He loved Helaran, and none of us are him, so we don’t matter. Helaran is never here! He betrayed Father, almost killed him. And still, he’s the only one who matters. . . .”
They passed Father’s chambers. The heavy stumpweight door was open a crack as a maid tidied the room, allowing Shallan to see the far wall.
And the glowing strongbox.
It was hidden behind a painting of a storm at sea that did nothing to dim the powerful white glow. Right through the canvas, she saw the outline of the strongbox blazing like a fire. She stumbled, pulling to a stop.
“What are you staring at?” Jushu demanded, holding to the bannister.
“The light.”
“What light?”
“Behind the painting.”
He squinted, lurching forward. “What in the Halls are you talking about, girl? It really did ruin your mind, didn’t it? Watching him kill Mother?” Jushu pulled away from her, cursing softly to himself. “I’m the only one in this family who hasn’t gone crazy. The only storming one . . .”
Shallan stared into that light. There hid a monster.
There hid Mother’s soul.
The betrayal of spren has brought us here.
They gave their Surges to human heirs,
But not to those who know them most dear, before us.
’Tis no surprise we turned away
Unto the gods we spent our days
And to become their molding clay, they changed us.
—From the Listener Song of Secrets, 40th stanza
“Th’information’ll cost ya twelve broams,” Shallan said. “Ruby, you see. I’ll check each one.”
Tyn laughed, tossing her head back, jet-black hair falling free around her shoulders. She sat in the driver’s seat of the wagon. Where Bluth used to sit.
“You call that a Bav accent?” Tyn demanded.
“I’ve only heard them three or four times.”
“You sounded like you have rocks in your mouth!”
“That’s how they sound!”
“Nah, it’s more like they have pebbles in their mouths. But they talk really slow, with overemphasized sounds. Like this. ‘Oi looked over the paintings that ya gave me, and they’re roit nice. Roit nice indeed. Ain’t never had a cloth for my backside that was so pleasant.’”
“You’re exaggerating that!” Shallan said, though she couldn’t help laughing.
“A tad,” Tyn said, leaning back and sweeping her long, chull-guiding reed in front of her like a Shardblade.
“I don’t see why knowing a Bav accent would be useful,” Shallan said. “They’re not a very important people.”
“Kid, that’s why they’re important.”
“They’re important because they’re unimportant,” Shallan said. “All right, I know I’m bad at logic sometimes, but something about that statement seems off.”
Tyn smiled. She was so relaxed, so . . . free. Not at all what Shallan had expected after their first encounter.
But then the woman had been playing a part. Leader of the guard. This woman Shallan was talking to now, this seemed real.
“Look,” Tyn said, “if you’re going to fool people, you’ll need to learn how to act beneath them as well as above them. You’re getting the whole ‘important lighteyes’ thing down. I assume you’ve had good examples.”
“You could say that,” Shallan replied, thinking of Jasnah.
“Thing is, in a lot of situations, being an important lighteyes is useless.”
“Being unimportant is important. Being important is useless. Got it.”
Tyn eyed her, chewing on some jerky. Her sword belt hung from a peg on the side of the seat, swaying to the rhythm of the chull’s gait. “You know, kid, you get kind of mouthy when you let your mask down.”
Shallan blushed.
“I like it. I prefer people who can laugh at life.”
“I can guess what you’re trying to teach me,” Shallan said. “You’re saying that a person with a Bav accent, someone who looks lowly and simple, can go places a lighteyes never could.”
“And can hear or do things a lighteyes never could. Accent is important. Elocute with distinction, and it often won’t matter how little money you have. Wipe your nose on your arm and speak like a Bav, and sometimes people won’t even glance to see if you’re wearing a sword.”
“But my eyes are light blue,” Shallan said. “I’ll never pass for lowly, no matter what my voice sounds like!”
Tyn fished in her trouser pocket. She had slung her coat over another peg, and so wore only the pale tan trousers—tight, with high boots—and a buttoned shirt. Almost a worker’s shirt, though of nicer material.
“Here,” Tyn said, tossing something to her.
Shallan barely caught it. She blushed at her clumsiness, then held it up toward the sun: a small vial with some dark liquid inside.
“Eyedrops,” Tyn said. “They’ll darken your eyes for a few hours.”
“Really?”
“Not hard to find, if you have the right