are combat oriented or experienced, but all the Shardbearers are soldiers trained from childhood and hardened in constant warfare. Too bad they feel the Thrill, though. Read more fantasy. There are plenty of other stories that feature journeys of self-discovery and identity without typical muscle-bound wandering warrior heroes looking for their next adrenaline fix. :ph34r: Stories of nice guys or girls in scary worlds are not as rare as you think they are. Maybe they are if you are limited by your English capabilities and want to read something with vocabulary that is a bit easier to understand, but there are still lots of books that are on the line between YA and Adult fiction that have deep characters and good worlds, but can still be finished off in less than a week of bedtime reading. And seriously, I get tired of viewpoint switches every chapter, and those interludes in SA. As soon as you get into a character, it's over. The chapters are only around 5k words, or 10 pages. Sometimes it's good to read fantasy where there is one defined main character and an ensemble of 3 or less. Decompress from reading epic fantasy! Then you can return to it without feeling super annoyed with all the little things that bother you. I just want to put a note in here that since this is a character driven romance story, and not a plot driven epic fantasy, characters develop further and faster than they do in SA-canon because I write more introspective prose than I do action scenes. So even if Shallan does not love Adolin now, as it reflects her SA-canon origins, it does not mean that she would feel that way about him forever, after her character has progressed far enough to see what is beyond herself and her selfish motivations. And just because Shallan feels more comfortable with Kaladin in terms of honesty and self-awareness, it does not mean that they are romantically compatible. It's how I interpreted the post-chasm scenes in WoR, YMMV. AU Shallan doesn't even know that Kaladin likes her, and he's not going to confess his feelings to her because he likes Adolin - so it would be a stretch for them to suddenly elope. That's really depressing. I don't think Adolin would that in SA-canon either. He would rather die alone rather than tie himself down with someone he doesn't like, who doesn't like him. If Adolin loved a girl, I think he would still accept a one-sided marriage because luuurve :wub: , and he lacks the self-awareness to realise the level on which is being used. Because no girl would ever tell him "I don't like you but hey let's get married anyway", they would pretend to like him and return his affections, and he wouldn't even notice that it was never even real. Anyways, I finished the chapter addressing a lot of this stuff before I had even seen this post, and I am glad to see that I am not that predictable. You got some things right, but I'm writing the equivalent of a romance novel - and a romance novel ending requires loose strings being tied up satisfyingly. If you wanted to read "serious stories" with "realistic endings", you'd be better off reading real literature. If anyone says that my strings just get tied up so easily, it's developing self-awareness that is important, not fixing all the problems 100%. And honestly, I think a lot of people's problems in SA would have been solved if people just talked to each other instead of ignoring them, holding them in, or pretending they don't exist. JUST TALK OMG. Renarin is a prime example. When I wrote that line, I meant "goose" as in "fool". But English language slang - I can see how it can be interpreted in other ways. Kaladin is criticising Shallan for being selfish and cold-hearted with Adolin. "Geese don't have feelings" - Kaladin is implying that Shallan doesn't have feelings either, and that is why she is manipulating Adoling for selfish reasons. Kaladin is the moral compass and the fountain of honesty in this story.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 24

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART TWENTY FOUR She careened past servants and guests in the hallway, but when she turned a corner, she saw she hadn’t been fast enough. Kabsal stood in front of her, and at his side was a large bald man whose muscular shoulders stretched against the cloth of his Ardents’ robe. The man cracked his knuckles slowly. “You – Kabsal!” Shallan panted. “The troublesome young lady from the House,” said Kabsal, taking a few casual paces to block the way in front of her. The other man stepped behind her. “What are you doing here?” Kabsal smiled. It was not very friendly. “The church maps were taken from me.” He waved a nonchalant hand. “But – no matter. We sent a man to the City to get others.” He paused, and looked at her. “And what did we find there? Jasnah had got there first, and the archives were empty. The Royal Society is in her pocket, and the Guild of Architects has accepted her as their new patroness. “We went back to the Forest and it was crawling with soldiers in the guise of gamekeepers. That was when I thought – of things being bought. And of