sheep

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART TWENTY THREE They later found themselves grazing at the buffet table, along with a number of older guests to whom the prospect of dancing was beyond both their agility and their dignity. Shallan piled jam tartlets on her plate, next to a croquette and a stack of pickled vegetables held together by a stick. “What do you make of him?” asked Kaladin, filling his own plate. “Renarin? He’s very … eccentric. But not unpleasant,” Shallan replied, catching up a fork from the trays of silverware in front of an ice sculpture carved into the shape of tower. “His calculations are interesting. I thought they looked to be a variant of the vapour progressionals – the ones you use on summer days.” She stopped, and considered her brief conversation with him during their dance. “Is – is he a wretch like me?” “No,” said Kaladin, stern and disapproving. “If you read more widely, you’d see for yourself that the numbers are a tool. Not a confession.” “What other applications might they have?” “In medical academia, there are theories about the link between vapours and liquid in blood. Some theorise that our existence depends on a connection between breath and blood – air is dissolved or bubbled through our blood, and it is used up somehow. Which is why we need to keep breathing.” “Why do our bodies need air? Has that ever been explained?” Shallan, a devotee of the natural sciences, was intrigued by this line of discussion. She had studied mostly morphology and physiology of living creatures, and the mechanisms and arithmetic of inheritance, but they were subjects limited to the books she could find or borrow, and specimens she could observe on the family estate. “Our bodies are made of animalcules, and there is something within them that requires air for various process,” said Kaladin. “But most of that is all hypothetical – we haven’t instruments fine enough to see them clearly for ourselves, and we merely postulate they exist based on simple experimentation.” He looked at her, and saw that she wasn’t bored by his explanation – she was fascinated. He continued. “It’s similar to the smallest unit of a pure element – no one has ever seen any of those, but most people accept that they must exist, because they react in predictable and replicable ways.” Shallan nodded. “Botanical – animalcules – if plant ones could be called that, are much larger. You can still see those with rough magnification – and see the things inside them, if you hold a lamp underneath.” His dark eyes lit up when they spoke of natural philosophy; it was a subject in which he held much interest. Shallan, when she had first met the Doctor, had assumed he was a surgeon – or derogatorily called sawbones – someone who could draw a line on a man’s leg and cut it off straight, as anyone could who had completed an apprenticeship in dressing meats at a grocer’s market. But Kaladin could think like an academic, and he believed in organised science, involving proofs and quantities, and structured experimentation. It was the neat mode of thinking that Jasnah endorsed, and had tried to win Shallan over to when she had seen that Shallan preferred the qualitative measures and the observation of common themes in her study of natural history. Shallan had the mind of an artist; it was only necessity that had given her reason to learn arithmetic and chemistry. Madame Tyn, conversely, had believed that skills in the humanities and language arts was all a lady needed; she had not seen much use in the constant quibbling and very male world of scientific academia. Kaladin stopped short in the middle of sentence; his eyes left her face with the briefest flicker to follow something behind her. Shallan turned. It was Adolin, in his regimental uniform, surrounded by a number of young men. He had not noticed their presence. The young gentlemen matched him in stature and confidence in their upright carriage; they were all of them gallants of the high nobility – well-dressed in black formal coats with stiff white shirtfronts; there were one or two others wearing the blue of the Kholin Regiment. They were laughing loudly and having their wineglasses refreshed, and did not bother to conceal their conversation. One young man in a black formal coat slapped Adolin on the back. “What’s this I hear about a Scottish girl?” he said. Adolin shrugged as a footman poured wine for him. “We’re just courting, Jak. And it might not even get that far. She’s only been here a week.” “I never thought you were the type to let yourself be nailed into an arrangement, Adolin,” said the young man. “There are lots of winds to ride out there, you know.” “Like I said, it’s far from official.” “In that case, let me introduce you to the ladies.” He waved a hand, and a group of giggling girls colourfully dressed in silk gowns glided over. They wore their hair elaborately braided and stuck with jewelled pins; their bodices were laced up tight to show their endowments to full advantage. “Inkima, Deeli, Rilla, Malasha, Janala, Danlan–” “–And Melali,” Adolin finished, kissing them each on the hand. They simpered in their loathsome twittering way, and fluttered fans over their faces. “How’s your sister?” Melali giggled and batted her eyelashes over her fan. “As eager to see you as I am, sir.” She stroked Adolin’s arm. The young man, Jak, threw an arm around Inkima’s waist. He must have brushed against her boldly, for she gasped and tittered and pressed herself against him; she did not appear to object at being handled in such a coarse way. The other girls surrounded Adolin, two on each arm, and waved their dance cards in his face. He laughed at something one of them said, and signed their cards one after the other. Well, now I see that the reputation was not for nothing - it was earned, and well-earned at that, thought Shallan bitterly. The gentleman becomes the rake. Finnie was right about everything. Everything except for me and the Doctor, of course. She stood up and went to find the footman with the drinks. She found him – he held a round silver platter of mostly empty glasses and two full ones. She took a glass of sparkling white wine and downed it in a few gulps, and returned it to the tray. Then she picked up the one remaining glass, and finished that. There was a footman behind her with a tray of fresh drinks, so she took a glass of claret for her next one, for variety’s sake. She sipped at it, and turned about, searching for more drinks. If Renarin had managed to find six different wines, there was surely more than two to be had. She bumped into Kaladin, who took her by the shoulder and steadied her. “One drink an hour is usually the rate that guarantees sobriety,” he remarked. “Sobriety at this party? I do not recall seeing that name on the guest list.” “You would not want to put yourself in an undignified position, would you?” “I doubt anyone would notice if I did.” “Does it bother you?” “What?” “That.” He jerked his head in the direction of Adolin and his friends. “No.” “Is that the truth?” Shallan spared them a quick glance. Two of the girls were holding Adolin’s hands and tugging him onto the dance floor. It did bother her, as much as she hated to admit it. There was something in her that cried out – in the anger and loneliness of rejection, in despair – she had thought she was – special – to him, and now she found out she was not, that she was … nothing. She paused. No, not nothing – just nothing more than another one of the Duke’s girls: interchangeable, replaceable, identical in their intentions towards him. She could not blame him for it. She was the villain; she had wanted to use him thoughtlessly – it was only fair that he should act with equal intention. He laughed with the – other girls; he held them by the waist, and by the hand, and their hands traced patterns on his back, and their arms were thrown over his shoulder; they whispered things into his ear. Shallan closed her eyes. It was inevitable, she knew, that there would come a day that anyone who knew her, or liked her, would see that she was not a person they would want to know when they found alternative to her company. Even if she could not be said to be a good person, or a bad person, it still came with the implication that there existed better people. What did innate Grace matter when one had lawful Grace in plenty: enough hereditary blessings to fill buckets up with money, and fill regiments up with mustered men. Annulments can be granted upon infidelity, whispered the voice her mind. It was Brother Kadash’s voice, and for that instant it sounded like Jasnah’s too. Jasnah had suggested an annulment on the birth of an unsuitable first child – perhaps this could be a better and easier way to arrange her return to scholarship and the comforting routine of Jasnah’s guidance. So. She would willingly tolerate it, if she could not like it. She had suffered worse things, and uncontrolled affection for others – well, that was no worse – and when considered, much better – than the uncontrolled fury that her father had felt. Philandering, she knew, was the unofficial occupation for gentlemen of leisure; it would have been socially unacceptable for them to hold a profession or position for pay. Rakishness – skirtchasing – womanising, whatever euphemism was currently fashionable, was condoned; it was commonplace – and discretion was only required after marriage, to satisfy the terms of a contract. Her resolve firmed; she took a bracing gulp of her claret. “Yes,” she said, her voice cold and steady. “I don’t care. There can be a – a stable full of – concubines – but there will only be one Duchess. Well, only one Duchess at a time, at least. And that is what matters.” Kaladin eyed her sceptically. “So very mercenary. Noble ladies really are all the same.” “Noble ladies know that love and happy marriages are just foolish hopes to make their honeymoon worth enduring.” “What might a maiden know about marriage?” “I know enough to understand that love and happiness are a luxury. And like all other luxuries, one can quite capably do without them.” Kaladin’s lips twitched with grim humour. “Your cynicism scarce befits your youth.” She looked up at him and laughed. It was not a very convivial sound. “It is pragmatism, Doctor, and it is best learned early.” “Indeed, Miss Davar, and we have learned from the best.” “It is a shame that others have not the benefit of such an education.” “Regarding your education – do you know the Continental waltz?” “I have only practised it with my brothers.” “I am not – nor do I wish to be – your brother, but I am entirely certain the skill is transferable. Would you lend me your dance card?” Shallan pulled the dance card out of her sash. “I must first insist that I confirm for evidence of prior engagements.” She flicked the tassel aside and opened the card. “Oh, it looks like my dance card is quite blank. How astonishing.” “Shall I, then?” Kaladin held out his hand for her card; he had found a pencil somewhere, and when she handed him her card, he spent several seconds longer than she had expected to write a single name. Then he held it back out to her, and she slipped it into her sash without looking any further. “Shall we, then?” He took her hand. “Oh, and one thing, Miss Davar – you must take the lead and I shall follow … in reverse.” It was a very queer sensation to dance the lady’s steps while counting cues for the gentleman’s. She tapped Kaladin on the shoulder to remind him when to turn, but he soon accustomed himself to it, after several painful missteps involving a pair of very large boots. “You dance very well – for a woman,” said Shallan, smiling up at him. “Thank you, I learned at school,” he replied. “Kharbranth Academy teaches ladies’ steps?” “They describe it as a cruel and unusual punishment.” “As cruel and unusual as any governess’s lesson on deportment.” “Learning how to drink tea is a cruelty?” said the Doctor, amused at the notion. “My, your suffering near rends my heart.” “Please, Doctor, tell me that after a fitting for your first bodice,” Shallan returned. “I should think that would make for a very undignified position.” “Fortunately for you, you were never a follower of primitive country traditions,” said Shallan. “And I do not think you are the type to put much stock in social obligation.” “Yes, how very fortunate.” “For the both of us, I’m sure.” “Indeed,” he said. His voice was softly pensive. They finished one set, and started another. Shallan could not decide if Kaladin was a better dancer than Renarin – Renarin was stiff and inattentive; Kaladin had put his foot forwards when the gentleman was supposed to step back in the turn, and had trodden on her toes. He had not put his full weight on her foot, but they were satin dancing slippers, and could do very little with regards to cushioning. Kaladin’s stature and their height difference, though Shallan had never liked that she could not glare at him without angling her head all the way back, had its benefits here. She did not have to look at the other people around them; she did not have to see Adolin in the arms of one of his … harem. She could just focus her gaze on Kaladin’s neckcloth and that one whisker hair on his neck that he had missed during shaving, whilst mechanically counting the steps and occasionally signalling the cues. She wondered about Kaladin’s opinion of – young ladies. She had never considered the possibility of his being a natural singleton or an invert: though they happened on occasion, it was something that was never spoken of in either company or privacy. She did not think he had displayed any overt interest in the maids with which she had seen him interact; she had observed in coaching inns on the journey with Jasnah that many people of the lower classes did not follow the strict rules of propriety that were observed to the letter by the gentry – when they attended social events in the public eye. It was therefore not shocking to see maids show their interest in men – at least, men who were not their social superiors by far, or their direct employers. The lower classes were not expected to be paragons of morality and virtue that was part of the expected – but unenforced – duties of those Graced by the Almighty to be leaders of society. Kaladin was not gentry. He was middle class, and theoretically within reach of the lower class, if they were ambitious enough in their pursuit. He was not expected to follow the social expectations that constrained those of privilege, like herself or Adolin. He could marry as he liked; he could dally as he liked – within reason. But, of course, reason would be lenient for him. Now she understood Finnie’s winking when she had hinted at something between Shallan and the Doctor, after his visit to her bedchamber to change her bandages. It would surely appear dubious when one was unaware that Kaladin’s visit was with the perfect innocence of a professional physician’s treatment of a patient – and Shallan almost laughed at the ironic absurdity that Kaladin was managing her mysterious personal issues. She had been confused when she had first learned of them, the first night she had dined with the gentlemen. Shallan had been confused about many things, she realised, upon her arrival to Kholinar Court. She had not even been aware of own her confusion; it had been clouded in naïveté. Her life had been planned for her by Jasnah, just as it had been by her father in Loch Davar. She would be a scholar, she would woo Adolin, she would marry him – and then what? She had presumed she would become the scholar again, after glossing over that missing interval which she hadn’t wanted – dared – think about. Well, she knew now the things she had not known a week ago, and although it was not a fate that girls who had heads stuffed with silly romantic day-dreams could be eager for – at least it had the solid weight of certainty. Certainty of a life, a stifling but luxurious life, with a wandering man, was better than the wandering half-life of an uncertain future. At least in the former situation, one could be assured of regular meals, and that was not something Shallan could take for granted after the last desperate months before she had found Jasnah. Adolin, although he might wander and be negligent in his treatment of her beyond the contractual obligations of husbandly duty, was not someone who would deliberately seek to hurt her. She did not take him for the type to feel satisfaction or glee in seeing pain in others – an image of skinned frogs pinned to the ground with slivers of whittled sticks rose up – and she had seen the proof of it that night in the forest. She had no obligation to love him – Jasnah, and any marital lawyer, would never consider it a requirement of matrimony; assuring a match would protect the people she truly loved. Her emotions cooled; her disappointment faded; she drew on the nothingness of apathy inside her for strength and fortitude enough to carry on. She had suffered worse blows, much worse; this was nothing in comparison. The set ended, and she tore herself away from Kaladin’s arms to find the footmen for another glass of wine. There were Ardents in the crowd, in black hard-wearing homespun cut in simple rectangular shapes, belted at the waist. And that was when she saw the blue eyes and handsome face of Brother Kabsal. He saw her too; their eyes met, and his mouth opened, and his hand reached out for her. The familiar is often the least expected. Shallan almost gasped at the shock of it. He was here. The Organisation was here. She panicked; she whirled around on unsteady feet and stumbled away, pushing through the guests and mumbling apologies. She must have pushed past Adolin; Shallan heard the screech of a girl in his arms as she hurtled by. She heard his voice, calling her name, once, twice, and then the crowd closed around her and he was swept away. Shallan climbed the stairs to the ballroom doors, two steps at a time, almost tripping in her heeled slippers and her sore toes. She kicked off the shoes, picked up her skirts, and ran. Author's Notes: "There is something within them that requires air" - basically, it's mitochondria, and they need it to break apart ATP for energy. Animalcules is the old fashioned word for "cells". And blood is actually a mix of liquid, gas, and solid. I guess Kaladin forgot how to centrifuge. Adolin and Jakamav - in this AU, Adolin hasn't discovered what a backstabbing toffee-noser Jak is. And the girls are Adolin's groupies, invited by Navani the queen manipulator. "Kaladin’s opinion of young ladies" - Shallan still doesn't see that he is crushing on her. At this point, she doesn't see why anyone would like her. She is pretty self-centered and doesn't consider until now that Kaladin and Adolin may have love lives that have nothing to do with her, and that she doesn't know about. Shallan, although she pretends not to be upset that Adolin is into other girls, really is sad about it and tries to repress it, because that's what Jasnah would do. When in doubt, WWJD. Because Jasnah has been the guide on "how boys work" so far, and Shallan doesn't know any better. Also, you can't have a ball without losing a shoe or two somewhere. :-D

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 22

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART TWENTY TWO Shallan was announced as The Most Honourable Lady Shallan of Loch Davar; she was interested to learn that Kaladin’s own service rank was warrant officer in the Kholin Regiment. They passed through the honour guard of footmen at the entryway of the ballroom. There was a landing, and shallow steps that curved downwards into a grand room panelled with wood carved in relief and gilded; lamp chandeliers were suspended from above, and bright banners of Kholin blue hung from ceiling to floor. One wall had a very long table draped with a white cloth and a row of attractively plated foods in small serving sizes, from savoury appetisers to desserts. There was a musicians’ dais in one corner, and a number of round tables and folding chairs at the back for those who preferred to eat rather than mingle with other guests. Shallan saw Wit replace a footman at the door – she smiled and curtsied in his direction, and he returned with a wink and a hearty mock military salute. She picked up her skirts, and bounced down the steps, looking for someone – anyone – she knew. But she did not recognise any familiar people, and most of the men wore dining suits with only the waistcoat or waistband to give any indication of a family connection, and she could not remember which colours went with which ducal House. Jasnah pushed her way through the throng. “Shallan, here, with me!” she called. Shallan looked up at Kaladin; he did not say anything. She sucked in a nervous breath and turned to Jasnah. “Am I to be presented now?” Jasnah took her by the wrist and led her to the back of the ballroom, to the rows of round tables. There were two people seated there, surrounded by a few hangers-on; they excused themselves and withdrew when they noticed Jasnah bearing down on them. It was a man and a woman. The man’s face was familiar – he had a face heavily lined and tanned by the sun; his features were distinguished in maturity, but his nose – rather too large, broken, and crookedly reset and healed – detracted from any potential for beauty. His black hair was cropped short in the military fashion, and greyed at the temples; his eyebrows were very black too; they and the lines around his eyes and mouth conveyed a grave solemnity to his manner. She knew him – he was the man, years aged but still recognisable, from the painting in the portrait gallery. Adolin’s father: the Prince Kholinar. The woman sitting opposite held herself with the perfect posture of one completely familiar and comfortable with authority. She was an older lady, a former Society beauty at least, or so Shallan thought. But she had aged well, and gracefully; there was elegance in her every movement, and languid power in her relaxed appearance that Shallan knew was merely – appearance. She wore her hair elaborately dressed and set with jewelled combs; jewels and gold glinted from her ears, and throat, and around her fingers. They looked up from their conversation when Jasnah approached, towing Shallan behind her. The man rose to his feet and adjusted his side-sword from under his military uniform coat. The woman did not stand; she lazily straightened a fold of her skirt and her eyes flicked upwards, darting from Jasnah and Shallan in a subtle – but not so subtle as to go unobserved – inspection. Jasnah gave a shallow bow; Shallan dipped into a low and very formal curtsey. “Your highnesses – I am glad to see you to-night. I should like to present my ward and travelling companion of the last half year,” said Jasnah, with her usual imperious tones. Shallan could only wish she had Jasnah’s self-assurance. Jasnah introduced Shallan the same way as she had been introduced to Adolin at their first luncheon – name and titles, followed by another formal curtsey. It was easier, thought Shallan, when one did not think of anything when one did things – one could then act without thought, and with the precision of an automaton. “Shallan, I introduce to you His Highness Dalinar Kholin, the Prince Kholinar,” Jasnah continued, “and Her Highness the Queen Mother and Queen Dowager, Navani Kholin. My mother.” Prince Dalinar nodded to her in acknowledgement. “Jasnah spoke very well of you. She has not had a ward for as long as you have been hers. Nor has my son had a guest at this House–“ He was interrupted by a man with long curled hair – fashionably tied into a tail – and a ruddy face, who called his name. The new man was elaborately dressed; his jacket buttons were set with emeralds, and his neckcloth and the edges of his sleeves that peeked out of his dining jacket cuffs were made from fine lace. It was the beautifully extravagant white lace more appropriate for ladies’ underdresses and nightshifts than a man’s shirt, but he apparently did not seem to mind. “Dalinar!” the man called. Prince Dalinar turned away from them, and bowed. “Please, you must excuse me for now, but please continue – Navani will be sure to relay this conversation to me afterwards.” He cleared his throat, and glanced at Lady Navani – they shared a look of mutual affection – and he strode off to meet the floridly dressed interrupter. Dalinar felt affection for his late brother’s wife, Shallan perceived. Somehow it seemed like something more, or deeper, than mere brotherly love. Navani spoke. Her voice was cold. “So this is what you’ve brought us?” Jasnah took Prince Dalinar’s vacated seat. “She’s an accomplished scholar, Mother. I judged her capabilities myself.” “We,” Navani said, royal authority ringing in her voice, “scarcely see the need for another scholar in the Family.” She picked up a glass of wine from the table, and swirled it. Bubbles ascended gently to the surface. “The late Duchess brought with her the loan of her father’s twenty-five thousand,” she remarked. Shallan spoke up. “The Clan McValam can muster six thousand.” One perfectly arched eyebrow rose. “Are you Himself’s daughter, or his Tanist’s?” “My father w–is a minor baron,” Shallan replied. She hoped no-one had noticed her brief error. “Is that so.” There was a pause, and Jasnah said, “the late Duchess was a love match.” “She also had a respectable dowry to her credit. Adolin can have his true choice for his second or third, but he must understand our current reality in the present.” Navani said coolly; Shallan recognised some of Jasnah’s natural authority in her speech and manner. “We need a strong Duchess.” Her eyes flicked to Jasnah, and a thought – an emotion –passed from one woman to another; Shallan could not pick up its significance. “Not just a scholar fixated on folk legends and bards’ tales.” “Adolin has a choice,” answered Jasnah. “The Prince my uncle guaranteed that.” “Then we must ensure he makes the right choice.” Navani set the glass of wine down on the table. It made only a small clink, but it felt like a physical blow – one that almost reverberated in its impact. It was heavy, and final, and unrelenting, like the sound of a door slamming shut. Shallan almost stumbled back from the force of the words – words that had been spoken conversationally, even if they were anything but friendly; a warning look from Jasnah kept her silent. She clasped her hands in front of her, trying to keep them still in the aftermath of this terrible first introduction. For Shallan had grown used to leaving pleased impressions in the thoughts of people she met for the first time; most people thought her clever or humorous when she tried to make herself appeal to their sensibilities by playing up what they liked to see. It worked when she wanted it to, and when she didn’t bother, it was only around people whose opinion of her she considered irrelevant. Like Doctor Kaladin, for instance. It was something of a shock that to see that the Queen Dowager found her so unsuitable, so inadequate – when she hadn’t said or done anything yet to show herself to disadvantage. She had been told that Lady Navani had had other preferences in the choice of the future Duchess Kholinar, but she had not expected that it would result in such a transparent dismissal of herself. “Mother,” said Jasnah. “I believe we must have a discussion on the meaning of the word choice.” She waved Shallan away with a hand gesture under the table. Shallan left with grateful relief. *** Shallan wandered dazedly through the ballroom, passing guests and groups in conversation. No-one stopped her, or spoke to her; occasionally she paused when someone blocked her path, and now and then they hesitated as if it to say something – but she kept her eyes downcast and they stepped aside for her. How humiliating it was to be chastised in public like that, even if no-one but Jasnah was close enough to hear. It was humiliating to be chastised at all – and Shallan had very rarely in her life been handled – like that. Yes, she could admit, there were people who had raised their voices in anger at her in the past. Mother had done it, before Mother had died. Father had done it, but it wasn’t really to her – he had often raised his voice thus to address the whole family, but she could not say it was directed specifically to her. Madame Tyn had scolded her as a matter of course during her feminine education, when her toes had not been pointed just so, or when her spoon clinked against the porcelain teacup or soup bowl. Kaladin had shown hints of disapproval, both outright and ambiguous, at her past behaviour. Utterly unsuitable. Those words were the first and most blatant indication of Kaladin’s disapproval; he had said them in the retiring room, the night she had first arrived to Kholinar Court. She had laughed it off, and had never considered the possibility of it being – true. She saw flashes of Kholin blue in the crowd – it seemed as though the people were moving aside, separating themselves to cling to the walls of the grand ballroom; she heard the twang of musical instruments as the orchestra warmed up corrected their pitch. But she did not see Adolin, and she could not tell if one of the blue uniforms scattered through the mass of guests was his uniform, or someone else who held rank in the Regiment. “Shallan,” said a voice behind her. A hand caught her wrist and gripped it tightly. She stopped short and turned. A blue sleeve, a scarred hand. “Oh,” she said, “it’s you.” “The first set is starting. If you do not want to join, then I suggest we vacate the floor.” He led her off to the tables in a corner of the room, where there was some privacy that could be found in the hum of conversation and the first notes of the first set piece. There was a young man with spectacles sitting in the corner, staring at a row of full wineglasses in front of him. There was a pencil in his hand; he tapped it against the table in a rhythm that did not quite match the orchestra. Scattered around him were menu cards taken from the buffet table – Shallan saw neat rows of numbers written on them, spaced around printed words: Pork Terrine in Horseradish Aspic or Pineapple Cream Trifle. Kaladin sat down at the table, and after hesitating for a second, Shallan sat also. The young man sat opposite, gaze fixed on the wineglasses: each held a different colour of wine, and his arranging them into a line seemed to hold a significance of which only he was aware. The man – he was closer to a boy, Shallan thought – had the soft features of one not quite past youth; he must be around her own age, or only very slightly older. His hair was dark like most Anglethis, but there were yellow stripes scattered throughout; he had on the blue uniform of a Kholin Regiment officer – there was the white shield-shaped patch with the tower and crown high on one slender arm, and on the other side – where Kaladin had his crossed keys of the Medical Corps – this man had a round patch depicting a wagon wheel over two crossed swords. He did not look up as they pulled their chairs to the table, but continued to tap his pencil against his menu cards. “Each of these wines–” he said, without meeting their eyes. His voice was soft, but curiously flat, as if there were no emotion in him; each word sounded as if it was chosen with great deliberation. “Represents a different level of aeration. There must be some intrinsic quality that determines how much vapour a liquid can hold.” The pencil tapped as he spoke. “Perhaps it is entirely environmental. Would it be barometric pressure? Or would it be temperature?” Kaladin looked at Shallan; he raised an eyebrow. “To determine how much vapour is in a liquid, you must first find a reliable way to capture and measure the vapour bubbles,” said Shallan, filling in the silence. “Yes,” said the man. “The vapour bubbles have volume – they must have mass as well. How much would a bubble weigh?” Kaladin coughed. “Renarin, may I introduce Miss – Lady – Shallan?” Shallan inclined her head toward him. “It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord Kholinshire.” The man – Renarin – raised his head at last. He looked something like Adolin, but his features were softer, less defined – he could not be called handsome, Shallan thought, only comely. His hair was not shorn to a common soldier’s crop, but was combed neatly over his forehead; it was trimmed in the back so that he lacked a fashionable gentleman’s tail. His spectacles hid much of the expressiveness in his visage – if he had any to show at all. He did not say anything, and Shallan wondered if he were waiting on something. But then he spoke. “You may call me Renarin. I do not mind.” He paused, tapping with his pencil. Shallan waited some more. “Until the day you might call me Brother.” “Oh.” Shallan did not know quite what to say to that. Renarin turned back to his menu cards. He shuffled them, and Shallan looked down. They were not notes, but calculations of some sort. She scanned them briefly; they contained numbers interspersed with brackets and Kharbranth letter symbols. She recognised one or two lines, but the rest was unfamiliar. “There was once a time when I was ashamed to be called Brother,” he said, eyes downcast, pencil moving over his cards. Renarin, Marquess Kholinshire, was rather unnerving. It was commonplace to fling down harmless truths when conversing in mixed company – one could joke about their weak left hand in playing racquets, or how they never enjoyed last year’s operatic season even if it had been lauded by both Society and the newssheets – and it would be received with good humour. But Renarin spoke of deeper truths that had disturbing implications: his truths made Shallan uncomfortable. Renarin seemed to possess the uncanny awareness that was the opposite of Kaladin’s – the Doctor had an ability to discern lies and falsehoods in all their degrees of subtlety. He did not resent the awkward spreading silence, nor did he appear to notice her fidgeting as she tried to think of something to say. “If you are not ashamed to be Brother, then I suppose I should not feel terrified at being Sister,” she said. “If that day ever comes to pass.” She pulled at her sash, tugged out the dance card by its blue tassel, and placed it on the table. “Um. Would you like to sign my dance card?” Renarin’s pencil paused. “Would the Doctor not like to–“ Kaladin cut in. “Renarin, you would do Miss Davar an honour.” Shallan smiled in what she hoped was a friendly manner. “You could tell me more about the bubbles – I would truly like to hear more about them. And no other gentleman has offered to dance, nor do I think they will.” There was silence again. Then Renarin’s left hand rose from under the table and slid the card towards himself; he opened it with a flick of a finger. She saw that he had on a signet ring with a bezel in the shape of a – a lemon? No, it wasn’t a lemon, but the all-seeing eye of the Almighty. Instead of pupils, there was the tower and crown of House Kholin. His pencil scratched over the card, then it was closed and slid back to her. She tucked it into her sash. “Will you watch my drinks, Doctor?” Renarin asked. Kaladin grunted. She noticed that he was looking at the menu cards and their calculations. He did not comment on them, as Shallan was sure he would have done if she had missed the mark in one line or another. Perhaps Renarin’s calculations were as correct as they were neat, then. They waited for the set to finish, and as the orchestra paused to change their score books, Renarin stood up silently, and offered his arm to Shallan. She took it, and he led her to the floor. When they wound their way past the tables and chattering groups, she noticed that there were many people still lining the walls of the ballroom, obviously with no intention of joining. The dance sets on the card, she had observed, were mostly single pair dances. And now she saw why – there was a severe imbalance of young gentlemen to young ladies. She estimated that there were at least a third more of young ladies to gentlemen – something that would not have happened if the guest list had been composed with the proper attentiveness of a meticulous hostess. Jasnah would not have done this. It must have been the Queen Dowager. Renarin knew all the steps, but he was stiff – if still precise in his cues – and Shallan did not think he enjoyed it very much. But he gave no indication of it; his hand holding hers was cool, and his grip was loose. His posture was very straight, and when she stepped up close to him, she saw that he was very slightly shorter in stature than Adolin. He did not smell like Adolin either. “I see you use delta in your calculations. Delta one and delta two and delta three,” remarked Shallan when Renarin did not say anything after some time. This was one of the few Kharbranth letter symbols she recognised – she knew all of them, of course – where she also understood what factor or parameter they were meant to represent. “The room,” explained Renarin, “and the wine cellar and the ice, and the difference between them.” “I see,” said Shallan. “It’s just like in the ether progressionals.” Shallan’s hand twitched in his. He did not comment on her reaction, but peered over her shoulder at the people dancing behind them. “I did not take you for someone familiar with them.” “The familiar is often the least expected.” They did not speak for the rest of the dance, and he seemed distracted – he did not meet her eyes, or even look in her direction: his attention was focused on the other ladies in their fluttering gowns – was he looking at their posteriors? The dance ended, and he dropped her hand. “Thank you for the dance, Renarin,” Shallan said, and curtsied. They returned to the table and the row of wine glasses. “Diving bells,” said Renarin rather suddenly. “That is the solution.” It took a moment for Shallan to grasp his meaning. “Oh – for the bubbles?” “Yes, for measuring bubbles.” He did not smile, but still he looked pleased as he pulled out his chair and picked up the pencil. “Come back if you want to dance again.” He scribbled busily on the menu cards; Shallan noticed there were some fresh ones laying on the table now. Dill and Brined Salmon Toast, she read. Smoked Oyster and Turtle Soup. Cherry and Cheese Cake. Kaladin took her arm and gently led her away. Author's Notes: More character development for Shallan here - we're setting up for the end-game now. This has been a pretty long story, and I feel like ending it with a bang, because I don't think I'm cool enough to do a Sanderlanche. This chapter has a lot of your favourite characters because fanservice, why not. On Navani and Dalinar - Navani is a manipulative bee with an itch here, and a political player. I thought it was an informed trait in the real SA - Dalinar described her as a queen bee in social circles, but you only ever saw her play with fabrials and that was it. I wanted to emphasise her manipulative attitude, and also reference her insta-dislike of Shallan in WoR. But in this AU, Jasnah isn't dead so I went with another angle. Dalinar is a nicer guy, though. "The late Duchess" - Adolin's mother had Shardplate in her dowry, but since Shards don't exist in this AU, why not a mercenary army. It makes a match valuable, especially to a former warmonger like Dalinar. It's also historically accurate - the American Revolutionary War was fought with loaned German soldiers and hired German mercenaries. On Renarin - Adolin mentions in WoK that he can't tell the difference between wines (he just picks one off the menu at random) but his brother can drone on all day about them. Renarin is not a Radiant, but since Shallan can draw, Renarin is very good with numbers and he is also perceptive, but doesn't fully understand people's emotions. “There was once a time when I was ashamed to be called Brother” - Renarin was a very troubled boy once. But now he is better and doesn't feel useless anymore since he got a position in the army. His shoulder patch means he's a logistics officer. In an AU with no Soulcasters, most armies historically foraged and requisitioned food (AKA looting) from local farmers, but Dalinar doesn't do that because he's a Good Guy. “Would the Doctor not like" - Renarin picks up on it too.

