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But expectations were like fine pottery. The harder you held them, the more likely they were to crack.
Buildings were grouped by color, and that color seemed to indicate purpose. Shops selling the same items would be painted the same shades—violet for clothing, green for foods. Homes had their own pattern, though Shallan couldn’t interpret it. The colors were soft, with a washed-out, subdued tonality.
Bitterness is repaid more often than kindness.
their exterior was carved in an intricate geometric pattern with circles and lines and glyphs. It was some kind of chart, half on each door.
I this the diagram?
“This room is called the Veil,” the servant explained softly. “That which comes before the Palanaeum itself. Both were here when the city was founded. Some think these chambers might have been cut by the Dawnsingers themselves.”
A long, silvery sword in her hand, sharp enough to cut stones as if they were water.
Shallan followed the master-servant down a dark hallway to one of the small balconies that extended out over the Veil. It was round, like a turret, and had a waist-high stone rim with a wooden railing above that.
As if her mind was put under tension holding Memories until they could be used.
There were plants from which one could remove a tiny cutting—a leaf, or a bit of stem—then plant it and grow a duplicate. When she collected a Memory of a person, she was snipping free a bud of their soul, and she cultivated and grew it on the page. Charcoal for sinew, paper pulp for bone, ink for blood, the paper’s texture for skin. She fell into a rhythm, a cadence, the scratching of her pencil like the sound of breathing from those she depicted.
Creationspren began to gather around her pad, looking at her work. Like other spren, they were said to always be around, but usually invisible. Sometimes you attracted them. Sometimes you didn’t. With drawing, skill seemed to make a difference.
Always of the same silvery color, always the same diminutive height. They imitated shapes exactly, but moved them in strange ways.
Elithanathile. He Who Transforms.
It was the warmth of decisions made and purpose seized. It was responsibility.
He didn’t bother wondering why they were looking for this Hoid, whoever he was.
Adolin gripped his reins a little more tightly; it put him on edge every time Highprince Sadeas spoke.
Our first glimpse into House Kholin is through Adolin. :)
He was wearing his Shardplate, and so he had to be careful when grabbing it, lest he crush it. One’s muscles reacted with increased speed, strength, and dexterity when wearing the armor, and it took practice to use it correctly. Adolin was still occasionally caught by surprise, though he’d held this suit—inherited from his mother’s side of the family—since his sixteenth birthday. That was now seven years past.
Unite them.
Dalinar's purpose at the start of his story.
The animals chose their own riders, and only a dozen men in all of the warcamps were so fortunate. Dalinar was one, Adolin another.
Chilled, using one of the new fabrials that could make things cold.
It had a twisted, arrowhead-like face, with a mouth full of barbed mandibles.
It had four wicked foreclaws set into broad shoulders, each claw the size of a horse, and a dozen smaller legs that clutched the side of the plateau.
The chasmfiend bellowed with an awful screeching sound. It trumpeted with four voices, overlapping one another.
She looked down. “When I found you near the chasm after the highstorm yesterday,” she whispered, “you were going to kill yourself, weren’t you?”
“Today, I know what death is. Why do I know what death is, Kaladin?”
Then she smiled deviously. “I know what sarcasm is!”
The blond was an inheritance from his mother, or so Dalinar had been told. Dalinar himself remembered nothing of the woman. She had been excised from his memory, leaving strange gaps and foggy areas. Sometimes he could remember an exact scene, with everyone else crisp and clear, but she was a blur. He couldn’t even remember her name. When others spoke it, it slipped from his mind, like a pat of butter sliding off a too-hot knife.
Tiny, near-invisible spren were floating out of the beast’s body, vanishing into the air. They looked like the tongues of smoke that might come off a candle after being snuffed. Nobody knew what kind of spren they were; you only saw them around the freshly killed bodies of greatshells.
Elhokar had sent messengers, demanding to know why the Parshendi had killed his father. They had never given an answer. They’d taken credit for his murder, but had offered no explanation. Of late, it seemed that Dalinar was the only one who still wondered about that.
The means by which we achieve victory are as important as the victory itself.”
I left my carriage that day and took up the stone, lifting it for the man. I believe my guards were embarrassed. One can ignore a poor shirtless wretch doing such labor, but none ignore a king sharing the load. Perhaps we should switch places more often. If a king is seen to assume the burden of the poorest of men, perhaps there will be those who will help him with his own load, so invisible, yet so daunting.
He turned his mount and clopped up onto the bridge, then nodded his thanks to the bridgemen. They were the lowest in the army, and yet they bore the weight of kings.
The Palanaeum was shaped like an inverted pyramid carved down into the rock. It had balcony walkways suspended around its perimeter. Slanted gently downward, they ran around all four walls to form a majestic square spiral, a giant staircase pointing toward the center of Roshar. A series of lifts provided a quicker method of descending.
Art was about creation. That was its soul, its essence. Creation and order. You took something disorganized—a splash of ink, an empty page—and you built something from it. Something from nothing. The soul of creation.
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.
“Intellect. If a great thinker develops a new theory of mathematics, science, or philosophy, we will name him wise. We will sit at his feet and learn, and will record his name in history for thousands upon thousands to revere. But what if another man determines the same theory on his own, then delays in publishing his results by a mere week? Will he be remembered for his greatness? No. He will be forgotten.