leverage. And then I thought of you.” Kabsal took a step forward; Shallan sidled closer to the wall in an attempt to slide around him. He matched her, step for step. “Lady Shallan,” he said. “You could be very useful to us – and to me. You needn’t be an enemy of the cause. You could abandon these people–,” a look of distaste crossed his face, “–and join us in our mission.” He raised a hand and held it forwards; Shallan stood still and trembling. The hand brushed the line of her jaw and tilted up her chin. Kabsal’s blue eyes gazed into hers. They were an ordinary blue, like her eyes – or Adolin’s – but there was a curious hunger there, a hungry passion restrained by a careful systematic mind. Shallan closed her eyes. She felt his thumb lightly grazing her cheek. Do something. Do what? Use what you have. You needn’t be the victim. Shallan took a step back, hands clutching at the silken layers of her dress. She took another step back. Then, without a sound, she surged forward, head down, and butted Kabsal very hard in the stomach. Kabsal fell back with a low groan; all the air whistled out of him. He toppled back against the wall and hit a spindly-legged side table on which had been placed a floral arrangement of blue-dyed tulips in a painted porcelain bowl. The table rocked, and it tipped over, and the bowl fell to the ground and shattered. Water, gardeners’ moss, and flowers scattered across the floor. Kabsal struggled feebly to get up; he slipped; he fell onto the shards of porcelain with hands open to catch himself. He gasped in pain and shock and lay on the floor; the water underfoot pinked with his blood. Kabsal choked out a few words to the other Ardent. “Catch her and bring her back. Don’t hurt her – too much,” he wheezed. “Tues-la si elle résiste.” Shallan ran. She ran past guests and servants in the presentation wing of the House, to the foyer; she skidded to a stop and eyed the front door. She could commandeer a guest’s carriage, and leave this House, and go home, and never again have to deal with men whose hands and voices were raised in anger against her. She could pretend that this whole episode – this whole ghastly, traumatic, emotional week – had never existed, and continue with her life. She had done it before; she had not come out any worse for it. No. It had scarred her; she had been broken for it. Because he – the Organisation – would come for her; the fear of it would lurk in the shadows so that every time she turned the corner in panic and saw a flicker of motion, she would sigh in relief afterwards that it was nothing, that it was just a trick of the light. And she would live in constant terror every single day of her life from now, until one future day – that one last day where the shadows hid more than just another empty corner. Kaladin had told her she could go home at any time. Why hadn’t she? Because she wasn’t weak, and she had wanted so much to prove it to him – she had wanted to be right, or at least appear to be right. She could be the victim, or she could choose not to be. She did not have to love Adolin, but she could still marry him. She could defend herself – and she had the means at her disposal; she could prevent a man from ever hurting her. A man – a memory – a painful, terrible past life – could only hurt her if she allowed it to. And she did not allow it. Not this time. She drew a shuddering breath and headed for the nearest familiar hallway. When she glanced back, she saw the man in the Ardent’s robe slowly approaching the foyer. He was walking through the hallway, opening every door on the way, checking the rooms for sign of her. Shallan could not run away. She could choose to fight – to defend, if not to attack. She had done it before – how she cringed at the memory – and she had come away from it, the victor and the victim all at once: she had not been marked, but the marks stayed inside her, and she carried them always, and she held them within her as warning and reminder. She passed the door to the Cobalt Room, and she thought of the room full of swords that she did not know how to use, and she thought of the lady Knights painted on the wall of the temple in the forest. The last time she had killed a man, and the time before that, she had not used a sword. She had used only what she had. She stood in front of the retiring room’s door. It seemed the friendliest room in the House; it lacked the grandeur of the dining room, but it possessed more personality than her own bedchamber, which she had seen only as a room for sleeping and changing one’s clothes. She closed her eyes, and drew on the nothingness inside her to overwhelm the terror and panic that hovered on the edge of her conscious mind. When she felt nothing, the effort it took to be wary and afraid was beyond her, and she could not dwell on the morality or wrongness of taking another being’s life away from them; she could not dwell on anything at all. This time, unlike that last time – and the last time before the last time – when she had descended into the nothingness, she did not resist it, and she did not feel ashamed or afraid