Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]
Page 5
blazing head of red Veden hair, Shinri was only seventeen years old, yet she was already twice as clever as most of the women at court. Her braids were simple, for a noblewoman, and she held herself with the slight uncertainty of a girl who hadn’t yet realized just how beautiful she was.
“It’s . . . wrong,” Shinri finally said, speaking with a smooth Veden
accent. “Lord Renarin’s troop arrangement was careless—he sent his men
into what appeared to be an obvious trap. Yet they won anyway.”
Jasnah nodded.
“What do you make of it, my lady?” Shinri asked.
“I’m not certain,” Jasnah admitted, watching the generals. One had
arranged some pieces representing troop squadrons on the map, and the
others were generally coming to an agreement about how five thousand
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could have defeated such a large force. Their explanation, however, was
contrived.
Twenty on one side dead, five on the other. No survivors. Too many irregularities. I must speak with Dalenar about this when he returns.
“It’s actually over,” Shinri whispered, as if stunned by the realization.
She turned to Jasnah. “The war is over. This means we can return home,
doesn’t it?”
Is it over? Jasnah thought. I certainly hope so.
Shinri was waiting for an answer. “My brother entered this war to get
revenge for the death of our father,” Jasnah replied, keeping her concerns to herself. “That goal is now fulfilled.”
Shinri frowned, eyeing her. She was a clever girl, and growing more and
more competent as she learned to control herself and her emotions. She
recognized a dodged question. The old Shinri—the impudent thirteen-
year-old girl who had come to Jasnah as a ward four years before—would
have demanded an explanation. Now, however, Shinri only frowned to
herself, studying Jasnah, before finally turning back to her embroidery. She was working on a new glyphward for the tent doors—superstition held they
had to be replaced after every highstorm.
Jasnah turned her own attention to the map-table. It had been constructed
low, so that Jasnah could look over it while seated, as was proper for a lady of her stature. Of course, propriety had to be bent slightly to even let her into the tent—the command of troops was a Masculine Art, and Jasnah’s
participation in the battle was irregular at best. Occasionally, the room’s generals would shoot presumably-covert glances her direction. Even after
three years at war, they weren’t accustomed to having a woman in their
midst.
They kept any objections to themselves, however. Even the most stubborn
of them could see that Jasnah’s battle-plans were superior. Her strategies had led the Aleth armies to unquestioned victory in Prallah. In addition,
Jasnah never presumed to actually command troops—she simply outlined
strategies. The implementation of those strategies, and the actual command of troops during the battle, lay with the tower-top commanders.
Jasnah studied the map-table as a messenger arrived to relate the newest
battle information. Elhokar had left the mop-up of the main Prallan force to one of his sub-commanders, and Jasnah was pleased to see that the man was
doing a tolerable job. Most of the Prallan forces had surrendered—either
they had heard the news of their king’s death, or they had simply realized the futility of further combat.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 27
This force had been the last major concentration of Prallan troops.
Orinjah, the capital of Pralir, was now exposed to attack—and, with both
the Traitor and the king dead, it was unlikely the city would offer any
resistance. After that, it would be easy to travel back to Alethkar through the Oathgate. Assuming her brother intended to return to Alethkar.
“You’re worried that the king won’t want to return home,” Shinri
whispered, catching Jasnah’s eye. “You think he might become a conqueror,
and continue on into Distant Prall.”
Jasnah eyed the younger girl, but gave no confirmation to the words.
Clever indeed, she thought. Perhaps too clever.
“It is not wise to voice such idle speculations, Shinri,” Jasnah said. “Watch the battle.”
Shinri smiled slightly, knowing Jasnah’s lack of denial was as good as a
confirmation. However, she obediently did as commanded. There was really
no reason for the girl to study tactics—her place as a noblewoman would
require her to watch over her husband’s political needs, but she would never be called upon to plan battles. However, Jasnah found strong correlations
between warfare and politics—both required a keen understanding of your
enemies, and an even better knowledge of your own capabilities. Both
required foresight and planning, and both demanded a certain amount of
cunning.
She heard hoofbeats from outside the tent, and looked up, expecting
another messenger from her brother’s force. She was surprised, therefore,
when a familiar form entered. The aged man was beardless, after Aleth
fashion, though he still had a full head of elegant silver hair.
“Balenmar?” Jasnah asked. “What are you doing here?”
The Royal Stormkeeper smiled when he saw Jasnah. Balenmar had
changed little since she’d last seen him, six months before, during her visit back to the Aleth capital of Ral Eram. Of course, Balenmar never seemed
to change—he still looked much as he had during her youth, when he
had served as Royal Stormkeeper and primary advisor to her father, King
Nolhonarin.
“Ah, young Lady Kholin,” Balenmar said, stepping into the tent and
putting down the hood of his cloak. The garment was damp from high-
storm rains—his news must be urgent indeed if he had come all the way
from Alethkar, not stopping for storms, to bring it personally.