Every serial Romeo needs to have the previously hidden issues rear up, followed by the paradigm shift. It's part of every romance novel plot. It's the way an author establishes the MC girl as the "right girl" instead of just another go around the revolving door of romance. The only question is how deep Adolin's issues are, and how much work it takes for him to start getting over them. I don't think he needs to go all the way in exploring his daddy issues and self-confidence problems, honestly. Just enough to have self-awareness of his own foot-shooting behaviour and stop it before it happens, or right after it happens so his foot doesn't permanently stay shot. Bravery and obedience - I think those were the Dustbringer virtues. I guess you could only see it if you really forced it, :unsure: People see what they wanna see. All of Shallan's problems come from within, and it's mostly things that happened in past that she needs to stop denying so she can move past it. Adolin has problems too, but a lot of it is tied with his current appearance/perception by other people, so that's harder to fix quickly without a crazy contrived plot like "fell into a fire and pretty face got burned off" or "localised amnesia". I also think Adolin's shyness with intimacy is what keeps him backing away. I don't think he has a problem with the concept of intimacy, he just doesn't initiate. No one starts with talent. You have to develop it. You just lack the patience. But the spren don't really "choose". They come to the physical world because their spren families in the cognitive realm tell them to, and then they hang around important people and opportunistically jump them if their virtues fit the spren requirements. They choose you if you were the right person in the right place with the right circumstances, not because you were the long prophesised Hero of Ages or anything. The one exception being Syl, who left the Stormfather's magical cognitive house to find Kaladin. But she didn't "choose" him, she was just attracted to the gratitude people felt for him, and stuck around to see if he developed/broke further. Maybe we have different ideas of spren, but I see them as beings with their own mysterious identity and agenda that is unknown to the reader because they can't tell the details, or lost their memories. They're not part of a character's psyche, like the daemons from His Dark Materials. They're symbiotic parasites. They bond to humans because they get something out of it. If it makes you special, it's just as special as being in the right time and place, like winning the lottery. It's the specialness of crazy probabilities lining up. And you don't need a spren to tell you that you're worthy, or better than everyone else. Worth comes from within. This is why I would be okay with Adolin not becoming a Radiant through the normal means - it would just be like winning another duelling trophy, a confirmation for his self-confidence. It would be healthier it if he could figure it out on his own. If you have ever watched The Lego Movie, everyone is "The Special". The prophecy was a lie, because it comes from your own belief in yourself. If Adolin revived his blade after lots of hard work and soul-searching, that would make me happy because it would be an instance of a consenting adult choosing his own spren. I think it's kind of freaky for Shallan and Lift to get bonded so early, and it probably wouldn't have been done in the pre-Recreance days. Kaladin loses some of his idealism as all kids do when they get older in my AU, but it's not blinded by crazy levels like his hate of lighteyes. He realises that there is no greater morality determined by class or social status or gender or nationality. And the realisation comes first by being a surgeon, and later as a soldier. Because as a surgeon, he knows that everyone is the same in the inside when he cuts them open, and badness and goodness are determined individually. He realised that some of the people he saves are bad people who will live to do bad things, but he saves them anyway, and sometimes good people die on the operating table no matter what he does. It was the way he would have developed if he had never left Hearthstone, I think. It's similar to Lirin, but Kaladin is more moral and wouldn't have stolen the spheres. I don't think Kaladin ever glorified warfare. He doesn't feel the Thrill in canon-SA, and he has no patriotic fever in the AU. And in the context of a Regency setting, social class is so inbuilt into the system that it's completely unthinkable to question it openly. ALL officers beyond NCO's get their positions through buying commissions, and promotions come from how much money you have to fund the extra men under your command. So he may not like the system, but he doesn't hate Adolin for being his superior officer, because Adolin doesn't abuse it, and compared to people like Amaram, he tries his best to do good by the people who serve him. The tl;dr is that the world is black and grey and Adolin is a light beige. Kaladin is not so idealistic that he will hate Adolin for not being pure bleached undies white. It's a more balanced view that doesn't result in situations like the Moash one. That drove me up the wall. I knew Tien was going to die as soon as the character was introduced. Kaladin wouldn't have ended up a slave away from his family unless something severed his connection with them. Tien was the pet puppy from every children's novel that the main character raises by hand. Kaladin's story was just very vanilla Hero's Journey to me - suffering and then redemption, all very predictable from start to end. I understand that was the angle Brandon was going for - that's why his name is KALADIN for Almighty's sake. His unique character quirk was depression and I some people may have liked it, but I wasn't a huge fan. Adolin's unique character quirk I think is more interesting. I thought he was going to be a mix of Dojo Bully and Teacher's Pet, and he was going to get a beatdown lesson in humility, but he turned out to be the Nice Guy trying to pass himself off in a world full of Tough Guys. Opening up to someone is all about trust. Shallan wouldn't open up to Adolin if they were in the chasms because she doesn't know him enough, and doesn't trust him enough, and she is afraid he will say something like "YOU'RE A MONSTER!!!". So she didn't want to risk it. From what I have read of Shallan's character, she doesn't like confronting scary things until she absolutely has to and there is no other choice - like Jasnah dying on the boat, or Tyn's spanreed message. So as long as she can keep Adolin in limbo, she will maintain the status quo. It's selfish, but that's Shallan. Until she gets over her problems or she gets a clear indication that Adolin won't think she's a monster. Adolin has fewer inhibitions to opening up, but his main problem is his lack of self-awareness. You might be able to pick out his foot-shooting habits, and his low self-confidence, but I doubt he knows what's wrong with himself in words he can say out loud. All he knows is that this thing, or this person, or this situation makes him feel unsure, or angry. Shallan needs other flaws than her traumatic past. Once she gets over that, she would go into Mary Sue territory unless she had other character quirks to keep her from being perfect at everything she does. Book Shallan is still keeping secrets and misrepresenting herself to Adolin. She's not going to tell him that she still wants his money to save her brothers, or that she is a spy in her spare time. She likes him, and is physically attracted to him, but she's not totally honest with him. Regarding Jasnah - Shallan sees Jasnah as her female role model, who is strong and beautiful and poised 100% of the time. You can tell when Shallan gushes about Jasnah when she meets her in Kharbranth in WoK. Jasnah sees Shallan as a younger version of herself, and wants to protect her from the worst things, but she is still Jasnah. Jasnah doesn't understand love, and values The Big Picture and End Justifies the Means type thinking. That is why Shallan goes along with the plan, and why Jasnah is willing to arrange a divorce. Because a forced marriage to Amaram was something that could have been possible in Jasnah's past, and would have been arranged by her own mother and brother if she let them, and if anyone had offered her an "out", she would have taken it. She thinks she is protecting Shallan, as no one would have protected her. She cares about Adolin, but she cares more about saving the world. Jasnah is pretty much The Grinch and thinks that love is for fools and Shallan is too smart to fall in love. The problem is that Kaladin is an honourable guy, and wouldn't kiss Shallan unless she broke up with Adolin. So Shallan would have to initiate herself, but in SA and in story, she is more attracted to Adolin than Kaladin. Hey man, if Navani and Dalinar can get it in on in 15 minutes, a young athletic guy can do it in 10. A broom closet or a pantry is all you really need. And he only had a chaperon when he was hanging around at his own house. He didn't have one when he was in Kholinar. From the outside, without knowing him personally, wouldn't it be expected that Adolin would know his way around a bodice at his age? Since he has had a reputation for the last 5 years or so. Maybe they think that if they pick a rider, the rider will fall in love with them because it's a freaking Ryshadium!!! If Rhysadiums are smart enough to pick their own riders, I assume they wouldn't pick someone who doesn't want to be picked, worst someone who hates horses. I don't know if you've read many fantasy stories about dragons, but dragons who choose their riders don't care if their rider wants them or not, because they all have strong and individualistic personalities. Who knows if magic horses have them too. Oh man, Robin Hobb. Most suffering has a payoff in the end, or a redemption. When I read The Liveship Traders and the Captain Kennet character, I was expecting him to redeem himself. But he didn't, and it was a very very sad and bleak ending for him. I guess this is why we all turn back to our Hero's Journey plot formats. Nothing is more comforting than the expected. If Adolin gets hit by the trauma stick, it's just part of him earning his Hero's Reward. The bigger the stick, the juicier the carrot. Or whatever they say. Chapter 83, "Time's Illusion", WoR. "Roion rode across to safety, followed by an exhausted Captain Khal on foot - General Khal's son wore his own Plate and bore Teleb's Blade, which he'd blessedly recovered from the corpse after the other man had fallen." Teleb's blade was given to him by Adolin. I don't know about where the Plate came from, but they gave General Khal a set and he wasn't wearing it in the battle. Adolin cares more about looking tough in front of his mates rather than feeding his own adrenaline difference. I think that is what separates him from Kaladin. Kaladin would have gotten onto the horse if it was just him and no one else in the room. Adolin would have walked off because he knew it was a stupid idea and officers who follow the Codes shouldn't risk injuring themselves doing silly things in their spare time. They can't even risk getting a hangover. You can lose muscle tone pretty quickly if you're starved enough. The muscles are one of the first things to go when your body starts eating itself because there's no food. I would have thought Kaladin would have been starved earlier, since he passed through like 8 other owners before he ended up Tvklav's caravan, and denying food is one of the easiest punishments to administer. It's still a year away. I'll wait for more questions to be asked before I narrow down a list of my own. Renarin just has too much time to dwell on things. That's what happens when you have a distant father and no mother from early childhood. And no television to play cartoons all day after school. I felt like putting Renarin's skills to use so he doesn't have to be emo all the time. Of course, he was still emo, but he got over it. I think he enjoys the company of Kaladin most compared to anyone else in his family, because they are matched intellectually. Navani is pretty smart too, but she doesn't have empathy for him, and lot of the time he can tell she just wants him "to get over it" and go back to work doing helpful things to help Dalinar and the war. Sometimes he just wants to collect bottles of wine. Are you kidding. Leather pants are in for people who like the goth ninja aesthetic. Look it up, it's a real thing. :ph34r: I know it's in character for Adolin to dress basic as Braize. Like, he buys the whole outfit worn by the store mannequin because he doesn't want to take risks developing his own style and looking stupid. But he must have one or two impulse purchases somewhere in his closet that he wears in his room because he knows he can't ever wear them outside. And leather pants would one of them. The other one is a poet shirt, aka pirate shirt. Because it feels so breezy but looks so stupid. Maybe Adolin gets so stressed while driving that sometimes he just takes the train, because all the schedules are comforting and he can blame someone else if he's late. But he wears sunglasses just so he doesn't get recognised by anyone he knows. And even that is less embarrassing than being the guy with the beige minivan who has to circle around the block twice to find a spot with enough room to park. You know what the truth is? People don't really care about character motivations in a story they came to read for the setting, magical system, or epic-fantasy plot. They like characters, but want to see them do cool things, and breaking down the nuances of why is something they don't think about unless they majored in literature or writing-based humanities degree. You are the weird one for being so obsessed with Adolin. :ph34r: And that is why people still think Adolin is going to turn out to be a Dustbringer, or he's going to join the dark side and be Odium's champion, or he's going to the Volturi Kharbranth because Shallan likes Jacob Kaladin more. I agree that Adolin is losing his control, and he is heading down a dark path with hopefully some positive character development at the end. But a lot of that will be a lesson to Dalinar, imho - it's great that Adolin as a character gets screen time, but his own development will be supporting Dalinar's character development in SA3. I know you hate that, and you want Adolin to have some time in the spotlight for his sake, but epic fantasies are ensemble driven. If you wanted to read in-depth character studies, there are other genres for that. Because Dalinar's big problem is that he lacks flexibility, and he craves authority. What better way to show that his heavy-handed approach to authority needs some work when he sees that it's starting to crack around his own son? He treats the highprinces like little children who don't know any better, and thinks he is right and justified for doing that 100% of the time - which reflects his treatment of his own son, where he expects unconditional and unquestioning obedience. Adolin rejecting, or rebelling against his moral standards is like a slap in the face from reality. Adolin gets his trauma stick, but in the end, it's meant to show Dalinar slowly becoming a better leader and earning his authority instead of forcing it on people. Yeah, it's sad, but SA would not be enjoyable if it was just the Adolin Show. It's getting pretty long and I'm tying up the character development. If I didn't, I think everyone would get tired of Shallan. Where do you think it's going? I don't think I'm as predictable as you think I am. I hope not. I wonder what your preferred ending would be. :lol: :lol: :lol:

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 21

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART TWENTY ONE I shan’t try to contrive an indignity for myself on purpose, thought Shallan the next morning, as she was seated at Jasnah’s vanity being done up for her presentation. But Heaven knows if I should manage to find myself undignified in public quite accidentally. “If you are to be rude to the guests,” Jasnah said, scraping a small bristle brush on what looked like a cake of black soap in a tin, “remember to be clever enough about it so they cannot tell. Your position is currently lacking in the resources that allow deliberate abrasiveness without consequence.” Shallan sat still as Finnie heated a teaspoon over a candle and used it to curl her eyelashes. “I had rather expected you to forbid impudence altogether.” “Some of these guests are so disagreeable in their character that rudeness will be inevitable. Now, look up,” ordered Jasnah. She brushed Shallan’s eyelashes, which felt the slightest bit heavier. “Duke Sebarial, for instance. And Roion. Anything they say can be safely ignored.” “Is there anyone who should be paid particular attention?” “Other than my cousin? My mother, most likely. She has her own agenda and will undoubtedly be pleased – smug, I should say – if she finds a match for Adolin when he couldn’t manage it himself after five years. Not for any want of trying.” Jasnah gripped Shallan’s chin firmly and turned it from side to side. “Close your eyes.” “Your recommendation is that I should look pretty and remain silent for the whole day, then,” Shallan mumbled, as she felt something scratching along her eyelids. “I should do so if there were any possibility at all of compliance.” Jasnah pursed her lips and put aside her brush. “You may stand now.” Shallan stood to face the looking glass. “Are you finished, then?” She wore the blue dress from the afternoon before, which had been altered to fit her proportions. The dress had been aggressively cut down to her size; there had been much contention between Finnie and the maids downstairs as to how much seam allowance was necessary – Finnie had pinned the form for a looser bodice to accommodate Shallan’s bandages. The other maids preferred a more modish and closely fitted underbust; Jasnah and the housekeeper were consulted for the final fitting and had thankfully compromised on a silhouette that was fashionable but did not fully constrain necessary activities such as breathing, eating, and paying calls to the water closet. It was still a tight fit, though; Shallan had been laced in rather briskly for the buttons to close in the back, and she could feel her stitches twinge against the interior boning of her bodice. Finnie tied a darker blue sash around her waist to hide the rough darting where the extra fabric around the bust had been taken in. Jasnah inspected Shallan’s reflection in the looking glass. “I was right, then. You cannot be considered well-endowed by anyone’s measure, but it would indeed be a shame not to show that slender waist to full advantage.” That was a compliment from Jasnah, which was rare enough that it hardly mattered that the honey had been laced with vinegar. Shallan stared at her own reflection. She still looked like herself; Jasnah had given up the face powder when nothing could be found to match her pale complexion – but her features had been somehow enhanced. Shallan had never thought herself a Society beauty, and even now she struggled to call herself beautiful. But this was not beauty, Shallan supposed: these were her everyday features with a subtle emphasis on this or that trait. It could not be called deception – it was merely good, nay, clever grooming. It fit. Shallan wore the face of pleasant, light-hearted girl who made amusing observations and was well-liked, or at least comfortably tolerated, by the Loch community. It was only appropriate that she should finally be able to present herself as that Lady Shallan in appearance, and not just act. If she was really no true gem at heart, she could at least give the impression of glitter. After all, brass could shine in the right light, and lead-glass could not be told from real diamond unless one knew exactly what to look for. Madame Tyn had told her once: by the time you found out your paste gem was not a diamond, it was often too late to do anything about it. “One last thing.” Jasnah interrupted Shallan’s thoughts. “Here – this is for you.” Jasnah held up a small pasteboard booklet with a blue tassel tied through a punched hole in the corner; she waved Shallan over, and plucked at her sash. The book was tucked into the sash; the tip of the tassel peeked out. “What is it?” asked Shallan, adjusting her sash to lay more comfortably around her waist. “Your dance card. Don’t lose it,” she replied. She sighed at Shallan’s blank look. “The gentlemen sign your card when they want to reserve a dance with you. The idea is that you will call on them afterwards if you find their company … adequate.” “Could they not just introduce themselves by name?” “Seeing the names of other suitors is thought to encourage friendly competition.” “I shall trust you on that,” said Shallan, who had never had any suitor at all before Adolin. She wouldn’t know what to do with two – or more than two of them at any one time. It was amusing to entertain the idea of entertaining multiple gentlemen, as the plucky heroines of ladies’ novels did – but Shallan found that there was something disturbing about encouraging young gallants like an auctioneer at a stock fair. It placed a disturbing association on the gentlemen suitors, and an even more unsettling implication on the target of their affections, the lady whose favour could be described, very unflatteringly, as negotiable. It was unflattering for Shallan to realise that although she did not like to see herself that way, and she had only her one suitor, she was barely any different than every other lady whose search for romance was, in its original and most basic intention, never romantic at all. She could console herself with the knowledge that she liked Adolin, and Adolin – as far as she knew – liked her; as if that excused her intentions towards him, and soothed away any objections towards her – and Jasnah’s – objectives for securing the match. But that did not make her any different, or better, than any other Society lady. Silent thoughts of benevolent consideration would not excuse, or justify, deplorable intentions – they merely made the label of hypocrite an appropriate identification. For all that she had shaped her social identity by the rather trite phrase not like the other girls, she in sincerity was indistinguishable from them. And Adolin hadn’t even noticed. Adolin thought her better than the other girls – he saw Grace in her, and not just the Grace that all petty gentry and minor nobility could claim to have by virtue of their rank. No, he meant the true Grace from The Way of Kings, which must be earned by one’s worthiness, and one’s strength of character and resolve. Shallan could not see herself as one in possession of genuine worth, just as she could not see beauty in herself. She could only imitate its appearance, and that, until now, had been good enough. “Come now, are you ready?” Jasnah inquired, patting at her own hair and adjusting the angle of her ivory sticks. “We must go down.” Jasnah led the way downstairs, and Shallan followed with the observation of proper precedence. The halls had been cleaned; fresh coats beeswax and vinegar polish on the walls gleamed with rich warmth in the lamplight, and festive blue ribbon wrapped around the banister above the main staircase. The foyer had hung from the ceiling long blue banners twenty feet or more in height; the Duke’s arms in white were stitched on: the crenelated tower over the five-pointed crown. Adolin and Kaladin were already waiting by the base of the staircase; they must have heard the click of their heeled slippers on the stairs, for they turned around and made an elegant leg – Adolin’s was deeper and more respectfully formal – even hindered by a scabbarded side-sword – than Kaladin’s, who looked as if bowing to a social superior physically pained him. She noticed that Kaladin and Adolin hadn’t been wearing formal day suits, nor their dining suits – they both had on military uniform. The uniform, as Shallan observed, was a knee-length frock coat in Kholin blue, with white braiding on the cuffs and epaulettes, with a cobalt blue neckcloth, silver-buttoned waistcoat of a lighter blue, and neatly pressed breeches tucked into riding boots. Adolin straightened, and turned to Shallan, gazing wide-eyed at her face, and then her dress, and back again – but Jasnah swept past him and spoke. “The first guests are arriving. We are to host together, cousin – come, we must greet them by the door,” she said, holding her elbow out to Adolin. Adolin took it, and shot an apologetic glance at Shallan, before he was dragged away to the front door by Jasnah’s smooth but implacable gliding pace. “Are you to be my chaperon now, as Jasnah’s attention has been diverted?” asked Shallan, inclining her head towards Kaladin. She did not curtsey. Kaladin’s uniform bore white patches high on each arm, by the shoulder – one was shield-shaped, with the Duke’s arms of tower and crown; the other was oval, with the crossed keys of the Herald Vedeledev, a common sigil used to represent medical institutions. Shallan recognised it – she had seen it in Kharbranth, wrought in iron on the gates of Kharbranth’s famous hospital. In Kharbranth, they had referred to the Herald by the name Vedel, and many swore oaths to her, for protection and healing small wounds – when calling on the Almighty in his aspect of The Loving Father could have been seen as blasphemously trivial. Kaladin, she decided, was not so scruffy looking in military uniform as he was in his plain day suit – the uniform fit him better than his day clothes, or his dining whites; he looked more comfortable wearing them. Adolin, in comparison, looked very good no matter what clothes he wore – all his clothes were likely made for him by a master tailor. And this was followed by one very saucy thought – Adolin likely looked as good without his clothes as he did in them. She almost blushed. Kaladin’s eyes swept over her, taking in her new gown and dressed hair. She glared back at him, eyeing him without bothering to conceal her bad-mannered scrutiny – there was a reason folding fans existed, and it was for exactly this purpose. There was something about Doctor Kaladin that encouraged her to dispense with affected propriety – perhaps it was because he himself did not seem to care about the laboriously learned rules of social discourse; Shallan had more than once found herself handicapped when she conversed with him whilst still attempting to obey the guidelines of decorum. “Are you finished leering openly, Doctor?” said Shallan, when he had not said anything after several long seconds. “Am I leering, then?” he replied, eyes narrowing. She could not discern whether he was amused or not; she could not remember an instance where he had ever smiled, and she could not interpret the movements of his eyebrows when she held no particular fondness in looking at them at all. “Is that an apology?” “An apology implies an error. Have I erred, Miss Davar?” Kaladin replied, with snide amusement. “I am sure I would know it if I were to be mistaken in something.” “There is a first time for everything,” Shallan snapped back. She adjusted her expression and smiled serenely, and took a step towards him. His head turned to track her movements. “I seem to recall your saying that you would leer openly if there were anything worth leering at.” “Perhaps,” he returned, one eyebrow rising and disappearing under the fringe of his hair, “there is a first time for everything.” “Still no apology?” “I do not believe myself to be mistaken.” “I shall take it as a compliment, then,” said Shallan, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “It could not possibly mean anything else.” “Take it as you will, Miss Davar. Once you have touched it, I doubt anyone would have it back.” “But fortunately, we happen to have a doctor in attendance. A doctor who, I presume, is not frightened of anything, not even bog frogs or bog monsters.” Shallan reached a gloved hand to him, fingers clawed in mock menace, and he did not flinch away. Well, she hadn’t expected him to. Kaladin sighed and gazed upwards at the blue banners on the walls. He offered her his arm. “I suppose I am the chaperon to-day.” Shallan laughed and took his arm with her gloved hand. “Who else would I trust to preserve my modesty and dignity? I’m sure you are so well-acquainted with it that you should be the first to know if it has been mysteriously snatched away.” “How would my own dignity survive if I were to waste my time hunting for yours, Miss Davar?” “Oh,” said Shallan airily, “many people go about without their dignity and they seem perfectly fine to me. At least you would still have your modesty – you would only have a problem if they were both to disappear at the very same time.” She and Kaladin walked hand in arm to the front door, which was opened by a pair of footmen in pristine ducal livery – coat and knee breeches in Kholin blue, white stockings, and beautifully polished shoes with silver buckles. Their gloves were white and spotless. They passed over the threshold, and into the portico; the columns had been wrapped round with streamers of blue and silver. The gravelled front drive was occupied by a row of a carriages, one after the other up to the iron gate where it met the main road. Shallan knew that one carriage didn’t just mean one or two guests – each carriage would have its retinue, the accompanying maids and valets one brought when one had need of more than a single change of clothes. The servants would be arriving in wagons by the trades entrance at the back of the House. The front lawns of Kholinar Court were spotted with white open-sided tents; long triangular pennants fluttered gaily from their central tent poles like the mythical sky eels of children’s tales. The largest tent contained a rectangular table with a morning tea service and tiered trays of pastries laid out for the earliest guests: it wasn’t quite yet luncheon time. Shallan saw the samovar from her first luncheon as the centrepiece display. It was surrounded by stacks of porcelain saucers and upside-down teacups, and older gentlemen with serious beards and round bellies. They saw guests wandering about in swallow-tailed morning coats or day dresses; some were wearing the garments of country gentry in their riding coats and tall boots – polished to a shine by a manservant, of course – or straw bonnets with silk ribbons and kidskin walking boots on the ladies. No-one greeted her or Kaladin by name, and no-one bowed to them; she could see that very few of the gentlemen guests wore military uniform – there were some, here and again, in the blue of the Kholin Regiments, but there were no uniforms representing any other Duke. Shallan and Kaladin ambled past the carriages being unloaded of their passengers; she was disappointed that everything seemed rather dull. The House and grounds were beautifully decorated: the staff had outdone themselves on that count – but no-one spoke to them, and they did not speak to anyone, and it seemed likely she would be sharing Kaladin’s company for the entirety of the day. It was not as tiresome as it could have been, now that they were somewhat acquainted with one another, but Shallan was right now walking out with a gentleman – and she would have much preferred it to be Adolin instead. She tried for conversation. “The guests are here early, then?” Kaladin opened his mouth, but then something caught his attention. He tore his arm out of her grip, and shoved her behind him with surprising forcefulness; he reached into his frock coat and drew out a pistol, which he cocked and aimed at the bushes by the path. Shallan peeked around Kaladin’s rather broad back. The bushes rustled, and a head popped out. It was a head with black hair and a narrow face with angular, almost severe features of indeterminate age – a man with blue eyes and a black coat. Kaladin grunted, and put away his gun from wherever he had secreted it. “It’s Wit.” The bushes rustled some more, and the man stepped out of them, revealing a lean body that towered over Shallan. He could easily look Kaladin in the eye; he was not, however, quite as tall as the Doctor. There was a sword in a scabbard belted to his waist, but he did not reach for it; Shallan thought that it was sensible of him – a swordsman could not put up much resistance against lead shot at point-blank range. The man threw his arms in the air and announced dramatically, “Wit is never early, nor is he late! Timeliness is the essence of Wit!” His voice had the resonance of a trained orator and the energy of a player; it was boisterous and friendly and teasing all at once, and Shallan could not feel afraid or intimidated by his presence. In fact, she had the vague impression that she had once met him, or seen him before, and that previous meeting had not inspired any fear of the man either. “Who is Wit?” asked Shallan, stepping out from behind Kaladin, who looked more relaxed now that he had deemed this new creature not to be a threat. “I am – the road untaken, the path unchosen, the words unspoken!” said the man smoothly, circling around them. Shallan could not tell if he had rehearsed his lines. “I am – the King’s Wit, his compère royale, his high prince of humour!” Kaladin crossed his arms. “He’s just an egotistical juggler.” Shallan whirled around to keep Wit in view. She stopped – he was directly behind her; she tilted her head back and back, and looked up to meet his eyes. He winked. “How curious,” said Shallan slowly. “I think I saw him at the Punch and Judy show at Middlefest a few years ago.” “One must travel to find new stories to tell,” said Wit, brushing a leaf off his shoulder. “And I say I am the most travelled of troubadours!” “You see what I mean?” Kaladin rolled his eyes. “His official duty is to insult people because the King thinks it’s funny.” Wit chuckled. “I am a troubadour because I love to travel. I sense the troubadour in you as well!” “I’m no troubadour,” answered Kaladin. “Only because you have not found your love.” “I am not looking for it – and I can hardly see myself travelling on the whim of a – a spoony bard.” Wit grinned suddenly. “The whims of Wit often turn out to be wisdom.” “Wit isn’t even your real name.” “One of them, but I’ve too many to count,” said the pale man, looking at Shallan now. He returned his gaze to Kaladin and grinned at him mischievously. “You may call me Beloved, until you have someone else to bear that name. I could never be mistaken for anyone else.” “It would be a grave insult to anyone else if you were,” said Kaladin. “Then anyone else should die happy!” retorted Wit gleefully, and then his head jerked around as a carriage in green and white livery rattled past. “You must excuse me for now – a tingling sensation warns me that there are people desperately in need of good cheer!” Kaladin stepped aside as Wit bounded past, black coat-tails flapping. “What a strange man,” Shallan said, as they watched the man leap onto the footman’s rest on the back of the carriage; he tapped several times on the roof, and there was an answering knock from the inside. “I wonder what he meant by that. Why would anyone call him Beloved? Why would you want to?” Kaladin blew out his breath, obviously exasperated by the unexpected meeting with the King’s Wit. “I wouldn’t want to. Don’t pay any attention to him – you might find him to be more tiresome or convoluted than humorous. The King finds him funny – but then again, he has never been known for his good taste.” They continued walking the path that curved along the side of the House, until they found themselves nearing the glass hothouses of the North Courtyard. It was quiet here: this was not the busy front of the House, nor the even busier back, where the grocers’ and luggage carts were being unloaded for the comfort of the very important guests. “Is there a library in this House?” Shallan asked suddenly. “Houses like this always have a library. Why do you ask?” “I suddenly find that I have a fascination with astronomy. And I would like to read more about it, as I have nothing better to do.” Kaladin raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and Shallan smiled and batted her eyelashes at him. Eyelashes that had been brushed with Jasnah’s peculiar black boot polish were better for batting at young men, she decided. “I suppose I have nothing better to do, then,” he finally replied. “Follow me, then.” They entered the same hallway she had walked through two days ago when she had been looking for the Doctor’s stillroom. The doors with the brass plaques – Lapis, Cerulean, Sapphire – were now open, revealing guest bedrooms and maids fluffing up pillows and arranging vases of flowers and baskets of sweetmeats. They passed a maid pushing a trolley clattering with covered dishes; Kaladin caught one up and nodded to her. She winked and blew him a silent kiss while Shallan looked on with astonishment. When Kaladin opened the door of the library, Shallan spoke. “Do you – know that maid?” “Did you want to ask her about my socks?” She flushed, then turning away from him, angled towards the bookcases by the wall. “I’m sure if I asked nicely enough, you wouldn’t hesitate to tell me yourself.” “If you asked especially nicely – if that were even possible for you, of course – I might even show you,” replied Kaladin, quite casually. It was galling how he managed to speak in such controlled tones that one could never tell when exactly his delivery was meant to be taken in seriousness or humour. “I’m sure it’s too much of a bother for you – and I’m also sure there will be nothing worth seeing,” Shallan said briskly, and ran her gloved fingertips over the gold-embossed spines of Adolin’s books. She kicked off her heeled slippers and climbed the rolling ladder to peer at the top shelf, and huffed. What had she been expecting? Most of these books were on military subjects – histories, biographies of famous generals, essays on strategy and tactics, illustrated compendia of weaponry or field formation. There was the ubiquitous section of Vorin tracts that every library possessed – even the small bookcase at Loch Davar had such a one – and they were apparently rarely used. Shallan slid one book out and saw that the pages had not even been cut. She stepped down the ladder and walked onwards. Books on genealogy, folios on architecture, one very small row of foreign language titles, books on managing and caring for horses for sport and campaign, books on naval history and tactics. She stopped at this shelf and dropped to her knees – there, that was what she wanted. Basic naval astronomy for beginners, and manuals on introductory shipboard protocol for midshipmen and junior naval officers. Shallan plucked out three books and turned to the reading area – a large map table, surrounded by leather armchairs and sofas. Kaladin was reading a newssheet from the rack of periodicals and broadsheets behind him. The dish he had taken from the maid’s trolley lay uncovered on the low table in front of him, revealing a pyramid of small savoury pies. The top of the pyramid was missing. She picked up a pie as she passed; the books were dropped onto the map table with a thump and a chair pulled out. These books had been read before, but not recently by the looks of them. Still, they had diagrams of star charts, for sextant use at night. Shallan had been taught to read a sextant by Madame Tyn, but they had mostly used sightings of some distant object such as a tree on the horizon or the top of a hill, against the angle of the sun. She was not familiar with the stars as the nights in Scotland had often been cloudy – and her father did not like it when she went out in the evenings for any length of time. The red stars – she flicked through the book – the engravings in the astronomy book were black on white, and she could not tell. She opened the second one, the midshipman’s manual, and this one, by the Heralds’ blessings, had coloured picture plate inserts along with simpler black engravings. Shallan paused on the illustrations of knot types – the sailors had taught her some of the simpler knots on The Wind’s Pleasure – and she had practiced them with hair ribbons in her cabin. The back had star charts for recognising the major constellations. The red stars were real stars, and went by the quaint colloquial name of Taln’s Scar in Vorin nations. Taln was the Herald Talenelat; such shortenings of names were commonly used when calling on the full palindromic name of a holy Herald was considered presumptuous, when one was not an Ardent nor in church. Newssheets rustled behind her. “I have often found myself pondering these last few days,” said Kaladin, “what exactly a scholar like yourself sees in a soldier like the Duke.” Shallan pushed her chair back; she stood and stretched, peeling her gloves down and off her elbows and then her wrists and finally her hands. She threw herself onto the sofa opposite Kaladin and picked up a pie; the pyramid was now only two layers high. “I am not just a scholar, as he is not just a soldier – and neither are you just a surgeon,” she said, her mouth full. She did not worry about preserving her dignity around Doctor Kaladin. “Do you even share anything in common with him?” The newssheet was lowered and folded very precisely in half; Kaladin set it aside. “Ought I to? I imagine that if I were forced to spend my days with someone identical to myself, I would tear my hair out in frustration.” “And why is that?” Shallan laughed, and said, “Because there would be twice as much annoying chatter, with half the substance.” “Ah, I wondered if you’d noticed.” Kaladin did not smile, but there was evident smugness in the set of his lips. Shallan gestured breezily. “I do it because the alternative is listening to you.” She paused, and then continued, “the same question might be asked of you – what do you see in Adolin? You are hardly alike.” “He is a good man.” “I hope he would make a good husband.” “You still insist on pursuing him?” “If he will have me, I suppose. If not, I hope he would make a good husband to whomever else.” “You think he would not have you?” “I think,” said Shallan, knowing that their conversation, which had begun with light-heartedness, was now descending to more sober subjects – to cold truths that cowered at the prospect of seeing light. “I think that a good man deserves a good woman.” Kaladin inspected the pie in his hands; he broke off a piece of the pastry crust. “You know, most of the young ladies who come to me asking for advice just want me to tell them how pretty they are. But you–,” he looked up and met her eyes with his dark and discerning gaze, “–you just want me to tell you that you’re not a terrible person–” “–That I’m not a killer,” Shallan cut in. “And that is why I like Adolin. I don’t feel like one when I’m with him.” “Forgiveness and peace come from within.” That was his surgeon’s voice, the emotionless voice that gave no hint of judgement or condemnation. “There is nothing within. I must find my forgiveness without.” “You are wrong,” he said with inexplicable confidence. “I know there is something within.” “What is it, then?” He looked at her; she looked back. “Self-pity,” he said at last. She did not think these were the words he really meant to say. “And have you a cure for me, Doctor?” “Conviction. You are either a victim, or you are not.” He put the pie back on the platter and brushed off his hands. “No matter that you are still here and he is not, if you see yourself as a victim of circumstance – you will never be anything but.” Shallan knew he was talking of the man in the tower, the man she had killed by smothering his last gasping red breaths with her tartan. The man he had assumed was the first man whose life she had taken. His words were sincere – they soothed an ache that he had no idea even existed; they sought to fill the pit of nothingness inside of her that she had carried within her since the day the real first man had died by her hand. “I hear the wisdom of experience in you,” she managed to say, forcing her voice to stay level and light. “Not wisdom – but experience,” Kaladin replied. “Thank you for sharing.” He took a deep breath, and spoke very gently. “Marks on the spirit should not be borne for ever. Shallan, I–” Whatever he was about to say was cut off when loud trumpets blared from outside. At first it sounded like sheer noise, exuberant noise, from the throats of an orchestra of trumpets played all at once, but it soon resolved into music – a fanfare of some sort. “What is that?” Shallan asked, slipping her gloves back on and finding her abandoned shoes. “The King has arrived. The Feast has begun.” Kaladin stood, and brushed crumbs off his blue breeches. Shallan saw that his boots – he had large feet indeed – had scuff marks at the toes, and were clean but could not be described as mirror polished. She supposed he had no valet of his own to black his boots and finish them with a champagne shine, and did not care enough to do it himself. It was around mid-afternoon when they exited the library; they left the tray of pies on the low table – now covered. Shallan had noticed when she had run her hands along the spines of the books, her gloves had not come away dusty – so there was a regular cleaning service for the room, even if it did not look like it had been used with much regularity. They strode through the hallways, liveried servants ducking out of their path, to the ballroom on the South Wing; Kaladin led the way. Shallan kept her attention on her floor ahead of her; she did not particularly look forward to taking a tumble, although Kaladin would have surely found it an amusing sight. “Doctor,” she panted, as they reached the end of a queue of guests proceeding through the doors of the ballroom. “You were about to say something, and you never finished.” Kaladin looked down at her upturned face, then shifted his attention to the open doors. “I remembered that you have not had your bandage changed today.” “Oh. I thought it sounded like something important.” “Your well-being is important.” Author's Notes: On Kaladin's uniform - he has no Bridge Four patch because there's no Bridge Four in this universe. Kind of obvious, since there are no chasms or Shattered Plains. “Am I leering, then?” - Shallan is flirting but she isn't fully aware of it, she just does it because she likes trying to troll Kaladin and it gets a reaction from him every time. He's aware of it, and it's frustrating for him for various reasons. “It’s Wit.” - So apparently Shardpools can transport you into the next universe, and even outside the Cosmere. This guy gets everywhere, like bubblegum. He's very genre savvy, and apparently travels through a lot of AU's because he references other media. "I sense the troubadour in you" - "Troubadour's love" means unrequited love, or courtly love from a distance. A minstrel can sing songs about his fair lady, but he can never date her because she's promised to Count Paris or Rillir Roshone or whoever. Wit sees it straight off. "You may call me Beloved" - :-D "Pages had not even been cut." - in the old days, paper was made and printed in big sheets, which were folded and bound. You had to cut the pages open the first time you read a book. Uncut pages means no one read it.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 20