of this Shallan. This was the true Shallan, the one under the mask. She had glimpsed it before, and sought the blurred boundaries of it with great regularity, when she settled her mind into the calm of her artist’s trance – it was the same thing, only this was all of her, all the way in. It was as familiar as the way a pencil could be adjusted into the tracing position, or the shading position, or the inking position, with an automatic twitch of the fingers: it was mental memory falling into its well-worn place, as muscle memory was part of her art. It was cold and emotionless apathy; it was observing the world without focus, without bias, without interest on any single thing: crisp reality in all of its magnificent detail, light and shade and colour and shape in the truest clarity. She had used it in the past without knowing what it was, without wanting to know it; it was her bulwark against regret and despair; it was the monster within her – no, it was her protector – and it lent her strength when she had need of it most, and allowed her to process information without hesitation and second-guessing. She used it to draw from life, and she could use it now to defend her life. Shallan opened the door. The handle turned easily. She got to work. The first thing she did was to push the sidebar containing rattling glass cups and snifters to the door, so that it would only open two or three inches. Enough so any pursuer might open it and know there was someone inside to put up resistance, and enough time to give warning for what she was about to do. She picked up the box of knife blades from the sidebar, and took out a handle-less knife. It was a double edged blade, like the point of spear; it narrowed into a tang that had two holes punched out where the handle would have been bolted on. She undid her sash, laying it aside, along with her dance card. She placed the tip of the blade under her left arm, as Kaladin had once done to her in the forest on that night. She cut her dress off; it could not have been removed unless she had wanted to reach all the way around and undo the buttons on the back one by one. Shallan went to the covered billiards table and collected four ivory billiard balls in a fold of her underdress; she approached the racked cues and slid two off the wall. With the knife, she scored a line around one wooden cue, and broke it over her knee. It became two pieces: a longer end from the base of the cue, and a shorter, narrower end of the tip. She did the same for the second cue. Then she reached into her underdress, and untied the laces of her bodice, and dragged it out. She used the knife to cut the knot of her bandages. The handle-less blades were tied to the sturdier pieces of the broken wooden cues, with the thin bodice lacing going around and through the rivet holes punched through the tang. She tied sailors’ knots – a simple belaying pin twist – to hold it secure; she had practiced with hair ribbons on The Wind’s Pleasure, but bodice laces were easily managed. She wrapped the bandage around it tightly, to fasten it securely. It was a very rough job – but she would only need to use it once. And it would be better if this makeshift spear were only capable of being used one time: that way it could not be turned around and used against her. She had read before – and information shuffled in, and through, and away with clarity and precision; her mind sifted through and picked the most useful pieces – such as the fact that one hunted boars with spears. Continental armies used them in the form of entrenched bayonets, and called them swine’s feathers, for a reason. They were a defensive tactic, used to drive away an enemy of greater size and strength and momentum: a maddened boar with gouging tusks, or a charging cavalry dragoon. A boar, a horse, a bull, a man – they were all of them larger and stronger than she was – could they really be all that much different? When they charged, they charged for a target. She took her beautiful – lovingly made, even more lovingly altered – ball gown and laid it on the silk-damask sofa so that the hem of the dress rested on the floor. From the door of the retiring room, one could only see the back of the sofa, and the dress peeping out from under the carved wooden legs. She had used the arrangement to her advantage on that first night of eavesdropping. She and Adolin had used it when she had kissed him, and he had kissed her, while Kaladin, unseeing, had stood at the sidebar. She did not feel anything as that memory came and went. She tied her sash to a tassel of a cushion, and arranged it on the floor behind the draped hem of her gown, with four billiard balls balanced on top. She crossed the room and blew out all the lamps from the doorway to the sofa. The fireplace had not been lit; the only light now came from three lamps at the rear of the room, which shone with soft translucence through the fine blue silk of her gown. Shallan took out two knife blades and tossed her bodice and dance card under the billiards table, and settled herself crouching behind the leather upholstered winged