Not that one would know such from his demeanor. He smiled as he spoke,
as affable and nonplussed as ever. “I had hoped to find your brother here.”
“He hasn’t returned from the battlefield yet,” Jasnah said.
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“Ah,” Balenmar said, walking slowly over to an open seat beside her.
“May I sit?”
“Of course, Balenmar,” Jasnah said, “you needn’t ask.”
“Nonsense,” the aged man huffed, settling himself into the chair. “If the
old people don’t hold to the traditions, then who’s going to?” He paused,
looking up at her. “And don’t tell me I’m not old. I get very tired of that.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
Balenmar snorted, resting one hand on his cane as he sat. He was getting
old—feeble, even. She was surprised he had attempted such a long trip. But then, Balenmar had always been a stubborn one.
“You say the king is still on the battlefield?” he asked. “Then I have
missed the conflict. Tell me, Lady Kholin. Did anything . . . irregular
happen on the battlefield today?”
Jasnah eyed the old man carefully. Balenmar hadn’t been much of a
player in recent Aleth politics, but he had always been clever. What do you know, old man?
“What do you mean by ‘irregular?’” Jasnah asked carefully.
“Was the king in any particular danger?” Balenmar asked.
“This is war. He’s always in danger.”
“Of course,” Balenmar said. “If you can think of no
thing specific, then
I shall have to wait to ask the king himself.”
Jasnah frowned. The implication was obvious—he’d find out anyway, so
she might as well be the one to tell him. “There was one oddity,” Jasnah said. “The king nearly fell to an enemy Shardbearer’s Blade.”
Balenmar raised a bushy eyebrow. “A duel went against him?”
“No,” Jasnah said. “There was no duel. A Shardbearer without glyph or
other identification attacked my brother, breaking Protocol. He rode up
through our ranks, unhorsing Elhokar and striking against him suddenly.
Fortunately, my brother’s men protected him.”
Balenmar’s eyes thinned. “A glyphless warrior, you say? No identification
at all? No one recognized his face?”
“When the soldiers finished with him, there wasn’t much of a face to
see,” Jasnah said.
Balenmar rubbed his chin, nodding to himself.
“If you have information pertaining to my brother’s safety, Keeper
Balenmar,” Jasnah said, “it would be wise to share it with me.”
Balenmar chuckled. “No, Jasnah, I think not. I’m too late to stop the
event itself, but my information is still precious. I shall be the one who shares it with the king—it wouldn’t do to have it reach his ears before I can
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 29
get an audience with him. He’s been far too fond of his foppish merchant
advisors lately; perhaps once he hears this, he will realize the value of
keeping counsel with men of wit, not just men of wealth.”
Jasnah frowned deeper, but Balenmar only shook his head. “You’re
not going to get it out of me, child. You’ll know soon enough, I suspect.
Besides, I have other news for you.”
Jasnah suppressed a sigh. She was quickly approaching her thirty-fifth
birthday, but Balenmar had yet to stop calling her ‘child.’ Ironically, she couldn’t think of any way to complain without sounding childish. So
she simply let it pass.
“And what news would that be?” she asked.
“News about the queen,” Balenmar said quietly. To the side, Shinri edged
closer with an almost imperceptible move, straining to eavesdrop on the
conversation—just as Jasnah had taught her.
“What about her?” Jasnah asked. “Has she done something foolish?
Squandered the royal funds? Invited her Veden countrymen in for a riotous
feast?”
“Ah, but it is quite the opposite, child,” Balenmar explained. “I fear our dear Queen Nanavah has finally begun to develop a mind for politics.”
“Impossible,” Jasnah said dismissively.
“Undeniable,” Balenmar countered. “She’s taken over complete control of
the Royal Ledgers, and has actually been administering them with skill. I
wouldn’t have been able to leave Ral Eram in person to come here—despite
the import of my news—if she hadn’t taken over most of my duties. I’m
afraid I’ve become rather vestigial back at the palace—an amusing situation, I must add, when one realizes that I was only left behind as Steward of Ral Eram because the king found my counsel useless.”
“You’re hardly useless, Balenmar.”
“I didn’t say I was,” Balenmar said. “But the king sees me that way—and
don’t you try and deny it. You may be a talented liar, Jasnah, but you can’t fool a man who already knows the truth. Elhokar considers me a symbol
of the past, and that’s why he replaced me with that sycophant Meridas.”
Jasnah didn’t bother arguing. She wished Balenmar’s words were exag-
gerations, but, unfortunately, Elhokar had not proven particularly wise in his choice of counselors.
Before Jasnah could say anything further, a disturbance from outside
the tent drew her attention. Through the tent flaps, she could see a group of men approaching, and they bore her brother’s flag—a vibrant blue khol glyph, the symbol of their house.
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“It appears he has returned,” Balenmar said.
“I’m going to go speak with him,” Jasnah decided, rising. “Are you certain you don’t want me to deliver a message to him . . . ?”