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART TWENTY Shallan carefully cut the copied mural pages from her sketchbook with her charcoal knife, and laid them on the bed in the order she had drawn them. She had remembered to label each sheet with a number on the bottom corner – a tedious habit she now found very useful. It was different when it was laid flat instead of arranged in the circular panoramic of the original. The scale was much less impressive for one – and with its much smaller size, she could now discern a beginning to the piece. There was a front rank, depicting a Knight with Squires attacking a great craggy beast; there were a number of mythical beasts behind it, not identically shaped, but still menacing in their enormous size and their red eyes which had been painted on the tower wall with powdered mica. There was a rank at the very back – or start of the piece. Shallan did not know if circular paintings were designed to have specific starts or ends, especially allegorical religious works representing the Almighty’s endless cycle of years. She supposed that it could be the point where the mural’s artist had laid the first stroke of paint. This beginning portrayed the Ten Heralds, their backs to swirling storm clouds, their legendary blades held in the air in fierce defiance to the monsters that threatened their army of heroes. But no – they were not pointing their blades directly at the mythic beasts: they were holding their swords in the air. Pointing at something in the sky? She had not drawn the sky in the mural. It had been too high up – tens of feet in the air – and visible only from the stairs. Shallan had drawn the mural from the floor, by candlelight, and that had given her only enough illumination to capture the closest ranks of Knights and Champions with their swords and cannon horses. Did they even have cannons back then, with their lost arts? There were no cannons in the mural. Shallan recalled that cannons had first been used as siege-breakers on the Continent four hundred years ago; Jasnah had said the last cycle began over four thousand years ago. Kaladin, before he had left her in the darkness – she skimmed over that memory – had said there were stars in the sky, red stars painted with mica. What could they mean? Shallan decided that she needed to find astronomical charts, and an astronomer or mathematician who could calculate reverse trajectories for the movement of heavenly bodies. She herself was not a terrible arithmetician – or bookkeeper – when it came to it, but her experience had been limited to several narrow disciplines in the applied sciences. It had been good enough for Jasnah, but her knowledge on theoretical grand-scale celestial gravimetrics was sufficiently lacking in that she scarcely knew which questions were imperative to the continuation of her research. She resolved to ask Jasnah when she returned; Jasnah would know what to do – she always did. Jasnah was the planner; she had the experience and the connections to make the right enquiries, and unknot seemingly unsolvable problems with either authority or money; Jasnah was a firm proponent of shooting the engineer when it became necessary. Jasnah could be trusted to take charge – she had promised to, when she had taken Shallan up as guardian to her ward. She had been the connection of influence and consequence enough to keep the creditors of Loch Davar at bay; she had ascertained the details of Shallan’s financial complications and arranged the advantageous connection with Adolin. Jasnah could be relied on to sort everything out – and she was to return to-morrow. For now, Shallan wrote out her notes and possible hypotheses on the mural, as well as the details she had picked out after a careful viewing of the sketches. Why, for instance, were the swords so large as to be almost the same size as the Knights holding them? The Heralds themselves had smaller swords. They reminded her of the amusingly oversized swords held by the former Kholin Dukes in the portrait gallery, with their fussy – and useless – ornamentations such as the flanges shaped like waves-in-motion or tongues of flame. Would not such swords be too heavy to carry for battles longer than a half hour, especially with the weight of extraneous decoratives? Adolin had not any difficulties with the fifty pound lead weights in the pantry, but even he could not be expected to hold them for hours at a time. Shallan busied herself in the research for the next few hours – since Jasnah had sent the letter with the word tasks circled several times. Shallan knew she had put off her scholarship during the recent and unfortunate developments of being wounded and taken ill; they seemed reasonable enough justification for postponing studies to her, but she doubted that Jasnah would see it quite the same way. If Jasnah were to be shipwrecked or molested by highwaymen, Shallan believed that she would find a means to continue her quest for knowledge and historical truth. She did not look up until Finnie knocked at the door with a freshly pressed dress for dinner. “My lady,” said Finnie, looking for a place to lay the dress; the bed had been taken over by the charcoal sketches and there were now grey streaks of charcoal powder on the bed-cover. “Are you excited for the Feast?” Shallan hurriedly got to her feet, snapping her sketchbook shut. She snatched up the sketches, and roughly sorted them into a loose pile by their numbered corners. “The Feast? I understood it was to be a simple presentation.” Finnie laughed. “The cook has cleared out every dry goods purveyor in Courtlea. The butler has sent for the Kholinshire Park household staff to help. We had none of this for the Marquess’s reception when he was commissioned a year or so ago.” “Oh my,” said Shallan slowly, sliding her sketchbook into the vanity drawer. “How very – daunting.” “I’m pleased to be looking after you, my lady,” said Finnie, looking around and finally hanging the dress over the back of the chair. “Otherwise I’d be cleaning out the guest rooms with the rest of the maids.” “Well, grand Feast or not, it’s to be one day only. I’m sure we can all pull together and endure.” “It will make a fine practice for you, my lady!” replied Finnie cheerily. “Practice? For what exactly?” “For when you are wed, of course!” “Wed?” Shallan burst out. “One day a time, please!” “Well, my lady,” mused Finnie, whilst undoing the buttons on Shallan’s day dress, “now that you have seen Anglekar, how would you go back to Scotland? I hear it’s very dreary all the time there.” Shallan was silent as her day dress was replaced in favour of an evening one. She spoke softly, with a hint of reproachfulness. “It may be dreary, but it is my home. And my homeland.” “Of course, my lady,” said Finnie, turning her eyes downwards in deference. “Beg your pardon.” They were silent as Shallan’s hair was dressed for dinner. What was Loch Davar to her now? It was no Grand House; it was not even a stately home, like Dun McValam or Ivory Lane. There was an empty echoing manor with a leaking roof, which echoed all the more now that most of the furniture and half her family were gone from it. What was a home? Was it the house itself, or the people inside it, or the intangible memories of long ago happiness and comfort that one held in their heart? Shallan was unquestionably Scottish; of this she was undeniably convinced. She was Scottish, and this was not something anyone – and definitely no soft southern Anglethi – could take away. If she did not need the deed papers to an estate to be Scottish, for what reason did Loch Davar need to be saved? She brushed that doubt away. Of course Loch Davar needed to be saved. If it could not be her place of residence, it was still her home – wasn’t it? And it was her brothers’ legacy, the last thing they had for themselves after the sale of the silverware and the heirloom tartan brooches and the claymores from the mantelpiece. She felt somewhat troubled at the thought that a successful attachment to Adolin would result in her spending his fortune on maintaining the Davar estate – the rents from the surrounding villages had been mortgaged too, and the manor currently could not support itself. She did not know if Adolin would approve, even if he gave his willing consent. She knew Kaladin would not. He would see it as Shallan’s indulging her fantasy illusions of childhood as she did with ether, only this time it would be pulling Adolin into the depths with her, even though he could easily afford it. And she, to her immense dissatisfaction, saw the sense in that – Kaladin was right. As usual. She had an emotional attachment to Loch Davar; she was blinded by her sentimentality – and for that she was willing to do what he would never consider sensible, nor she financially prudent. Shallan went down to dinner, still thinking. Kaladin was merely middle class, no matter how well-educated he happened to be. He worked for a living; that was what separated him from gentry who did not work – their living, their leisure, was supported by the rents and taxes raised from their hereditary estates. It was also acceptable in these modern ages to derive one’s maintenance from the dividends of investments outside real properties – joint-stock ventures, or the Funds – if the original capital was inherited, of course. He was not – and could never be – a true gentleman until he was gentry; Shallan doubted she would be able to find his name in The Peerage. She was not even sure if Kaladin was his Vorin name or his family name. Thus, he did not – could not, could never – comprehend the attachment one had to their family estate. The house one’s family lived in was not just a roof over their heads – and Loch Davar, admittedly, did not have much that could be praised or even expected in a roof. It was ancestral legacy; it was part of what made a lady or gentleman of quality – well, quality. It possessed the quality of dignified age, and history, and some said it was ultimately bestowed by the Almighty’s favour for his chosen leaders of men. You cannot eat an ancestral legacy, Shallan thought bitterly. It sounded like something Kaladin would say. Well, that was why she had come to Anglekar, wasn’t it? Shallan was redirected by a footman to the Cobalt Room for dinner; there was still much activity in the foyer of the House as the lamps were lit for the evening. The servants appeared to be taking the instructions of preparing for a grand Feast seriously, and Shallan felt the disquieting beginnings of niggling trepidation. She had attended Clan McValam’s annual clan moot when she was thirteen years old for her clan pledges; she had observed the pledging of other children in the following years, though not so recently when she and her brothers had melted down their clan brooches and bonnet badges and had had nothing presentable to wear. How much grander of scale could a City-style Anglethi Feast be? Shallan had never been to the City before, or any city at all – only large towns for Middlefests as a girl. She was seated to Adolin’s left, with Kaladin on his right. It was the dinner arrangement she had shared with them every other evening previous – only this time it was to be in a smaller room. It was not an unattractive room, for all its informality, she thought, as she looked around. True to its name, the Cobalt Room was decorated with cobalt blue – Kholin blue. There were blue shields fixed to the wall, and wooden plaques with hooks holding up trophy swords. Not all of them were the yard-length straight-bladed heirloom longswords common to the great families of the Anglethi Isles, nor the newer and thinner cavalry sabres. Some of them were curved scimitars, with enamelled hilts in designs of tessellated sunbursts with matching scabbards; there were two with shagreen hilts, and flat blades with rectangular chisel-like points. Many of the blades were nicked and scratched. “I’m glad to report,” said Adolin, as a footman placed a bowl of marrow-and-onion soup in front of him. It was followed by a spoonful of sour cream and a sprinkling of thinly-shaved fried ham. “That to-night’s menu was selected with a judicious eye. And stomach. I made sure to taste everything, just to be certain.” Kaladin grunted. “The kitchens are busy preparing for the Feast; I’m surprised they would spare the time for you, Duke or no.” “And this is why we are dining informally to-night?” Shallan asked. “Yes,” Adolin replied. “They’re hanging up the banners in the dining room. We would not have been able to eat with the workmen overhead and underfoot.” “I’m sure you could manage to eat anywhere,” remarked Kaladin. Adolin waved his spoon. “I’m sure I could. But you’ve been in the military, Kal – my father’s military especially. It doesn’t do to go slipshod on the protocol.” A footman at the sideboard unloaded their second course – pigeon pie with a side of gratin carrots. “It’s one thing,” he said, with what Shallan thought was wistfulness in his generally good-humoured spirits, “to dine in the field, and another thing to be going field-fashion whilst immediately outside the mess hall.” “Adolin,” said Shallan slowly, puzzling it through. “Forgive me if I am wrong – but you seem to regard the military life with fondness.” Adolin met her eyes, and smiled affectionately at her. But when he spoke, he spoke in the tones of solemn contemplation. “The duty of the sons of House Kholin is to bear arms for the King. The military life is my life.” Perhaps if she had not known him as she did now, she would not have caught onto the nuance of melancholy in his voice. If he had spoken those words upon her first introduction to him – the luncheon at the pavilion – she would have presumed that he was making conversation as any young gallant would have – with bravado and pride in pedigree, not with true feeling hidden behind idle mealtime chatter. How peculiar it must be, to see that even a Duke of the first rank might have the constraints of privilege placed around him – as she herself did. Because as she repeated his words over in her mind, she could not help but think: the duty of the Duchess is to bear those sons. But she did not articulate that particular thought; thoughts of self-pity sounded twice as disagreeable and thrice as pathetic when spoken aloud in the presence of others. “And have they – you – no choice in the matter?” she managed. Kaladin took a sip of his smallbeer. “Miss Davar, were you aware that the Anglethi word for ‘Duke’ comes from an ancient Continental word meaning ‘leader’ or ‘general’?” Adolin paused as a footman refreshed his plate. “Father says our privilege is fair payment for our hereditary service. It was originally an elevation by the Grace of the Almighty, and we should maintain the standards, as it were. And we should seek leadership as part of our Calling.” “I doubt many others see rank that way. I do not,” said Shallan, thinking of the men in her own family. They were proud of their lineage – as all gentry were – and they were the accepted leaders in the local community. But they were only leaders in the vague social fashion – the farming villages of the Loch had their own elders; the Davars were not – definitely not – models of moral authority that the lower classes should aspire to. As much as she had boasted of her own charitable disposition to Kaladin, she knew it to be contrived – and quite certainly not an entire truth. It was curious that there was someone to be found in the upper echelons of Society – the Prince Kholinar himself – who believed in such things as the notion that Grace bestowed should equal Grace deserved. “And I thought you read The Way of Kings, Miss Davar. You seemed to profess an illogical confidence in the old stories,” said Kaladin, as the next remove of trout with buckwheat and long beans was brought in. “I have read it, but only for the historical details,” she replied, glaring at him over the central basket of sliced bread. “I do not take every lesson on morality in every fable to heart. If they were all true, and I internalised them all, I ought to have gone back to the tower in the forest and waited for Adolin to hallo me from his white horse. And then we would have been married the very next day.” Adolin flushed, and Shallan smiled at him as he set his fork down carefully. “The lessons in The Way of Kings are things that many others have forgotten, and Father seeks to uphold. I myself believe that there is truth, or at least wishful idealism in the words. But my father is very firm on them. He says that the First Family of Anglekar should be – must be – the first blood spilled for Anglekar.” Shallan remembered their night in the forest – Adolin’s confession in the aftermath of the attack. He held his father in great – perhaps unhealthy – esteem; that was plain to see. But she could also see that he did not look forward to prospect of death. There was no bloodlust in him; she could not recognise any shred of the wild-eyed and battle-frenzied berserker that was common to the clansmen of the north – that was to be found in her own father, and her brother Helaran. There was conflict in Adolin, she felt. Duty and loyalty were concepts that weighed heavily in his mind as they did in her own. “I – I had forgotten how very fatalistic Vorinism could be,” Shallan said softly. “I rather attribute it to too much time spent in Jasnah’s company.” “It is when I recall that Heaven’s Halls involve an afterlife of fighting that I am grateful that I, according to you–,” said Kaladin, glancing at Shallan, “–lack a soul.” “Well, Doctor, I would be happy to join you in Damnation if I might be spared an eternity of Heavenly bloodshed.” “Shallan,” said Adolin earnestly, “I do not think you would ever be condemned to Damnation. And in this lifetime at least, you will be spared the prospect of bloodshed with Kal and myself around to guarantee it.” Shallan met his eyes; she gave his foot a friendly nudge under the table, and he smiled at her with fondness. “I hope with all sincerity you shall not be held to your promise. I hope you shall never need to be.” “All men live in hope,” said Kaladin dryly. After dinner, the gentlemen were for the retiring room for billiards and drinks; Shallan did not feel the inclination to join them. She decided that she would rather a full night of sleep before Jasnah’s return. Before the respite – if it could be called that – would be over and then she would be subject to the Countess’ instructions once more. She refused Adolin’s invitation, and watched Kaladin stride off down the hall, nimbly dodging a footman balancing a set of curtain rods over his shoulder. Adolin paused, then turned back to her. “I’m glad to see you better, Shallan,” he said, taking her hand. “I feel absolutely beastly that since you have come here, you have had nothing but a run of bad luck.” “Perhaps I am the bad luck,” replied Shallan acidly. “No! It is mere unfortunate chance. It cannot be – a curse – or something of that nature.” “You believe in curses?” “No – I try not to, at least. But I believe that Grace, though rare, can still be found in the hearts of men.” “And women?” He grinned at her. “And women too. I see it in yours.” “If it could be found in me, I imagine I should be able to tell, shouldn’t I?” Adolin lowered his voice. “I can tell,” he whispered. Emotion bloomed within her. Kaladin may not be a gentleman, but Adolin surely was. And not a mere gentleman by law, whose status was acknowledged through ownership of an estate of certain size and an annual income of a certain number. No. Adolin was a gentle man, and a kind one – a good man whose genuine feelings almost convinced her that there was more to be found in life than a constant teetering between extremes of complete despair and complete apathy. She threw her arms around him, and rested her cheek against the comforting solidity of his chest; he returned her embrace, careful of her bandaged ribs. The passing servants averted their eyes. It almost beggared belief that out of all the young ladies in Anglekar and the Isles, that he would want her. Her, of all people. Yes, she could not deny that Balat and Wikim wanted her – the creditors had more mercy when they had come to take things away from a young girl with tears in her eyes. And Jushu needed her for – other purposes. Jasnah had wanted her too – but she saw a useful tool in Shallan, someone with intelligence and a good memory, whose desperate need for an influential connection could inspire unwavering loyalty. And what did Adolin want? What did Adolin deserve? Shallan rose to her toes and spoke very softly to his ear. “If only I could tell.” There, that was truth. Two meanings – but both of them were indeed heartfelt truths. “Perhaps one day,” he replied. “It will come in its own time.” Shallan went up to bed troubled with her own thoughts. She felt something, she was sure, for Adolin Kholin. She had not felt things for a very long time, and never in her life had she felt something like this particular swelling emotion, whatever it was. She could not even name it; its existence was so obscure and distant from her own very limited experience. She had not known any men with familiarity other than her family – if one discounted menservants at the estate. But of course she had not been familiar with them; she had not known much of them other than their names and their role in the household. How much of this – emotion – was from the novelty of new experience, the novelty of finding herself acquainted with a handsome young man with the reputation of a flirt? She did not want to feel things, at all. Everything was easier if one neutered the part of themselves that held the capacity to feel. Life was easier to understand – to manage – when there were no sentimental thoughts to bar rational decision-making. Shallan had thought she was well on her way to transcending such concerns, as Jasnah was. But now she found she wasn’t – she was far from it – and she did not know what to make of herself. She was not ashamed. No. That could not be it. It was fear, and it was doubt. But she was not afraid of Adolin. She was afraid for herself. If things were to collapse – like they always did – then there would be another scar on her poor, disfigured heart. And what happened if a heart that bore all the marks that one could bear were to be marked once again? She did not want to know. *** The curtains around the bed were drawn open at ten in the morning, but Shallan was not asleep. She was staring at the folds of velvet at the top of the canopy, still thinking about the previous evening’s dinner. It was the possibility that Adolin was unhappy with his lot in life. It seemed passing strange that a Duke could feel dissatisfaction in that manner, even after his confession in the forest, which she had mostly discounted as the sentiments of a person who had never been – hardened – in childhood, as she had been. He was so outwardly pleasant, so amiable in disposition that she hardly would have guessed. A thought occurred. It was a very disarming thought. It was entirely possible that Adolin just might have a shell firmly fixed in place as she did, with the face of the coin that was the sociable Shallan. Kaladin himself had more than one face; Shallan had observed the proof of its existence before. She could not forget that the hands that changed her bandages with utmost gentleness were the same hands that had bloodied a bayonet with no visible misgivings. It was therefore not unthinkable that Adolin had his own social face. Shallan stepped into the steaming bath and slid backwards until the water closed over her head. When she returned to her bedchamber, Finnie was nervously shuffling her feet in the hallway. “Doctor Kaladin is waiting to change your bandages, my lady,” she explained apologetically. “He told me he would wait for you inside, instead of the hall.” “Doctor Kaladin alone in a lady’s boudoir,” said Shallan loudly, opening the door to the bedchamber. “I should wonder what mischief I might find him up to.” She stepped inside and closed the door. Kaladin looked up at the sound of her voice. He was sitting at the chair in front of her vanity, inspecting the unrolled set of hairbrushes and combs on the table. They were the silver set that Finnie had used every day, the ones with the enamelled forget-me-nots and silver curlicues. “These are quality work,” noted Kaladin, as he picked up his medical bag from the floor. “I’m sure a silversmith’s apprentice somewhere was promoted to journeyman for his efforts.” “They’re not mine.” Shallan shrugged off her dressing gown and tossed it at him; he caught it neatly out of the air and dropped it onto the trunk at the foot of the bed. “But you’re welcome to use them. I should think that you’d have more need of them than I.” She unbuttoned her shift and lay on the bed. “Adolin gave them to you for a reason – I’m sure he saw your own need was more desperate than mine.” Kaladin untied the bandages; Shallan closed her eyes as she saw the ether bottle being brought out of the bag. “Adolin didn’t give them to me. My maid had them from somewhere. Perhaps they were left behind from a previous lady guest who was in such a hurry she forgot to pack.” “Do I sense jealousy in you?” said Kaladin with sardonic amusement. “Or if it happens to be small-mindedness – well either way, it does not become you, Miss Davar.” Shallan groaned as the ether was swabbed to the wound. It hurt less every day, but it still hurt; she was glad that it was followed by a cooling herbal ointment that was smeared over the stitches. “It’s not jealousy. If Adolin just gave me things, wouldn’t he be concerned that I’d have them pawned, and go home immediately without marrying him?” “Miss Davar, if you want to go home, you are welcome to leave at any time. Adolin would not begrudge you the family silver.” “Well, I won’t,” Shallan grumbled. She heard the crunch of horses and carriage wheels from the drive outside the window. So Jasnah was back now – and with her, a return to planned order and sane rationality. “Why would one take the golden eggs if one could have the golden goose?” she said sourly. Kaladin’s hands paused in re-tying her fresh bandage. His voice was low, but brittle. “Do you still only see him as your golden goose?” “It would be easier for everyone if he was,” Shallan sighed, swiping the back of her hand over her eyes. “Geese don’t have feelings. And if they did, no one cares.” “It is truly a shame that Adolin is no goose then.” She heard the click of the clasp as he shut his kit bag. “Geese could not kiss as well as he does,” Shallan said with false nonchalance. “They have bills instead of lips.” She heard the tread of Kaladin’s feet as he walked to the door. “Miss Davar, have you ever considered the possibility that you are the goose?” The door opened and then closed. Shallan rolled over on the bed, and shut her eyes; she buried her face in the pillows. Finnie came in later to prepare her for luncheon in the Teal Room; she chattered animatedly about the uproar when Jasnah’s carriage had opened to the portico of Kholinar Court. Jasnah had announced that the guests – invited from the Palace, the townhouses and salons of the City, and the stately homes of Kholinshire – would be arriving by luncheon time to-morrow. Jasnah had brought with her several carts of wines and delicacies from the merchants of the City, followed by servants’ wagons from the Kholinshire Park estate. There was to be entertainment, and tables full of food for the guests whose carriages could not be predicted to arrive at any one time, and a grand ball and a grander dinner with endless toasts. The King himself, the Prince Kholinar, the Queen Dowager, and the Marquess Kholinshire were to appear, along with sundry lords and barons and Most Honourable nameless esquires. But not, the maid was pleased to repeat, the Queen, who was left to manage affairs in the City. It was a bewildering array of names and titles; Shallan was dismayed to find that her own maid was more familiar with them than she was. She, like most other young Scottish ladies of quality, knew the names of the Anglethi first rank – the royal Family, and the Dukes, and the Dukes’ sons. They were printed in the front section of every edition of The Peerage, along with their glyph arms. She had known of Adolin and his brother by their family tree in the book; the rest of the names were completely unknown, or known only hazily by a passing mention of their family name or family connections. Shallan walked to the Teal Room trying to remember the lists of names she had read years ago in the book. She could not remember the colours of their standards; she could not remember the names of the younger sons. She recalled that the copy she had had was an older edition – it would not be as up-to-date, nor have the quality of engravings that the newer versions would have. How she regretted not paying much attention to the book – Madame Tyn had chastised her for it; at the time she had held more interest in agricultural manuals borrowed from the estate steward. After all, she had always expected her father would have her married off to a kinsman of The McValam. She had hardly imagined she would find herself enjoying the cream of Kholinar society in the company of one of the ten Dukes of Anglekar. Jasnah lowered her newssheet as Shallan was seated opposite her at the Teal Room’s round dining table. Jasnah looked her up and down, inspecting her appearance; apparently she could not detect any obtrusive element or obvious flaw worthy of a verbal criticism, for she waved a footman forward to begin serving their luncheon. “Well, Shallan – the tasks,” said Jasnah with the smoothness of natural authority. It was not quite a demand: Jasnah was too well-bred for that. The things she wanted you found yourself offering her of your own volition. “What have you been up to?” “I found the temple in the woods from the maps I got from the church,” Shallan said. “There were murals on the inside that I copied. Our expeditionary party was attacked by – the organisation – before I could make further study. I had the groundskeeper make directional notations on my copy of the map.” “Good. We will have to study the images you’ve reproduced, and possibly plan another excursion. And the – other task?” “I presume you mean Adolin.” Shallan did not look up from her rissole with poached pear and walnut salad. She really did not feel kindly disposed to the prospect of discussing her and Adolin’s mutual – understanding – at the dining table. It felt too personal. She wanted to keep those warm and special moments they had shared on the inside, to be replayed in Memory at her own leisure, not shared at table for Jasnah’s amusement or dissection. Was that wrong of her? For Jasnah was, for all intents, her patroness; she owed Jasnah a debt of loyalty for the good turn she had done for a nameless scholar girl who had begged for an audience. “What else?” said Jasnah with wry humour glinting in her hard eyes. “How far along are you? Though I hope you haven’t gotten there quite yet – not before a formal announcement of engagement, at least!” Shallan did not laugh at her joke. That subject was rather – uncomfortable for her. At least, she thought, she didn’t make sick all over the table this time. “I am certain he is more eager for an attachment than an acquaintanceship,” said Shallan carefully. “More eager than I am, if I might be bold enough to say.” She paused, suddenly aware of the significance of what had just been said. “I haven’t any idea of what else to do, Jasnah. Oh, if only you could adopt me.” Jasnah swirled her claret; she shot a discerning glance at Shallan. “The law requires a marriage before an adoption,” she said crisply. “And I, unfortunately, am not worth that risk.” “No, unfortunately not.” Well, Jasnah rarely did step around uncomfortable truths. It had been too much to hope for, in any case. “My maintenance is drawn from the interests of my royal father’s willed endowments. The capital cannot be touched; it may only be passed to Family.” “I must become Family, then,” said Shallan, pushing a small fragment of walnut meat around her plate. “Yes,” Jasnah answered. She set her glass down. “However if you can manage a girl for your firstborn, my solicitors can arrange an annulment for you. I would name her my heir, and you would become her legal guardian. The entailment of my own peerage does not require a male heir. My late father ensured a legacy for me – the least I could do is ensure something for you. Conditionally.” “And if it’s a boy?” “You had best hope he is sickly.” That was purely Jasnah, once again. It would have been directness to the point of being appalling in any other person. But in Jasnah, one could not contemplate the possibility of her behaving in any other fashion. “Doesn’t–” Shallan paused, knowing that the words she said would reveal too much of what Jasnah was desperately curious to know – though, of course she would never outwardly give the impression of eagerness. She said them anyway. “Doesn’t Adolin have any say in this?” “I’m sure you can convince my young cousin it was his own idea, if you had a mind to do it.” “Perhaps I could – if I had the inclination to do so.” She didn’t really, truthfully. The thought of manipulating Adolin – the thought of taking away his child – their child – and annulling a marriage for her own reasons, or Jasnah’s, was unspeakably, shockingly selfish. A month ago, on The Wind’s Pleasure, Shallan would not have given the idea a second thought: she would have been happy to continue her studies with Jasnah without the distractions posed by men or fashionable Society. No: she would only do it in the event that any future husband of hers was an unworthy father. Jasnah’s gaze was wary now. “You – truly return his affections?” “Is that so hard to believe?” Jasnah sighed. “You are young, I suppose.” There was a subtle implication in the Countess’s voice that she had never been young herself, and obliged the youthful whimsies of others out of her own patient benevolence – and never from personal empathy. “You will learn – we all do. I prize intelligence in youth, but sometimes,” she paused, glancing meaningfully at Shallan, “sometimes I forget that youth often lacks the wisdom of experience.” “What wisdom do you have, since you are so experienced?” asked Shallan, keeping her own voice controlled. “It will be easier for you – for everyone – if you detach your agenda from your emotions,” said Jasnah. “Be rational. A sound mind will keep your heart sound.” But my heart isn’t sound. It never was. “Thank you for the advice. I will do what I can.” It wasn’t a promise, but neither was it a lie. Jasnah seemed to accept it. She inclined her head graciously, and patted her red-painted lips with her napkin. The napkin had no red smudges; her lip-paint hadn’t budged or smeared. “Please do,” she said coolly. “And remember – your choices do not reflect only on you.” Jasnah had a full-length looking glass brought into the Teal Room after luncheon, and also several trunks that bore a J.K. monogram carved into the lids. She summoned Shallan’s maid with Shallan’s hairbrushes and her sketchbook and notes. Shallan was stripped to her underdress and evening gowns were brought out of the trunks one by one, festooned with long banners of white tissue paper. Jasnah sat at the dining table reading over Shallan’s notes with a critical eye and a red wax pencil; Shallan could see her flip past sketches she had made of various residents of the House and blushed at the intrusion of her privacy. Her sketchbook held thoughts and memories that she did not want to keep in her head; she found catharsis in her habit of incising thoughts into charcoal and lead-clay at the end of each day. There was that rather embarrassing one she had drawn after she had been introduced to Adolin for the first time – when he had kissed her hand and winked and she had felt her first pang of – something – at being in his presence. The one with the hearts. She swore that Jasnah’s eyebrow twitched upwards at that page. Shallan glared at her reflection in the looking glass as Finnie buttoned up her dress. None of them fit perfectly, like her own dresses. But they were well made, with fabrics that had the heft and weight of expensive silk when she ran her hands over them. It was a shame that they fit like they had been made for a girl of more generous proportion than her – the front was woefully unfilled when the back buttons had been done up. The sleeves were slightly too long. The hems would be more appropriate for someone taller. “I asked the modist for the smallest finished gowns in stock,” remarked Jasnah, looking up. “I went to several, actually. But your measurements are rather on the slender size, and I hadn’t the time to have something made bespoke. Your maid will have to take them in for you. I’ve had her excused from her other duties. If the presentation goes well, we will see about your hiring a dedicated lady’s maid.” “I like the maid I have now,” said Shallan firmly, holding up the hem of the dress so she wouldn’t trip. Finnie flashed her a grateful smile in the looking glass. “Very well – it you manage to acquit yourself favourably to-morrow with no lady’s maid of your own, then having one is not a necessity, at least for now,” conceded Jasnah. She hesitated, then asked: “have you noticed if my cousin has expressed … partiality towards any physical feature you possess?” Shallan flushed. “Perhaps I should ask him next we meet.” “Shallan.” “He has not given any indication of his dissatisfaction with my lack of … physical features,” said Shallan. Adolin had not cared about the wound, or that it was to leave a scar. He did not dislike her lack of Anglethi proportions. But she did not tell this to Jasnah. “Adolin thinks my hair is nice.” “Put away the violet dress, then – and the pink one,” ordered Jasnah. There was now a trunk for rejected dresses that were too large to be re-sized in a day, or in an unflattering cut, and now the wrong colour. “Perhaps the pale blue one. We want to give the impression of a connection, without being so overt as to be distastefully presumptuous.” Shallan stood patiently in front of the looking glass as Finnie pinned up the blue dress. “Are we to dine with the gentlemen this evening?” Jasnah laughed. “You must finish trying on the dresses. It should take some time to achieve a proper fit, if you do not look forward to being hastily sewn into it to-morrow morning – I daresay some of the girls my mother is pushing will be doing just that. After the dresses, there are still shoes, and gloves, and reticules, and headpieces, and cosmetics to look into.” “Does that mean no?” Shallan groaned. “Yes.” “If Adolin likes me, and has seen me without – all this, what is the purpose of it all, then?” Shallan griped. “My cousin is considerate enough that the Family’s approval matters in his choice of wife. You should be grateful for this – without it, I doubt he would have suffered my introducing you,” Jasnah said, with careless gesture of her hand. “If you can convince him to elope by luncheon to-morrow, then all of this would be unnecessary.” As Shallan was dressed and undressed with the tedious variety of extravagance, she thought that an elopement would make things much simpler. Usually, elopement in young couples was done for a certain disreputable reason – and Adolin knew that they had not done any such a thing to justify that. Not that either of them were dismayed – nor disinterested – in the prospect of such things occurring, or uneager to see what all the fuss was about – one day in the future. Possibly. Well, at least she thought that of herself; she had only the slightest idea of what Adolin made of the whole concept, and he would very likely not be keen on sharing his thoughts on that with her. If he could; she doubted he could spit out more than a few words on that particular subject without blushing red and running out of the room in acute mortification. The fact was that she could not recommend an elopement on that point, at least. It would have been made all the more disreputable by the knowledge that she had only been introduced to him a week before. There was, however, another way to force an elopement, but it only worked on true gentlemen. Not just the men who did not dare risk disinheritance when news of their producing a natural-born child got out. The way to snare a true gentleman – here Shallan’s expertise came from readings and re-readings of various novels – was to arrange a situation where he found a woman – her – in a truly undignified positon, and was therefore socially obligated to make good the ruin of her honour. This could be something like wandering into a lady’s bathing chamber whilst she was disrobed, with a maid or two as witness to her honour’s undoing. She and Kaladin had joked about it – but it was a tradition in the Scottish countryside for promised couples who wanted to rush their banns. And, she supposed, it would not be beyond a gentleman of the strictest of moral standards. Adolin had read The Way of Kings; he agreed with what that old book had said – could he be anything but? But the Feast was to-morrow, and she was not seeing Adolin again to-night. It seemed more likely that she would have to bear whatever to-morrow brought rather than find a way for induce an indignity for herself within the next twelve or so hours. Shallan resigned herself to her fate as Jasnah powdered her face, and frowned when a small hand glass was brought forth and she saw herself looking wan and sickly without freckles to colour her cheeks. Jasnah sent for washcloths, and tried once more, muttering all the while how there was no colour match to be had for Shallan’s skin. Author's Notes: More character development. I wanted to contrast Jasnah's character to Shallan's. Remember how Shallan in the beginning was high-handed just like Jasnah, and didn't argue with her so blatantly, because they believed pretty much the same things? Shallan now has gotten off the high horse and now has developed a bit of a conscience. She feels bad at the thought of manipulating Adolin, and is kind of disturbed that Jasnah has no problem with it - and he is her own cousin. I wanted to draw some parallels, to show that Jasnah is what Shallan aspired to be in Chapter 1. Past Shallan admired Jasnah's strength and resolve, and current Shallan is disturbed that Jasnah has achieved this by becoming the coldest and frostiest ice queen on the planet. "The Peerage" - Based on "Burke's Peerage", first published in 1826. A geneology of British gentry. Obviously I made up a parody version. "their living, their leisure, was supported by the rents and taxes" - historically accurate definition of what it meant to be upper class. Mr Darcy's estate raised £10 000 a year. Emma Woodhouse had a fortune of £30 000. Mr Rochester had a £20 000 fortune. Jane Eyre's salary as a governess was £30 a year, and a butler got around £80. For the purposes of this story, Kholinar Court brings in £60 000 a year. "Kaladin was his Vorin name or his family name." - Kaladin has no official last name other than Stormblessed. Vorin names are Christian names in our world. "Duke" comes from Latin "Dux". "Heaven’s Halls involve an afterlife of fighting" - reference to Kaladin's conversation with Renarin in WoR when he wanted to join Bridge Four. "All men live in hope" - reference to Richard III. "But shall I live in hope?/All men I hope live so". The unrequited feelings hurt the most. “You had best hope he is sickly.” - Jasnah is referencing Renarin. Stone cold. If a marriage could be annulled for barrenness (according to Brother Kadash), Jasnah's lawyers can get one granted if the firstborn isn't a healthy son like everyone wants. If you think Jasnah sounds heartless here, you must remember that she's saying all this because she thinks that marriage sucks and Shallan would be willing to get out of one in any way possible. Jasnah thinks she's helping. She just doesn't have a lot of empathy and says things without making them sound pretty. The end is in sight, by the way. Shallan's character development is a marker of her emotional maturity, and her starting to deal with her own problems. Once she has gotten over her issues, there's else to write to about.