armchair that had been positioned in front of the cold fireplace. She held her spear with one hand, and the end of her sash with the other; it trailed across the floor and behind the sofa, and was almost invisible in the gloomy half-light. She waited. Five minutes became ten became twenty to the ticking of the wall clock. Her legs grew stiff; she stretched her muscles to relieve the tingling sensation of interrupted circulation. Then she heard the sharp knock of the door hitting the edge of the wooden sidebar. The door closed, then it opened again, slower; it tapped against the side of the wooden cabinet. Shallan tightened her grip on the billiard cue. The door burst open, and the cabinet thudded as it was knocked over on its side; there was a tinkling crash of glass. In came the man – the false Ardent – in the black robe. He held a pistol in his hand, aimed towards the only light in the room – the lamps behind the sofa and the low table that held the book she had never finished, and might possibly never finish. Shallan gave the end of the sash in her hand a sharp tug. She felt the cushion it had been tied to jerk, although she couldn’t see it; weight shifted, and the billiard balls dropped onto the carpeted floor with a soft and muffled thump – it sounded almost like a person moving about. The muzzle of the pistol swung towards the sofa. The false Ardent chuckled. “I know you are there, little girl. You cannot hide from me,” he said. His voice was low and menacing; her well-trained mind observed that he did not speak with a recognisable accent of either upper or lower classes, or even any accent or dialect of the Anglethi Isles. He sounded like a foreigner. He stepped forward slowly. Shallan gave the sash another tug, and the cushion rustled against the silk skirts of her abandoned ball gown. His back was to her now. Slowly, she got to her feet, feeling indecently exposed without her bodice. She stepped out from behind the armchair, held her spear in front of her, and sprinted for the man, bare feet pattering on the carpeted floor. Men, horses, dogs – they all looked similar when you stripped away the skin and bone and saw what they were underneath. Kaladin would know this: he had seen them all laid bare in front of him – perhaps that was why he treated them all the same no matter who or what they claimed to be. Diagrams of comparative morphology skimmed through her mind, but here she relied mainly on instinct. She sprang forwards; she thrust the spear at the man’s back, and it went into him, and she shoved upwards with all the force she muster, with the strength of her hips and legs behind the angle of her shoulders and wrists. He grunted as the blade pierced him – he was shocked at the suddenness of it – and Shallan was shocked too at how easily it slid into him. On reflex, his pistol fired into the air, ear-shatteringly loud in the closed space of a room – it spewed grey smoke, and his head turned, and he twisted around to face her. Shallan let go and ducked around the armchair, catching up the shaft of her second spear. He was stumbling now, pulling himself along with one hand on the back of the sofa; he had seen that there was no girl, only an empty dress and a tumbled cushion surrounded by billiard balls. The false Ardent reached into his robe and drew out a second pistol, which he cocked with one shaking hand. She dived to the floor just in time; he fired the gun; she felt a hot wind burning against her shoulder as she hit the carpet – there was a scorching heat, and then that same spot felt strangely cool, but she ignored it. She rolled, and she got back to her feet, and she collected her second spear – and the man was only a few feet away, arms reaching for her. He was groaning as he threw down his spent weapon, and bloodied foam flecked lips twisted into a manic snarl; his eyes showed white all around and he twitched and shuddered with every strained step. He came on slowly, slowly and implacably, and with one last tortured gasp of effort he leaped for her. She did not run, and she did not turn her back to him. She was tired, so very very tired, but this time she did not want to lay her arms aside, and turn away, and close her eyes so she could pretend that there was nothing bad in the world and everything was the way it should be. Because the world was not good, and if it had ever been good, all the goodness had long since been leached away in the four-and-a-half-thousand years since the world had ended and restarted to wash away the sins of men. And the sins of women. He reached her, and she held the spear angled outwards in front of her, the base of the wooden billiard cue to the floor, as she had seen done in engravings of the Sverickan musket infantry. Then there was an embrace of the least romantic sort imaginable, for his breath whistled against her cheek, spraying bloody foam that was more blood than foam, and the hands that reached for her were harsh with bruising force. The second spear entered from the front, under the ribcage, and knocked against the point of the first. He wheezed, and he fell against