Jasnah hadn’t made any faces at the scent. In fact, Jasnah hadn’t mentioned that the jam had spoiled. She’d just replaced the lid and handed back the jar.

Shallan flipped to another blank page and drew Jasnah with a piece of bread raised to her lips. After eating it, she’d grimaced. Odd.

Shallan lowered her pen, looking at that sketch of Jasnah, piece of bread pinched between her fingers. It wasn’t a perfect reproduction, but it was close enough. In the sketch, it looked like the piece of bread was melting. As if it were squished unnaturally between Jasnah’s fingers as she put it into her mouth.

Could it… could it be?

Shallan slid out of the bed, gathering the sphere and carrying it in her hand, sketchpad tucked under her arm. The guard was gone. Nobody seemed to care what happened to her; she was being shipped off in the morning anyway.

The stone floor was cold beneath her bare feet. She wore only the white robe, and felt almost naked. At least her safehand was covered. There was a door to the city outside at the end of the hallway, and she stepped through it.

She crossed quietly through the city, making her way to the Ralinsa, avoiding dark alleyways. She walked up toward the Conclave, long red hair blowing free behind her, drawing more than a few strange looks and stares. It was so late at night that nobody on the roadway cared enough to ask if she wanted help.

The master-servants at the entrance to the Conclave let her pass. They recognized her, and more than a few asked if she needed help. She declined, walking alone down to the Veil. She passed inside, then looked up at the walls full of balconies, some of them lit with spheres.

Jasnah’s alcove was occupied. Of course it was. Always working, Jasnah was. She’d be particularly bothered by having lost so much time over Shallan’s presumed suicide attempt.

The lift felt rickety beneath Shallan’s feet as the parshmen lifted her up to Jasnah’s level. She rode in silence, feeling disconnected from the world around her. Walking around through the palace—through the city—in only a robe? Confronting Jasnah Kholin again? Hadn’t she learned?

But what did she have to lose?

She walked down the familiar stone hallway to the alcove, weak blue sphere held before her. Jasnah sat at her desk. Her eyes looked uncharacteristically fatigued, dark circles underneath, her face stressed. She looked up and stiffened as she saw Shallan. “You are not welcome here.”

Shallan walked in anyway, surprised by how calm she felt. Her hands should be shaking.

“Don’t make me call the soldiers to get rid of you,” Jasnah said. “I could have you thrown in prison for a hundred years for what you did. Do you have any idea what—”

“The Soulcaster you wear is a fake,” Shallan said quietly. “It was a fake the whole time, even before I made the swap.”

Jasnah froze.

“I wondered why you didn’t notice the switch,” Shallan said, sitting in the room’s other chair. “I spent weeks confused. Had you noticed, but decided to keep quiet in order to catch the thief? Hadn’t you Soulcast in all that time? It didn’t make any sense. Unless the Soulcaster I stole was a decoy.”

Jasnah relaxed. “Yes. Very clever of you to realize that. I keep several decoys. You’re not the first to try to steal the fabrial, you see. I keep the real one carefully hidden, of course.”

Shallan took out her sketchpad and searched through for a specific picture. It was the image she’d drawn of the strange place with the sea of beads, the floating flames, the distant sun in a black, black sky. Shallan regarded it for a moment. Then she turned it and held it up for Jasnah.

The look of utter shock Jasnah displayed was nearly worth the night spent feeling sick and guilty. Jasnah’s eyes bulged and she sputtered for a moment, trying to find words. Shallan blinked, taking a Memory of that. She couldn’t help herself.

“Where did you find that?” Jasnah demanded. “What book described that scene to you?”

“No book, Jasnah,” Shallan said, lowering the picture. “I visited that place. The night when I accidentally Soulcast the goblet in my room to blood, then covered it up by faking a suicide attempt.”

“Impossible. You think I’d believe—”

“There is no fabrial, is there, Jasnah? There’s no Soulcaster. There never has been. You use the fake ‘fabrial’ to distract people from the fact that you have the power to Soulcast on your own.”

Jasnah fell silent.

“I did it too,” Shallan said. “The Soulcaster was tucked away in my safepouch. I wasn’t touching it—but that didn’t matter. It was a fake. What I did, I did without it. Perhaps being near you has changed me, somehow. It has something to do with that place and those creatures.”

Again, no reply.

“You suspected Kabsal of being an assassin,” Shallan said. “You knew immediately what had happened when I fell; you were expecting poison, or at least were aware that it was possible. But you thought the poison was in the jam. You Soulcast it when you opened the lid and pretended to smell it. You didn’t know how to re-create strawberry jam, and when you tried, you made that vile concoction. You thought to get rid of poison. But you inadvertently Soulcast away the antidote.

“You didn’t want to eat the bread either, just in case there was something in it. You always refused it. When I convinced you to take a bite, you Soulcast it into something else as you put it in your mouth. You said you’re terrible at making organic things, and what you created was revolting. But you got rid of the poison, which is why you didn’t succumb to it.”

Shallan met her former mistress’s eyes. Was it the fatigue that made her so indifferent to the consequences of confronting this woman? Or was it her knowledge of the truth? “You did all that, Jasnah,” Shallan finished, “with a fake Soulcaster. You hadn’t spotted my swap yet. Don’t try to tell me otherwise. I took it on the night when you killed those three thugs.”

Jasnah’s violet eyes showed a glimmer of surprise.

“Yes,” Shallan said, “that long ago. You didn’t replace it with a decoy. You didn’t know you’d been tricked until I got out the fabrial and let you save me with it. It’s all a lie, Jasnah.”

“No,” Jasnah said. “You’re just delusional from your fatigue and the stress.”

“Very well,” Shallan said. She stood up, clutching the dim sphere. “I guess I’ll have to show you. If I can.”

Creatures, she said in her head. Can you hear me?

Yes, always, a whisper came in response. Though she’d hoped to hear it, she still jumped.

Can you return me to that place? she asked.

You need to tell me something true, it replied. The more true, the stronger our bond.

Jasnah is using a fake Soulcaster, Shallan thought. I’m sure that’s a truth.

That’s not enough, the voice whispered. I must know something true about you. Tell me. The stronger the truth, the more hidden it is, the more powerful the bond. Tell me. Tell me. What are you?

“What am I?” Shallan whispered. “Truthfully?” It was a day for confrontation. She felt strangely strong, steady. Time to speak it. “I’m a murderer. I killed my father.”

Ah, the voice whispered. A powerful truth indeed….