“He really wants to do what is right. You should hear him talk about it lately. He wants to be remembered as a good king.”
“Vanity.”
“You don’t care about how you’ll be remembered?”
“I’ll remember myself, which is enough. Elhokar though, he worries about the wrong things. His father wore a simple crown because he needed no reminder of his authority. Elhokar wears a simple crown because he worries that something more lavish might make people look at it, instead of at him. He doesn’t want the competition.”
Wit turned away from his inspection of the hearth and chimney. “You want to change the world, Shallan. That’s well and good. But be careful. The world predates you. She has seniority.”
“I’m a Radiant,” Shallan said, shoving another forkful of crumbly, sweet bread into her mouth. “Saving the world is in the job description.”
“Then be wise about it. There are two kinds of important men, Shallan. There are those who, when the boulder of time rolls toward them, stand up in front of it and hold out their hands. All their lives, they’ve been told how great they are. They assume the world itself will bend to their whims as their nurse did when fetching them a fresh cup of milk.
“Those men end up squished.
“Other men stand to the side when the boulder of time passes, but are quick to say, ‘See what I did! I made the boulder roll there. Don’t make me do it again!’
“These men end up getting everyone else squished.”
“Is there not a third type of person?”
“There is, but they are oh so rare. These know they can’t stop the boulder. So they walk beside it, study it, and bide their time. Then they shove it—ever so slightly—to create a deviation in its path.
“These are the men … well, these are the men who actually change the world. And they terrify me. For men never see as far as they think they do.”
Shallan frowned, then looked at her empty plate. She hadn’t thought she was hungry, but once she’d started eating …
Wit walked past and deftly lifted her plate away, then swapped it with his full one.
“Wit … I can’t eat that.”
“Don’t be persnickety,” he said. “How are you going to save the world if you starve yourself?”
“I’m not starving myself.” But she took a little bite to satisfy him. “You make it sound like having the power to change the world is a bad thing.”
“Bad? No. Abhorrent, depressing, ghastly. Having power is a terrible burden, the worst thing imaginable, except for every other alternative.” He turned and studied her. “What is power to you, Shallan?”
“It’s…” Shallan cut at the cremling, separating it from its shell. “It’s what I said earlier—the ability to change things.”
“Things?”
“Other people’s lives. Power is the ability to make life better or worse for the people around you.”
“And yourself too, of course.”
“I don’t matter.”
“You should.”
“Selflessness is a Vorin virtue, Wit.”
“Oh, bother that. You’ve got to live life, Shallan, enjoy life. Drink of what you’re proposing to give everyone else! That’s what I do.”
“You … do seem to enjoy yourself a great deal.”
“I like to live every day like it’s my last.”
Shallan nodded.
“And by that I mean lying in a puddle of my own urine, calling for the nurse to bring me more pudding.”
She almost choked on a bite of cremling. Her cup was empty, but Wit walked past and put his in her hand. She gulped it down.
“Power is a knife,” Wit said, taking his seat. “A terrible, dangerous knife that can’t be wielded without cutting yourself. We joked about stupidity, but in reality most people aren’t stupid. Many are simply frustrated at how little control they have over their lives. They lash out. Sometimes in spectacular ways…”
“The Cult of Moments. They reportedly claim to see a transformed world coming upon us.”
“Be wary of anyone who claims to be able to see the future, Shallan.”
“Except you, of course. Didn’t you say you can see where you need to be?”
“Be wary,” he repeated, “of anyone who claims to be able to see the future, Shallan.”
Pattern rippled on the table, not humming, only changing more quickly, forming new shapes in a rapid sequence. Shallan swallowed. To her surprise, her plate was empty again. “The cult has control of the Oathgate platform,” she said. “Do you know what they do up there every night?”
“They feast,” Wit said softly, “and party. There are two general divisions among them. The common members wander the streets, moaning, pretending to be spren. But others up on the platform actually know the spren—specifically, the creature known as the Heart of the Revel.”
“One of the Unmade.”
Wit nodded. “A dangerous foe, Shallan. The cult reminds me of a group I knew long ago. Equally dangerous, equally foolish.”
“Elhokar wants me to infiltrate them. Get onto that platform and activate the Oathgate. Is it possible?”
“Perhaps.” Wit settled back. “Perhaps. I can’t make the gate work; the spren of the fabrial won’t obey me. You have the proper key, and the cult takes new members eagerly. Consumes them, like a fire needing new logs.”
“How? What do I do?”
“Food,” he said. “Their proximity to the Heart drives them to feast and celebrate.”
“Drinking in life?” she said, quoting his sentiment from earlier.
“No. Hedonism has never been enjoyment, Shallan, but the opposite. They take the wonderful things of life and indulge until they lose savor. It’s listening to beautiful music, performed so loud as to eliminate all subtlety—taking something beautiful and making it carnal. Yet their feasting does give you an opening. I’ve brushed against their leaders—despite my best efforts. Bring them food for the revel, and I can get you in. A warning, however, simple Soulcast grain won’t satisfy them.”
A challenge, then. “I should get back to the others.” She looked up to Wit. “Would you … come with me? Join us?”
He stood, then walked to the door and pressed his ear against it. “Unfortunately, Shallan,” he said, glancing at her, “you’re not why I am here.”
She took a deep breath. “I am going to learn how to change the world, Wit.”
“You already know how. Learn why.” He stepped back from the door and pressed himself against the wall. “Also, tell the innkeeper I disappeared in a puff of smoke. It will drive him crazy.”
“The inn—”
The door opened suddenly, swinging inward. The innkeeper entered, and hesitated as he found Shallan sitting alone at the table. Wit slipped deftly around the door and out behind the man, who didn’t notice.
“Damnation,” the innkeeper said, searching around. “I don’t suppose he’s going to work tonight?”
“I have no idea.”
“He said he’d treat me like a king.”
“Well, he’s keeping that promise…”
The innkeeper took the plates, then bustled out. Conversations with Wit had a way of ending in an odd manner. And, well, starting in an odd manner. Odd all around.
“Do you know anything about Wit?” she asked Pattern.
“No,” Pattern said. “He feels like … mmm … one of us.”
Shallan fished in her pouch for some spheres—Wit had stolen a few, she noted—as a tip for the poor innkeeper. Then she made her way back to the tailor’s shop, planning how to use her team to get the requisite food.