her, bearing her to the ground, keening with the pain of it. He whispered words, nonsense syllables; they poured out of him with stuttering incomprehensibility. He was heavy; she rolled him off to the side and she wriggled out from underneath, the front of her underdress wet with his blood. She felt the powder burn now, on her shoulder and down the back of her upper arm, and it stung, fierce and insistent; for now she ignored it. She retrieved a handle-less blade from behind the armchair. When she returned, he was still not dead. His eyes were open and unfocused, and he twitched when she prodded him with a toe. There was a nauseating smell that was not just the tang of blood and sweat of a dying man. She looked down. The makeshift spear had torn a hole through his robe and into his belly; the juices of his – interior – had welled out and soaked the black homespun and the loosened bandages wrapped around the tang of the knife blade. Shallan almost returned the food she had eaten and the three – or was it four? – glasses of wine she’d had that afternoon. She approached him, and he was still gibbering and twitching on the floor, slowly dying as his body poisoned himself with his own acids. The carpet around him was sodden with blood, just as his robe was, and her underdress. She had no bodice on underneath, and his wet blood caused the fabric to cling to her skin; she suddenly felt very cold and naked. She kicked at his arm, and it flopped limply out; she rolled the coarse black cloth of his sleeve up and saw a tattoo of three diamonds halfway up his forearm. She closed her eyes, and drew the blade across his wrist. She did the same thing for his other side. It was Kaladin’s mercy. And she felt nothing from it. The man gibbered and kicked. He muttered words. “La tempête approche, elle est inarrêtable,” he said, his tongue writhing impotently between crusted lips. “Vive l’Empereur.” Then he gave a shudder, and fell still. When the man was dead, Shallan stumbled to the armchair and collapsed into it; she sat with her knees tucked under her chin; she drew in a long and heaving breath. Sensation returned; she felt the pulsing throb of the burn on her shoulder now, and the stiffness of her dress drying to her body with a dead man’s blood, and she felt empty and cold and hollow. She still felt the uninhibited clarity of thought. The nothingness was still with her, and inside her, and around her, and it held her in its gentle embrace. She understood what she had done just now. She knew she had done it to protect herself. She knew what she had done was to protect herself the last time, and the last time before last. She remembered what she had done. She had killed her father. Lin, Laird Davar, had been arguing heatedly with her step-mother Malise one evening. They rowed often, and in the last weeks before his death – before she had killed him – it had occurred once every two days on average. Most of the time it was him roaring and smashing things, and occasionally striking her, but this time she heard Balat. She heard his voice, deep – almost like Helaran’s, for he was a man grown now – and thus felt it his duty to offer some resistance to their father. Out of guilt that he had not done so earlier, out of the fierce admiration that all of them held for Helaran, or out of the instinct to protect what family was left, she did not know and could not guess. Shallan had been in Jushu’s room, measuring ether in whisky bottles, and diluting with distilled water up to the lines she had marked with paint after much painstaking measurement. Jushu had taken off his boots and jacket and was settling on the bed. Then they heard Malise screaming, and it was followed by a thud, and Malise’s scream stopped abruptly. They heard Balat yelling; they heard Father’s answering bellow; they heard things smash, and they looked at each other. “I have a plan,” said Shallan, and this was not the first, nor the last time she had said this line. It was not the first time or last time she had said it and made up her actions as she went along, and it was not the first or last time she had stayed and fought when her first thought had been to run. Jushu lent her his tartan from his linen chest, and they piled up ether bottles. First the bottles from the bedside table, then the bottles from under the bed, and finally Jushu’s cache of rough street ether that he had hidden beneath the false bottom of his wardrobe and a small compartment under the floorboards. She had only known about the bottles under the bed. They gathered up the clinking pile in the tartan and carried them downstairs, where they met Wikim on the landing. “They’re in the parlour,” he said, and they heard Balat yelling, in pain now, not anger. When they turned the handle of the parlour door, it would not open until Wikim gave it a great heave, and they saw Malise with her eyes closed, and blood dripping from her temple and down her cheek. She was fallen over the threshold, fingers curled on the handle from the other side, and she did not move; Shallan perceived no rise and fall of breath as someone