By WoK, Dalinar doesn't even really go into battle anymore, so it's hard to tell if how he handles himself in war is due to the Thrill-influence or his years of experience. Is his supreme confidence from knowing that he is objectively that good at fighting, or is it his knowledge of strategy and how he has seen everything before? In terms of duelling, Adolin is better, and probably Sadeas too, since it was Sadeas who took down Yenev for Aladar. But Dalinar can hold his own against the Midnight Essence, Eshonai, and Szeth. I think Dalinar represses parts of himself too, but different ones than Adolin. Adolin seeks self-assurance in being the best, Dalinar seeks his self-assurance in The Way of Kings. I think his Calling was leadership, and what he really wants to be a leader that is acknowledged by other people for his innate leadership skills, not out of fear of reprisal. He has the The Way of Kings read to him on loop because he thinks it's an instruction manual on effective leadership. I would say that if Dalinar is 100% Blackthorn, he wouldn't have been able to date Shshshsh and Navani. So there is a gentle side. It's just not manly to admit that it exists. So Adolin is a control freak. Well, it makes sense when you compare to Dalinar. Only Dalinar is way more experienced and subtle about it, and has more patience for improvisation. Even if he can be equally stubborn and implacable. Adolin's personality is too "nice" but if there were the right set of circumstances, it would not be impossible for him to turn into Blackthorn 2.0. Shardbearers take breaks every 5-15 minutes. You could hold it if you really wanted to. Unless you were surrounded by enemies and thought that you might never get another potty break. Shallan describes Jasnah at one point as old enough to be her mother. Shallan is 17, and Jasnah is 34(?). When people married that early back on Earth, a 25 year old unmarried woman was enough to be considered an old maid. Or a Christmas cake. If Shallan is expected to be married, then Adolin is too. Makes me wonder how many of the young married couples in Alethkar got married because of their own personal urges rather than the societal expectations to get hitched. Two birds, one stone, you know what I mean? I'm sure it applies to lighteyed couples as well. A MC can go from wimp to badchull fighter in a few weeks only if you have a workout montage scene. Preferably with "Eye of the Tiger" playing in the background. I'm expecting Adolin to start shooting himself in the foot too. I don't really want to see it because I thought Shadolin were a cute canon couple, but since you like watching Adolin get hit by the trauma stick, you will really enjoy it. Everyone thinks it's more likely that he will distance himself out of shame and guilt for offing Sadeas, rather than start making out with another girl. Even if the last one is more dramatic and hilarious because it causes the triangle to become a square. If you want something but can't find it, make it yourself! Otherwise it would never exist without you. It's really strange to me that everyone thinks becoming a Radiant is a super cool thing. I'm happy being a normie. Maybe the people in-universe see the powers and the surgebinding magic and envy that, but as someone who read the books and knows that you only get magic from a spren parasite who lives inside your broken soul, I don't want that at all. It's not that you have to be worthy to attract a spren - you have to be worthy AND broken. So there are plenty of good hearted people out there who will never get a spren because they didn't suffer a traumatic childhood or get beaten up every day after school. I feel no shame or disappointment at not having a cremmy backstory, so I don't feel upset at not being a surgebinder or Radiant. That is why it's sad to see that other people feel that their not being "chosen" feels like a rejection, like they weren't good enough. You should be glad you didn't get an insane level of mental or physical suffering! Adolin, of course, will see it as a fault in himself that he wasn't bonded by a spren. He has to realise that they are opportunistic parasites!!!! Getting a spren is like being loaded into a hero-class character in a game. And you think they will explain what's going on, but they don't, they just throw you into level 5 with no tutorial mode. Young Kaladin thought that lighteyes were in charge because they were somehow more noble that darkeyes. That is why it hurt so much when Amaram, whom he thought was a real lighteyes compared to Roshone, stole his Shards. His problem with lighteyes and why they can't be trusted is that he thinks that they will always find a way to abuse their authority. The higher ranking they are, the more harm they can do. If Kal had never gone through that experience, he would never have the hate for lighteyes that his SA canon character would have. He still dislikes authority in my AU - specifically abuse of position - but he doesn't attach that stigma to any one group of people. Since everyone has the potential to act like a donuthole. That is why is okay with Adolin being his commanding officer. He knows Adolin got it out of nepotism, but Adolin doesn't abuse it - he puts it to good use. In other armies, squadleaders bribe the stretcher carriers, but in the Kholin regiment, there are enough hospital tents for everyone. By SA5, you will see that the ensemble cast of Radiants will start to resemble a psych ward. This is what happens when you separate your magic-users from your muggles with insane trauma. Shallan having one major issue and getting over most of it by the end of WoR is why people think she's verging on Mary Sue territory. The same people say Kaladin is a more realistic character for having Real Issues that he can't just get over by accepting that he has them. And the worst part of Shallan's backstory reveal was that it wasn't even a real reveal! She killed her mother with her Patternsword, so she must have had her spren before that. There was a traumatic event before that! And we never even got to find out!!! I expected Adolin to be the foil the whole way through. I thought he and Kaladin were going to meet much earlier - since they are around the same age and so different in personality that I assumed that Brandon would go for a character contrast immediately. It was kinda disappointing that they only met for the first time when Adolin rescued that courtesan. I was expecting grudging friendship much earlier than the middle of WoR. Also, Kaladin was never my favourite. His mopiness annoyed me even from his childhood flashback scenes. Nobody sees Adolin beyond the facade because he doesn't let them. He only goes on something like 2-3 dates with a girl before he drops her or she drops him. You don't talk about serious things on dates, let alone deep stuff that make you look like a whiny baby unless you know enough of the other person to understand the context. I'm sure if you dropped Adolin and Shallan into the chasm scene, Adolin would crack enough to show Shallan his facade. But Shallan would probably not share hers with him. The only reason she does it with Kaladin is that he is low ranking enough that he is not a threat or a challenge to her relationship with Adolin. Hey, you have to remember Shallan is a teenage girl who has never had a serious romantic relationship in her life. She is lonely and wants to be loved, but also thinks she is disgusting and unlovable. She's very emotionally conflicted and doesn't know if she even deserves to have a happy ending, or if it's better to run away before it blows up in her face. Like Tyn says, it's bad when a con woman starts believing in her own con. Whoever said that teen love had to make sense. You could use "having an adventure" to refer to eloping. But only if you made it clear in context what it was. Otherwise it could be something more innocent, just like the chasm scene. I think it would be hilarious for Adolin to walk in on Kaladin and Shallan. I have tried to contrive situations on purpose where that happens in my AU, like Shallan passed out in the carriage. But the problem is that Adolin is a nice guy and won't assume something naughty happened unless it's completely unambiguous what was going on. And then he'd be more sad than angry, since he would think there's something wrong with him that drives the girls away. In this AU and IRL, men are not expected to be chaste for their wedding. It's normal for men to keep mistresses before or after marriage, as long as they aren't producing any illegitimate babies. The maid has never talked to Adolin before, and doesn't know he's a nice guy at heart. What she knows of him is downstairs gossip - Adolin is known to be a serial dater who goes through a girl every 2-4 weeks, and no one knows what exactly he does with them. So she thinks it's fair for Shallan to make her own choice at least one time before her wedding. And the best friend is the best choice. Since he won't/can't blackmail Shallan about anything they do without risking his own position and relationship with Adolin. Yes, Kaladin doesn't want to see Adolin's heart get permanently stomped. And that is why he wants Shallan to stay. He also doesn't want her to go because if she goes home, she will get pulled back into her brothers' cesspit of misery and poverty. And he also doesn't want her to go because he likes her, and likes bantering with her. He also likes having someone who is around his own social rank. Because to the servants, he is their pinata full of cash. To nobles, he is a servant. His rank difference with Shallan is much narrower...until the day she marries Adolin. AooO has a handy feature were you can download a story as an eBook edition. I like to go through one last proofread on my eReader while in bed, because it's comfier that way. Then I correct it and upload it here. :ph34r: But Ryshadiums pick their riders. If a megahorse wants you, can you even tell it to go away and pick a new owner? Trauma pinata - the guy who gets hit multiple times with the trauma stick. It's really hard for me to read when characters are broken down into tiny pieces. Even though I know in the end most of them get better and stronger by the destination, it's still really painful to see the journey. If you have ever read the Farseer assassin novels, they are extreme character studies. And the Liveship Traders sequel trilogy. UGH. They are good books, but they have heaps of hardship and it gets really really sad at times. WHY CAN'T PEOPLE CATCH A BREAK NOW AND THEN. I think loyalty is a strong trait in Adolin, even if people who view his character superficially would call it obedience, because they want him to be a Dustbringer or something. He not only has loyalty to Dalinar, but returns the loyalty of the people who are loyal to him. That is why he hands out the Shards won in duelling like party favours even though they are priceless. Dalinar has it too, but I feel it's more like he rewards the people who swear him fealty because the Codes say that's what an officer should do, and men are more reliable when they are better treated. It's a big picture overall strategy thing, compared to Adolin who does it because he feels compassion for the people who serve his family. I thought it was an important aspect to explore. Once you take away Dalinar's orders, Adolin would feel more conflicted about the men under his command when he is in charge of their safety himself. Yes, there was a Captain Khal mentioned in one or two lines at the Battle of Narak. He got a Shard that Adolin gave him. I would not say that Adolin isn't creative or intuitive in battles. But to me, it seems like what he does is being good at surprise defensive positions. Not really stand-or-die last ditch risks that Kaladin did with the side-carry of the bridge, or when he tried to stab Moash and Graves when they went after Elhokar. Kaladin is less afraid of jumping into the unknown, and he is an adrenaline junkie. He jumped onto the horse's back when Adolin joked him. If it was the other way around, I doubt Adolin would have done the same thing. Adolin only does last stands if there is no other option, compared to Kaladin who is first in, last out in everything. And I think it freaks Adolin out when he has to do it, like fighting Eshonai in the Tower, or Szeth in the palace. Because he would never seek out "you and me to the death" situations on his own, and the fact that he is in one means that all his choices have been stripped away. The slaves in the slave caravan were starved. They only got a small bowl of gruel a day. It was only when they reached the Shattered Plains that they had access to all the soulcasters and the soulcast food. So that is probably why people assumed Kaladin was malnourished and skinny. Brandon will arrive before SA3 will be released. I don't know how to feel about it, since there would be more questions to be asked after than before. He accepts gifts of fan art and sometimes posts it on his Twitter. How would he feel about me gifting him fan art. Maybe Alethkar swimsuit calendar would make him uncomfortable. At 15C, everyone chooses to sit indoors and if there are outdoor places, they have gas burner heat lamps for people to sit next to and be nice and toasty. There are two egg laying mammals actually, the echidna and the platypus. Both live in Australia. I bet the beavers totally enjoyed helping to build New France. I still think a platypus would win in a fight with a beaver. Beavers have stronger teeth, but a platypus has a poison claw on its back feet. I think Renarin would suit a non-military society much better than Alethkar. If there was no stigma against men who can't fight, then Renarin would be more liked, or at least tolerated, especially in a setting where people still value social rank and wealth. His autism would be called eccentricity, not a weakness that shows that the Almighty doesn't like him because it stops him from ever getting into the Tranquiline Halls. Vorinism is such a religion of suck. Renarin is a supply officer for the Kholin regiment. No soulcasters, so food and gunpowder have to be paid for and shipped the normal way. So he has found his purpose, and he's really good at it. I think in terms of pure academic skills, Renarin is smarter than both Kaladin and Shallan, who are good scholars but have intelligence in other ways. Kaladin has a good memory and awareness for details and makes fast intuitive judgements, Shallan has a visual memory and is better at applying her knowledge to practical skills, but Renarin is the best at theoretical concepts and mathematics. Leather pants can be hot. On a hot day, they are so hot you sweat buckets. But still hot. I wouldn't say wearing leather pants means you dress terribly. If they are real leather, they don't come cheap, you know. And they are really stylish. Adolin does stylish. Where do you even find beige minivans? I thought Dalinar would have better taste than that. I thought it was more likely that Adolin got Dalinar's ten year old hand-me-down work car. Which has all the safety features and Dalinar still insists Adolin check the tyre pressure every time he drives it, and read the owner's manual once a year, and make sure the car is taken to be serviced every 6 months exactly. Adolin is ashamed of driving it because no one is allowed to eat or drink in it, so when they go on a coffee run or hit the takeaway, the passengers aren't allowed to start nibbling until they get out. That is worse than driving a 30 year old beater that looks like the Mystery Mobile because no one cares if a van like that gets a scratch or smells like things it shouldn't smell like. I found it telling that one of the chapters in WoR where Adolin duels Eranniv (or was it Salinor) was titled "Perfection". I think most people wouldn't pick up on Adolin's perfectionism, because they would see it as only part of ego and cocky persona. As a character trait, I wouldn't necessarily call it a flaw unless it hits unhealthy levels, where self-esteem and belief in your worth as a person is tied up with how much skill you can display. At that point, it's kind of disturbing and I seriously hope there's some character development because otherwise it will turn self-destructive. Working on leveling up your skills is supposed to be a self-improvement exercise, but anything in excess can be unhealthy. From what we see of Adolin at the end of WoR, the wall is not far away.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 19

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART NINETEEN “Shallan?” Adolin asked. Worry tinged his voice. Shallan sat on the silk-damask of the retiring room sofa, hugging a tasselled cushion to her chest. Her hands shook, and her teacup rattled the saucer when she lifted it up. It contained no tea, but some vile concoction Kaladin had made with a few spoonfuls of a white powder and a teapot of hot water. It tasted horrendously bitter, and she could feel the grains of it on her tongue and against her teeth – but it took away the sweet molasses aftertaste of the pudding, and it soothed her poor acid-scoured throat. “She’ll be fine,” said Kaladin, from behind her. “I’m sorry – I thought it a splendid plan,” said Adolin, miserably. “The prospect of replacing the kitchen staff is not one to which I look forward.” Kaladin paced back and forth by the sidebar. “You needn’t do so. You are you not ill – neither am I. It was something that disagreed with only her.” “Shallan? Do you know what it was?” Shallan swallowed. It hurt. “Oats.” “Oh,” he said, then words poured out, hesitant and rambling. “I must apologise – I thought – well, we spoke of horses today. In the pantry. It’s what we use for the weanlings – I did not think you would have liked the alfalfa hay or the bone meal.” “It’s not your fault.” “I – I should have asked. Asked you, at least. I asked the cook – and she said that Scots like oats. I thought it would be – a nice reminder – of home. Shallan?” “I want to go home. I want my family.” The vile drink slopped over the rim of the cup and onto her lap. She buried her face into the cushion, drawing one heaving breath after another, attempting – failing to maintain her poise and her emotional control. Her throat was hoarse from its – exertions, and her breath rasped piteously through her clenched teeth. She did not look up. She heard Kaladin stop pacing. He and Adolin were having a whispered conversation, but it was not difficult to overhear. “Kal – send for the coachman.” Adolin’s voice. “No.” “What – must I repeat myself, man?” “She’s better off here.” “You heard her – she doesn’t want to be here – she doesn’t want–“ “Ask her. Why she doesn’t – can’t – eat the oats.” “Do you know something?” “Ask. Her.” She heard footsteps, and then the sofa creaked and bounced as Adolin settled his weight on it, next to her. “Shallan?” he said softly. He did not touch her; he waited patiently as the wall clock sliced the hour away, second by second. “Adolin.” She drew a slow, almost sobbing breath, trying to gather herself together. Control and poise – that was where strength lay; it was what Jasnah surrounded herself with, so that no one could ever touch her, let alone hurt her. Unrestrained emotion was weakness – it was the point of failure. And in her father, it was his fatal flaw. If one could not find control and discipline, thought Shallan fiercely, then one could reach for apathy – it was the next best thing. “Why? If you don’t mind my – asking.” “The truth,” said Shallan, reaching and grasping that empty nothingness inside her. Her fingers loosened their savage grip on the cushion. “Yes. Why not. Loch Davar – our family estate – is mortgaged,” she said, her voice flat. “To the very bone. The creditors took whatever could be carried away. Anything left we sold – for a barnful of oats.” “Oh,” Adolin said hesitantly. “I am – sorry.” “It’s all right now,” Shallan mumbled. She set the cushion down; she had managed to quell that unwelcome outburst of emotion. Loch Davar was hundreds of miles away in another country, for good or for ill. “I’m – all right now. I am just so very tired of oats. Morning, noon and night until it was just morning and night.” She paused, and looked at Adolin. “Then I found Jasnah.” Adolin gave her a smile of encouragement. “And Jasnah brought you here.” Adolin reached out with one tentative hand, and caught hers. He very gently guided her hand to his chest, until her fingers splayed across the starched shirtfront of his dining whites. She felt the steady meter of his heart. Why did it have to be that her own heart – a heart that thumped inside her in much the same way – bore all the marks that a person could bear? It was disfigured; it was scarred – and yet no-one but her would ever be able to tell. “I have heard it once said that wealth speaks a language anyone can understand,” whispered Adolin. He leaned closer, to the creaking of the sofa’s wooden frame; her hand still pressed against his chest. “Perhaps there are other languages.” “Perhaps you might teach me.” “Nothing would bring me greater satisfaction.” He lowered his head until their noses were inches away; his eyes met hers, and there was guilt in them, and sympathy, and a gentle, haltingly tender emotion that she did not want to name. It was timid and fearful in its own frail existence – and Shallan was not entirely certain she even wanted it to exist; she was sure that mentioning it by name would cause it to dissolve away into shreds of smoke. Her hand on his chest grew firm; she thrust him away in his approach. He closed his eyes; she noticed that his eyelashes were yellow and black. “Shallan–” “My lips have been tainted with my own sick,” she said. “I don’t care.” “I have a crusting wound that will scar terribly.” “I don’t care.” “I am a terrible person who has done terrible deeds.” “None of it matters to me.” Shallan’s hand pulled back slowly. Adolin leaned close once more, and she did not push him away. His lips touched hers with infinite softness. She turned her head until they were cheek to cheek, her lips by the shell of his ear. “Only because you don’t know what I’ve done,” she breathed. Then her lips slanted against his with forceful hunger, and she drew him downwards and downwards, until her head found the forgotten cushion and the sofa creaked in complaint. He resisted her spirited eagerness at first, but she tugged at his neckcloth and caught up his jacket’s lapels until he – at last – abandoned reluctance and responded with an equal fervour. He returned her kisses, returned doubly generous – his lips fluttered against her cheek, and her throat, and then she could feel his warm breath and his warm mouth at her collar. He nipped at her skin; it was startlingly unexpected; she gasped, and she could feel him chuckling at her reaction. “Then you shall tell me when I have earned your trust,” he murmured, and after one last soft kiss, pulled away. He sat up, cheeks flushed pink, and ran a hand through his yellow striped hair; his eyes met hers, his gaze searching. “Until then, please stay.” His voice was low, and rough with emotion – with the rawness of intimacy. “If you must leave – well, it would be a blow, but it is one I have borne before…” he paused, and looked away, troubled, “–so many times before.” Shallan straightened and tugged her skirts down. “If I must leave, know that it would be with the deepest regret.” “And mine too,” he said quietly. He cleared his throat. “Now. If you would please excuse me, I ought to speak to the kitchen staff. They will no doubt be very anxious about their positions here.” He stood up with a squeak of the sofa, and absent-mindedly smoothed a hand over his wrinkled shirtfront. “Kal – do you mind escorting Shallan to her room?” He nodded to Kaladin – still standing at the sidebar with the knife box by his hand – and the door opened, and then it closed, and he was gone. Then it was just her and Kaladin in the retiring room, once more. Shallan gripped the frame of the sofa and stood; her legs trembled with the effort. Kaladin was suddenly there, and he gripped her tightly by the elbow. His gaze flicked downwards to eye the wet spot on her skirt – where she had spilled the restorative drink on herself. One eyebrow quirked upwards; she ignored it. “Miss Davar,” he said, “if you would come with me?” “No.” He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Just for to-night I might say that I value the spirit of charitability – if I must, I will carry you on my back.” “I don’t want to go to my room.” “If you want to be carried up, Miss Davar – at least have the temerity to say so. I won’t judge you – too much.” “I want to see the stillroom.” “No,” replied Kaladin abruptly. He glanced at her, and saw that she was not going to concede the point. She did not want to stay here the entire night, nor did she want to be carried over his shoulder like a sack of beans – the dizzying heights would certainly cause her to release whatever bile was left in her stomach all over his back. She would not enjoy it – but at least he would not either. He looked upwards at the moulding of the ceiling, then back at her. She glared up at him. “Fine. All right. But not to-night.” “When?” “To-morrow,” he said finally. “Come down in the morning, and I will change your bandages there. Now will you go to bed?” They walked the halls together; one hand guided her by the elbow. The footmen dimmed and snuffed the chimney lamps behind them. He did not pull ahead of her; he kept an easy pace that she could manage quite capably, and she did not even need to be carried until they reached the very last flight of stairs. *** Shallan dreamt of the endless black sky and the endless sea of beads again that night. But this time, it was different – she was not alone this time; she was with Jasnah in a little boat poled by a pair of faceless gondoliers, and she did not feel frightened or anxious, even when she heard a screeching and trumpeting in the distance that grew nearer and nearer. She was not afraid, and the little doves nestled around her scarred heart cooed their defiance. When she woke up – on her own – she did not rise immediately; she lay on her back staring at the closed canopy curtains. It felt good to finally, for once, be able to fall asleep and wake naturally – no prior engagements, no champing horses and impatient coachmen, no hopping about in dim pre-dawn light pulling on stockings with feverish haste. Then she became aware of an urge to visit the water closet, and was eventually forced to rise. Well, at least her rising for that particular reason was still by her own prerogative, and not anyone else’s. At her return from the bathing chamber, she saw Finnie uncovering a breakfast tray on the vanity. A cup of steaming broth, boiled eggs, fried ham, buttered bread, jam and tea were laid on the table, next to a crisp white napkin and polished silverware. Shallan was suddenly ravenous; the incident last night meant she had effectively gone to bed without dinner. “Where is the stillroom?” she asked, her mouth full. “My lady?” said Finnie, unbuttoning the roll of brushes. “It’s by the kitchens. If you want extra butter or preserves, you must ring and send someone for them. It wouldn’t do to go down yourself.” Shallan could see that her eyes were downcast with proper deference in the looking glass; there was a trace of humour to the maid’s tone. “Does everyone in this House know about that?” “If by that my lady means the pantry – it was the talk of the servants’ hall until dinnertime,” admitted Finnie, tugging the brush through Shallan’s hair. “Heavens, I suppose there is to be no privacy around here,” Shallan groaned. She tore her bread roll in half and smothered it with jam. Good jam could always improve the mood. “If my lady would like privacy,” said Finnie, smiling genially, “she might ask His Lordship to dismiss all the staff from the kitchen when she wants the use of the pantry.” “The stillroom,” said Shallan, blushing furiously; she changed the subject. “Where is it?” “By the trades entrance on the West Courtyard, my lady – unless you mean the Doctor’s stillroom.” Finnie braided Shallan’s hair; she had pins stuck through the waistband of her apron. “Yes, I want that one.” “Then it’s in the North Wing. But – if you wanted the Doctor to tend your wound–,” Finnie glanced down at Shallan’s back, where the layered white of bandaging was visible through her shift, “–you should send for him to come up and see you. Even if my lady wanted – other things – seen to, the Doctor oughtn’t to forget that he is His Lordship’s retainer, and you are His Lordship’s lady.” By now, Shallan had begun to develop an understanding of Finnie’s ambiguous references to … earthier subjects. She was not certain on the specifics of what exactly the maid spoke, but she could vaguely discern to what they were meant to refer. Shallan had enough information from both books and Madame Tyn’s lessons on the feminine mysteries to feel that she would not make herself the fool, if she were to enquire further on the particulars. Not that she would want to ask for the details – it was still likely to be unavoidably embarrassing. And of course, the fact that Doctor Kaladin knew more about the feminine mysteries than herself – now that was a disturbing thought. Shallan consoled herself with the knowledge that she was not the only woman to be found lacking in this department – it seemed as if there were a number of downstairs maids who came to him regularly for various bits of advice. So it was not really a fault in herself, but rather an anomaly in the Doctor. She doubted Adolin or her brothers would know as much he did in those matters. Or many other theoretical or academic subjects, at that. “Doctor Kaladin,” said Shallan slowly, thinking up a quick excuse, “asked to see my etchings a few days ago, and was so impressed by them that he invited me to view his collection of medical charts. I imagine he would like copies made – or enlargements, I suppose – and I informed him that I would be happy to oblige.” “Oh – my lady, what a wonderful idea,” said Finnie, with a cheery wink. “I should pack your satchel with the books and pen box for you; you will need it if you are to do anatomy studies or suchlike.” “Yes, how terribly wonderful,” Shallan replied. It seemed like last evening’s unexpected truth-telling had not affected her skill at prevarication; that pleased her – it was such a very useful skill to have, especially when one might need to say an untruth that could border a truth so closely that no-one would be able to tell where the lines merged. “Doctor Kaladin could not accept monetary payment for his very charitable treatment of this.” She plucked at the neckline of her shift, which lay over her bandaged chest. “He is a very generous man – just like your Duke,” said Finnie, as she tidied up the vanity and cleared the breakfast things. “My lady, if it’s not too bold of me – you’d do us much good if you were to put in a kind word for us downstairs girls. It is a great shame for a man of the good Doctor’s position to be without a wife.” “I cannot for my life imagine the Doctor – married. The mind boggles. Nevertheless, I shall make what enquiries I can; perhaps he is partial to some girl or another in the House.” Shallan stood patiently as she was laced up – loosely – and dressed in her blue silk day dress. Finnie swept a few specks of lint off her shoulders and passed her the satchel. “Have fun, my lady,” she said, as she knelt at Shallan’s feet and slid them into a pair of soft kidskin slippers. Then it was time to find Kholinar Court’s North Wing and see the stillroom at last. Shallan had her half-completed progressionals folded in between the pages of her sketchbook. They were only a dozen sheets of paper, but somehow they weighed her satchel down like a dozen books; she felt a queer sense of dread for carrying them on her person. Could it perhaps be due to shame? She brushed it off; she knew it for a vice – everyone did – and there was no use for mawkish lingering over it. It was what it was. As for the differentiation between right and wrong, or reason and respectability: none of it existed in the drift. She walked downstairs, and through the empty hallways of the grand House, occasionally peering into side corridors and reading the polished brass nameplates fixed to the doors as she passed – Lapis, and Cerulean, and Sapphire. Kholinar Court was a house so large that the rooms had to be named for people to easily find them. Shallan thought that it must be terribly lonely to live by oneself in such a large house, even if it was a House shared with an indoors staff of forty souls. No wonder Adolin sought companionship in the Doctor – and herself. Marquess Kholinshire – Adolin’s bachelor brother – she recalled, lived in a smaller house and enjoyed the company of their aunt, the Queen Dowager. Shallan passed a pair of maids carrying buckets filled with assorted cleaning paraphernalia – she could see the feathered heads of dusters. They stood aside for her and curtsied as she walked by, and she heard them whispering and giggling to one another; she caught the word pantry more than once. How very envious one could be for the lives of those who did not have a care about upholding the dignity of one’s position at all times. And it was worse here in Anglekar – the people here were more reserved and rank-conscious than they were in Scotland. Those who claimed kin or pledged fealty to The McValam were all clansmen and equals in his eyes; there was a divide between those who paid their respects through mere taxes, compared to the clansmembers who paid in money as well as blood and oaths – but it wasn’t a very large one. Shallan reached the door at the end of the corridor. It was on the ground floor, and she could see the front gardens from one bank of windows; the other side was a view of a North Courtyard – outside, there were rows of hothouses with a few lines of laundry strung between them. The door had a brass plate with KALADIN engraved on it. She knocked. It wasn’t answered. She waited a minute, then knocked again. There was still no response after several long and anxious minutes. She raised her hand once more – and then the door opened. Kaladin stood at the open door, lips thin with annoyance. His collar was askew. “Come in, then,” he growled. “Well, good morning to you too, Doctor,” said Shallan blithely, and swept past him into the stillroom – then stopped. There was a woman in a maid’s uniform. She had brightly flushed – or were they rouged? – cheeks and her bodice had been laced up tight in the front – in what Finnie had described as the way women did when they wanted to catch a man’s eye. Shallan was sure that it would not pass the butler’s livery inspection. The woman saw Shallan, and then her eyes darted to Doctor Kaladin and back to her. She gave a brief curtsey to Shallan with a muttered my lady and brushed past her to the door. Kaladin handed her a basket; she took it and Shallan thought she was going to reach for an embrace, but the Doctor stepped around her with well-practiced ease. He waited for her to pass the threshold, and as soon as she did, he closed the door and shot the bolt. “It’s ten minutes to noon,” he said, pulling at his collar. “It’s still morning,” Shallan replied, looking around the room. It was high-ceilinged, with narrow rectangular windows on two sides, overlooking the Courtyard hothouses. There was a screened-off section in the corner. There were benches along the walls, and over those were glass-fronted cabinets filled with glassware organised by type. The glass beakers were arranged upside down in rows, and the conical flasks had their mouths covered by white paper secured with strings – they were expensive, Shallan knew, especially the graduated ones; she had made do at home with empty whisky bottles, and here Kaladin had a whole room full of them. The centre of the room held two worktables with their surfaces covered in steel sheeting – another extravagance – how well the Duke indulged his creature. But – as Shallan saw – everything in the stillroom was practical and utilitarian, and appeared well-used; there looked to be no unnecessary decoratives, and the Doctor could not have been accused of squandering his patron’s generosity. “Is this the stillroom?” said Shallan, turning about to peer at a lamp stand with mirrored reflectors. “I thought there would be more jam.” “That’s the other one – the newer one, by the kitchens,” said Kaladin as brought his medical kit bag over to her. “This one used to belong to the Kholinar Duchesses in the past. Now, get on the table and unlace yourself.” Shallan hopped onto the steel-covered tabletop. It didn’t squeak – it must be used to taking the weight of human bodies, she thought. “What happened to it? This stillroom, not the Duchesses, I mean.” “It became unfashionable for noble ladies to turn their hands to practical tasks.” She smelled ether faintly now, as she unbuttoned her dress, pulled down her underdress, and unlaced her bodice. It was cold in this room, and she could feel the rise of little bumps like plucked chicken skin. A cold room, she knew, would mean less ether lost as vapour into the air; that was something one always needed to remember whilst driftwatching during the summer months. Kaladin placed his kit bag on the table beside her, and began to untie the bandage. She closed her eyes; she did not flinch at his touch. “If there was one attribute,” she said, “in which society could find me wanting–” “Only one?” “–I should say,” Shallan continued, ignoring him, “that the pre-eminent one would be my being fashionable. In fact, the clothing from my clan presentation would likely still fit.” Kaladin snorted. “Your fatal flaw, really. How you must suffer.” Shallan bit her lip as he swabbed ether over the cut on her ribs. “Then I suppose – you have your equivalent flaw,” she choked out. “You must wake up every morning with your trouser hems an inch shorter than the evening before.” “I haven’t noticed such.” “Ask the maid,” she replied sourly – could that be interpreted as jealousy? She had meant it to be cutting. “And your shoes – you must get them resoled by the farrier.” “Wearing large shoes should hardly be considered a flaw,” Kaladin said. He scraped a clear jelly-like paste into a cloth and smeared it over her wound; it smelled like herbs and tingled when it touched her skin. “If you asked the maids, of course.” “What would they say, perchance?” He placed a new pad of white cloth over her wound, and unrolled fresh bandages. “I couldn’t say.” “They might say you wear large socks.” “Is that all?” “And that you have large…” “…Yes?” “Feet!” He sighed, and she could not tell if he was amused or not. But she supposed he did not look particularly grim, or grimmer than usual. “Get dressed, Miss Davar.” Shallan slid off the table, pulling on her bodice and underdress. She turned around for modesty. “What’s that – here, is that a rash?” She stopped. “Doctor?” “Here, let me look,” he said. Then his hand cupped her bare shoulder and brushed away her hair. His scarred finger traced a light circle around a small reddish-pink mark near her collarbone. “Hm, an isolated spot, and the skin isn’t raised. Minor broken blood vessels, it seems.” Shallan looked down and saw it. “Oh–,” she mumbled, and paused. “Adolin–“ He jerked his hand back, hesitated for an instant, then caught up the handle of medical bag; he looked away to give her some privacy to re-clothe herself. He coughed. “Well, carry on, then.” Shallan laughed. “If men are like hounds, a little bite means he likes me.” “Unfortunately.” She finished dressing, and did up the last button. “Oh come now, Doctor, you cannot still think I am a nuisance!” Shallan started inspecting the room in detail now, and walked past the benchtops by the wall. A covered microscope – two of them, for two levels of magnification – useful for either live specimens or prepared slides. A spirit burner and chafing dish on an iron stand. A scullery service with a tub and a pump handle. “I think it, and I shall keep thinking it. I do not think I could change that opinion of you – or any reason why I should,” he said solemnly. Then his voice turned to sharpness. “Don’t touch anything.” Shallan had been about to reach for the distillation equipment on an iron stand. She looked around guiltily, and withdrew her hand. It really was a nice kit – it was a large one, and by the looks of it, could manage thrice the volume of the small one Jushu had won for her in a card game. And everything was matched – the Doctor wouldn’t have needed to use clay to seal the edges where a mismatched set lacked perfect alignment. “I wasn’t–,” she began, but corrected herself. She was going to touch it; that could not be denied. Not believably. “I wasn’t going to break anything. And you have a thermometer, too!” Kaladin grunted. “Yes. And a scale balance. Three sizes of them.” “You guessed – when Adolin told you about … the pantry?” “It wasn’t very difficult,” he replied. He unlocked a glass-fronted cabinet and placed the ether bottle he had used on her wound inside. The cabinet was full of brown glass ether bottles, neatly labelled with the date of purchase and the concentration. He closed the door with a click and relocked it; the key on a string with a few others was dropped into his coat’s interior pocket. “Why don’t you want it?” “Ether?” “You carry it with you, you pour it on your hands – do you douse yourself with it in lieu of bathing?” Shallan said softly. “Yet you don’t yearn for it. Not like I do.” “Because it is merely a tool.” “And I am its tool.” “No,” he said, voice firm. “You haven’t found peace within yourself.” “Romanticist words from a cynic. They don’t flatter you,” said Shallan, smiling. “And you have? Found peace? Do elaborate. I’m sure your story is bound to involve will-o’-the-wisps and wise sages with long hair.” “Hmph,” Kaladin grunted, and turned from the cabinet. “It’s not a story that is particularly suited to sharing with fairer company.” “When did you care about preserving my dignity or modesty? Have I any left of it that you haven’t yet seen?” answered Shallan, sitting herself back on the steel worktable. She swung her legs idly from side to side, and lowered her voice. “You are addressing one of fairer company who shot a man not two days ago.” She picked up her satchel and hugged it to her chest; its solid weight pressed against her wad of wrapped bandage. Kaladin leaned against the edge of the benchtop opposite; he crossed his arms and blew out an irritated breath. “All right then,” he muttered. “When the old King died, the Dukes called for the muster, and my younger – foolish – brother joined. I signed on as a medic as soon as I completed my education, to find him. But I couldn’t, and I was too late, and he died. The end.” “And that’s it? That’s how you found peace?” “No. It took a long time, during which I was a very angry man. But I learned a lesson – a lesson that as a surgeon, I should have learned long ago. That there will always be those who cannot be saved. And that was my peace.” Shallan rocked back on the table; she covered her mouth with one hand and looked away, suddenly mortified. “That morning – in the church. Oh, Doctor, I am so sorry. I regretted it immediately – it was hasty, and it was wrong of me.” “Well,” said Kaladin finally. “Perhaps there’s some hope for you yet. What happened to your own brother?” Shallan unbuckled her satchel, and drew out her sketchbook. She flicked past the folded pages of painstaking calculations tucked into the back, and opened to the watercolour of Loch Davar. Her hands shook; the pages rustled. Kaladin was silent. “When my mother died,” she said carefully, drawing out the unwelcome memories. She pushed the worst ones back – and away – and only took up the – tolerable, if they could be called that at all – ones. “My father became a different man – angry, hateful, violent – and it was so very removed from who he once was. My eldest brother protected us from his anger, until one day they fought, and then he left, and there was no one to protect us. “I do not know where Helaran went. Perhaps he joined the war – he was always strong-willed – and he never came back. The war has taken away so many young men–,” she remembered crippled Ardents she had seen at home, and how curious it was that an able-bodied man of potential like Brother Kabsal had dedicated himself to the church, “–the ones that come back are never the same.” “An unfortunate truth.” Was he speaking of himself? Or all the young men in the marshlands, riddled with lead shot and field infections? “My other brothers sought protection in ether,” Shallan said quietly, then turned to the sketch she had drawn from a memory – of Jushu asleep in the drift. She turned the sketchbook around to face Kaladin, and held it out. “Here. Doctor?” Something flickered behind his eyes. Recognition? Apprehension? He caught his breath; he was startled, and she could just barely discern the change from his normal stern demeanour and grim countenance. Then it was gone, like it had never happened. Shallan fished for an explanation. “Doctor? Do you know my brother Jushu? I was not aware he had ever left Scotland.” “No. I do not know any Jushu Davar.” He paused, and Shallan waited for him to continue. She waited. After a while, he said, “I thought he shared a resemblance to someone I once … encountered before. But I seem to be mistaken.” “Oh,” said Shallan. It was all she could think of to say; she was immensely disappointed. “I – I miss my brothers. They were – they are – my family. And they loved me, and I loved them, and we all of us were wretches together.” “You are no wretch,” Kaladin insisted, “–you do not have to be. Find your peace.” “How?” “You must want – you must enjoy – your own life more than those – illusions. You must find true substance in this life. If you cannot – then abandon your old one, and grasp another. Few people are offered such opportunity.” “And here I was under the impression that you disliked the prospect of my being a Duchess,” said Shallan, reaching for something flippant to fill the silence. His words were a harsh truth, and they made her feel uncomfortably ungrateful, and even more uncomfortably aware of how very – selfish – her behaviour was, and had been. She could always deflect the blame to Jasnah’s influence, or even Madame Tyn’s, but she knew that it was all her, in the end. Her own selfish, flawed soul; her own marked spirit; her own disfigured heart. Only her flesh was unsullied – except for that very recent, smarting cut that she bore over her ribs – the one Adolin did not care about, the one she bared to Kaladin’s eyes and his surgeon’s hands every day since she had gotten it. “What I like or dislike is irrelevant,” said Kaladin stiffly; he glanced over to the opposite wall, at the bank of wall cabinets near a copper steam boiler – there was a clock on the workbench there. “Now, if you are quite finished, I should like to think it is near time for luncheon.” *** They walked to the foyer of the House together, silent in their own thoughts. The hallways bustled with more activity than it had earlier that morning; it fairly hummed with poorly contained enthusiasm. The servants remembered themselves enough to pay their proper courtesies to Shallan and Kaladin as they passed, but when they turned the corner, they resumed their eager chattering. Something had happened; something was happening, and Shallan knew not what it was. The foyer was central to this fevered display of animation; by the time she and Kaladin had found their way there, their path was blocked by footmen shouldering large blue rolls of fabric. There were even grounds staff – gardeners and grooms – who had been instructed to move furniture about, all to the direction of the butler and under-butler. “Please, what is going on?” Shallan asked, tapping the butler on the shoulder. He paused mid-order, and turned. He glanced at Shallan, recognised her as Adolin’s personal guest, and bowed deeply. “My lady – Lady Jasnah has ordered ornamentals removed from Kholin House in the City; they were carted here and arrived just now – and we are to arrange them for the Feast.” He turned to the under-butler, and muttered a few brief instructions, then returned to Shallan. “The King will be in residence! We have not had the pleasure since his coronation!” “Oh – is this all for Lady Jasnah’s formal presentation, then?” said Shallan. “I think it has gone beyond formal, and past ceremonial, and is now currently edging into garish,” remarked Kaladin. They watched as four footmen emerged from a corridor, carrying a pianoforte between them. “Actually, I imagine it is already there.” “It’s a grand Feast!” exclaimed the under-butler, looking up from his wallet diary. “Lady Jasnah said it should be grand like the Feasts in the City. We haven’t had a Feast at the House since the His Lordship became Duke.” “The Feast may be in a few days,” said Kaladin. “But is there luncheon now?” “The Cobalt Room, sir. His Lordship is awaiting you there.” The butler turned back to the under-butler when there were no more questions. His manner was abrupt and his attention to service not quite as thorough as it ought to have been. Clearly he had decided that Lady Jasnah’s orders and precedence – not to mention the King’s – trumped the interruption of the Doctor and Shallan, who possessed the status of ducal employee and guest respectively. Shallan was not much agitated by that interaction with the butler, but something about it must have rankled Kaladin’s sensibilities. He strode with brisk pace on his long legs – and admittedly large feet – and although Shallan could maintain her place at his side, it was not effortless for her. Ladies’ slippers were made for sedate strolling, at such a speed that one would never risk a skirt riding out of place – it really wouldn’t do to remind passing menfolk that there existed anything above one’s ankle. They were never meant for jogging, or any other activity that might cause a lady to perspire. In fact, as Shallan was reminded, a proper lady never gave the impression that she could perspire, or for that matter, that she might ever require a water closet. There was even a very old-fashioned type of dowager who thought that ladies should not even let other people observe them eating. One still had to eat, of course, so the well-bred should learn to dine without appearing to chew. Madame Tyn, who made an unorthodox governess in many respects, nevertheless believed that the outward observation of social courtesy was important to those who sought to circulate within the upper echelons. Shallan had, to her great displeasure, been forced – by the guidance of a reed switch – to walk with a book on her head, and to dance with stiff pointed toes until her knees smiled. At least these lessons had been balanced by Shallan’s being taught to read a sextant, write a Muscovy alphabet cipher, or counterfeit a Kujawiak shepherdess if she was desperate enough. But the most bothersome fact of all was that not one of these lessons had contributed to her attaining Adolin’s affections. The skills she had been instructed on in her girlhood were ones that were meant to show her to advantage, and Adolin hadn’t ever seen them – nor did she think he might care if he did. And he had no mother who was the usual judge and jury of such things in prospective daughters-in-law. She had so far earned his attentions by being the bright and convivial Shallan, the light-hearted girl she had always wished she truly was – it was also someone that took barely any effort to play, because that Shallan was her, like one face of a coin. The other face had been partially – incautiously – revealed to him the evening past after the disaster of a dinner. And yet Adolin had not recoiled in disgust or horror at the revelation that she might be anything but a perfect pretty doll. Could she trust Adolin, trust him completely? Did husbands – lovers – gentlemen suitors – whatever he might be or become – even require knowledge of their lady’s hidden secrets in order to share a happy marriage? She did not know. Those married couples of high rank slept in separate bedrooms, as that was the civilised thing to do, and on the occasion when they did not, it was usually in darkness. Managing one’s business in darkness, as Finnie said, had sounded like commonplace behaviour. What would happen if she let herself trust him – if she let him see the parts of her that she held close, so closely around her spirit that had been marked time and again? Her life had been disappointment and anguish, one after another; those she trusted were often those who most made her regret her faith in them. Madame Tyn had left, when they could not find the funds to pay her. Helaran had left, when he could not stand to bear her father’s presence any longer; her father had – gone away – after Mother’s death, and when he came back to his mind again, it was not the same mind that had returned. What was the chance that Adolin might become someone else – someone who could elicit terror and dread and uncertainty? And if it happened at a point in her life where she had no option to run – if she were bound to him, bound in that way Jasnah feared most about men, what recourse did she have? Malise had not run; her motherly love had been her chains– “Oof!” Shallan groaned, as she ran into Kaladin’s back. It was quite a solid back, and she bounced off it. Kaladin turned around, saw her flailing, falling – and with exceptional nimbleness, grasped her by the wrist. “Kal, Shallan!” said Adolin in greeting, as the door to the Cobalt Room opened. His eyes took in that frozen scene, and his face fell. “Shallan? Are you really so distressed to see me – after last night – that Kal had to drag you here?” Kaladin dropped her wrist as if burned. Adolin almost flailed and fell himself as Shallan leaped at him and threw her arms around him, hugging and hugging him until his ribs creaked in protest. But he caught himself, and he hugged her back eventually, confused and bemused at her unanticipated – unexplained – forwardness. Shallan’s cheek pressed against Adolin’s chest, and he patted her back tentatively. Adolin had a nice chest – quite respectable actually, and decently broad, or so Shallan thought. One thing she had recently discovered about active young men was that they could never be described as squishy; there was just not enough padding on them to make them suitable for laying on, as pillows were. Adolin, although he wasn’t perfect, was a good man; she had seen it that night in the forest, and she could see it now. For now, at least, she did not have to fear him. She did not have to love him – how that word all but withered and squirmed in her mind when she searched it out and pinned it down with cold savagery – but in this instant, she did not have to feel afraid. Adolin’s hand moved from her back; he patted her on the head. “Shallan?” She nuzzled against his chest, and he laughed. “Shallan – that tickles!” “Adolin,” she sighed. She let go before he could start rubbing her nose or feeding her carrots. They had their lunch in the Cobalt Room – a small and informal dining room – and they enjoyed a light lunch with a consommé first remove, followed by steamed brined chicken accompanied by a beet salad. There were no over-rich sauces this time, nor oatmeal, and Shallan barely noticed when Kaladin’s wineglass was replaced by a short cup of smallbeer. “Jasnah is to arrive by noon tomorrow,” said Adolin, as he sawed at his chicken. “I had a letter from her this morning informing me that she will be exceedingly disappointed in the butler if the Teal Room has been touched. And she wants me to tell you that she will also be exceedingly disappointed in you, if you haven’t managed certain tasks by the time she is back. “And for some reason she wrote the word tasks in all upper-case and circled it several times. I expect it must mean something to you.” Shallan’s fork hovered in mid-air. “I had forgotten about Jasnah’s returning. I suppose the good Doctor will be not be disappointed to find himself relieved from chaperon duties from tomorrow.” “In all truth,” said Doctor Kaladin, shuffling the peas on his plate about, “chaperon duty was not as much of a nuisance as I had expected it to be. However, the prospect of a lifetime of such a duty is something I should still find objectionable.” “Well,” Shallan said graciously, “we are all terribly grateful for your sacrifice. If not for you, I may have bled out in the forest. You mightn’t have cared about much about me, but the state of Adolin’s wardrobe – we are lucky it was nothing more than his waistcoat that I ruined.” “That was in poor taste, Shallan. I’m sure the Doctor cares for your well-being, even if he has a mite of trouble showing it.” Adolin waved over a footman to refresh his plate. “Yes, Miss Davar,” said Kaladin with a light tone. “And what if I did?” “Then you should know – if you didn’t already – that there are some people who cannot be saved. And then there are those people who don’t want to be.” Kaladin studied her face from under his black eyebrows. “Then you should know that the only way to determine who can or cannot be saved is by trying.” Adolin glanced at Shallan, and then to Kaladin; he flashed them both a delighted grin. “Marvellous! We are all civil together – that is only a small step away from our being mutual friends! And neither of you thought it could happen – well, today the both of you have been proven wrong. Someone send for an Ardent, because I think my spirits have been Elevated!” Shallan and Kaladin groaned at his joke. Author's Notes: Shallan is starting to realise that maybe she and Kaladin don't have to be just indifferent to one another. Maybe they can actually talk about things and be friends, instead of verbally attacking each other at every opportunity. When they banter, it's doesn't always have to be mean – let’s make it flirty. Of course, Kaladin is still crushing on her. He is glad to see a more friendly attitude from her, but is that all he wants? And how does it conflict with his friendship with Adolin? This chapter is full of callbacks and references to previous ones. The most prominent one is probably to Shallan's throwaway line in Chapter 2 about selling the aluminium necklace for food. - "It’s what we use for the weanlings" - Adolin is better at dealing with horses than women lol. The weanling diet is pretty much food you give to foals to make them put on weight so they reach their full size potential quickly. Hence Kaladin describing Adolin as misguided but well-intentioned. - "she doesn’t want" - Kaladin is better at understanding girls and giving relationship advice. And Adolin's missing word is "me". - Stillrooms - Room in manor houses where medicines, soaps and perfumes were made. Eventually they were for making cordials, jams and preserves, and were overseen by a cook. Kholinar Court has two, but one has been converted to Kaladin's infirmary. - "perhaps he is partial to some girl or another" - Shallan is still oblivious. - "If there was one attribute" - Shallan is referencing her chemistry skills being unfashionable, along with her clothing. - Farrier - blacksmith for horses. The guy who replaces horseshoes. - “Unfortunately.” - could Kaladin actually mean that it's unfortunate that Adolin likes Shallan, rather than Shallan being unlikeable? - "will-o’-the-wisps and wise sages with long hair" - shoutout to Syl and Zahel. - "Do you know my brother Jushu?" - Kaladin never met Jushu. But he did meet someone who looked similar. I wonder who it could be. :-O - “What I like or dislike is irrelevant” - Emphasis on the "I". Poor Kal. - “Shallan – that tickles!” - I have decided that Adolin is a ticklish guy. It makes him more endearing, ok! - "We are all civil together" - callback to Chapeter 5, Adolin and Shallan outside the church. - "Someone send for an Ardent" - one of my favourite cheesy joke formats, where they go along the lines of "Did someone call for an X, because my Y is Z!"

