The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,249

we are worshipping him in the most fundamental way. A devotary—and its ardents—should help nurture that, encouraging you to set and achieve goals of excellence.” He waved to the books stacked on the desk. “This is what your devotary should be helping you with, Shallan. History, logic, science, art. Being honest and good is important, but we should be working harder to encourage the natural talents of people, rather than forcing them to adapt to the Glories and Callings we feel are most important.”

“That is a reasonable argument, I guess.”

Kabsal nodded, looking thoughtful “Is it any wonder a woman like Jasnah Kholin turned away from that? Many devotaries encourage women to leave difficult studies of theology to the ardents. If only Jasnah had been able to see the true beauty of our doctrine.” He smiled, digging a thick book out of his bread basket. “I really had hoped, originally, to be able to show her what I mean.”

“I doubt she’d react well to that.”

“Perhaps,” he said idly, hefting the tome. “But to be the one who finally convinced her!”

“Brother Kabsal, that sounds almost like you’re seeking distinction.”

He blushed, and she realized she’d said something that genuinely embarrassed him. She winced, cursing her tongue.

“Yes,” he said. “I do seek distinction. I shouldn’t wish so badly to be the one who converts her. But I do. If she would just listen to my proof.”

“Proof?”

“I have real evidence that the Almighty exists.”

“I’d like to see it.” Then she raised a finger, cutting him off. “Not because I doubt his existence, Kabsal. I’m just curious.”

He smiled. “It will be my pleasure to explain. But first, would you like another slice of bread?”

“I should say no,” she said, “and avoid excess, as my tutors trained me. But instead I’ll say yes.”

“Because of the jam?”

“Of course,” she said, taking the bread. “How did your book of oracular preserves describe me? Impulsive and spontaneous? I can do that. If it means jam.”

He slathered a piece for her, then wiped his fingers on his cloth and opened his book, flipping through the pages until he reached one that had a drawing on it. Shallan slid closer for a better look. The picture wasn’t of a person; it depicted a pattern of some kind. A triangular shape, with three outlying wings and a peaked center.

“Do you recognize this?” Kabsal asked.

It seemed familiar. “I feel that I should.”

“It’s Kholinar,” he said. “The Alethi capital, drawn as it would appear from above. See the peaks here, the ridges there? It was built around the rock formation that was already there.” He flipped the page. “Here’s Vedenar, capital of Jah Keved.” This one was a hexagonal pattern. “Akinah.” A circular pattern. “Thaylen City.” A four-pointed star pattern.

“What does it mean?”

“It is proof that the Almighty is in all things. You can see him here, in these cities. Do you see how symmetrical they are?”

“The cities were built by men, Kabsal. They wanted symmetry because it is holy.”

“Yes, but in each case they built around existing rock formations.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Shallan said. “I do believe, but I don’t know if this is proof. Wind and water can create symmetry; you see it in nature all the time. The men picked areas that were roughly symmetrical, then designed their cities to make up for any flaws.”

He turned to his basket again, rummaging. He came out with—of all things—a metal plate. As she opened her mouth to ask a question, he held up his finger again and set the plate down on a small wooden stand that raised it a few inches above the tabletop.

Kabsal sprinkled white, powdery sand on the sheet of metal, coating it. Then he got out a bow, the kind drawn across strings to make music.

“You came prepared for this demonstration, I see,” Shallan noted. “You really did want to make your case to Jasnah.”

He smiled, then drew the bow across the edge of the metal plate, making it vibrate. The sand hopped and bounced, like tiny insects dropped onto something hot.

“This,” he said, “is called cymatics. The study of the patterns that sounds make when interacting with a physical medium.”

As he drew the bow again, the plate made a sound, almost a pure note. It was actually enough to draw a single musicspren, which spun for a moment in the air above him, then vanished. Kabsal finished, then gestured to the plate with a flourish.

“So…?” Shallan asked.

“Kholinar,” he said, holding up his book for comparison.

Shallan cocked her head. The