If Shallan went with Kabsal, maybe she could ask him what he knew regarding Soulcasters. That wasn’t what decided it for her, however, The truth was, she needed to relax. She’d been so on edge lately, brain stuffed with philosophy, every spare moment spent trying to make the Soulcaster work. Was it any wonder she was hearing voices?

“I’d love some jam,” she declared.

“Truthberry jam,” Kabsal said, holding up the small green jar. “It’s Azish. Legends there say that those who consume the berries speak only the truth until the next sunset.”

Shallan raised an eyebrow. They were seated on cushions atop a blanket in the Conclave gardens, not far from where she’d first experimented with the Soulcaster. “And is it true?”

“Hardly,” Kabsal said, opening the jar. “The berries are harmless. But the leaves and stalks of the truthberry plant, if burned, give off a smoke that makes people intoxicated and euphoric. It appears that peoples often gathered the stalks for making fires. They’d eat the berries around the campfire and have a rather…interesting night.”

“It’s a wonder—” Shallan began, then bit her lip.

“What?” he prodded.

She sighed. “It’s a wonder they didn’t become known as birthberries, considering—” She blushed.

He laughed. “That’s a good point!”

“Stormfather,” she said, blushing further. “I’m terrible at being proper. Here, give me some of that jam.”

He smiled, handing over a slice of bread with green jam slathered across the top. A dull-eyed parshman—appropriated from inside the Conclave—sat on the ground beside a shalebark wall, acting as an impromptu chaperone. It felt so strange to be out with a man near her own age with only a single parshman in attendance. It felt liberating. Exhilarating. Or maybe that was just the sunlight and the open air.

“I’m also terrible at being scholarly,” she said, closing her eyes, breathing deeply. “I like it outside far too much.”

“Many of the greatest scholars spent their lives traveling.”

“And for each one of them,” Shallan said, “there were a hundred more stuck back in a hole of a library, buried in books.”

“And they wouldn’t have had it any other way. Most people with a bent for research prefer their holes and libraries. But you do not. That makes you intriguing.”

She opened her eyes, smiling at him, then took a luscious bite of her jam and bread. This Thaylen bread was so fluffy, it was more like cake.

“So,” she said as he chewed on his bite, “do you feel any more truthful, now that you’ve had the jam?”

“I am an ardent,” he said. “It is my duty and calling to be truthful at all times.”

“Of course,” she said. “I’m always truthful as well. So full of truth, in fact, that sometimes it squeezes the lies right out my lips. There isn’t a place for them inside, you see.”

He laughed heartily. “Shallan Davar. I can’t imagine anyone as sweet as yourself uttering a single untruth.”

“Then for the sake of your sanity, I’ll keep them coming in pairs.” She smiled. “I’m having a terrible time, and this food is awful.”

“You’ve just disproven an entire body of lore and mythology surrounding the eating of truthberry jam!”

“Good,” Shallan said. “Jam should not have lore or mythology. It should be sweet, colorful, and delicious.”

“Like young ladies, I presume.”

“Brother Kabsal!” She blushed again. “That wasn’t at all appropriate.”

“And yet you smile.”

“I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m sweet, colorful, and delicious.”

“You have the colorful part right,” he said, obviously amused at her deep blush. “And the sweet part. Can’t speak for your deliciousness….”

“Kabsal!” she exclaimed, though she wasn’t entirely shocked. She’d once told herself that he was interested in her only in order to protect her soul, but that was getting more and more difficult to believe. He stopped by at least once a week.

He chuckled at her embarrassment, but that only made her blush further.

“Stop it!” She held her hand up in front of her eyes. “My face must be the color of my hair! You shouldn’t say such things; you’re a man of religion.”

“But still a man, Shallan.”

“One who said his interest in me was only academic.”

“Yes, academic,” he said idly. “Involving many experiments and much firsthand field research.”

“Kabsal!”

He laughed deeply, taking a bite of his bread. “I’m sorry, Brightness Shallan. But it gets such a reaction!”

She grumbled, lowering her hand, but knew that he said the things—in part—because she encouraged him. She couldn’t help it. Nobody had ever shown her the kind of interest that he, increasingly, did. She liked him—liked talking with him, liked listening to him. It was a wonderful way to break the monotony of study.

There was, of course, no prospect for a union. Assuming she could protect her family, she’d be needed to make a good political marriage. Dallying with an ardent owned by the king of Kharbranth wouldn’t serve anyone.

I’ll soon have to start hinting to him the truth, she thought. He has to know that this won’t go anywhere. Doesn’t he?

He leaned toward her. “You really are what you seem, aren’t you, Shallan?”

“Capable? Intelligent? Charming?”

He smiled. “Genuine.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she said.

“You are. I see it in you.”

“It’s not that I’m genuine. I’m naive. I lived my entire childhood in my family’s manor.”

“You don’t have the air of a recluse about you. You’re so at ease at conversation.”

“I had to become so. I spent most of my childhood in my own company, and I detest boring conversation partners.”

He smiled, though his eyes held concern. “It seems a shame that one such as you would lack for attention. That’s like hanging a beautiful painting facing the wall.”

She leaned back on her safehand, finishing off her bread. “I wouldn’t say I lacked for attention, not quantitatively, for certain. My father paid me plenty of attention.”

“I’ve heard of him. A stern man, by reputation.”

“He’s…” She had to pretend he was still alive. “My father is a man of passion and virtue. Just never at the same time.”

“Shallan! That might just be the wittiest thing I’ve heard you say.”

“And perhaps the most truthful. Unfortunately.”

Kabsal looked into her eyes, searching for something. What did he see? “You don’t seem to care for your father much.”

“Another truthful statement. The berries are working on both of us, I see.”

“He’s a hurtful man, I gather?”

“Yes, though never to me. I’m too precious. His ideal, perfect daughter. You see, my father is precisely the type of man to hang a picture facing the wrong way. That way, it can’t be soiled by unworthy eyes or touched by unworthy fingers.”