Kaladin in every AU was destined to be a hero. Even if it was a modern one, he'd be rescuing kittens stuck in trees. And yes, they were pretty desperate, but what happened wasn't due to a betrayal by someone in the warcamps. So in this AU, they aren't going to kill Sadeas. Adolin still thinks he and Amaram are donutholes, though. I think Adolin feels better when he has a clear outlet for his anger and fear. If it a massive loss was caused by a group of people he might be either more erratic/afraid or maybe even more reasonable with his emotions. Dalinar feels fear, but he's such an old soldier that he doesn't panic or dirty his Shardplate. He just ignores it because it doesn't contribute much next to caution and experience. Fear is the mind-killer, fear is the little death that brings total obliteration, etc. I just laughed at the image of Adolin being a pinata filled with cash. In the SA books, Shallan is a teenage girl who has gone on 2-3 dates with a cute boy and text messaged him now and then. Would it be weirder if she turned into one of those weird clingy girls who says things like LET'S GET MARRIED RIGHT NOW and writes creepy messages like "ur cute when ur sleepin" on a guy's window or his car with lipstick? Their current relationship I think is still pretty realistic for IRL dating. But maybe too slow for plot narrative purposes. We shall see. I think I am a bit more lenient with creative content. If the writing is good quality, then I will read it and enjoy it even if the ships aren't my favourite, or the characters' "voices" sound off. Of course, a lot of really weird crack characterisations are also written by bad writers, but occasionally there are good ones that I suspend my disbelief for because I want to see how the author takes it in a different direction. It's like fanartists who draw character fan art that doesn't look like the cover art. To avoid things you don't want to see, you have to get pretty specific when sorting by tags. But it only works if there is a lot of content to sort through. After thinking about Syl and re-reading WoR, I don't think I like her as much as the naive cute little girl Syl in WoK. Sprens are pretty much parasites that attach themselves to a human host for sentience. Then they get their host addicted to Stormlight and say things like "If you don't do what I want, I won't let you get another fix." I like Pattern better; he seems actually useful and less restrictive. Kaladin makes it a point because he doesn't like Adolin and thinks he's a spoiled princeling at that point. If they trusted each other earlier, and trusted each other to the level where neither would consider any possible abuse of authority, I think Kaladin would be ok with Adolin as his commander. But SA Kal has his stigma for lighteyes... I think there is a chance that if Shallan stayed away from the Davar manor for a while, she would eventually learn to forgive herself and try to remember, even if she didn't have Pattern. If she didn't have Pattern, she wouldn't have magical mindwiping powers. If she did have Pattern and she killed him before he could fully make her remember, she would still have a chance at fixing her memory on her own. It would just take a longer time - maybe a decade or so. But Pattern needs her to do it now so she can be a Radiant. The plot requires character development! Happy is relative. Shallan before she left Scotland/Jah Keved didn't know much else outside the estate grounds. What she thinks is "happy childhood" is just the time before she killed her parents and got traumatised. Maybe to our modern Earth standards it wouldn't be great - and even childhoods in the 1950's we would consider really harsh, but to her, it would be the period when everyone was mostly functional and that what gives her nostalgia. When I first read WoK, I only saw Adolin as an extension of Dalinar's character and plot arc. Pretty much, he was the character who gave the skeptical eye to his visions, so we the readers would question how real they were and if it was magic or delusion. I didn't really read him as his own character until WoR, and then I went back to WoK and saw that though he started as Dalinar's foil, he had some character development going on in his own right. Yeah, I didn't see much more than superficial first date crushing in Shallan when she interacted with SA Adolin. When she gets to the point in their relationship that she wants to see him more than a useful (but handsome) tool to her, what will she actually see? I will get mad if the only quality she can see is him being "The Nice Guy" to Kaladin's "Angsty Guy". That is something I want to see explored in SA#3 - what are his traits that make him suitable for a realistic long-term relationship, so it isn't just a shallow Betty vs Veronica re-run? Adventure with Kaladin? Wasn't that the chasm scene? Regarding Shallan and the chambermaid - in Regency society, most nobles get married without love. It's not that the maid doesn't care about Adolin when she encourages Shallan, but she does it because she cares about Shallan. She talks to Shallan and likes her, and she knows Kaladin because he talks to the servants, but Adolin to her is the distant boss who doesn't know she exists - since only the top servants like butler and housekeeper are allowed to interact with the lord of the manor. The maid knows nobles don't have the freedom of choice like lower-class people do, so she thinks it would be nice for Shallan to know how it feels to make her own choice doing things with Kaladin, who has a reputation as a caring man, before she is married and such freedoms are forbidden forever. No one hates Adolin! Kaladin is afraid that Shallan might Adolin's One Last Try, because if she dumps him, she would be stomping his heart into tiny little pieces and he would never be able to put it back together. And then he would die alone and miserable. No Honor Chasm in this AU though. Kaladin may be crushing on Shallan, but it's not like he's going to do anything about it. They might do some innocent flirty banter, but Kaladin is not going to steal Adolin's girl or sabotage the relationship for his own ends, because he believes in being bros and taking one for the team. I see you reading ahead there. :ph34r: If Renarin gets a horse, why can't Kaladin have one? And do you really enjoy Adolin being the trauma pinata? You don't have to have an overwhelming defeat or a Pyrrhic victory to feel guilt and sadness at losing men. Even a successful plateau run will lead to losing a few men here and there. I always thought that Adolin, being the caring guy who remembers the names of the men under his command, would feel that the loss of one is still too much. Each life matters to him. But he obeys his orders, and understands that is necessary for the whole campaign tactics, so he does it anyway. And that is why he is so desperate not to mess up. If he feels shame at losing a handful of men or a single squad, he is terrified at the prospect that he might fail, or something might go wrong, and he would lose half his army. And that is how I interpreted his character, YMMV. Adolin without a Highprince for a father would probably be Captain, like General Khal's son. He would still be a star Shardbearer, but definitely not #2 ranking officer. I don't think he has as much initiative or is as good at finding creative ways to take risks as Kaladin. If you have read Ender's Game, Adolin is no Ender. He is probably a Petra. He's not stupid, but he's good at one or two things, and is reliably solid at the rest. Adolin sees the Parshendi as equal opponents, and chasmfiends as animals. Parshendi understand tactics, they know to surround Shardbearers and cut them off from the human honour gards, and they use war axes and hammers to break the Plate. It's a perception thing, even if one chasmfiend is objectively way way more dangerous than 30 Parshendi. Because everyone thinks slave Kaladin should be skinny, as all the other slaves are. But Kaladin is a freak. He's freakishly tall, why can't he be ripped too. Maybe it's the Stormlight keeping him healthy. Sadeas is probably too used to Shardplate that he forgot how to fight outside of it. And Adolin mirror inspection. Every relationship set-up needs a fan-service scene where someone gets walked in on while undressing or getting out of the bath. There is a rule. Maybe Shallan will send Pattern to spy on Adolin. Many people wear scarves and beanies at 15C. I swear, it's totally normal. Kangaroos like to lay on roads in certain rural areas. It's like cows on the road - you have to slow down and honk to wake them up and get them moving. Outside popular camping grounds, they get fed on scraps and aren't afraid of people or cars. Super annoying. Beavers are like weird mutant platypi. They're so weird, can you believe that beavers don't even lay eggs. :ph34r: I think Renarin thinks on such a different level than most people, that he doesn't think of himself as lonely or not. It's just something that never occurred to him. Maybe he doesn't seek out parties to attend, but he doesn't freak out if he is invited, and doesn't feel bad if people don't talk to him, and doesn't care that the people who do pity-talk to him think he's creepy. Oh man, I am planning to write Renarin as an AU character. :ph34r: I think he is perceptive, but in a different way than Kaladin and way more observant than Adolin or Shallan. And he has joined the AU equiv of Bridge 4 so he has developed enough so that doesn't feel like a useless donuthule full of self-pity at being a noodle. Why don't you like the idea of Adolin in leather pants? Leather pants are hot, how does that give anyone a bad mental image. Do you not think he has the thighs or butt to carry it off. What kind of guy is Adolin? He can't ride a horse everywhere, you know. Maybe he is a public transport kinda guy. Ugh, Adolin's search for "perfection" is now really sad to me. He would still feel like he has something to prove even when he is Number 1. Would it have been fixed in childhood if Dalinar stopped being the distant 1950's dad and told him he was a good son now and then? It's not really healthy - if you want self-improvement, you're supposed to do it because you want to be better, not better than everyone else. And Adolin isn't the dojo bully. He shows off to the noobs not because he wants them to know that they suck, but rather he wants to show them how good he is. It's hard to tell if you're looking at it from the outside, like Kaladin is. Explains why lottery winners and professional basketball/football players go broke after 5 years. :ph34r:

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 18

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART EIGHTEEN “There is a scientific undertaking in progress,” announced Shallan, as she swept into the Kholinar Court kitchen. Scullery maids and kitchen hands scattered in front of her; the lively buzzing activity of workers busy – working – faltered, and stopped. There did seem to be a lot of food being prepared for a dinner that was to be served each night to a mere three people. A woman in the black of a master-servant stepped in front of her. She had a solid build, with thick arms and a ruddy face. So, presumably, the head cook. “My lady? Do you need assistance in anything? We send up trays for those who ring and request.” There was a disapproval in her voice, which had the more precise and clear Kholinar elocution rather than the earthier Kholinshire country accents of the other servants. Those from upstairs were not welcome below. Shallan slowly became aware that those below the rank of gentry were much more conscious about their social rank than those above – most gentry she had acquainted herself with in the past had had the luxury to call themselves egalitarian, in the Continental fashion, in the company of their peers. There was a range of incomes for each person, and that was not talked about – but each knew the other had the pedigree, and that was the only thing that mattered. “Balances? Weighing scales?” said Shallan, putting forward her voice of confidence and authority. “There is a matter Lady Jasnah asked me to see to. I understand that there is a scale of size to be found in the kitchen and the stables – but I should say that the kitchens sounded the more appealing prospect.” The head cook bowed; Shallan saw she wore black wide-legged trousers under a white apron. “Ah, yes. We do have a great scale in our pantry, if my lady will follow me. It would not do for a great lady such as yourself to venture to the stables – we House staff do not find it an appealing prospect either.” She led Shallan to the back of the kitchen, where finished dishes cooled on iron racks. Loaves of bread were stacked in baskets covered in cloths; it was quieter here without the noisome clanging of stoves being stoked and working benches being worked. Shallan mused on what she had just been told. There had been a hint of scorn in the master-servant’s voice, when she had mentioned the stables. Was there a sort of rivalry between the House staff and the grounds staff? Shallan had never been on an estate where the staff had been large enough to have their own divisions in this way. The pantry door was unlocked by the cook’s key, and the door pulled open. Inside was a small room with shelves ascending to a high ceiling, with sacks of beans and flour on the floor and bottom-most level. Higher up were jars of mysterious floating things, in glass and pottery; above that were smaller flasks of spices and flavourings, and baskets of dried things caught in small twine nets. There were buckets of white powder on the floor – Shallan had seen those before in the Kharbranth Palanaeum – they were meant to absorb moisture from the air. There was the scale on the floor, by a sack of flour. It was a large scale, with a rectangular frame in sturdy iron-bound wood; the tray was on the floor and a smaller tray was connected by metal rods to the back. That large tray was for the goods, and the small one was for the lead weights, which were piled adjacent. “Shall I leave you to it, my lady?” asked cook, clearly impatient to return to her work. “Of course, I shall be only a few minutes,” said Shallan. She had used scales before, in the miniature version. This could not be much different – there was a counter on the top, with scored marks that were supposed to align when you balanced the weights exactly. The only difference between this goods scale and the small ones she had used for buying sketching and painting papers in Kharbranth was that the weights were heavier. Much, much heavier, it turned out. Clank. The thirty-pound weight dropped to the floor and crossed the pantry a mere second after Shallan had picked it up; it rolled to a gentle stop after bouncing off a flour sack. She was not very fit; that much was obvious. She looked around for the five- and ten-pound weights, but there were not many of them – she would run out before the scale was balanced. Smaller goods were naturally weighed on smaller scales, and they would be too small for her to stand on. “Hallo?” called a voice, and the pantry door was opened fully from where it had been set ajar for the minimal light necessary to read the scale. “Oh!” Shallan whirled around. “Adolin! What are you doing here?” He stepped into the pantry, and pulled the door back to its original position. He eyed the scale and the handful of small weights she managed to arrange on the tray. “I was hungry. I had a tray sent up for lunch but dumbwaiters are only so large, you see. What are you doing in the pantry?” Shallan thought quickly. “Weighing myself. Um. I was thinking if I needed another horse,” she said, hoping the excuse she’d latched onto was reasonable enough to pass cursory inspection. It would not do to for Adolin to know the real reason why she needed her own weight measured, of course. “It might be a good idea to see how big it should have to be to carry me. Since I read in a book once that a horse’s rider weight should ideally be around fifteen per cent of its own weight…” “Ah – then let me help,” said Adolin, turning around to the weights on the floor. He picked up a fifty-pound weight with no apparent difficulty, and set it on the measuring tray next to all the smaller lead weights. Shallan stood on the measuring tray while Adolin arranged the weights, and came to the uneasy realisation that this was a measure with her shoes and dress on – she would have to account for that when calculating her progressionals. “Here,” Adolin said at last. He was not wheezing, nor out of breath in the least. “That’s … a royal hundredweight, or thereabouts. Any yearling in the stables would have no trouble with that. But we would have to train it to take the side-saddle.” “Of course. Thank you–“ “But that can’t be right – a hundredweight is the size of a newborn foal…” he trailed off. There was a note of concern in his voice. “Did you just insult my weight?” said Shallan, grasping for humourous indignation. Why was he worried? He couldn’t have guessed what she needed the measurement for, could he? “No,” he said, voice returning to its usual friendly manner. “Well, maybe. It just seemed rather small to me.” “Not everyone can be blessed with Anglethi proportions.” “I know – and I had thought your own Scottish proportions would be a mere novelty.” He looked at her, and he smiled affectionately. “But I do not find it disagreeable – no, not at all.” Shallan stepped off the scale. The weighted end hit the floor with a clank. She took a step towards Adolin, who stepped back. “You know,” she said softly, looking up at his face in the dim light of the cracked open door. “We haven’t ever kissed each other standing upright, have you noticed?” “Er, I suppose not.” Adolin cleared his throat and looked sideways; he took another step back. “Might you be curious about how it feels?” asked Shallan, stepping forward. “Just in case it is awkward, and we should know to avoid it in the future. After all, they say guillotines are the great leveller of men – but I say it is chairs.” Adolin’s back hit the shelves with a creak. Shallan rose to her toes; her face was only inches away from his. “But – this is the pantry!” he croaked. She leaned forwards and gently brushed her lips against his, and then stepped back, smiling. “What did you think pantries were made for?” His hand caught hers; he pulled her back. “For this, possibly,” he said. Then he tugged on her hand and she fell into his arms, and they were kissing. Her arms twined around his neck, and she felt his hand tangling in her hair. His embrace was firm, but he was nothing but gentle with her. She slipped one hand into his open, unbuttoned coat, sliding it in until she could feel the muscles of his back under his shirt and waistcoat. He took a short wheezing gasp of air, and she felt the scrape of tooth against her lower lip. “This is your pantry,” she murmured. Then his lips were on hers again, warm with promise and expectation. It was different this time, when it was not in an inn, or in the forest. There was something about being in one’s home that inferred a measure of safety and comfort and rightness compared to anywhere else – it felt less like roguishness, even if they were in what could be generously described as passionate embrace – below stairs, in the kitchen, and in the semi-dark of the pantry. Just as Shallan was thinking that, the pantry door was abruptly dragged open and light spilled in. She saw the face of a shocked kitchen maid. The door was closed again immediately, and she heard heated whispering from outside. She and Adolin pulled away from one another in the pitch blackness; she felt his arm guiding her to stand behind him, blocking her view when the door opened once more. “Ahem,” he said. She could not see his face. “Well, ah, this inspection of the pantry has been completed and all has been found in order. My compliments to the cook. Yes. Thank you all for your hard work. Please, carry on.” He led her by the hand through the kitchen, and once again, work stopped as they passed, and the ranks of workers dipped into low but clumsy curtseys and bows. Shallan walked with her head down, letting her hair fall over her ears to cover their furious, almost glowing, warmth; she knew she was blushing – and she could not help but feel the most acute embarrassment. But there was no shame; she could never feel ashamed or regretful for what she and Adolin had shared in those few private minutes. She hoped he felt the same. When Shallan passed, and she and Adolin approached the door leading out of the servants’ hall, she heard giggles and whispering from the workers. “Lady Jasnah,” she heard, and “scientific undertaking,” all punctuated by poorly stifled snickering. They entered the long portrait gallery. The lamps were unlit and the hall was empty; it was around mid-afternoon. Adolin took one deep gulping breath and let it go with a slow hiss. He was still holding her by the hand. “Well,” he finally said. “That was a new experience.” Shallan looked at him and then at their linked hands. “You should well know that courage comes in many forms,” she said softly. “Yes. That is truth.” *** Adolin opened the door of the retiring room with one hand. His other hand was holding Shallan’s. She wondered if he had forgotten about it – because she certainly couldn’t. She was very profoundly aware of his closeness, and his presence; it was as if something in him was drawing her near – if she had closed her eyes, she thought she might reasonably be capable of finding him without looking. “Good, you’re here,” said Kaladin. He ceased his pacing and looked up. His eyes narrowed. “But – her? Really, is it necessary?” “You wanted to discuss the events of – last night,” said Adolin. He turned to her. “Shallan was there too, Kal.” “Fine, fine.” Kaladin’s eyes swept over her, and lingered on her face. She realised that her hair was brushed smooth on one side, and the other side was swept messily upwards in tangled curls. She flushed, and pushed it back behind her ear. He continued, “I talked to the farrier today, and showed him the guns and knives Karsten and I collected. The guns are generic trade models, and are sold by a number of different supply merchants – an easy two dozen companies sell the same model. “The knives, however – they are very interesting.” “What did you find?” asked Adolin. Kaladin opened a box on the side table, and plucked out two knives – no, two blades. “I had the farrier take off the hilts. Most had the maker’s marks rasped off on the tang – see here – but there was one roughly unfinished – here – where you can see a faint outline of the design that was supposed to be underneath. And one that was completely untouched.” Adolin took the blades and turned them over in his hands. They looked quite ordinary: there was a blade the length of a man’s hand, with a narrower tang that was usually wrapped in wood or antler and leather for the grip. Shallan was no expert on knives, but they were double edged like a spear point, and looked not dissimilar to her brothers’ belt dirks. “The maker’s mark,” said Adolin slowly, running a finger down the tang. “It looks like three diamonds.” “Yes. I showed it around the stable yard, and not one man there could identify it as the work of a local smith. These were not made in Kholinshire.” “Father was right then – foreign saboteurs.” “It could be another Duke.” A tense silence filled the room. Shallan tried to understand what she had just learned and compared it to what she knew: that Brother Kabsal was involved with this mysterious group, and they were after something in the temple rather than attempting an assassination. But Jasnah had once theorised that these same people were the ones who had killed her father, the late King Gavilar I. “What would they have to gain?” said Shallan, remembering the conversation with Adolin – before he had turned to speaking of that. “Don’t the Dukes make money so long as the war is going on? Killing Adolin would result in an immediate retreat from the marshlands and then to a civil war. I cannot see any Duke benefitting from such a thing.” “She’s right. No Duke would do this. Not so openly,” said Adolin forcefully. Kaladin gave her a wary glance. “She might be right. I – don’t know.” “Do you not trust Father?” Kaladin crossed his arms and exhaled loudly. There was a tense pause in the conversation, until he finally spoke. “Your father – reads too many old books – and forgets that the rules of reality work differently.” “He’s not senile!” Adolin insisted. “I never said he was. He’s … impractically idealistic. What he finds in those books – well, I say the congruencies are merely coincidence. I’ve read them: there’s no wisdom of ages hidden in there. It’s out-dated romanticised nonsense of a grand old past that never existed.” “Jasnah reads them,” Shallan put in. “And she thinks they’re important.” “The difference is,” said Kaladin coldly, “it’s only you who believes her. The Prince has twenty thousand following him to wherever he leads them.” “You make loyalty sound like a weakness,” remarked Adolin. “So. You disagree with Father, like most everyone else. But last night, a band of assassins – brigands – almost did away with all of us in the Forest. Twenty miles from my own House! What do you say to that?” “That there are other groups that seek chaos in these times. We have seen them in Ireland – before.” Kaladin shared a meaningful look with Adolin here, and Shallan did not understand what – incident – they were referring to. “Yes,” agreed Adolin. “But they were in Ireland. Damnation! Am I to call for the muster?” He suddenly seemed hesitant, less assured. Kaladin lowered his voice. “You must be prepare, for now. Commission an officer. Major Khal is presently qualified for a promotion.” “Father doesn’t–” “I think,” said Kaladin abruptly, turning to Shallan, “Miss Davar ought to go up and change for dinner.” Adolin sent her a pleading look. “Please, Shallan, if you don’t mind – I know it is impossibly rude of Kal – and of me, and I must apologise. I will see you at dinner, and I will think of something – I do not mean to leave you out. But–” “I understand,” said Shallan in a quiet voice. She looked up at Adolin’s eyes, and her fingers traced a shape on the back of his hand. He looked at her, and smiled, and it was as if they were sharing an unspoken conversation; unuttered words passed from one to the other, carrying sentiments of mutual support and affectionate encouragement. Then Kaladin slammed shut the lid of the box and the knives inside clattered loudly. When Shallan withdrew, she felt a curious sense of relief that there were things that Adolin did not feel comfortable wanting her to hear. She speculated that other girls might have felt put-out, or jealous, or unpleasantly vexed if they were not willingly included in their gentleman companion’s company for every moment of his entertaining. Perhaps that was the reason for Adolin’s so many unsuccessful suits with the countless number of unsuccessful girls. She did not begrudge him his privacy – it made her own secrecy that much easier to bear. *** Shallan returned to her bedchamber to work on her progressionals. That infuriating Doctor Kaladin was right – there was one line copied from an old sheet of formulae where she had written a sigma instead of a nu, when it should have been only nu all the way through. She herself understood the replacement, and it would have meant a negligible difference – thankfully – when it came to actually pouring. But to any other driftwatchers, with the exception of the extremely well-practiced or well-educated, it would have caused a dreadful confusion. How did the Doctor pick it out? He had done the same thing with her sketchbook in the carriage – did he have very good reflexes along with an accurate eye for observing detail? These skills would make him an exceptional surgeon, Shallan supposed. She was not feeling the spirit of charitability enough in herself to readily acknowledge that Kaladin indeed possessed a keen intelligence, along with a respectable conversational wit. And why would he tell her that he saw her error? Wouldn’t it have been better to watch her stumble about, as he had mentioned earlier when she had had trouble getting up to Sureblood’s stirrup? His own oaths as a healer and physician would not allow him to cause harm to other people, but they said nothing about letting people go about harming themselves – spirit or flesh or anything else – on their own time. She still did not understand why he would do so, when he was so insufferably rude to her; even when he was nominally helping her – by changing her bandages and cleaning her wound – he did not seem to enjoy her presence, or look favourably on her connection with Adolin, nor Adolin’s own attentions on her. When Finnie came to brush her hair and lay out the dress and under-dress for dining, Shallan settled on this: Kaladin, who did not believe in the inherent privileges or Heavenly origin of social rank, nevertheless considered Adolin his equal. That made sense, since Adolin was a good man, and it would take a person with a severe and self-imposed blindness not to concede that fact. He saw Shallan, no doubt, as a manic ether-wretch and a mercenary, and terrible human being in general. She was not a fit match for Adolin, in his eyes – she was too flawed, too … broken, and not good enough. And Adolin, being a genuinely kind and gentle man, deserved nothing but the best. This was the realisation she came to when she walked through the portrait gallery to the dining room. It explained his own arrogant and unpleasant attitude towards her, and his own reaction when Adolin had invited her to stay, when they were hiking through the Forest earlier that morning. Kaladin was only tolerating – suffering – her presence out of loyalty to his patron-employer. His interest in her well-being was only an extension of Adolin’s. This sudden spark of comprehension did not make her dislike him less; it only made her aware that were they to reside permanently in the same household, they must settle on an uneasy indifference for the sake of their mutual sanity. Shallan reached the dining room, adrift in her own thoughts. The gentlemen were already there, both dressed in their dining whites, and Adolin pushed in her chair, as usual. Kaladin took his seat without waiting for the lady to be properly seated. It seemed a reprise of the dinner two evenings ago, but this time Shallan did not feel much inclined to make conversation. The dinner was quiet without her or Kaladin – bickering – at one another. Adolin also seemed somewhat subdued; the talk of the muster was not something he was particularly pleased with, Shallan guessed. The first course, a very rich and creamy bisque with floating fragments of crab-things, was eaten in almost total silence. She wondered if the footmen were disappointed in their lack of conversation – did they enjoy listening to the verbal sparring of the dinner table? The second course was brought out, cold potted chicken with buttery garlic sauce, served with peas and sliced aubergine rounds. That was when the butler stepped out, and whispered in Adolin’s ear. Adolin nodded, then the butler withdrew and returned with a tray containing a sealed letter and a silver knife. Adolin slit the edge of the envelope; Shallan saw that there was an oval wax seal in blue – Kholin blue – with an imprint in the shape of a lozenge, which appeared very similar to Adolin’s own seal ring. Important business then, to warrant an interruption to their dinner. Adolin read the message and sighed. He slid the letter back into the envelope, returned it to the tray, and waved to the butler, who took it and retreated. “What is it?” inquired Kaladin. “Something from the Park?” “Yes. Renarin sends a warning,” said Adolin. He stabbed at his chicken with irritation. “Can it be–?” “No! – Not that!” Adolin exclaimed. “He writes that Jasnah visited him today – this morning – to invite him to the formal presentation, which she has set a few days from now.” “Where?” “Here.” There was a silence as each man tried to process that information. The footmen took the liberty serve the third course, which consisted of medallions of rare beef baked inside thick sheets of suet pastry. It was served with a very rich gravy and buttered long beans. Shallan noticed that every remove appeared to be very rich today; on most occasions she liked a hearty meal when she could have it, but this was one hearty meal on top of another, and this – excess – could not sit very well with her stomach. She stopped the footman after he had poured a tiny circle of gravy on her plate, and noticed Kaladin eying her with scrutiny. “What formal presentation is this?” she asked. “Mine. Ours. I suppose,” said Adolin slowly. “She wants to present you as her ward – and presumably my, ah, companion, to the Family. Renarin – my brother – reports that she has already gone to the City to visit Father and order decorations sent over from our townhouse.” “Well, it can’t be that bad,” Shallan said. “I never had an official coming-out like Anglethis do; we don’t really do things like that apart from the annual McValam clan moot.” “Well, it wouldn’t be that bad, ordinarily,” Adolin admitted. “But my royal aunt was at the Park when Jasnah called on Renarin. Now Renarin is warning me that Aunt Navani is attempting to commandeer the event and turn it into a contest. She wants to be the successful matchmaker, not Jasnah. “Father is returning to the marshlands soon, and Aunt Navani thinks that if she can successfully match me to some lord’s daughter, then she will get a few votes’ worth of extra campaign funds for Father, and a few votes in Parliament for herself.” “I am sure she will not force you to pick one at gunpoint,” Shallan said, with a thin smile. Adolin looked at her and reached for her hand over the table. “No. Not at gunpoint, but she would have tried if she knew it might work. The problem is that it won’t be just the Family anymore. It’s half the Kholinar elite.” “I thought you liked those people,” said Kaladin dryly. Pudding was served now: bowls containing a brown moist cake-like dessert with a crisp crust of burnt sugar and a dollop of custard. Shallan took a bite hesitantly; she was not particularly hungry after the previous removes. Ugh. Was that – oatmeal? Yes. It was. Underneath the honey and molasses taste of the pudding, there was the recognisable – unforgettable – almost dry texture of boiled oats. She did not spit it back out. That was unseemly. So she swallowed it, with a grimace of revulsion. “I did,” Adolin said. He dug into his pudding. “But they don’t like me. Not lately.” “What did you do to them?” Shallan noticed Kaladin staring at her. He was eating his pudding and looking pointedly at her own bowl. She took another bite. Uuuugh. It was still disgusting the second time around. The texture was worse than the taste; it dried her tongue out; the aftertaste lingered no matter how much water she drank. “I’m the best,” replied Adolin, grinning. “Number one at the Kholinar Duelling Club. They’re all jealous.” Kaladin rolled his eyes. “He won a lot of bets and bankrupted some people of their family estates. Then he salted their wounds by deeding most of it to his brother, who is not a Club member. Not even an honorary one.” “It worked out for the best, you know! The Shire council has to run everything by Renarin now–“ Shallan stood, queasily. Adolin rose to his feet in politeness. “You must excuse me, sir,” said Shallan. “Shallan?” “Please, by all means – continue without me.” The footman held the door open for her, and Shallan stumbled out into the hall. She could not reach her own room from here; it was much too far away. She saw the floral display arranged in a delicately painted porcelain bowl, and pushed the flowers aside; she retched violently. A chunk of oat pudding, tasting sweet and bitter with her own stomach acid, dropped into the bowl. It tasted worse going back out; her throat convulsed. She could feel the heavy dinner churning inside her; she could feel the oesophageal contractions on the brink of returning everything she had eaten. She bit her lip and concentrated, trying to keep it all in. “Do you make this a regular habit?” It was Kaladin. Shallan did not turn around. “Only when I eat oats. I ate oats three meals a day for two years. The texture – it makes me ill,” she managed to choke out. “So to-night is the result of a well-meaning but misguided notion of the Duke’s, and not yet another wretched vice of yours?” “I do not purge … if that is what you mean,” Shallan croaked, leaning against the flimsy-legged side table that held the flower bowl. It swayed, and Shallan swayed with it. “No matter how – fashionable others may think it is.” “The Duke informed me of your meeting in the kitchen.” He caught her by the elbow, and steadied her. “That is none – of your concern.” “It is my duty now, as of this morning.” “I have told you,” said Shallan, as coldly as she could. Her voice sounded more ill than intimidating. “Oats disagree with me. You may leave now.” “Do your courses come regularly?” It took a second for Shallan to understand the meaning of his question. She straightened up so quickly that the bowl rattled on the table. She twisted around. Her head was light and her stomach was heavy. It was not a pleasant feeling. “Now that – is definitely nothing of your concern.” “It is again my duty to enquire,” said Kaladin, his voice soft. Was that – concern? It could not possibly be kindness. She could not tell. He reached for her shoulder. “And it is partly your duty too.” “My duty?” Shallan managed, with difficulty. “The Duchess Kholinar’s duty is to bear the next Duke.” The floral display became completely unsalvageable. Dinner, Shallan thought, retching, was much different looking after it had been chewed up and returned. The taste, peculiarly, was still very similar. Author's Notes: There are couple of nods to WoR in here. “Are you insulting my weight” is probably the most obvious. :- ) Shallan really is spindly for a Horneater. - "Royal hundredweight" - based on archaic measure IRL called "imperial hundredweight" that was phased out in the 1820's, equivalent to 112 lbs. - "Your father reads too many old books" - Dalinar isn't the next Joan of Arc, but he does re-read The Way of Kings on loop. - "That there are other groups that seek chaos in these times" - Referring to Gavilar's assassin and the guerilla outfit that Helaran joined. - "I will see you at dinner, and I will think of something" - foreshadowing for dessert. - "did not look favourably on her connection with Adolin, nor Adolin’s own attentions on her." - Gee, I wonder whyyyyy. Kaladin is the perceptive one, and what he sees makes him feel kinda jealous. - "person with a severe and self-imposed blindness" - Guess what, that person is actually Shallan. - "It is again my duty to enquire” - Shallan's weight bothered Adolin enough to change the dinner menu, but it's Kaladin who runs the numbers and realises that the state of the Davar finances has probably left Shallan in underweight territory. In this period, potato growing hasn't become widespread yet, so no peasant calorie-bombs, and scurvy is an actual problem.

