Words of Radiance

“‘Very well, you can hear some kinds of beauty—but you cannot know full beauty without sight. You can know only a small portion of beauty.’

“‘A sculpture,’ the first said. ‘Can I not feel its curves and slopes, the touch of the chisel that transformed common rock into uncommon wonder?’

“‘I suppose,’ said the second, ‘that you can know the beauty of a sculpture.’

“‘And what of the beauty of food? Is it not a work of art when a chef crafts a masterpiece to delight the tastes?’

“‘I suppose,’ said the second, ‘that you can know the beauty of a chef’s art.’

“‘And what of the beauty of a woman,’ the first said. ‘Can I not know her beauty in the softness of her caress, the kindness of her voice, the keenness of her mind as she reads philosophy to me? Can I not know this beauty? Can I not know most kinds of beauty, even without my eyes?’

“‘Very well,’ said the second. ‘But what if your ears were removed, your hearing taken away? Your tongue taken out, your mouth forced shut, your sense of smell destroyed? What if your skin were burned so that you could no longer feel? What if all that remained to you was pain? You could not know beauty then. It can be taken from a man.’”

The messenger stopped, cocking his head at Shallan.

“What?” she asked.

“What think you? Can beauty be taken from a man? If he could not touch, taste, smell, hear, see… what if all he knew was pain? Has that man had beauty taken from him?”

“I…” What did this have to do with anything? “Does the pain change day by day?”

“Let us say it does,” the messenger said.

“Then beauty, to that person, would be the times when the pain lessens. Why are you telling me this story?”

The messenger smiled. “To be human is to seek beauty, Shallan. Do not despair, do not end the hunt because thorns grow in your way. Tell me, what is the most beautiful thing you can imagine?”

“Father is probably wondering where I am…”

“Indulge me,” the messenger said. “I will tell you where your brother is.”

“A wonderful painting, then. That is the most beautiful thing.”

“Lies,” the messenger said. “Tell me the truth. What is it, child? Beauty, to you.”

“I…” What was it? “Mother still lives,” she found herself whispering, meeting his eyes.

“And?”

“And we are in the gardens,” Shallan continued. “She is speaking to my father, and he is laughing. Laughing and holding her. We are all there, including Helaran. He never left. The people my mother knew… Dreder… never came to our home. Mother loves me. She teaches me philosophy, and she shows me how to draw.”

“Good,” the messenger said. “But you can do better than that. What is that place? What does it feel like?”

“It’s spring,” Shallan shot back, growing annoyed. “And the mossvines bloom a vigorous red. They smell sweet, and the air is moist from the morning’s highstorm. Mother whispers, but there is music to her tone, and Father’s laugh doesn’t echo—it rises high into the air, bathing us all.

“Helaran is teaching Jushu swords, and they spar nearby. Wikim laughs as Helaran is struck on the side of the leg. He is studying to be an ardent, as Mother wanted. I am sketching them all, charcoal scratching paper. I feel warm, despite the slight chill to the air. I have a steaming cup of cider beside me, and I taste the sweetness in my mouth from the sip I just took. It is beautiful because it could have been. It should have been. I…”

She blinked tears. She saw it. Stormfather, but she saw it. She heard her mother’s voice, saw Jushu giving up spheres to Balat as he lost the duel, but laughing as he paid, uncaring of the loss. She could feel the air, smell the scents, hear the sounds of songlings in the brush. Almost, it became real.

Wisps of Light rose before her. The messenger had gotten out a handful of spheres and held them toward her while staring into her eyes. The steamy Stormlight rose between them. Shallan lifted her fingers, the image of her ideal life wrapped around her like a comforter.

No.

She drew back. The misty light faded.

“I see,” the messenger said softly. “You do not yet understand the nature of lies. I had that trouble myself, long ago. The Shards here are very strict. You will have to see the truth, child, before you can expand upon it. Just as a man should know the law before he breaks it.”

Shadows from her past shifted in the depths, surfacing just briefly toward the light. “Could you help?”

“No. Not now. You aren’t ready, for one, and I have work to be about. Another day. Keep cutting at those thorns, strong one, and make a path for the light. The things you fight aren’t completely natural.” He stood up, then bowed to her.

“My brother,” she said.

“He is in Alethkar.”

Alethkar? “Why?”

“Because that is where he feels he is needed, of course. If I see him again, I will give him word of you.” The messenger walked away on light feet, his steps smooth, almost like moves in a dance.

Shallan watched him go, the deep things within her settling again, returning to the forgotten parts of her mind. She realized she had not even asked the man his name.