unconscious in sleep or in drift. Jushu’s hands rose up and he covered his face and gave a queer whimper, but Shallan pushed onwards, dragging the bundle of bottles. Father was standing over Balat, who lay crumpled on the floor. The heirloom claymores on their stand over the mantelpiece had been pulled down, and neither of them were in Balat’s hand. One of them was in Father’s, and the other hand held the fireplace poker. With a growl, Lin Davar lunged forwards and brought the poker down on Balat’s leg. Shallan felt the comfort of apathetic nothingness when she tore Wikim’s belt dirk from his waist and sliced off the last foot of fabric on the hem of her petticoat. She cut the tops off the ether bottles and poured the highest concentration of street ether over it. “Pour four bottles of eighty-mark on the tartan when I have him on the ground,” she said to Wikim. And then she ran to Father and slung the circle of ether-wet fabric over his head and pulled and pulled until he was off balance, and he couldn’t breathe, until he dropped the sword and poker to clutch at the cloth over his face. Those who had never been exposed to ether, or ether fumes, would be unaware of how it burned and stung the nostrils and choked the air out of the lungs when it was in its highest, undiluted concentration. The immediate response, she knew, would have been to gasp out a breath when attacked from behind. But with ether, one couldn’t do that – one had to hold their breath until the vapours dissipated. And the higher the proof, the faster they went, which was why ether needed to be diluted with water for a drift longer than fifteen minutes. She knew what happened next. The first gasp, followed by the searing of the throat and nostrils as the mucus linings burned away, and then the dizziness when all one breathed was ether instead of air. Shallan had not calculated arithmetic progressionals for Father, but with the highest proof, it would not take long. Father stumbled backwards, one step, then another, and then he collapsed to the ground with Shallan still pulling her strip of linen petticoat over his face. “Wikim, now!” she cried. Wikim bounded forwards with the tartan; she ripped it out of his hands with savage force. The highest concentrations of ether never lasted long – she needed more ether, before Father regained his senses. The tartan was thick, and it had not absorbed much of the ether – drips of it rolled off the greasy lanolin impregnated wool and landed on the floor. But it would prevent the vapours of the petticoat layer from escaping. When she watched for Jushu, he had used a blanket over a kerchief to the same effect. She pressed the tartan over Father’s face, holding it down with what weight she had. His body twitched and bucked, but he was falling into an unconsciousness beyond a frolic, beyond a drift, beyond even surgical insensibility. This was the danger of ether, when one used it without calculating and poured it without measuring. With an irresponsible and untrained watcher, or no watcher at all, one could end up with too much ether and not enough air, and wake up from sleep permanently addled in the mind; it could damage a person, and they would end up a drooling invalid. None of this bothered Shallan. Nothing bothered Shallan right now. She considered it a blessing. She heard Balat moaning; she heard Jushu behind her. “The fifty-five and enough to soak your kerchief,” she said. “It will ease the pain. The forty will do to clean a wound – do it after he drifts. You must light the lamps and check for broken skin first.” There was no way to count. They did not own a wall clock; she had not thought to bring an hourglass from Jushu’s bed table. Shallan resorted to singing to measure the time. “Now go to sleep,” she whispered, “and drift you deep, with darkness all around you…” It was a lullaby, one he had sung to her when she was a girl, when Mother was still alive. Her cheeks were wet with tears; her hands were wet with ether, and the vapours surrounded her and drew her in and she knew was on the verge of a frolic. “Now comes the storm,” she sang, “but you’ll be warm, and the wind will rock your basket.” Father’s legs stopped kicking after a while, but she held the tartan down anyway. She poured another bottle over the tartan just to be sure. In the end, she did not know if Father had suffocated from lack of air, or if he had drowned from too much ether. But it didn’t matter; he was dead. They dragged his body to the Loch, wrapped in Jushu’s tartan. It was the traditional send-off for a Scottish man – how strangely convenient it was. It was even more convenient that it had been soaked in ether, and they had many more bottles left. They poured it over him and lit it on fire – it caught quite easily and burned with merry blue flames – and they went back the manor, and then sent out for a surgeon for Balat. The vapours dissipated eventually. There were no bloodstains. It was all very clean and neat. It had been easy, incredibly easy, for Shallan to excise the whole ordeal from her mind. Until now. She remembered it, and remembered a