I like any feedback at all. It lets me know where there is a big enough plothole that a callback is necessary. Take your time reading or responding. The longer you wait, the more updates you can binge at once when you have the free time to come back and check. There was actually a reason for that. Shallan was looking forward to having some "alone time" with Adolin, and is still salty about Kaladin calling her a bog frog the night before. She used insults to try and get rid of him, but it doesn't work. What works is semi-flirting. Yes, it seems pretty rude, but if you read the zoo date scene in SA, Kaladin third wheeling himself was pretty rude too. She could figure out what the "mysterious issues" are - if she wanted to. This is probably the first time in years she has talked to a woman below her social rank about non-work related things. She knows about the "birds and the bees" but the way it's referred to is confusing. If it had been referred to in that context as "taking the waters" or "touring the Continent", she would immediately know what it was. There's also a certain amount of her not wanting to think too deeply on it. It's one thing to know how life works, but another thing to participate in it. Shallan likes avoiding/ignoring consequences of her actions and part of her still thinks marrying Adolin is her and Jasnah's little game, and Jasnah will save her if she gets bored or wants to quit - remember the breakfast conversation before she was introduced to Adolin? It's scary to think she will be expected to do the thing with him. Her step-mother Malise could have run away but she stayed to protect the Davar kids. I thought it was an interesting angle on Shallan's character that Brandon wouldn't ever touch. It was weird to me that WoR Shallan felt very little hesitation about getting involved with Adolin and leaving Jah Keved forever. If you go back to the scene where she kills the Ghostblood henchman, there's a gap between the end of gunshots and the time when Kaladin comes back to find her. In that time, Kaladin and Karsten dragged the bodies into the woods and searched them. His bayonet was bloody, because people did die. They also took that time to unpack the camp and start dinner. If you are looking carefully, the next morning (Part 17), Kaladin indicates the direction where Shallan should take her potty break. He doesn't want her to go in the wrong direction and stumble over a bunch of dead bodies and a dead horse. And she doesn't think too deeply about where they went. Kaladin suspects someone on the estate tipped Kabsal's group off, but Adolin is a bit like Dalinar and doesn't want to suspect people unless they are obviously fishy. Neither of them know that Shallan knows Kabsal. Kabsal was the one who read the maps before handing them to Shallan in the church; he doesn't have a perfect memory, so that is why they got there hours after Shallan and friends. They could have been closer to this in WoR if Kaladin hadn't been the ultimate whingelord. I don't know you are reading the non-story related posts in this thread too, but I have discussed Kaladin and Adolin's relationship. They see each other as equals without caring about social rank. People who believe in the social hierarchy would view Kaladin's familiarity as disrespectful, and Adolin as eccentric and encouraging improper behaviours. Remember the line, "The Duke will be all the family you need." Adolin thinks Shallan is showing her sympathies, because she cares about his feelings. He has no idea it's empathy, because she had a terrible childhood filled with lots of bad things. Remember, he has no idea about her past, or ether addiction, or that her father is dead and their estate is rock-bottom bankrupt. When he met her, he thought she was just a quirky scholar girl that was introduced to him for variety, when he ran out of rich city socialite girls to date. Kaladin was eavesdropping until the part where they started making out, then he stopped listening. He thinks she's talking about the one guy she killed in the tower. The line "gasping out his last breath" is important, because Kaladin knows she suffocated him with her tartan. The tartan is important - the first time she took it out of the trunk, she felt hysteria which she repressed. In this AU, they sold the aluminium necklace before the canon-SA Davars did it. :ph34r: :ph34r: One important element of Regency romances is that lines of dialogue are interpreted very differently by everyone, and there is truth, but only one part of the truth. Misunderstandings make for drama. It also shows that Shallan is starting to realise that sometimes she says the wrong things. Joking on Kaladin's dead brother in the church is the point where she stops being so deliberately mean-spirited with her snarking. She still thinks Kaladin is rude, though. :ph34r: This is irrelevant to the story, but it's traditional for a man to give a courting gift to a woman when they start courting. In the country, there are no shops to buy nice things, and Adolin notices that Shallan doesn't wear jewellery. He thinks it's because she doesn't like it, rather than her not having any. So she gets some hairbrushes, and doesn't even know it's a gift. If Kaladin saw them in her room, he would understand the significance.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 17

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART SEVENTEEN Shallan awoke sore, tired and disappointed, under the shadowed eaves of the forest. Morning sunlight filtered through the leaves above, and she stared up at them, feeling itchy and stiff. She had been leaning against the tree when she had fallen asleep, but she found herself slanted across a handful of knobbly tree roots. It hurt to move – that was the first disappointment. Some might complain about stiffness in the neck, but Shallan had developed an unwelcome understanding of the type of stiffness that extended throughout the whole body. Her second disappointment, which to her great shame – was it really all shame? – eclipsed the first, was that Adolin was not beside her upon awakening. She had gone to sleep and woken up alone every single day of her life, and now she was disappointed that this day, this morning, was exactly like all the others. It was a petty disappointment, but she still felt it, and she could not help but wonder if Adolin had found her wanting in some fashion. No-one had ever had the opportunity to accuse her of snoring or flailing about in her sleep; there was only Kaladin, who had mocked her for drooling. Kaladin. He stood over her now, hands on hips, fully dressed in his coat and trousers. He lacked only his neckcloth; it was missing from around his collar, and the buttons of his shirt were not done up all the way – she could see tanned flesh and the barest hint of collarbone. She pulled herself up reluctantly, and the stitches on her side twinged with fresh agony to the dull ache of stiffened muscles. She groaned with the shock of it. Kaladin tossed a biscuit onto her lap. “Breakfast. If you’re hungry, then we had better start moving for the House.” She threw it back at him. He caught it with ease. “Eat it yourself,” she said. “I must visit the bushes.” “Hurry back then; I must inspect your wound and its stitching.” He crossed his arms and jerked his head toward a section of forest around edge of the rock outcrop that was the pre-Vorin temple. When she returned, she saw that Kaladin had out his leather roll of surgical instruments, and his bowl of ether. There was a clean white cloth resting in the bowl, and a roll of bandages wrapped in white paper next to it. He had shed his coat and his sleeves were rolled back; she smelled ether in the air. He was shaking his hands, drying them after an ether scrub, and Shallan saw that there were narrow lines of scarring scrawled across his muscled forearms. “Would you prefer it lying down or standing up?” he asked, eyebrow raised in an impudent manner. “With you? Neither.” “You may take the time to make your choice while you remove the coat.” Shallan had forgotten she was still wearing Adolin’s blue riding coat, the one he had given her – before he had confessed his private thoughts to her. She still did not fully understand what had prompted him to do so. She had read in Jasnah’s books of folk tales that there were certain trees that non-Vorin Continentals revered for their properties in revealing truths – perhaps that had something to do with it. She could not guess; she did not know enough about the ways of men – and what little she knew of them came from Jasnah’s advice. She slowly tugged off the coat. It was too broad in the shoulders for her, and the sleeves were much too long – they drooped almost to her knees like the traditional Vorin dresses depicted in old tapestries. It was thick and made of smooth, finely fibred wool; she was reluctant to lose its warmth. Kaladin tapped his foot impatiently. “Have you made your decision yet?” “Standing.” “Good. The dress goes next.” What had happened to the gentle doctor from the previous evening, the one who had tried to console her, who had attempted to spare her feelings when she thought herself a murderess? She slid the dress down her shoulders, and felt cold air entering through the slit side; she shivered. Why did it matter? She grit her teeth. It was clear he was an unpleasant man to the core, and it was a guarantee of disappointment to expect anything more. “Here,” she said, holding her torn underdress to cover what few shreds of dignity she had left. “Can you make it quick? Hm. I suppose that question need not be answered.” She turned her face away when she felt his fingers quickly undoing the bandage around her chest; he probed the stitches over her ribs. She did not look down; she did not want to see what it looked like by the light of day; she did not want to see her own dried blood staining her white bandage, nor her white underdress. The sight was too … familiar. “Whatever the lady desires,” Kaladin said in his unpleasant, sarcastic way. He reached for the white cloth in the bowl of ether. She felt the cold of the ether first, when he pressed the soaked cloth against the stitched flesh of her side. Then the pain came, all at once, and not in the successive waves of dull throbbing that she had felt during the night – a single torrent of nameless, searing agony that swept away thought and reason until there was no sense at all, and only the sensation of pain remained. She gasped; she took a step backward; there was a root jutting out from the soil behind her, and she stumbled. Kaladin caught her around the waist, and she by instinct threw her arms over his shoulders, and pressed her face against the bare flesh of his collar. Tears prickled in her eyes, but she did not cry. She did not scream. She shuddered against him, as the pain crashed through her and around her and it left her, and she was left behind, limp and dazed and blinking. “Miss Davar? Shallan?” she heard faintly, as if from a distance. With a jolt, she returned to herself. She pushed away immediately, but he did not let go; his arms were still warm and solid against the naked skin of her waist and back. She felt a tug on her chest, and then he patted her on the shoulder and stepped away. Her bandage had been changed for a fresh one. Shallan’s legs trembled; she sat down with a thump. “Get dressed.” Kaladin dropped the stained bandage into the ether bowl, which he picked up with one hand. His other hand closed on the roll of surgical instruments, and then he withdrew. Well, he was surely no gentleman; Shallan had made that conclusion upon their first being introduced. He paused, then turned back. “There’s tea on the fire if you want some.” Shallan had eventually decided to knot her tartan around her chest to cover the hole in her dress, and wear Adolin’s riding coat over it. She would stay warmer that way; the cutaway tails of the coat were stylish but rather breezy in the back and sides. She was drinking tea out of a tin travelling cup when Adolin and Karsten appeared out of the forest, leading the two remaining horses and Karsten’s brown mule. “Are we ready to go?” called Adolin. “We went to the creek to water the horses before we left. We should load them up now, if you’ve packed your things.” Shallan only had her satchel and her bonnet. She was lifting the strap over her shoulder when Adolin approached, leading Sureblood. “Good morning,” she said. “Did you sleep well? You look chipper this morning – Heavens, did you manage a shave?” Adolin grinned. He did look much more refreshed than she expected she herself was; he had washed the dark smoke smudges off his face, and his jaw was smooth from the very recent touch of a razor. She had felt the beginnings of his whisker stubble when she kissed him last night, but it had been too dark to tell what colour it was. She had hoped that the daylight would reveal that particular secret of his. “One must take steps to look presentable at all times, you know,” said Adolin. He held out his hand, and she took it, and he pulled her to her feet. “Words of wisdom that my father always quotes. Anyhow, I wanted to ensure that there was nothing for you to object to – as you will be riding with me when we reach the trail.” “I could never object to you, sir,” Shallan replied. She rose to her toes and kissed him on the cheek. She could see that Kaladin, who was putting out the fire with handfuls of damp earth, was rolling his eyes. Sureblood lipped at her hair; she squeaked at his hot breath at her ear and jerked forward in surprise. She pressed against Adolin’s chest, and he held her; she could smell the orange pith and herbal scent of his toilet water – had he really brought toilet water on what he had assumed was a treasure hunt? Nevertheless, it smelled nice, and she could not find anything objectionable in that. He certainly smelled better than Kaladin, who, being an unpleasant person, smelled of unpleasant things: in that brief moment she had been close to him, she had discerned sweat, ether vapours and gunpowder. “Nor I you,” Adolin whispered. She wished it were true, wholeheartedly. But it wasn’t, and it could never be. No-one could like her if they truly knew her as she really was – she did not even like herself, when it came down to it. Not even her brothers knew her; they had always assumed the acts of wrongness that had begun the breaking of the family had been committed by their father, and Shallan hadn’t had the heart to correct them. She still didn’t want to; she had doubts it could ever change. Kaladin coughed loudly. “Are we ready to leave now?” *** They hiked back to the trail in a more direct path than they had taken the afternoon prior. Karsten had Shallan’s map out – he had kept it since the morning she presented it to him in the stable yard – and was muttering as he counted paces. Occasionally he climbed a tree to confirm their heading by the sun, whenever the clouds had thinned enough for him to see. They did not tack back and forth; they were confident in their tread, but still wary. They might be beset once again in this forest, and both Kaladin and Adolin had their muskets and pistols within easy reach. They led their horses. Shallan was not able to make studies of the forest, as she had been forced to walk between them – for her own safety, she was told. All she saw on either side was horseflesh and panniers. “What happened – last evening?” she asked. Adolin turned towards her, Sureblood’s bridle in gloved hands. His horse did not have the metal bit that went in the mouth, like Kaladin’s horse, Shallan observed. “We were with the horses – they were restless. I imagine that they sensed something on the wind. Karsten and I took to the trees and tried to shoo the horses away when he saw something rustling the undergrowth. We hid – they had the numbers on us.” He paused, then looked over at Kaladin, and his voice grew quieter. “We could not have matched their rate of fire, with just the two of us to reload. I had hoped our fired shots would have given enough warning for Kaladin to take you and hide in the forest until they left.” “Were they highwaymen?” “A forest is hardly a highway, Miss Davar,” said Kaladin. “I suspect they are more likely to be assassins.” “And their target – Adolin?” Kaladin exchanged an uneasy glance with Adolin. “I – cannot say. But an investigation on the estate employees would be in order.” “I have no reason to doubt the loyalty of our employees or tenants,” said Adolin firmly. “I say they are foreign saboteurs – my father was right. He warned me, about the trouble stirring from the south–“ “Your father and your cousin both – have their particular fancies. But you should not speak of this – not here.” “Do you not trust Shallan?” asked Adolin softly. Shallan spoke. “I can hear you, you know! And I am not a spy.” “No,” replied Kaladin. “But you are a … temporary guest.” “Well, Doctor, just for that,” scoffed Shallan, stamping her feet on the spongy forest litter with each forward step. “If an assassin successfully manages to do away with me next time, I shall ensure that my shadow lingers around just to haunt you – and not temporarily!” “To haunt me? To spite me, I should think.” “No one will be done away with!” said Adolin. “Please, can we not restrain ourselves?” “Well, only because you are here,” Shallan conceded, and then she added, “if you were not, I do not think I could restrain myself.” “Your unrestrained ferocity could scarcely hope to impress me. I daresay that you might actually wish to haunt me for eternity, Miss Davar?” “The prospect of spiting you for ever would bring me great satisfaction.” Adolin’s head turned from one speaker to the other, and then he looked to the sky and sighed. “But it will not happen because Shallan will be safe and sound, and–,” here he paused and looked pointedly at Kaladin, “–the good Doctor will volunteer his skills to her benefit, should she ever need them.” “The good Doctor will accede to the good Duke’s request … so long as Miss Davar is a guest of the House,” said Kaladin, tonelessly. “Chin up, Doctor,” said Shallan. “I shall not be in your hair for long – that is, if I – or anyone – wanted anything to do with your hair.” “And why is that?” he said. “Are you leaving, Shallan?” came Adolin at the very same time. “Jasnah will return within the next two days. I suppose she would want us to visit Ivory Lane, then we might return to the Continent or Kharbranth.” “I recall,” said Kaladin, his voice tight, “she said that she would take you away with her on the condition of – a disinterest in acquaintanceship.” “Why, yes, I suppose you are correct, Doctor.” “As I have said, it is a habit of mine.” “Well, I say I am not disinterested,” Adolin said, stepping around a tall stand of underbrush. “Unless there is only acquaintanceship. Then that would be a mere disappointment.” He looked to Shallan, a question in his eyes. “Will that convince you to say?” “Would you want me to?” “The prospect of your staying–,” he replied, searching for words; he could not seem to find the right ones, and but continued on nevertheless, “–would bring me great satisfaction.” Shallan smiled at him. “If that’s an invitation, then I gladly accept.” She saw Kaladin turn his face away at her words; he tugged at his own horse’s bridle – he pulled too firmly, and the horse nickered and butted at him in annoyance. “I am glad to hear it.” “There is one matter, though.” “What is it?” “You must convince Jasnah.” They found the logging trail without incident; the horses were pleased to at last have the firm footing of the cleared path: the damp forest litter would not done their hooves nor their iron horseshoes much good. They had not seen any assassins in the woods, but they did observe that the dirt path had seen some hard use, very recently – there were hoofmarks, and the earth was churned up in places, and there were spoors from many horses. So: there had been a large group of assassins on horseback, and they had managed to get away after being driven off by the gentlemen’s guns. “Shallan, you must ride with me,” said Adolin, when the horses had been led onto the path. “Sureblood will have no trouble with two riders, and his back is broad enough for the both of us.” “She must ride in front, not pillion,” Kaladin said, as he swung himself into his saddle. “It would be best if the stitches were not jostled or chafed about.” They were waiting for her to mount now. Shallan stared at Sureblood’s stirrup, which was at the level of her hip. She was not at all sure she could stretch her foot up that high, without tearing something dearer than her fresh sutures. “Shallan? After you,” said Adolin, patting Sureblood’s neck. “It may help if you were to make a foothold for her, Adolin,” offered Kaladin. “It might happen to be an immensely amusing sight to watch Miss Davar stumble about. But then I’m sure we would be waiting here all day, and I’m also quite sure you would not enjoy her sitting in front of you covered in mud and horse doings.” “You might find horse doings on your own self without any explanation for how they happened to get there, Doctor,” Shallan huffed. “And, naturally, it would take you several days to actually notice.” Adolin laced his gloved fingers together, and Shallan put one foot on them; he tossed her upwards, and she managed to get a toe into the stirrup and over the side of Sureblood’s back. It was very broad, and was almost like sitting astride a whisky cask – albeit a cask that gurgled with mysterious digestive noises and leaked out one end. Adolin himself mounted with ease, and soon sat himself behind her, his chest at her back. It was rather close, as Sureblood’s saddle was meant for one rider; the pommel dug rather uncomfortably into Shallan’s stomach. They rode for the head of the trail and the perpendicular of the village road at a steady trot, with Karsten at the lead, musket in hand. They only stopped when he reined his mule in at the rustling undergrowth on one side of the trail. A sow boar ambled out, with five striped piglets at her side. One of the piglets was a white-pink colour, with red eyes. The horses stamped with impatience at the halt, but the boars ignored them, and crossed the trail to the other side of the Forest to be lost into the bushes. The continued onwards from the village road to the King’s Road, too intent on watching for any signs of assassins or even mundane highwaymen to make conversation. They were tense, and hungry, and the horses eager to return to their stables. Shallan jounced uncomfortably on Sureblood’s back, unused to riding astride – it was unseemly for a woman to ride with her legs in such a position, in front of men. And she was very aware that she was in front of a man – for Adolin’s arms held her around the waist, and his thighs pressed against hers; his feet had the stirrups. It was not as romantic as it had been described in novels, as she had caught him on the chin several times with the back of her head, but he made no complaint. They were four miles from the Kholinar Court grounds when they encountered the search party of mounted stablemen and groundskeepers with their yipping hounds eager for a scent. *** Shallan had had a bath as soon as they were back at the House. She had not untied the bandage, but left it on, carefully trying to keep it out of the water. The bathwater was a muddy grey-brown by the time she had stepped out of it and into her warmed shift and dressing gown. She left her bloodstained woollen carriage dress, torn underdress and unlaced bodice on the floor of the bathing chamber; let the servants decide whether they were worth cleaning and repairing or burning – the sight of the blood-stiffened fabric made her squeamish, especially since she knew it was mostly her own blood; she was happy to shed them, and she did not care what was done with them. When she returned to her bedchamber, there was a covered lunch tray waiting for her on the vanity, with a bowl of hare cassoulet and buttered rolls, and a dish of blancmange that smelled wonderfully of imported vanilla and candied almonds. She did not immediately start on the meal, even though she was hungry. No, there was other work that had to be done. Shallan pulled her sketchbook out of her rather worse-for-wear satchel, flicking through the roughly drawn pages of copied mural. On a whim, she returned to the page with the watercolour of Loch Davar, near the beginning of the book. She still had her trunk with her things from Loch Davar – the one and only trunk she had brought with her from Scotland in her search for the elusive Countess Jasnah. It was still at the foot of her bed. She opened it up, and the scent of lavender wafted out. She could ignore it for now; she was looking for something at the bottom, where she had put it – with no intention of ever seeing it again – six months ago. She dug through to the bottom – and there it was. A waxed paper envelope with a copy of Jushu’s calculated progressionals. She spread the sheets onto the vanity, and copied the basic formulae onto fresh papers while she ate her lunch. The formulae were all the same, if one kept the basic format of a ninety-minute drift with a gradual awakening after the first hour. The books of formulae could be bought from any barber-surgeon; loose sheets with the most popular formulae were commonly sold in apothecaries. It was defining the parameters that was the most difficult – the measurements were time consuming to acquire, and often required the rental of expensive equipment if one could not afford a professional calculation. Shallan had learned the skills of basic chemistry with an ether distillation kit: she had distilled Jushu’s cheaply bought and roughly made street-ether into one of a purer and higher concentration – the calculations were more exact that way, when one was absolutely certain there were no foreign additives. The distillation glassware had had multiple uses - the temperature measurement, for example, could be done at home with the glass tubes filled with water – it made a rough thermoscope, when proper spirit or quicksilver thermometers were too expensive to afford. This was one of the skills that had impressed Jasnah enough to take her on as a ward, although Shallan had never explained their origin. She had no glassware here, and she would not know where to purchase a set. She supposed that Kaladin would have a distillation kit – he had mentioned a stillroom at the dinner the evening before their unfortunate treasure expedition. But he was a surgeon, and personal physician to a very wealthy patron – he must have a properly graduated scale thermometer – wouldn’t he? Shallan put that parameter to the wayside for now, and concentrated on the ones she could fill in. Shallan was thus occupied with the calculations when Finnie arrived to dress her hair and remove the lunch tray. She did not speak to the maid, for her mind was busy with the numbers – all of the arithmetic would have to be done by hand and triple checked for their accuracy. She was not afraid that the maid would understand what she was doing – her progressionals had been tailored to the point of unrecognisability from a bought set of formulae sheets, and she used her own shorthand along with the Kharbranth letter symbols; only an experienced driftwatcher would have been able to discern the meaning of it. There was a knock at the door. Finnie put down the brushes and went to answer it. There was a whispered argument. Shallan ignored it. “Miss Davar,” said Kaladin. He was right behind her. Shallan stood up so quickly that the chair overturned behind her. She whirled, saw him only a few paces away, then spun back to the table to hurriedly scrape together the sheets of paper into one loose pile. “What are you doing here?” she asked, through gritted teeth. “I must evaluate the state of your stitches. It was a rather hurried ride back and I’m told you have had a bath since then. I will need to determine if there has been any skin tearing,” replied Kaladin with infuriating calmness. “Well,” said Shallan, attempting to counterfeit nonchalance. “I choose lying down this time, and on the bed. The maid can undo the bandages.” “I’ve already dismissed her. She’s waiting in the hall now. You wouldn’t like to keep her waiting, would you?” Shallan slid the dressing gown off and tossed it over the vanity table, then stalked over to the bed and threw herself onto it, muttering under her breath. Kaladin picked up the overturned chair and set it by the bedside. He placed his kit bag on the side table. “Will you close your eyes so we might pretend you care about preserving my modesty?” said Shallan, reaching for the buttons of her shift. “Or would you prefer to leer openly?” “Miss Davar, I assure you – I would gladly do so if only there were anything worth leering at,” he answered evenly. “Well, get on with it then.” “How absolutely charming. I sincerely hope Adolin’s bedside manner has more patience in it for you than mine.” Shallan closed her eyes as Kaladin’s deft fingers undid the knots in the bandage. She felt him prodding at the inflamed skin at either side of the cut, and hissed at the swab of ether over the stitches. But this time it was only a very light touch of ether, not the dripping cloth’s worth that she had gotten from him twice already. It still hurt, but the pain receded quickly; the smell of the vapours lingered in her mind after the fumes dissipated. The bandage was swiftly changed, and the kit bag was snapped shut. Kaladin stood. “You may put yourself away, Miss Davar. I recommend a new bandage and an ether swab with a four-tenths solution once per day. You cannot be trusted around ether, so I – to my great misfortune – must take valuable time out of my day to act the nursemaid. The sacrifices we make for the undeserving, as they say, earn us a place in Heaven's Halls.” “The Halls would immediately become indistinguishable from Damnation should you find yourself – miraculously – accepted there,” said Shallan crossly, doing up her buttons and glaring at the velvet canopy over the bed. She heard the door open. “Hm, well, Miss Davar. When you attempt to be covert and replace your sigma with nu, you might want to at least ensure that you are perfectly consistent.” The door closed, and Shallan lay on her bed glowering with an ill-humoured and unresolved frustration, until Finnie returned. It did not take long; there was only a few minutes’ respite between Kaladin’s closing the door and Finnie’s re-opening it. She bounced in, smiling, and Shallan could not see the reason for her unseemly sprightliness. “Oh, my lady,” she sang cheerily. “What is it?” asked Shallan testily. “Was he very good to you?” Did she just wink? “What?” “Doctor Kaladin, my lady! All the girls downstairs have wondered about him, you see. Some of them have offered to show their gratitude for his being so, erm, accommodating and all, but he’s always refused.” Shallan sat up. She struggled for words. “You think – the Doctor and I–?” “He’s a fair looking man, no doubt – thoroughly fair,” said Finnie with a pleased smile. “You wouldn’t be the first great lady to stray such, nor the last, begging your pardon.” Shallan was aghast. “What – no!” “His Lordship won’t be told, worry not.” Finnie waved an unconcerned hand. “No – no – no! There is nothing to tell him! Here – look at this!” cried Shallan, and she pulled open the neck of her shift to bare the thick wad of white bandaging that crossed her chest. “There is nothing – nothing – between us. And there will never be – anything. I find him to be completely unpleasant!” Finnie’s hands rose to her mouth. “Oh my lady,” she said, shock evident in her voice. “Your skin! If it leaves you with a scar…” “Then I do hope the Duke will not find it completely unpleasant,” Shallan sighed. “If that’s the case, my lady, you must manage in darkness so he cannot see.” “Darkness. I see,” said Shallan. It was yet another secret to be kept from Adolin; it felt almost unfair to treat him in such a manner, when he had been so open with her the previous night. But he had his own burdens – it would be considerably more unfair to heap the knowledge of her own atop his, wouldn’t it? A thought occurred. “Finnie, do you by happenstance know where balances might be kept?” “Balances? The steward’s office, I should say. He lives in the village, my lady. But I wouldn’t know about it – I’m just the chambermaid.” “No, scale balances, for measuring weights,” Shallan explained. “Heavy weights, like flour sacks.” “Oh!” said Finnie excitedly. “I know what you speak of now. The stable master has one. There is one in the kitchen. And a few smaller ones in the butler’s study and servants’ hall for odd tasks like weighing cloth or smallgoods, to keep the merchants on their toes. Will that do, my lady?” “Thank you, yes it does – very well,” said Shallan, smiling. Author's Notes: I am not sure if you have picked up on it, but Kaladin in this chapter is crushing hard on Shallan, but she is completely oblivious to it. He is conflicted in his feelings because he is friends with Adolin, and tries to hide his kinda obvious flirting under banter, because he doesn't want to tell her he thinks she's cute outright. Shallan only hears the banter and sarcasm and thinks he's being rude as usual. Shallan is an unreliable narrator! Read Kaladin's snark lines without sarcasm and the meaning is closer to how he really feels. - "certain trees that non-Vorin Continentals revered" - Linden trees are significant in Germanic culture. - "Kaladin, who, being an unpleasant person, smelled of unpleasant things" - Shallan doesn't actually hate the smell of ether, and Adolin smelled like sweat and gunpowder when they were hugging while Kaladin shot the horse, and she didn't mind. She is just trying to pick things to hate about Kaladin to justify her dislike of him. - "We could not have matched their rate of fire" - Adolin would have done a last stand to save Kal and Shallan. He's brave but doesn't think he is. - "the good Doctor will volunteer his skills to her benefit" - Adolin pulls rank on Kaladin and orders him to be doctor and/or bodyguard for Shallan. Comes later on when Kal says "it is my duty". - "The prospect of your staying" - echoes Shallan's earlier line. The missing word is "forever". - Kharbranth letter symbols - they are the Greek alphabet.