Balenmar chuckled. “No, child. I’ll wait until he decides to give me an
audience. Knowing Elhokar, I may have to wait a few days, but I’d still
rather speak to him myself.”
Jasnah nodded, skirting the brown crom as she walked on sandaled
feet toward the front of the tent. Her seasilk talla was a deep Aleth blue, embroidered with silver thread. The dress was form-fitting, and reached
from neck to ankles, with buttons up the side. As was customary, the right cuff was tight around the wrist, and the other was open and enveloping,
hiding the left hand from view. Her dark hair was carefully pinned up and
braided in her headdress, but—as was her personal custom—she wore no
gemstones. It was traditional clothing—this was a day to show patriotism.
Despite the messenger’s assurances regarding her brother’s safety, Jasnah
felt a tremble of relief at seeing Elhokar striding safely at the head of the line. His armor was scarred with a long gouge across the breast, and he wore no helm, but he looked unharmed. Her relief turned to concern, however,
as he approached and she made out his expression.
Elhokar marched alone—even the ever-present Meridas was keeping
his distance. Jasnah sought out Dalenar with her eyes. Her stately uncle
also bore a dark expression, and he strode a good distance behind the king.
Dalenar was a Parshen—one of Elhokar’s two Second Lords. On a day such as this, after such a great victory, his place was at his king’s side.
Something was wrong. Jasnah kicked off her sandals and stepped out
onto the stone. The rock was still wet and cool beneath her feet—the stormlands weren’t just barren, they were also unusually cold. She suppressed a shiver, holding up her talla slightly and striding toward the column of men as quickly as the restrictive dress would allow.
“My lady?” Shinri asked with concern, stepping to stand beside Balenmar
at the edge of the tent’s mat.
Jasnah hustled forward toward Elhokar. The king, however, did not wait.
He brushed past her with a quick pace, walking toward his tent.
“Elhokar!” Jasnah demanded.
He ignored her. Jasnah ground her teeth in annoyance, turning toward a
more promising target. She moved to the right, cutting off Dalenar.
“Uncle, what is going on here?” she asked.
Dalenar, tall and ponderous in his silver Shardplate, paused and looked
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 31
down at her. His armor was also scarred, his gauntlets stained with dark blood, and he smel ed of sweat. Yet the gloom of his armor was no match for his face.
“Ask your king,” he siad sharply, and continued past her.
Jasnah turned with amazement, watching him go. Armored men clanked
around her, calling for healers, armorers, or servants. They were all
noblemen, of course—the citizens would have stayed in the lower camp.
Jasnah watched Dalenar for a moment, then turned to stare after Elhokar.
She stood amidst the churning aftermath of the battle, the soldiers splitting deferentially around her—a blue blot against a background of metal and
stone.
“It’s all right, Jasnah,” a calm voice said.
Jasnah turned. Renarin, with his relaxed posture and soothing eyes,
stood nearby with his customary smile. Short—even a few inches sh
orter
than Jasnah—he seemed out of place amongst the towers of Shard and
steel that were the army’s noblemen.
“What, Renarin?” she demanded. “What is all right?”
The young man shrugged. “I didn’t need a Blade anyway. Why waste it
on me? I never even duel.”
Jasnah stood, stunned. Renarin smiled wistfully, then trailed after his
father. Jasnah watched him go, then spun and stalked toward her broth-
er’s tent.
She threw back the flap, heedless of the rainwater it splattered across
her dress. Elhokar stood inside, several aides removing his Shardplate with careful hands.
“You took away Renarin’s Shardblade?” she snapped, wiping her feet on
the cleaning mat at the front of the tent.
Elhokar did not answer, simply raising his arms as the aides removed
his cuirass.
“Elhokar, how could you?” Jasnah asked. “You took away his Blade in
front of the men, in front of his father? Lord Dalenar is your Parshen! If you humiliate him, you undercut your own authority!”
Elhokar accepted a water flask from a servant, then waved the aides away,
clearing the tent. Only one of the window flaps was open, and the rest of
the tent was lit by a dim lantern in the corner.
“Our uncle should never have brought that boy to the battlefield,”
Elhokar finally said as he took a swig of the newly-gathered rainwater.
“Renarin has no place commanding an army. We both know that. He
doesn’t trust himself, and the men don’t trust him.”
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“That doesn’t mean you have to demote him,” Jasnah replied, folding
her arms.
“He disobeyed my orders,” Elhokar said, cupping a bit of the water
and splashing it on his face. “The Traitor was to die at my hands. Renarin commanded the force that kil ed the man—the fault is his. Besides, the boy is a liability—I need to think about my kingdom, Jasnah—all of it. That
Shardblade should be carried by a man who can use it in defense of Alethkar.”
“The ‘boy’ is only five years your younger, Elhokar,” Jasnah said. “And
he has served you well these last three years. Not everyone is meant to be a duelist. You should not have—”
Elhokar slammed the flask down on his small wooden table. “I should