great many things besides, and she saw things she had not seen because she had not wanted to see. Kaladin. He spoke truths to her, and she had brushed them off because part of her had wanted to be the victim. She accepted those marks on her soul as a part of her, out of guilt of what she had done – she had seen herself as a murderess, and cursed besides. Why had she wanted to be the victim? Because she was afraid. She, in essence, was timid and non-confrontational and cowardly. She did not like to be the first to speak; she detested criticism and correction; she liked to be seen as likable because she thought approval was the only measure of her worth. It was all insecurity. She let others guide her, and choose her path; she accepted how they mapped her future, for if they took care of it, they were responsible – the bad things she did were not her responsibility. It had been simple enough to place herself in the position of the victim of circumstance. Shallan wanted other people to absolve her of her sins, but perversely, she had been too afraid to tell them – afraid of what answer they would give her. She had been trapped in the stasis of a Damnation of her own creation. She became aware that there was no one to answer for her actions except herself – and forgiveness came from within. Father was dead by her hands. Two men had died this week, shot and stabbed but finished off through other means. She almost laughed at how inefficient she was at killing. It was hardly the mark of a seasoned killer. If she hadn’t done it, she would be dead. That was truth. She was not a good person, or a bad person. She was just a person. That was truth. Guilt and fear could rule a person’s life, until there was no room for anything else. She did not want her life consumed by it. She wanted more than that. There existed more than that, and she had felt it for the first time in years, however briefly, this week. That was truth. Loch Davar could never be her home again. That was the final truth. Forgiveness and peace; they were twined together for her; they were prelude to healing and recovery. Shallan felt empty inside, but it wasn’t the bleak and empty nothing of despair. It was a cleansing and expectant emptiness: she was a vessel, and she had been broken, and the dark, tarry corruption that had been hidden inside for years and years had spilled out all at once. The pieces were still there, and they could be put back together – different, of course, since it could never be the same again – but she could be whole again. If she wanted it. Shallan turned the bloody knife over and over in her hands. She had picked the knife blades out at random, but this was the one with the three diamonds stamped clearly on the tang. How very strange life was. How it took such twists and turns so that a blade wielded by a man in the forest became a spear that killed his comrade. Shallan had chosen the path; she had made her decision to stand and defend herself; she had turned aside the blade’s intention and a man had impaled himself upon it. Perhaps the blade buried in the dead man’s belly was the same one that had scored the cut against her ribs. Shallan thought of things as the remorseful weight of withheld emotion descended; her calm and peaceful nothingness receded to the edges of her mind and faded away. Life returned; perfect clarity dulled, and her awareness extended only to a small circle around the leather armchair. The wall clock counted the seconds away, and Shallan savoured the tranquil silence before reality caught her up and boxed her ears with the force of its relentless clamour. Author's Notes: On Kabsal - I wanted him to come off kind of creepy, like Mraize. He thinks Shallan is cute, and doesn't want to hate her since her father did give them a lot of money that he mortgaged their estate for. But he is still a fanatic devoted to his special club, and that is his number one priority. When did Shallan become MacGyver? - You have to remember she doesn't know how to fight with standard weapons, she's a creative person, and she reads a lot of things in books and has a good memory. It’s the same with SA Shallan, who is pretty good with thinking on her feet. See that time she snuck into Amaram’s house. Swine's feathers - IRL Swedish military tactic in the 1600's. Soldiers stuck daggers on the ends of their muskets, before they were officially called bayonets. They also stuck knives on their shooting tripods so they could hold off cavalry while reloading. Shallan and her father - you were probably waiting for a long time to find out how that happened. There's no poison, and they sold the necklace earlier in their AU, so Shallan uses what she has. On Shallan's character development - Shallan is starting to let go of repression and denial. She felt guilty the whole time that she was personally responsible for every bad thing that happened, because she deserved it, because she is a bad person. I feel it's more satisfying when she learns to do it on her own instead of being nudged into it by a spren.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 23