Kaladin heard from a dying minescouter that there was a Skybreaker ambush planned for the Kholin regiment. Lt Colonel Amaram didn't care because "not my prob, brah" so Kaladin used his Charisma Magic and recruited the non-combat staff of the Sadeas regiment (cooks, quartermasters, training sergeants) and the hospital's walking wounded to steal cannons from the maintenance yard. Then they covered the Kholin retreat and saved it from total annihilation. :ph34r: Adolin saved Kaladin with Nepotism Magic. Adolin is a professional speed-dater. He knows there are certain moves like bragging about victories, or handing out compliments, or going out to a restaurants, that are guaranteed to work. But the thing is that he doesn't have to do that - even if he didn't try to impress her, and wasn't a cute and friendly guy, Shallan would still marry him. The villagers have superstitions about the forest, and Adolin knows superstitions are silly and for peasants, but part of him still believes it. A bunch of people got hurt in mysterious ways in logging accidents, so there is a legitimate danger in there. But Adolin thinks smart people can avoid hurting themselves as long as they're smart about it, which is why he is still willing to go through with it. He's not chicken. :ph34r: He eats chicken for breakfast. :ph34r: You're just too much of a character reader! Some people are willing and happy to suspend their disbelief to see some OOC action. Even if you (or I) think that any ship that involves both Renarin and Adolin is completely icky. Seriously, most of the time I don't care what other people ship as their OTP or OT3 or whatever, but there is something about siblings in a ship that makes me go blaaaargh. Whether it's anything with Renarin and Adolin, or even Gavilar/Navani/Dalinar. The world has changed. Shipping is acceptable in all sorts of ways now, and people want to and can headcanon however they like. For example, Sam and Frodo were supposed to be best friends with an officer/batman style relationship. It made sense in the past, but now people don't understand it and see such a relationship as a ship-ship. Yeah, I don't get it either. It used to be in the past that a reveal of being long lost twins would kill a ship, but that doesn't deter people today. AU Kaladin is a lot more morally ambiguous. Whether he is a doctor or soldier, he believes in doing things "as long as it is right", so he can even throw the Hippocratic Oaths to do no harm to the wayside. Syl in SA is so black and white, and I prefer it when people solve their own problems and develop an understanding of their own morality on their own. No spren shortcuts or built in karma meter. Kaladin may think the social hierarchy is stupid, but he takes advantage of it where he can. In this AU, when Kaladin is in the army as a personal physician, Adolin is his superior officer so anyone with a complaint has to go to Adolin, who just shrugs. In the civvie world, his patron is one of the ten Dukes. It's just like in WoR when Kaladin is suddenly promoted to Kholin guard captain and tells Rock to take all the food and fill their storehouses with them and make big fancy dinners, because Dalinar is paying for it. Pattern forcing Shallan to remember in order to level up felt like a cop out to me. Without Lightweaving, Shallan is doing all the mental repressing on her own. The ether abuse is a symbol for illusion/delusion, and an addiction is supposed to show that a person is unhappy with their lives, or mentally unhealthy - that's why Renarin had issues with it in the past. When I read WoK, I always thought it was a bit weird that Shallan was willing to drop everything to find Jasnah and marry Adolin with minimal second thoughts. Yes, her terrible past makes the Davar manor sound like a haunted castle, but before her parents died, it must have been a decent place. She still liked the gardens, but I read no homesickness, unless she Lightweaved (wove?) that out of her. So I wrote AU Shallan with more nostalgia. Instead of magically mindwiping herself, she clings to the past and how it used to be. Aw man, that means a lot coming from Adolin's #1 fan. :ph34r: The problem is that people think Dalinar is a cool guy and Adolin is a cool guy too, and they are both battlefield superstars who would wear sunglasses over their Shardplate helms if they exist on Roshar, because of how awesome they are. It's hard to imagine tough guys having daddy issues, or soft squishy feelings in general, which is why it gets overlooked. People who read Adolin from the surface don't really see his soft squishy insides, or they just glance over it. You must remember, in this story, as it is in most Regency romance novels, Shallan is mentally very selfish and self-centered, and lacks self awareness. Usually the heroine of classic romance has to work out her own issues, and evolve into mental maturity, before she can land the man. You have to read her PoV as an unreliable narrator. There are things she misses and things she misinterprets, because she sees the world based on her own frame of reference. For example, Kaladin is not really a bad guy, Shallan just thinks he is when she mentally criticises him. And Kaladin cares about Adolin. He doesn't like Adolin's endless courtships because even if Adolin doesn't show how it affects him, each rejection is like someone stomped on his heart. That is why he didn't like Shallan in Part One, because he thought she would just use Adolin and throw him away. Now that Adolin likes Shallan more than any other girl before, Kaladin thinks that she might be his One Last Try, and that makes him feel really conflicted about his own developing feelings. And Kaladin killed the horse because Adolin couldn't. I felt that even though WoR didn't show too much on Sureblood's death, or Adolin reflecting on it afterwards, it was still a very traumatic moment for him. Because Ryshadium are magical loyal horses and going into battle without one is like duelling without Mother's chain and chicken for breakfast. Adolin post-WoR is going to be all sorts of messed up, but in my AU, the mental trauma started way earlier since there was no Shardplate and Thrill to cushion him and desensitise him on how horrible war really is. Because when you are 17 years old and trained as an officer, your first time on the battlefield is when you realise people are willing to follow your orders into the gun-range and die because you told them to do it. One reason why Adolin feels "not good enough" is because his own position in the army was given to him out of nepotism - his dad bought him an officer's commission. Dalinar has the soldiers' loyalty from decades of campaigns, and Kaladin has Charisma and earned his own position through Heroic Deeds. Adolin started out textbook smart and learned field strategy on campaign and objectively is a capable commander, but still feels he can't compete compared to them. His position protects him from a lot of "dirty work" that Kaladin doesn't have trouble with, like putting down dying horses and holding ether over dying soldier's noses so they pass out happy. Imagine Adolin and Kaladin walking into a hospital tent full of dying soldiers or soldiers with amputated parts. They would be thanking Adolin - the guy who crippled or killed them - for visiting them, and ignoring Kaladin, the guy who tried and failed to save their lives. Maximum trauma. :wacko: In this AU, there is more distance between Dalinar and Adolin than in SA. In this AU, the Dukes stay in the capital city Kholinar, where Elhokar is, and send people like Amaram to manage their regiments. Dalinar is considered the weird one for going to battle in person, and he made Adolin a Duke when the war started so Adolin could run the farm. Adolin's fanatical loyalty to Dalinar is balanced out by an equal loyalty to the thousands of people who depend on him as their landlord. He still believes in Dalinar's "gut feelings" more than other people, even if it doesn't sound logical. But he is also aware of a wider picture. I personally find Adolin's obsessive loyalty a bit...overboard. And I find it hard to balance it while keeping Adolin a mature and mostly independent adult, so I don't write it as up to 11 like it is in the books. I went back and searched for the word "muscle" in the the WoK eBook, and it said that Kaladin was still muscly after 8 months of gruel and beatings as a slave. Kaladin makes a notice of his own muscles, and the Bridge Four guys' muscles. He notices Moash's pecs and compares himself to Gaz's noodle arms. And now it's super annoying that Adolin doesn't do the same thing for himself. In Shallan's PoV she only mentions his messy hair and his hot face. Come on! I can't remember a winter colder than 5C, actually. It is normally around 15C for winter days, and everyone complains about it and bundles up in scarves and wool coats. But when there are European tourists and other people used to "real cold", they walk around in single layer long sleeve shirts, or even t-shirts when all the locals are triple layered. Snow seems pretty crazy. I know nothing about driving in snow or ice at all; it's the kind of thing people skip in the drivers license manual as one of those things that never happens. You're more likely to hit a kangaroo than a snow pile. But then again, weird things happen here too, like people in the outback who store their telephones in the fridge. And people who wear traffic cones on their head because of the drop bears. I feel really sorry for Adolin, the lonely rich guy. His friends are all donutholes and all the girls swipe left on him. I can't decide if it's better than Renarin, who had no friends or girlfriends at all, before he joined Bridge Four. People laugh about Adolin being a "noob", but they don't even remember that Renarin exists. Kaladin and Adolin in leather motorcycle pants. :ph34r: It would fit Kaladin to run laps on a muddy track in the woods, with his shirtless bridge brothers to watch. Maybe he has a helmet with the number "4" painted on it, and a Parshendi paintjob on his bike. Comparing horsepower is a man thing. Harleys vs Sportsbikes vs Dirtbikes vs streetracing cars. It makes sense that you could get a rivalry going with an actual horse. If football star Adolin gets a varsity jacket, then I'm ok with it. Adolin's self confidence ugh. No participation ribbon is good enough for him; he needs gold every time. If he wasn't such a nice guy, he'd be the arrogant jerk at the dojo who likes messing with the new guys when the sensei isn't looking. That scene in the training arena when Kaladin meets Zahel for the first time reminded me of karate movies, just like the 4:1 duel reminded me of WWE wrestling. I wondered how Renarin would be able to escape since his Surges are pretty much non-combat support abilities. But then I remembered he could just pull a Jasnah and pretend to be dead. Since he can hold his breath for up to 15 minutes if he wanted to. Yeah, it seems high ranking lighteyes don't really think about where the money comes from. Navani comes up with fabrials for heating and removing pain, and they would be so useful to society - but no one but the top tier dahns would ever get to see them because they are the SA equivalent of being made of gold. Maybe they are just bad at managing money - see Elhokar's toy larkin paperweight and the Davar financial issues.

His charge was "Dereliction of Duty". In this AU (and in IRL British history), Dukes can raise their own regiments by commissioning the officers, recruiting the soldiers from somewhere in their duchy, and paying for training and equipment. Kaladin joined the army to find Tien and signed on under Sadeas' banner, as a combat medic. He found out some info about a bomb stash and did a temporary desertion to save lives. And, no, it doesn't have to with anyone daring Adolin. Adolin isn't as dumb as Marty. He wants to impress girls because he thinks that will make them like him. He wants people see him as fun and daring, and he also wants an excuse to spend more time with Shallan. If he didn't go, then she would just go with Jasnah and a groundskeeper, and that's no fun. Shallan thinks she's manipulating him, but there's a level of "like like" he has for her that she is unaware of. The problem with shipping fics and rampant OOC is that they are usually around 2-4 pages long in terms of wordcount. It feels OOC because there's no build-up, or development to justify the characters that way - those fics are just about the canoodling. Suspension of disbelief for OOC behaviour is only possible when there's a reasonable justification in-story for the characters acting that way. OT4 fics with Renarin in them ( ) don't make sense because they never show the characters becoming friends, they just skip ahead and show them hanging out and being buddy-buddy. Slash or OT3/OT4 pairings exist because fan-authors have favourite characters and want to indulge themselves in a way that they know Brandon will never go, so why not? I don't know if you are keeping up with this story, but since you are a character reader, how is my characterisation? And yes, I know my Kaladin is too "nice" compared to early WoR Kaladin, but he never had the slave life. Because in an AU without magic or Syl, if Kaladin lived the slave life, he'd probably be dead. So that's kinda how I justified it. I feel like I'm getting Shallan on point, but writing Adolin or Kaladin is harder. Adolin "does social" like Shallan does, but Shallan doesn't pay attention to people's emotions unless they relate specifically to her. When I write her in character, she doesn't see that he is doing it, or where he slips, until he tells her straight out. It's not like you wouldn't be spamming happy :ph34r: :ph34r: faces if I did. But I don't know if Adolin is a "Wait until we're comfortable" or "Wait until we're married" kind of guy. The Codes say one thing, the heart says another. That's how I've been writing Adolin - he's like an actor with stage-fright, but every time he gets in front of the lights and recites his lines, he hopes that no one can tell that his heart isn't in it. And no one can, and he likes the applause, but he knows they only like the act. I also threw in some PTSD. He also think it's shameful to be scared of killing because it's not manly or soldierly, to translate how he doesn't feel the Thrill compared to other Alethis. If you read the last episode of the story, there was this one line I wrote "I love my father – but I was afraid that I could not [die] – as they did that day." Adolin is in the army because he loves his dad, not because he believes in the cause. When he saw a real battle for the first time, he realised that he didn't want to die. And being afraid to die in battle (like a real man/warrior/proper Alethi) is what he thinks makes him a failure and a coward compared to other people, like Kaladin for example. He would still throw himself in front of a bus to save Dalinar, but he really wouldn't want to - and that's what he focuses on and ties mental knots around. In my AU, there is no Shardplate so there's no magical invulnerability/mental crutch of knowing you're unstoppable on the battlefield. If you took away Adolin's Shards, I think you'd realise that they're his teddy bear and a huge part of his facade identity. That's how I justified some of his mental issues. :rolleyes: And just like most emotional issues, it would be solved if he had a therapist or actually talked to Dalinar about it. Rule of Drama. It was only something like 3-4 months of bridge lifting on a diet of Soulcast gruel and nightly stew. And they were running for 6 hours, so there was a lot of cardio too. According to the labels on boxes of whey protein, you have to "eat big to get big" to "build GAINS!!!". I thought it would have made Kaladin pretty strong, but physically he is very low bodyfat and has very defined muscles. To me, he's lean and no Ahnold, closer to a triathlon athlete. And his physical imposing-ness comes from his height and his angry face. It looks like this: >:-| Adolin gets 3 meals a day (or more) of nice food with multiple servings of chicken. He is closer to modern gym-brah aesthetics, but nowhere near professional bodybuilder. He doesn't know he has a really fit body because he never sees other men changing and assumes everyone else is like him. Except maybe Sadeas, who is fat. Shallan has to teach him to appreciate. I actually like winter ... but only Australian winter. Where you don't get sunburned if you forget your sunscreen one day, and you can wear your long sleeve t-shirt. I always forget that winter in other countries involves snow (SNOW! It's like UNICORNS!) and the kind of cold that if you forget your coat one night, you might actually die. Not to mention snow chains for tyres (never saw one) and Gore-Tex everything. I still like pockets. They are like built in purses. Now he has to do the same for Renarin. It's going to be a long 10 years for him. :lol: Kaladin also calls Adolin a good man in the chasms, when he thinks they're going to die and he should sacrifice himself to the chasmfiend so Shallan can run. So he has acknowledged Adolin as an equal in maturity. Wait, if all other lighteyes Adolin's age are married, does that mean that the double dates he goes on are actually with married couples? Jakamav has Inkima, but Adolin's PoV just called her a date, not a wife. Wow, everyone must assume he is either really really "loose" or almost pathetic in a way. Dalinar calling everyone "Son" is just so 1950's dad. If you think about it, it's true!!! Solid, honest, and reliable, but distant with his love and child-raising. Does things by the rules, because the rules matter. Wears shirt and tie every day, even at home and on weekends, but he puts on a sweater vest instead to make it "casual". Who knows, maybe Brandon knew about it from the start and that is why he calls his bodyguard "Son". Kaladin does motocross and has a muddy dirtbike, and Adolin has a fancy Ducati that he rarely uses because he prefers horseback more. And Kaladin makes fun of his one horsepower. Modern AU fanfic plot right there. :ph34r: Football doesn't really show Adolin's fixation on "perfection". It's a team sport, it's pretty much how well you can communicate with your teammates rather than how good you are personally. If Adolin does it, it's not his "real" interest. Martial arts would suit, but there are also other physical activities where you can find "perfection" without having to compete with other people, if you're doing it for your own self-improvement and relaxation, instead of winning. Like ballet, or golf, or rally driving, spelunking. In the old days, if you captured an enemy officer, they were all nobles, and there were "gentlemen's agreements". He would surrender on his honour, and he would live in a nice tent in your warcamp until you ransomed him back to his family. Things changed and then it became more tactical to snipe enemy officers instead. Yeah, Alethkar society will take some time to adjust to a military mindset that isn't just about who has the biggest other parts. :ph34r: I wonder how Adolin feels about everything he has coming from Daddy, or if it's just normal for high-rankers. It makes him very much a Princeling - Kaladin is kinda right on that. Adolin got his own military position from nepotism, even though he works hard at it, and Renarin got his Shards for the same reason. On Earth, financial independence is a sign of maturity.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 16

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART SIXTEEN Adolin ran towards her as soon as she appeared through the gap in the wall. He was wild-eyed, with black smudged across his face and bare forearms; his hair lay in spikes against his forehead, dark with his own sweat. She gasped as he embraced her, and swung her around, and pressed his cheek against hers, whispering her name over and over again. He let go of her at long last, and pulled away. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the red that bloomed across the front of his blue waistcoat. Adolin saw her looking at his torso, and looked down himself; he saw the stain, and drew a hand across it as if he thought to wipe it away. His fingers came away red. “Kal, she’s bleeding,” said Adolin. “I’m fine.” Shallan pulled the tartan closer around her shoulders. “She’s in shock,” said Kaladin. “You don’t need to help me.” “Yes we do, Shallan,” said Adolin, wiping his hand on a cleaner section of his waistcoat. “Here, Kal, take her. I’ll see to the oth– the horses.” Kaladin’s hand closed around her wrist and she was towed to a small fire, where a camping cauldron was nestled in charcoal embers. The travel kettle was also there, boiling away; Kaladin’s panniers were opened and their contents were neatly arranged on the ground; adjacent was an unfolded bedroll. There was a musket leaning against a nearby tree, stock to the ground and bayonet pointing upwards. The normally shiny surfaces of bayonet and barrel were smudged with something dark… Shallan closed her eyes. She felt Kaladin tugging at her tartan. She held onto it. “Let me see,” he ordered. “It-it’s not proper.” “Do you really think I care?” “If you really didn’t care, you’d go away and leave me alone.” The tartan was yanked away. She could feel the cold now, and the pain, and other things that she had no particular interest in feeling. Her shawl was tossed to the ground; Kaladin was close, now he was touching her, his hands running across the cloth at her hip, then her stomach, until he found the tear high on her left side, at her ribs. “No one is going to leave you, Shallan. Now, how does this confounded dress open,” he muttered, fingers gently probing the edges of the torn fabric. “Don’t move. I’m cutting it.” The seam under her arm on the left side was sliced open, and the woollen overdress was peeled down. He cut through her underdress, until he found her bodice. “More laces? Storm it.” He spun her around, slit the row of laces at her back, and guided her to his bedroll; here he placed a firm but unyielding hand against her shoulder until she lay with her head pillowed on his saddlebag. She could see him silhouetted by the fire, setting out a circle of chimney lamps and lighting them one by one; he unrolled his surgical tools in their leather case; his sure hands plucked out one instrument after another and laid them into an even line on a clean white kerchief. “I’m going to use ether to cleanse the wound. I’ve elevated your head and put you downwind, so you will not drift, nor frolic,” he said, in the calm but emotionless tone of a surgeon at work. “Breathe shallowly and turn your face away; there will still be vapours. In normal circumstances, I would have a tent for field operations, but to-night we shall do it the old-fashioned way.” He brought out a brown glass bottle, and cut the wax stopper off. Ether. He poured the ether into a small bowl containing a white cloth and a pair of forceps. He also tipped the ether over his hands, and scrubbed them together. “Brace yourself. This shall hurt quite a lot.” Shallan gasped when she felt the cold, then the fierce stinging pain when the ether-soaked cloth was touched to the cut on her ribs, and dabbed against the skin of her side. It was cold, and hot, and then became the nameless essence of transcendent pain; she lacked words to properly describe it. It was sudden and sharp, burning and searing at once; it stunned her insensate mind with more awareness than any abruptly thrown open curtains on any number of mornings. And all of that awareness was attuned to experiencing pure agony. She did not scream; she shuddered and twitched on the bedroll. “The smell...” she whispered, eyes rolling in her head. “You’re stronger than that,” said Kaladin. His practised hands cleaned the wound with measured care, picking out shreds of fabric; he held the torn skin together with clip forceps. She saw him thread a curved needle, almost like a hook, then wipe it down with an ether soaked cloth. She closed her eyes. “I’m not strong. The most wretched…” “You are not weak.” His voice was firm and assured. “I saw a man today with broken ribs, a pierced right lung, a broken nose, and a fractured skull. Do you know what I found to be the most curious?” “What?” gasped Shallan. She concentrated on his voice. “He died with wool fibres between his teeth.” “So … you know.” “The first time you kill a man–,” he said, voice steady. “Well, I won’t say it gets better, but it doesn’t get any worse.” “You sound … like you know a lot about it.” “I do. All surgeons do.” “You wouldn’t know about it,” Shallan said weakly, “if you remembered – to talk less and brush your teeth more.” “What?” “…Your breath.” There was a coughing sound. Was it a laugh? She couldn’t tell. She didn’t think Kaladin could laugh. “Storms. Really?” he said, finally. “Yes–,” said Shallan faintly. The fumes: she could smell them. He had told her to breathe shallowly, but she hadn’t been. “It doesn’t get worse. I don’t think it can get any worse…” She did not know if she was talking about his breath or about killing men. “My father,” Kaladin said, one hand pressed against her bared side, “once asked me if one could kill to protect. I thought about it for a long time and decided that you can – you can kill to protect other people, or to protect yourself. You protected yourself, and it was not wrong. Any god who says otherwise doesn’t deserve to have my soul.” “I didn’t think about right or wrong when I did it. I didn’t think at all.” She hadn’t felt anything either, but she didn’t – couldn’t – say that. “It doesn’t matter now, Shallan. You’re alive, and you’ll be better soon, and that is what matters.” His hands pulled back, and she felt a tug and then a twang of pain as he tied his knots. More pain as the area was swabbed with ether; it prickled with stabbing icicles, worse than how it felt when she had been cut by that dead man’s dagger. He bandaged the spot with a pad of white cloth, and wrapped bandage all around her chest to keep it in place; he kept his eyes diverted from her skin, still faintly freckled from the weeks on The Wind’s Pleasure. “Now. Shallow breaths. You’ll be all right from here; the boning took most of the force–“ “Kal!” His head turned. It was Adolin. “What!” he called. “Are you done? Come over here!” “Excuse me, Miss Davar.” Then he was gone. She saw him join Adolin and Karsten by the horses. Karsten was holding the reins of her gelding, who still had on her side-saddle. Kaladin peered at the horse, and looked at his legs and circled around him, patting his sides – the horse made a queer groaning noise; Karsten walked the horse a few halting steps and then there was a whispered conversation between the three men. Adolin occasionally glanced back at her. “–Internal bleeding–,” she heard. “–The bones … a fracture … exit point here and here … he’s lamed…” She heard Adolin say, “I – I can’t do it.” She heard Kaladin grunt and say something under his breath. Then Adolin and Kaladin were approaching, to where she lay on Kaladin’s bedroll with her bodice, cut laces dangling, clasped over her bare skin and bandages. Shallan pretended she hadn’t heard a thing – she wished she hadn’t – and closed her eyes. “Shallan?” came Adolin’s voice, soft with concern. He knelt next to her, and took her hand. He didn’t seem to notice, nor care, that her own blood had dried over her hands; dark blood crusted beneath her fingernails. “She ought not to listen,” Kaladin said in a gruff voice; he seized the brown bottle of ether from his open saddlebag. He appeared to spy the bowl of ether and bloodstained cloth; he picked it up and flung the contents into the fire, which flared with sudden brightness. The knot at Kaladin’s neck was swiftly undone, and his neckcloth was unrolled; he spared a brief glance for the two of them, and collected the musket from where it had been set against the tree, and was soon gone from the circle of warm yellow lamplight, ether bottle in hand. “What’s the matter with my horse?” asked Shallan. “Shallan, there’s–,” began Adolin. “Where are they taking him?” “He was hurt in the fight.” She saw Kaladin pour ether onto his neckcloth; he pressed it over the horse’s muzzle. Karsten led the horse, slow and stumbling, deeper into the forest. There was something wrong with its right foreleg; its sides – darkly streaked with sweat and something else that dripped blackly – heaved with exertion. “I don’t want to hear it.” “Neither do I,” he said. He pulled her into his arms, heedless of her state of undress, and they held one another in the bright circle of lamps. She heard his ragged breathing and felt his trembling; she was trembling herself. It was not just from the chill in the air, nor the aching from her sides. She rested her head against the hollow of his shoulder; she could not smell his cologne, only his fear-sweat and the fouled chimney-like bite of gunpowder; his fingers twined through hers with savage grip. A shot rang out from the forest. Karsten came out, carrying the side-saddle and the musket. Kaladin followed, ether bottle in one hand, limp neckcloth in the other; it dangled from his clenched fist, fluttering white and silken, like a bride’s prayer. *** Their dinner was made from the luncheon leftovers. Diced ham and sliced sausage were boiled in the cauldron, thickened with crushed travel biscuits and the mushrooms and wild garlic Karsten had collected by the creek. It could never be described as elegant, but at least it was hearty and filling. They took turns eating straight from the pot – they had not brought any porcelain with them – and at least it was not oatmeal. They did not attempt to return to the House now that night had fallen. If there were others in the woods with guns, they had not dared to risk an ambush – or more likely, a fall in the dark and the loss of another horse. Her gelding – its injury – its death – had distressed Adolin the most of all the party. While Karsten cleaned the spoons, Adolin had gone to the horses’ pickets. She saw him speaking to his own horse, Sureblood, and patting the others; no-one made any comment on his behaviour. Kaladin took the first watch of the evening; he climbed a tree and settled himself between the forking branches, his musket on his lap and a powder-horn dangling from his belt. Karsten had the party’s guns and pistols out, and was cleaning them with methodical patience. He had detached the bayonets and Shallan noticed smeared blood on them – and clumps of something that could have been hair. Shallan sat away from the fire, her back against a tree. At first it was for some privacy – she had wanted to inspect the damage to her clothing – but after she had re-dressed herself as best she could, she found herself partial to the peaceful half-light at the edge of the circle of illumination. It was quiet – but not silent – and she could hear the creak of the trees, and the rustle of leaves in the canopy that surrounded them in gentle darkness. She heard the shift of disturbed leaves and a shadow fell across her. It was Adolin. She stood; it was only polite. “Here,” he said, and held out his blue riding coat. Shallan took it; she was cold, and there was a slit down the side of her dress that leaked away the warmth of her body. He had his overcoat on over his bloodstained waistcoat. “Thank you.” “May I sit?” “You needn’t ask – you own this forest, after all.” “One should never forget to be polite, not even to a tree,” he said, and settled in next to her, between two curving roots; his back pressed against the base of the tree trunk. “How are you?” “As well as could be expected,” replied Shallan. It sounded like insolence. She had not meant to infer a complaint – this whole ill-fated expedition had been her own idea from the very beginning. Adolin was silent. It stretched on for quite some time. Finally, he spoke. “When I found out that Kal had abandoned you in there, in the dark, by yourself, I was so angry with him.” “It turned out all right, didn’t it?” “Yes. It did, I suppose. But the worst thing is – dare I admit it? When I saw him – and I knew that he had left you unprotected – when we had spoken of that earlier today … well, a part of me is ashamed to say that I was grateful he had come, pathetically grateful. Please, forgive me.” He did not turn towards her; his head was bowed and he could not meet her eyes. “Did he save your life?” asked Shallan, picking at the dried mud on her skirts. She hoped her dress was salvageable; it was the best of her travelling wardrobe, and that was why she had worn it on the last day of the journey. She did not want to be reminded of that particular conversation from the morning. “Would you be dead if he hadn't come along?” “Yes,” said Adolin softly. “Once again, he saves the day.” His voice was resigned – it was almost bitter, and it sounded strange from him, when he had always seemed so cheerful and good-humoured. “As always. Kaladin the heroic doctor, Karsten the veteran of a half dozen campaigns - and even you, Shallan. Beautiful and clever and brave Shallan, who can handle herself with only one shot and a handbag. What do I have?” Shallan was almost disturbed by this display of honesty. This – it was not one of the little truths, the inconsequential and unimportant truths that ladies and gentlemen of quality made a game of, when they conversed over meals. It wasn’t banter, and there was no humour in it. This was a … confession. She had not expected it, and she was not sure she wanted it. It was intimate; it made her afraid, because it was a sign of his trust – more trust than she had shared with Jasnah, or anyone at all outside Loch Davar. He trusted her; he shared his confidences; it was a sign that his affection for her was more substantial than any stolen kiss in a public house back-room. “You’re beautiful too,” she said finally. She almost groaned. It was terrible. “Yes – beautiful. I’m just a walking fashion plate.” “Who said you needed to be anything?” “The whole world.” Then he muttered, under his breath. “My father.” “You oughtn’t listen to the people who say such things.” “Are they not right?” “They are as wrong-headed as those who call your blood impure,” said Shallan hotly. “When I, or Kaladin for that matter, see a man gasping out his last breath, dying – dead – by our own hand, we hate this terrible world that makes us – forces our hands – to selfishly choose one day more for ourselves at the price of one last day for another.” She took a deep breath, and realised that her fingers were grasping rough handfuls of her woollen skirt; she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “When I see you, I understand – it must be done for the sake of people like you.” “Like me? Useless, lovesick fools?” “No. Good men, honest men who remind us that this terrible world cannot be so terrible if they exist, so we do not – cannot – should not – regret the choice of our one more day. You are a good man, with a good heart,” Shallan said, with feeling, then added, “and when a man with a knife comes at a good man, can he be anything but a bad one?” Adolin was silent, but he reached for her hand over the gnarled root of the tree. She squeezed his hand, and glanced over. His eyes were on her, reflections of firelight shining in the not-so-ordinary blue; his eyes were full of warmth and grateful affection. It had been something like half a year since she had seen those emotions felt – for her – and with a clumsy shuffle that dislodged dried leaves and squirming woodlice, she slithered over the tree root between them until they were face to face. She straddled his lap, and he did not pull away as she had half-expected he might. They stared one another for several long moments – then his hand rose to her cheek and she felt the gentle stroke of his thumb at the corner of her mouth – and then they were kissing, mouth to desperate mouth, breath to breath and she could not tell – she could not care – whose was whose. Shallan found herself with her forehead pressed against his, her arms over his shoulders, and his arms around her waist. She was drawing in great heaving breaths – and so was he – and several strands of her red hair were stuck to his cheek. She brushed them away with a gentle sweep of her fingers, picked up her skirts, and climbed off him Adolin’s hand caught her wrist. “Please – don’t go,” he said. “I won’t,” she replied, and he slid over and made room for her in between two large curving roots. He threw a companionable arm over her shoulders, and she leaned against him, head on his chest, listening to his beating heart. She counted to ten. It did not take all that long. “Shall I tell you a truth?” Adolin whispered. “I saw a battlefield for the first time when I was seventeen years old. I saw men dying beside me, dying for the love they bore for my father. I love my father – but I was afraid that I could not – do as they did that day. Seeing these men – men I knew – calling for their mothers, for water, or for the Almighty’s Grace … when I first saw it, and heard it, I could not help it. I … soiled myself.” “Well, there were no witnesses, at least.” Perhaps it was flippant, or bad-mannered to say so, but Shallan could not think of what else to say; she deferred to – inappropriate – humour. She could not imagine being surrounded by dying men; one at a time was more than enough, more than she – or anyone, really – should bear. “Hah! Oh, Shallan,” said Adolin softly, “I envy that – how you always know the right things to say.” “The right things? No, it’s more that I say them to the right person.” They were silent for some time, watching the distant flickering flames, hand in hand. Adolin spoke again; his voice was firmer, but thoughtful. “The thunder of cannons, and the screaming horses, and the gouts of smoke like the fires of Damnation. It was nothing like the quiet map rooms and precise manoeuvres of the practice field. I was … frightened. I suppose I can admit that now.” “Do you still feel fear when you know you must kill a man before he kills you?” “Yes.” “Keep hold of that.” “Why?” “As long as you feel something, you will know that you can still be a good man. It is the bad people who have nothing left inside them,” said Shallan. She knew this to be a truth, a truth that hurt all the more for her painful certainty in it. “I – am glad to have you, Shallan,” he said, his voice hesitant. “I am glad to know that there is more to you than mere fashion plates.” “You might be the only one,” admitted Adolin. A queer expression crossed his face. “You – you must think me weak.” “No – you are human,” Shallan said passionately. She paused, then continued in a more gentle tone, “You call what afflicts you weakness. But I do not – it is mercy, and it is kindness. If only the world held more of that.” “If only it did. But it doesn’t – and if it knew – what would it call me?” Shallan sat up abruptly at that, and turned to look Adolin in the eye. They stared at one another for several long seconds, and then she leaned over and whispered very quietly into his ear. “The world need never know.” They held each other in the semi-darkness, nestled in the roots of a great tree in the great rustling forest. It was similar to, Shallan supposed, but not entirely like the still stone arches of the village church. There was something else – something more – about that forest; it held the promise of expectation, of change and growth and – of progress. Perhaps one day she could feel the same calming peace with Adolin that she found with things she called familiar – things that reminded her of that vague – and growing ever vaguer – concept of ‘Home’. She felt it in the smell of ether vapours, for the scent of lavender, for woollen tartans, and misted lochs under greying skies. Would it be so difficult to feel that same comfortable ease around Adolin? Only if he knew all of her, as she knew all of him, said that part of her who wanted to hide away forever in silence and despair. Adolin fell asleep beside her; his eyes closed and his breathing slowed. Karsten banked the fire and set away the re-assembled guns. Kaladin climbed down from his tree and they swapped watches; Karsten took the musket and she heard the crackle and scrape of his boots on tree bark. Kaladin sat on his bedroll, sorting his surgical supplies. She saw him watching them; she could see the yellow-orange gleam of embers reflected in his eyes. She wondered what he thought of them now – of her and Adolin – and after some idle contemplation, decided she was too tired to care. Author's Notes: Is this the AU version of the chasm scene? Why not, nothing in this story is exactly 1:1, but a major thematic element has to be carried over, right? :-) The real question is: was it with Kaladin or Adolin? This part of the story has some character developments going on, if you hadn't noticed. - "Do you really think I care?" - Kaladin doesn't leave Shallan alone. This is where you see he doesn't hate her, and isn't neutral to her. He is impressed that she isn't screaming at the ether, and that she can make a joke ("Your breath" - callback to Chapter 1). He calls her "Shallan" instead of "Miss Davar", which shows his level of familiarity. Yes, he saw her topless, but he has seen it all before as a surgeon. Remember Chapter 2, when he called her "skinny and speckled like a frog"? Now that he's actually seen her, he doesn't think that anymore. At least not in a bad way. - On the horses - It's too early to kill off Sureblood, but someone had to die. And it was foreshadowed earlier when Kaladin mocks Shallan's horse for being too slow. Adolin really likes animals; it's one reason why he doesn't hunt. - On the guns - no Shardblades in the AU, military tech is around Earth level, with medical a bit further on. Gentlemen learn how to fence, but Kaladin isn't a gentleman. He is pretty handy with musket and bayonet (AU spear equivalent) and his surgeons hands don't shake so he's a good shot. - On Adolin - I'm not sure how much everyone got out of reading into Adolin's canon character, but I wrote him as someone who, outside his flashy public persona, has daddy issues and is afraid of failure. - "I was grateful he had come, pathetically grateful" - Remember the 4:1 duel? If Kaladin hadn't jumped in, Adolin would have been a cripple and Renarin probably dead. He isn't jealous of Kaladin's combat skills, but sad that he sucks compared to everyone else, because feels fear and regret when killing things while everyone seems to do it and be fine - note: there is no Thrill in AU but compare to to IRL Earth's societal expectations on masculinity, especially for soldiers, which Adolin never wanted to be. (Compare Kaladin who is okay with killing when it's done to protect people). Adolin also has PTSD symptoms. Too bad there are no therapists. - "if it knew – what would it call me?” - the word is "coward". Adolin isn't a coward, but he's in a bad mental state and is thinking too emotionally. - I wanted to compare Adolin and Kaladin's characters here. Shallan has a lot in common with Kaladin - they're broken people etc. But Adolin being a good person who is mostly "whole" is attractive to her, because what he sees is weak and unmasculine she thinks is a strength. She is still mostly unaware that Kaladin is starting to have feelings for her. Kaladin is also not afraid of making bawdy jokes, and isn't afraid of skin contact unlike Adolin who blushes at seeing a woman's leg through her stocking. His "baseball plate" level is unknown, but he isn't pure pureness level as Adoiin. Since Doctor Kaladin does take care of maids' mysterious "personal issues" and all. Let me know what you think of my characterisation - if you think it's off canon or whatever, I'm always interested to hear what other people think about what's going on.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 15

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART FIFTEEN Shallan was copying the mural on the section of wall closest to her, drawing by the light of a candle Adolin held aloft. She had set another candle onto the floor after sweeping away the leaves with a foot; a few dribbles of warm wax on the bottom kept it from toppling over. Kaladin paced back and forth, stopping occasionally to inspect the detail of the mural and the interior structure of the cylindrical stone chamber. “Have you noticed there are women Knights?” she said, head bowed over her sketchbook. “I never heard that mentioned in church,” said Adolin, shifting the candle to his other hand. It was melting steadily, and Shallan had not remembered to pack a chimney lamp. It would be approaching sunset outside, and she did not look forward to the prospect of finding their way back to the logging trail in the dark. “I read that the Courtlea church was built because this temple wasn’t suitable for a Vorin King. That could have been one of the reasons for its being deemed inappropriate,” Shallan replied. “Perhaps it was because the idea of a woman with a sword frightens men.” “A woman with a sword wouldn’t frighten me,” said Adolin. “Really? Not even a woman who knows how to handle one?” The candlelight wavered. If only the chamber were brighter – then Shallan could see for herself what shade of pink coloured Adolin’s face. He was rather a good looking man, but when he blushed because of something she said – when he blushed for her – that made him all the more charming. It was his being so honest – and earnest – in his affections that made him infinitely superior to the static engravings of handsome princes that graced the frontispieces of many a novel. “I think,” he replied. “The world would be a much better place if those who held edged weapons knew what they were doing with them.” “A much safer place, too,” Shallan said. Kaladin strode towards them, candle in hand. “Did you know that there are windows fifteen feet up? I saw them from the stairs. The glass is still there, but there’s only soil behind it – and there’s no door that I can see.” “Perhaps there’s another level underneath this one,” Shallan mused, sliding open the lower second compartment of her pen box. “How much do you know of ancient folk tales?” “Only the ones of questionable nature that have been turned into tavern songs,” Kaladin answered evenly. It was time for a lecture then, thought Shallan. “Well, there are a number of folk legends from here and many countries on the Continent. Even the non-Vorin nations have such tales – one about the end of a cycle of years, the last cycle before this one. When the end closes and the beginning opens, or however poetically they phrase it, the Almighty cleanses the world and restarts it.” Adolin spoke: “You are talking about the Great Storm? That is why the Roionshire coast has all those little seashells miles inland. And in church, the Ardents always said it was a punishment for men’s sins.” “The Great Storm and the Great Flood that came after. This building could have been constructed as a tower and the rest is buried underground. And if the Almighty was in the habit of punishing men for sinning, you would not be able to enter a coaching house without seeing men being struck down left and right.” “A seamless tower built thousands of years ago?” Kaladin said. “Well, they must have had arts that we have lost. I saw a lantern on the wall and when I opened it up, there was no oil reservoir – only a piece of coloured glass inside.” “Speaking of lanterns,” said Adolin, “have we got any more lights? My candle is almost out.” “I brought a box, but we must ration them.” Kaladin pulled a clockwork fire starter from his belt. “I can go and fetch some more if you’d like.” “No – I shall bring some down, and see how the horses are faring,” said Adolin. “Sureblood is well-trained but I shouldn’t like to see the others eat something they oughtn’t. And Karsten still has the lunch baskets – would anyone like a pie?” He set the stub of candle next to the one at Shallan’s side, and dusted off his hands. “No pie? Oh – more for me then.” Now it was Kaladin holding up the candle, only he wasn’t very good or particularly helpful: he paced around and his little sphere of light bobbed around; it was rather distracting to Shallan. She was scratching away, trying to copy as much as she could before Adolin decided the party should better return to the House. A thought occurred to her. “Doctor, when you were looking at the windows, did you see what the mural showed near the top of the wall?” she asked. At her own height, she could only see Knights and soldiers holding banners. “There is a sky above, with curving clouds and lightning. And there are red stars with the same reflective paint of the Knights’ swords,” said Kaladin. “I couldn’t see anything else. You would need a scaffold to properly inspect it – if you could fit one through the gap in the wall.” Shallan pondered at this; her busy hands mechanically shaded the Knights’ armour and outlined the double-eye design of their shields. “It could very well be a representation of the Great Storm.” She worked from section to section of the wall, dripping down wax and moving the candle – it was burning down now – as needed. Kaladin did not try to make conversation; he seemed to understand that she was concentrating on something she considered important – even if he thought the whole idea of the lost treasure a feather-brained girl’s frivolous snipe hunt, indulged by a lovesick fool. There was surety to her movements: she did not waste time on preliminary sketches in hard lead, nor on model studies to catch each detail correctly before she started the main piece. No, these were all rough impressions to have the shapes down more than anything else; each charcoal stroke was fast and deliberate; there was no leeway for mistakenly placed lines. She did not know how much time passed. It was hard to tell when one delved into the mental realm of artistic perspective. There was time – it did not halt, or cease to exist. Its relevance just became less important; it faded into the background, like hunger or fatigue, when one had other things to think of – such as the way reflected light bounced back and forth between adjacent surfaces and split into a myriad of other colours, or the way a seemingly brown stone wall was made up of small particles of yellow and grey sand. Time passed. The candle neared the end of its wick. Adolin had not returned. She heard muffled sounds outside. Kaladin at once became alert; he straightened and looked up towards the spiralling stairs and the gap in the wall. There came the crack of a gunshot. Shallan’s charcoal scratched across the page, leaving a black scrawl across her half-finished drawing. The tip of the pencil splintered off into little powdery fragments. She looked at Kaladin. Crack! Kaladin hesitated, then shoved his candle at her; hot wax dripped across her sleeve. “I’m going up. Stay here and don’t come out. Blow out the light when I’m gone, and stay quiet!” “You’re going to leave me here alone?” He glanced upwards, then looked at her, sitting on the floor with her dress greyed with dust and stained with mud. He came to a decision, then reached around to the back of his waistcoat. His hands worked for a second – she heard a rustle – and he had out a pistol with a plain wooden stock and a barrel the length of her hand. He had a small twist of paper too, and he used it to prime the pan; the rest of the paper he pushed down the barrel. He took a pencil from her open pen box and rammed it in. “One shot. Don’t waste it,” he grunted, as he tossed it onto her lap. “Pull down that – there – before you shoot. I’ll call for you when I come back – so even if you are tempted to, do not storming shoot me.” Then he was gone, and she could hear the stomp of his boots on the stairs as he took them four at a time, and she was alone with a candle on the floor that was now a small puddle of wax, and another that was dripping in her hand. She gathered her papers and stuffed everything into her satchel, picked up the gun, and then – she blew out the last light. It was dark and it was still in that empty chamber. Every little dried leaf seemed to make a scratching sound that echoed all around when she twitched a leg, like the skittering claws of crab-things in buckets at the Kharbranth harbour market. She could hear the crackle of gunfire from above; there must be a number of armed men outside. She sat with her tartan around her shoulders, and her eyes adjusted to the greyness; it was almost like the dreadful anticipation of waiting at Jushu’s bedside, wondering if this time she had gotten it wrong and he would never wake up. There was a light from above, a steady light that spread a circle of glowing yellow wider than her candle could have done. Two voices, on the gallery above – but neither of them were Adolin or Kaladin. She got to her feet, trembling; her right hand tightly gripped the handle of the gun, the left hand held the strap of her satchel. They were coming closer, coming down the stairs. “Did you see the girl?” she heard. “Check down here – I must go back to help the others secure the area.” That voice – had she heard it before? It seemed like she had, but her mind was frantic with fear, she could not think with clarity; she just wanted to run home - to the House, to Scotland - she could not care which home it was. She could not see a face to the voices; they were behind a curve of the stair. The light bobbed downwards. There was nowhere to run. Kaladin had said there were no doorways – the windows opened onto soil – they were underground. She almost laughed at that; she was becoming hysterical – and fresh country air, as recommended by any doctor, would have been the perfect cure for it. She could not attach the face to a voice she was certain she had heard yesterday; somehow she could now remember that morbid, idle thought from the journey with Jasnah – when she had mused on Kholinar Court’s being the site of her final rest. There was nowhere to run in this chamber, nowhere to hide: she would be found. She made up her mind, and her resolve firmed – the men were outside, and they had guns, and they were fighting. There were Knights painted on the wall who were women, women who fought just as well as any man. She had no sword, and she would not know how to handle one if she did – but she had a gun, and anybody could handle that. It was just point and shoot, wasn’t it? She crept slowly to the stairs. Her hands were shaking as the light grew closer and closer and revealed a man holding a chimney lamp by its handle. He could not see her outside its circle of luminescence; his eyes were dazzled by the light it shed and hers had adjusted to the darkness. She aimed the gun at him, and pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing happened. She tried again. Storms! He was on the very last step now. In desperation, she shoved the gun, barrel down, under the neckline of her dress and into her bodice. Her hands twisted the straps of the satchel and she spun it around, building momentum. The man with the lamp took one last step; he heard the whistle of moving air, and he turned to the side where Shallan had hidden herself under the curve of the stair. Shallan hit him in the face with her satchel full of books. The man cried out and stumbled and fell to his knees; the lantern dropped to the ground. It did not shatter as she had expected it to, but rolled around on its circular tin base, leaking oil. Shallan retreated, swinging the satchel, as the man panted on the ground. He was reaching to his side – was that a dagger? He blocked the stairs; she could not leap over him in her woollen skirts and trembling legs. So she charged, and hit him again on the head, with her satchel. This time, the hit was not as accurate, but he roared in pain and he reached for her and now they were rolling on the dusty floor, each trying to get a grip on the other. Shallan scratched and kicked at him; she tore at his clothes and his face and whatever she could grab, while he tried to pin her down with the weight of his body. She felt pain in a line down her ribs, and she gasped; she saw his arm raised to strike again. She rolled to the side, felt the cold press of the gun at her chest, and drew it out. The thing at the back – whatever it was – that Kaladin had told her to pull. A gun wasn’t just point and shoot: you had to cock it first. She had not seen it in the darkness that first time - it had been only seconds ago - and she had not remembered to pull it. The man jerked back when he saw the gun. He was not fast enough. Shallan fired. Crack! It was so loud in the echoing chamber that her ears rang with the sound of it; a choking grey smoke poured out, smelling of dirty stovepipes and the cheap incense that was supposed to keep away the bogflies. Her hand hurt from the unexpected kick; she dropped the gun to the floor. The man was on his back, struggling to get up – she saw his hand scrabbling on the floor for his dagger; he was gulping for breath, and a red stain spread across the front of his shirt. She swung the satchel up into the air and brought it down onto his face one final time. She did not think about it; she did not feel triumph, or satisfaction, or fear. She felt nothing. It was probably for the best. His head fell backwards; there was something broken inside of him, but still he was not dead, and she could not tell how close he was to dying. So. It had come to this. Again. Shallan dropped the satchel to the ground and bent over to collect her discarded tartan; it had fallen during the struggle. She shook it out, and pieces of dried leaves and moulted beetle shells fell off it; she folded it. Three yards of wool, brought from Scotland in a chest that smelled like lavender. She thought of home as she folded the tartan over and over, until it was a square bundle layered thickly. It could not be so bad if one had a tartan that smelled like lavender. She knelt next to the man lying on the floor, whose wounded chest gasped in spurts of red, just as his open mouth gasped with reddened foam. She pressed the tartan over his face, covering his unseeing eyes with their eyelids that flickered like the wings of Balat’s butterflies. She did not sing to him as she had done for her father. Time passed. The overturned chimney lamp dimmed, flickered, and sputtered out as the remaining oil was burned away. Kaladin did not return. Shallan sat with her back to the wall; her tartan that was stained with a dead man’s blood was pulled over head and shoulders; her knees were tucked under her chin. She felt the dull throbbing of pain on her side where the man had cut her, and when she touched her side and brought her hand away, she could feel it wet and tacky to the touch. Her face was wet too, and she could not remember crying. She had not thought she had it in her to cry; she just felt numb and empty. The leaping thoughts of her frantic mind had subsided now. Everything was returning slowly to focus, even though she wanted to hold onto the grateful numbness for as long as she possibly could. The voice of the second man, she recalled: the man who had not come down the stairs to join the first man lying at her feet. The voice was Brother Kabsal’s, the young Ardent from the Courtlea village church. Her ears eventually stopped ringing. Her breath no longer rattled in her chest. But her hands still shook, and her legs trembled, and even though she could no longer hear the sound of gunfire from above, she felt that the strength to walk the curving steps was beyond her capability. It wasn’t that she couldn’t walk – she could do it, if she wanted: she could put one foot in front of the other, like any clockwork automaton. It was the unpleasant fact that if she did, she would be returning to the light above, returning to her regular life. The life of the Shallan who smiled at handsome gentlemen who smiled back – handsome gentlemen who did not know the Shallan that killed and felt nothing because she had nothing left inside her with which to feel. *** Shallan did not know how long she sat on the last step, in the cold welling blackness that was only held at bay by the warmth of her tartan shawl. It did not matter if her eyes were open or closed: everything looked the same in the dark. Perhaps everyone was the same in the dark as well. She heard Kaladin’s voice calling her name from above, and saw a circle of his descending light. She did not respond; she got to her feet unsteadily, clinging to the wall for support. “Shallan? Miss Davar? Storms.” He was next to her now, holding a lamp high. The leaves and chips of mosaic on the floor were spotted wetly with clotting blood; there was the dead man with a misshapen face only a few paces from the last step. “I dropped the gun,” she mumbled, drawing her tartan shawl around herself. Speech – emotion – function – they were returning to her now; she felt the darkness pulling backwards and away, leaving her behind. “I’ll fetch it,” Kaladin grunted, and swept away the leaves with his foot. The bloodied leaves rustled and became swaths of bloodied streaks on the stone floor. Kaladin picked up the gun, and the man’s dagger, and slipped them both into his belt. He took her arm, and slipped her satchel over his shoulder. “Come. It’s over now.” She leaned against him, and he bore her weight with patience and without complaint, and they rose from the close darkness of the stone chamber to enter the soft sighing darkness of a forest at night. Author's Note: If you came expecting a romp about garden parties and playing whist with young ladies, you probably came to the wrong place. Sorry. - Shallan is generally non-confrontational - but now you see she will act when she can't run or avoid danger, as she usually does. The tartan means a lot to her, and isn't just a reminder of home. Remember the first time she opens the trunk and feels hysteria seeing it? - “A woman with a sword wouldn’t frighten me" - references to Shallan as she is in the SA, and also bawdy humour that Adolin may or may not get. - There are lots of references back to the SA in here. Coloured glass in a lantern - it's not actually glass. The tower built beyond known arts? The Great Storm? Red stars? - Some more oblique throwbacks: Kaladin gives Shallan his weapon instead of the other way around. Kaladin abandons Shallan to help Adolin, like Adolin went to save Dalinar in WoR. Shallan's fight was supposed to resemble killing Tyn. Kaladin respects Shallan's drawing ability, even if she doesn't have the magical memory of SA Shallan.

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance SHALLAN'S SKETCHBOOK PAGE 14

The Stormlight Archives Regency Romance PART FOURTEEN It would have been sunrise when Shallan stumbled into the stable yard very early the next morning, if there was any sun to be seen. It was another grey day to-day – grey overcast skies that loomed overhead with the humidity of anticipation. It was a good job that there was no sun to-day, thought Shallan, as tugged at her tartan shawl and adjusted the strap of her satchel – a whole day spent out-doors would result in her being unavoidably sunburned, even if she wore a bonnet with veil. She had brought both, just in case. The stable yard was already bustling: the grooms and stable boys started work earlier than the residents of the House: horses and official couriers rarely paid much attention to respectable hours. Adolin was already at the stables, conversing with a groomsman who held the reins of a gelding strapped with a side-saddle. She approached, yawning. “Good morning!” he called out, inexplicably cheery. “Shallan, may I introduce Mr Karsten, our groundskeeper? Karsten – Lady Shallan, my personal guest. Karsten here knows of the part of the forest that you’re looking for: he worked in the logging group years ago, when Father still lived here.” Mr Karsten took his cap off, revealing a balding head of sandy brown hair; he bowed to Shallan respectfully. He was not particularly tall – perhaps he was not a full-blooded Anglethi – and he had a limp that showed when he made a leg; when he spoke she could see he was missing several teeth. He tugged his cap back on and said, “My lady, I’m told you have the maps?” Shallan dug into her satchel and pulled out her copy of Brother Kadash’s map. She handed it over, and turned to Adolin. “Are we to ride there?” “Yes,” he replied, and gestured to the gelding which stood in patient silence next to Mr Karsten. “We found an old side-saddle for you since we couldn’t expect you to ride astride. Have you much experience with riding?” “I have ridden ponies at my father’s estate. I should think a horse would be no different,” Shallan said casually. It was much smaller than the giant white beast a groomsman was bringing out now, but it did rather seem a long way off the ground. “Well, you should get up and we’ll adjust the saddle for you,” said Adolin. He took the reins of the gelding and led it over to the stepped mounting block. Shallan followed, mounted the steps, tugged up the back of her skirts, and hauled herself into the saddle. It was indeed a very high place. She could see over the top of Adolin’s head, and Mr Karsten’s head, and the backs of horses being taken to pasture. “Well,” she said, hoping he could not sense the timidness in her voice. “This isn’t so bad.” “Um. If you could pull up your skirts?” said Adolin, very hesitantly, looking up at Shallan. “The saddle was made for someone else, and must be adjusted to your size.” “Oh – of course.” Shallan yanked up the outer skirt, and more gently, rolled up the hem of her underskirts. Doing so revealed stockinged legs and walking boots and the curved double horns of the side-saddle’s pommel. “Take your time.” Adolin flushed; he turned away and tentatively began to adjust the buckles and straps of the saddle. “If you are to be riding often, I would commission a side-saddle for your size. Neither Jasnah nor my royal aunt ride, and even if they did, their, ah, leg sizes wouldn’t fit you particularly comfortably.” The double pommel was adjusted to be higher up, and the stirrups were shortened. They now felt more comfortable – this saddle must have been sized for a woman with longer legs. Adolin avoided touching her, even though every bit of flesh was covered by woollen stocking. Whenever a knuckle brushed against her accidentally, she could see that the assured regularity of his movements wavered with the slightest hesitation. Finally, Adolin was finished, and he gave her a short bow. Shallan smiled at him in thanks; she dropped the hem of her skirt to cover herself, and tugged on the reins. The gelding started ambling at a gentle pace. He was taller than the shaggy coated ponies of Loch Davar, but he had the placid temperament compatible with unpractised riders. By the time Shallan had returned from her wide circle of the stables and coach house, she saw that Adolin had mounted his own horse – the great white beast that had been brought out earlier – and Kaladin had appeared; he also had a horse. She observed that Kaladin managed his seat without a mounting block. Karsten had his own mount, a brown mule with a white muzzle and belly. They followed the coach road leading southwards from the estate to the Kholinshire Forest. It was a wide road, well-made with a raised centre and rain ditches on either side – they could easily all four of them ride abreast if they wanted. Karsten took the lead; Shallan and Adolin on his white stallion followed, and Kaladin last. Shallan saw that Adolin wore his fur-collared overcoat over a fashionable tailed riding coat in Kholin blue; she felt a self-conscious twinge: she had no riding habit of her own, nor proper riding boots. She and Jasnah had filled their travelling trunks with books and papers during their travels; she had nothing appropriate for country pursuits and had therefore settled for her hard-wearing woollen carriage dress with her tartan. Kaladin, she noticed, had on his everyday suit under a plain travellers’ overcoat. He had a pair of bulging panniers and a bedroll strapped to his saddle; there were also two musket sheaths on either side of his horse. He had come well prepared – was it possible that he put more stock to the existence of curses than he had previously indicated? “Adolin - is your horse a plough horse?” she asked. If it was going to be a much longer ride than the journey to Courtlea, perhaps it would pass faster if they had diverting conversation. “Sureblood?” he laughed, and patted his horse’s neck. “No, his kind were once the horses ridden by the knights of old.” “But there are no knights anymore.” “That is why we use horses of his weight for our cannonry,” explained Adolin. “They are quite hardy beasts, you see: they don’t tend to shy at powderflash.” Shallan glanced backwards. Kaladin was within eavesdropping distance. “I notice,” she said, “our good Doctor looks as if he has trouble with his seat.” “You have been to Kharbranth, Miss Davar: you must be aware that horses are rare in a place where grain must be brought in by ship,” Kaladin said. “Oh my, I had forgotten that you had been educated in Kharbranth. I often find myself forgetting that you had been educated at all. A rather common mistake, I assume.” “Hm,” Kaladin grunted. “Well, if I have trouble keeping my seat, your horse has trouble keeping up. I suppose Adolin chose a smaller horse as there will be no mounting blocks in the forest, but it is quite inconvenient that it must take two paces for every one of ours.” “Not everyone sees the appeal in great size, Doctor,” Shallan replied serenely. “I, for one, am rather glad not to have been bestowed with, um, Anglethi proportions.” “You wouldn’t rather be our height and see us eye to eye?” asked Adolin. “No, not really. My stature does have its conveniences, you know.” “Does it?” Kaladin glanced at her with amused scepticism. “Whatever might they be, Miss Davar?” “Why, if I fall behind, it would be no trouble for you to carry me on your back.” “What a ridiculous suggestion,” said Kaladin with a scornful tone. “I cannot imagine any reason why I should do that.” “Because you value the spirit of charitability, of course.” “I think you mistake me for Adolin, Miss Davar,” said Kaladin. He made an unpleasantly indecipherable grunting sound and nudged his horse ahead of hers. “If he won’t carry you, you can always ride with me,” said Adolin, amiably. “Sureblood can easily take two.” They rode at a steady gait past fields and pastures; very occasionally they passed carriages or carthorses or other riders, but other than their conversation and the sound of their horses’ shod hooves crunching on gravel, it was quiet and still. A white mist patchily blanketed the ground; hayricks rose above the clouds here and there like the lonely aeries of mountain peaks. Shallan saw figures in the misted fields, small people in the distance: there were men with beards and shoddily hand-dyed red kerchiefs tied around their necks, hoeing the crop rows; there were also women with red headscarves following with baskets. Marshpeople. They were not as tall as Anglethis; they were, on average, not even as tall as Scots – mainland Scots like the McValams or the McAbrials, not the pale giants of the Unkalakney Islands. She had expected to see more while travelling with Jasnah, but the marshpeople hadn’t been allowed inside coaching house common rooms; she had only glimpsed them cleaning stables when getting into the carriage in the mornings. “Are there many marshpeople in the area?” she asked. Adolin turned toward her, a curious expression on his face. “Did Jasnah lecture at you with the horror tales of the uprising she’s so fond of frightening everyone with?” “Yes she did – but you know Jasnah; I was, in fact, wondering how you managed to feed all the villages in the area. In the north, we only have a few marshpeople labourers, but we also have fewer people per mile – outside the cities.” “The numbers escape me,” Adolin mused, “but I think out of all the Duchies, Kholinshire has the fewest marshpeople.” “So everyone believes Jasnah even though they all seem reluctant to admit it? Do they just not want to give Jasnah the satisfaction of knowing she’s right – once again?” “Well – not really,” said Adolin. “Father thinks oxen make for better labourers, and my aunt prefers mechanicals. She’s converted most of Kholinshire Park to run their mills on water.” He paused, then glanced at her, unsure for a moment. “My royal cousin doesn’t like foreigners around; he thinks they’ll try and stab him while he’s sleeping or something. So we got rid of most of them in the City. We can discourage buying contracts, but independent land-owners do what they will.” “What do you think, sir?” “I, honestly, never really thought about it. But I do suppose, for the rest of the country, the marshers’ labour is the source of a lot of Anglethi wealth.” “You think the indentures are a good thing?” “It’s – complicated,” admitted Adolin. He stopped for a moment, gathering his words; his fingers twisted Sureblood’s reins into knotted spirals. “The sheep,” he said at last, “are sheared by marshers in Roionshire, and they are turned into woven cloth by marshers in Sebarialshire, and are sewn into clothes in Kholinshire, so I can wear this coat.” He plucked at the lapels of his blue riding coat. “It seems straightforward to me,” remarked Shallan. “The Port Authority,” Adolin continued, “charges export tariffs for the King. The King pays for the bridges and roads and locks that the sheep are driven on, and the crates of cloth are barged through. The transport network would not exist without the goods, and we would not have goods without transport. Nothing is done solely by the good-will of the Dukes, for the good of the Kingdom.” “So it’s a matter of politics, then? I am unfamiliar with such matters: we Scots have our own Parliament – though its effectiveness is debatable – and Jasnah never cared to explain the details of Anglethi politics.” “Everything is politics. In the end, what it means is this: if the King cannot keep the money flowing, the Dukes will have little reason to hail him King.” This was very interesting. Shallan had always thought herself an outsider to the world of politics, which was mostly inhabited by men. Women could – and did – have their influence, and they could possess money or land, or sign their own contracts if their rank was high enough – but it was never direct power, nor direct decision making: it was always second-hand power usually bestowed by a high-ranking father or husband, or power delivered through male proxy-retainers. She had not expected to be informed so candidly about matters of power; it was a show of trust that Adolin could speak to her with such casual ease. “If the King cannot be King,” she said, “would the Dukes hail your father instead?” “The young Prince of Anglekar will not reach his majority in years … so likely, yes.” “Then – you would be the Prince Kholinar in your father’s stead?” “Yes,” said Adolin. He did not seem very pleased at the prospect. “Shallan? Is there something wrong?” His expression of distaste at the idea of being a Prince brought to mind a conversation Shallan had had a few days earlier. There had been that very same look; a similar flash of vulnerability had been revealed to her, in the way Adolin’s normally smiling mouth had tugged downwards at the corner. She was reminded of it in that instant; it was familiar, and now she recognised it. “Jasnah didn’t want to be a Princess; she never explained why.” “Oh,” said Adolin; he hesitated, then drew a breath. “Oh. If – if you are ever a Princess, you shan’t be made to do anything you don’t want. I promise – truly – you should never be placed in such a position – I would not let it happen. I can guarantee your safety, your protection–“ “You needn’t worry, sir,” Shallan cut in; coldness tinged her voice. “I can guarantee my own safety.” “But–“ “Please.” Shallan gripped the reins of her horse tightly. “I shan’t be locked away again.” She wanted to run – it was her natural instinct to do so when she was anxious and frightened as she was now – she wanted to go away to another place – any other place, it scarcely mattered where – with the desperate hope that when she came back, everything would be as it was: a silent house instead of Father arguing with Malise, Jushu awake and alert, Balat playing with his pups. But her legs were caught up in the crescent shaped pommels of the side-saddle; they were firmly locked into position. She could not run. She knew it. Sometimes there was nowhere to run. “Again?” “It’s not important,” she said. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly; air hissed in between clenched teeth. She struggled to compose herself. “Adolin – I do not find you wanting in your feeling. Truly, I do not. I am appreciative of your concern; your offer is a credit to your character.” “Oh,” he looked at her, then looked down at his hands. He looked as if he were going to say something, but he seemed to perceive that there was something she didn’t want to talk about, something she didn’t feel comfortable sharing with him. Not yet. “Well. Thank you?” “Jasnah turned out perfectly all right, you know,” Shallan whispered. She did not know if Adolin heard it. She was half talking to herself. The rest of the ride was subdued. Adolin picked at the stitched seams of his riding gloves, while Shallan looked around at the fields and approaching forest. She could not draw on the jolting up-and-down of a horse in motion; it took effort to stay in the seat even with the convenience and support of a side-saddle. She doubted that she could draw or even open her wooden pen box without scattering a trail of chalk nubs on the gravelled road. *** They followed the main road until they saw the Forest. When they reached it, they took a lesser used side road – it was half the width of the King’s Royal Road – that linked small villages and farming communities to the markets of the City. This was the road they would take before they would find the logging trail that cut a path through the Forest to the creek marked on the map. It was mid-morning when they found the start of the logging trail: it was easier than they‘d expected – Shallan had thought it would be overgrown since it had not been in use apart from the brief failure of a logging enterprise in Adolin’s father’s time. But the local villagers had taken their wood from the forest here, and cleared the ground in front of the path: they were entitled, as tenants of the ducal estate, to take trees for warming their homes and cooking their food. The trees on the edge of the forest-line were young and small – these villagers had gone into the Forest and taken the larger trees lining the edge of the trail. The trail, for the most part, was wide enough for them to ride horseback, and lacked large dangling branches that could strike them in the face. After a certain point, Karsten, who had the lead, gestured for the party to halt. “My lord,” he said, turning his mule around, “We must leave the path here, to find the creek. There is no trail – you must walk from here and lead the horses, and if the ground is too steep for them, you must either take a long detour for better ground or leave them where they are.” “Is it better not to leave the horses on the path?” asked Adolin. “Someone would steal them,” said Kaladin dryly. “Perhaps not yours – a recognisable officer’s horse could not find a buyer quickly, but mine and Miss Davar’s would be taken by any unscrupulous traveller. And with my own Anglethi proportions, I sincerely doubt Miss Davar should offer to carry me, as per her noble sense of charitability.” “I have been told – quite recently, in fact – that I am anything but weak,” replied Shallan, rolling her eyes. “Take the horses with us, they have more supplies on them than we could carry on foot.” They let Karsten go first, leading the mule, who followed obligingly. It was not easy for the horses, especially Adolin’s Sureblood, who was so large that the underbrush scraped against his coat whenever he had to push through a patch to follow his master. Shallan soon put on her bonnet and veil to protect her face. It was dark and humid amidst the trees – she was not afraid of risking a sunburn – but Kaladin, in front of her, paid no regard to her presence; he let little branches swing by as he pressed ahead, and Shallan found being whipped with twigs eventually made her feel quite irritable. After an hour of walking, they found the creek. It meant that they had gone too far, and had to double back – the site they were looking for was in between the creek and the trail. They let the horses drink; they all, gentlemen and horses alike, looked quite bedraggled from being scraped by every bush and tree trunk they had passed. Shallan felt rather limp, too. She was not a particularly athletic person, and although she could walk the several mile circuit of the Loch Davar estate without trouble, the uneven downwards footing to the low ground of the creek was more sustained exertion than she had experienced in months. The gentlemen, though slightly perspiring, looked much better than her, she thought. Adolin and Kaladin had taken off their overcoats and jackets, preferring to hang them from their horses’ pommels. They had, the both of them, stripped to waistcoats and shirtsleeves; Adolin had loosened his neckcloth and pushed up his sleeves. Karsten, a groundskeeper by trade, looked quite unaffected. He wore his cap and had his coat on still; it was a patchily dyed grey-green mottle that blended in quite well with the Forest. To Shallan’s great relief, they broke for luncheon instead of backtracking to the trail. Karsten’s panniers had food from the Kholinar Court kitchen; they feasted on a more genuine huntsman’s lunch than had been served at The Sign of the White Boar. Kaladin had started a fire and was now boiling water for tea in a narrow cylindrical travel kettle. “Do you suppose we’ll actually see a white boar?” asked Shallan, as she folded her bread around sliced sausage and pickle. “No one even knows if it’s actually a boar,” said Kaladin. “It’s probably nothing. Either that or a white deer.” “And the lights at night?” “Probably villagers.” “In the middle of the night? Whatever might they be up to?” Kaladin was throwing handfuls of leaves into the small fire he had made; he looked up. His eyebrows rose upwards and disappeared into the messy fringe over his forehead. “Are you being serious?” “Aren’t I always?” “Then I shall tell you when you’re older.” “You can tell Adolin – he’s older than me. Then I will ask Adolin,” Shallan said, a capricious smile sliding across her face. Adolin swallowed his mouthful of cheese and bread. “Tell me what?” he said. “There are fruit pies,” said Kaladin. “Underneath the ham slices, in the lunch basket. Shallan wasn’t going to tell you because she wanted them all to herself.” *** They spent another two hours after lunch zig-zagging back and forth between the creek and trail, trying to find the location of the long-lost pre-Vorin structures. It was dim and wet with the canopy overhead, blocking what little sunlight that shone through the grey clouds; the leaves dripped from the previous day’s rain onto Shallan’s bonnet. Her boots squelched on the rotting leaves underfoot, and she knew her underskirts were in a terrible state; she had tried to keep hold of her skirts, but had she needed her hands to lead the horse and keep her balance navigating the treacherous slope of the creek banks. She had noticed they were going in an up-slope direction now: the ground was becoming firmer, and though the undergrowth was as dense as it had been, there were very large trees now – older growth – and the space between them more generous than she had seen before. “Here now, my lord,” called Karsten from ahead. They halted again. This was just the last of many stops where they had gathered together, paced in a circle looking for any evidence of human structures, and continued ahead upon not finding a thing. Was this to be another disappointment? Shallan had not complained – it had been her suggestion to go looking for lost treasure, after all – and she was glad that Adolin was too good-humoured to blame others in the event of an empty-handed return. “What is it?” said Shallan. Her gelding nuzzled at the back of her bonnet. “My lady, there are some stone formations around here. If you would like to take a look?” Karsten said, gesturing with his arm. It wasn’t much to look at – there was no clearing, no perfectly circular meadow, and no mystical fortress that did not appear in view unless one happened to glance at it out of the corner of one’s eye. There was a stone outcrop, draped in vines and moss, and a few other lumps of non-magical nature surrounding it. It was an immense disappointment, and Shallan scowled. “Is this it?” she asked, tugging at her gelding’s reins. She was sweating from walking for the last three hours, and the ride from the House had taken that long, and now there was a ride back to look forward to – that would be equally as tedious. She was hot; her veil stuck to her; she had done it all in a heavy woollen dress. She stamped at the ground irritably. She stubbed her toe. Something rolled away from her foot. Wait. Roots did not roll away. She dropped to her knees in the leaf litter and began digging, scrabbling through the humus with frantic urgency. She found it – at last. It was a bit of masoned stone, rough all around, except for one small edge, which was smooth. “It’s here,” she said. Adolin tugged at his neckcloth. “A rock?” “Yes. A rock. A beautiful, wonderful rock.” *** The light had slowly faded from the overcast sky by the time they had cleared a section of vines from the central stone outcrop. It was dimmer now – not dark enough that they could not see where they were going – but the light could not be relied on to last for more than a few more hours. Shallan began to feel concern that Adolin would insist they use the last few hours of light to turn back to the House. There was a bare patch in the outcrop left by their removing of great swaths of hanging moss – it was more than an outcrop now. There had been a cylindrical stone building here once; it was squat with a gently pointed cone of a roof, and it had been overgrown on all sides by creeping vines and saplings that its shape was difficult to discern unless one stepped away and saw that there was a regular shape hidden among the irregularly distributed trees. The walls of the building were crumbling from years of neglect now; there were gaps where dampness and moss and persistent questing saplings had forced open small cracks into large ones. Winters in southern Anglekar were not as harsh as they were in Scotland, but they must have had a true winter once per decade or so – and Shallan knew that even one cycle of freezing and thawing was enough to require yearly maintenance of the Loch Davar courtyard, when they had had the money for it. This building, though it looked like it had been built from a seamless yellow-brown stone, had been here for hundreds of years. Perhaps more than a thousand, or even two or three – Shallan could not possibly begin to guess. There were no chisel marks on the stone walls, only naturally formed cracks. There were no joints where mortar had been laid; it had been built – or dropped by the hand of the Almighty – as one solid piece in the middle of a forest, as unbelievable as it seemed. Shallan circled the structure, as close as she could: trees and bushes had grown around the base of it, but it would not be impossible to take a rough estimate of its circumference if one counted paces carefully and made allowances of perhaps an extra yard in diameter on each side. That was when she found place where roots and water had created a gap, large enough for a man to enter if he ducked his head and turned obliquely to keep his shoulders from scraping the edges. “Light! Candles! Has anyone remembered to bring any?” she called. Adolin and Kaladin came at the sound of her voice. Candles were quickly found in a pannier and lit with a clockwork fire starter – they pushed aside the curtain of drooping moss and ducked their heads – they entered the hollow of the holy stone. It was a cylindrical chamber, dark and echoing; there was at their feet a circular gallery with a crumbling stone rail – the gallery did not go all the way around, but led downwards and downwards into the darkness. It was black inside, an empty, endless blackness that seemed to swallow light and sound alike; it smelled of damp and rotting earth; the air she breathed was still and cold. It did not seem holy at all: there was neither Light nor Grace to be found – how could anyone have built it for the glory of the Almighty, He who shone from above? Shallan led the way, candle raised in one trembling hand. Adolin followed behind her; he took her free hand with one of his. “Go slowly,” he warned. “Feel before you step. If you sense something give way, don’t dare let go.” They descended into the spiralling blackness. There was a floor at the bottom – to Shallan’s relief. She had thought that they might walk and walk and become lost forever into the welling emptiness. But there was a floor; it was littered with dried leaves and twigs and the crunching skeletons of nameless small creatures, and underneath that, there were square bits of a mosaic that had fallen apart into its clinking component tiles. But the walls – oh the walls! The wall – it was but one wall, as Shallan saw – was a mural, a single great painting that wrapped all the way around the circular interior in a panoramic scene, depicting a battle of God and Heralds and Kings and Knights and Champions. It was magnificent – it was tens of feet high and the top was lost in the dark – and it was beautifully detailed. Every Knight and Champion and supporting soldier had an individual face. Some of the faces were distinctly feminine. The eyes and swords and armour of several of the closer Champions had been coated with a varnish of powdered mica – it reflected the candlelight and almost seemed to glow. “We need more candles,” breathed Shallan. Author's Notes: I hope you readers are noticing Kaladin is warming up to Shallan here. :-) I know that a day in the forest is not that exotic compared to the Shattered Plains, but we all must make do. - Shallan snarks out of habit rather than actual malice. She does not hate Kaladin that much anymore. She doesn't know if Kaladin can tell or not. - Marshpeople are humans in this AU. The Veden Highprinces are Scottish clan chiefs, and Horneaters are from the Unkalakney Islands, which is Orkney in this universe. - Adolin is politically more astute than Shallan expects. He knows the Dukes want cheap indentured labour to make money, but the productivity is spread around to lots of other people too, like shepherds and weavers, and it means farmers can afford to wear warm coats. - "Prince of Anglekar" - Elhokar's son, the crown prince. It's really "Prince Anglekar" as his court title, but I thought it might be confusing and mistaken for his actual name, instead of the country's name. Dalinar is "Prince Kholinar", a non-hereditary court title that has no lands associated with it. It means that the Dukes have to bow to him, while he doesn't have to waste time managing an estate. - "I shan't be locked away again" - scene from end of WoR. Adolin says "you shan't be made to anything you don't want", it implies that Jasnah was forced into something, and no one protected her. - "Then I shall tell you when you're older" - Shallan can guess, but she's messing with Kaladin. When she snarks on him, she is starting to shift away from rude antagonism to more friendly banter.