The soldier slumped to the ground, and Taln kicked the spear up into
his hand. He spun it and fell into a fighting stance.
The other soldiers stared down at their unconscious comrade. The
frightened servants fell silent, looking up with hopeful faces.
“Kill him!” the officer yel ed, his foreign words becoming distinct as Taln’s mind decrypted the changes in the Veden language since his departure.
Taln did not wait for the soldiers to obey. He leapt forward, spinning
his spear in a staff-form. The four spearman fell into a line, like battlefield warriors, holding their spears as if to thrust. Taln knocked their weapons aside, slamming the butt of his spear into a head as he spun past. He ducked beneath a spear swipe, turning to ram his weapon through a second man’s
side, just below the breastplate. The soldier stumbled to his knees, his death throes twisting the still-impaling spear in Taln’s fingers. Taln dropped the weapon, ducked to the side, and kicked another fallen spear up into his
hands. Then he raised it to deflect a third soldier’s thrust.
Taln jumped backward, spinning his weapon around so the tip faced
behind him, then rammed it through the surprised nobleman’s neck. Taln
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turned, sidestepping a spear thrust, then spun his weapon around and
stabbed his attacker in the thigh. The man dropped to one knee, and Taln
took him down with a second thrust to the face.
The final spearman tried a wild thrust, but Taln rapped the haft of his
own weapon against the man’s spear three times in blinding succession,
stepping forward with each hit, then dropped his spear as he got too close for effectiveness and punched his opponent square in the face.The spearman fell unconscious. Taln spun one final time, cloak billowing as he kicked a third spear into his hand. He raised it carefully, eyeing the fallen men for further danger. The impaled spearman finally jerked to a painful stop, and none of the others moved.
The room was still. “By the winds . . .” a voice finally whispered. Lhan
stood at the doorway, eyes wide with shock.
Taln lowered his spear, the metal tip clicking against the stone floor.
Then he dropped the weapon, waving toward the frightened servants. “See
to them,” he ordered Lhan as he moved to check on the servants who had
been struck down before he arrived. There were five. A couple of the dead
lay clutching makeshift weapons—lengths of wood or kitchen knives. Only
one had a pulse, an aging man in the uniform of a citizen courier.
Taln rolled the injured man onto his side, pressing his hand against the
still-bleeding spear wound. He reflexively reached out to the Nahel bond within him, preparing to draw upon the life energy of the thousands who
were linked to his Soul Tone.
And found nothing. He cursed quietly. There would be no healings this
Return until he discovered what had happened to his powers. He would
have to do things the old-fashioned way. He reached over, sliding a dagger from a dead soldier’s belt, then cut away the wounded man’s shirt. The spear wound was relatively shallow.
“Father!” a younger woman said, rushing to the man’s side. Lhan gently
pul ed her away as Taln cleaned the wound with his water flask, then bound it with a strip of cloth from the man’s own cloak. He nodded to Lhan,
motioning for him to let the girl attend the fallen man.
Taln stood, assessing the situation. There were nine servants remaining,
minus the wounded man, but four were women and three were children. The
two men were an unimpressive pair; obviously brothers, they were spindly,
nervous, and dressed in the simple garb of kitchen assistants.
“You two,” Taln said, kicking a pair of spears into his hands. “Take
these.” The two kitchenmen caught the spears in uncertain hands.
“I . . . my lord—” one began.
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“I know,” Taln interrupted. “You don’t know how to use them. Try
and look like you do.” He tossed a third spear to Lhan. “Same for you.”
He nodded to the four women. “Two of you, fashion a litter from that
nobleman’s cloak and the two remaining spears so we can pull the wounded
man behind us. One of you, watch after the children. And you . . .” The
final woman was a stout, middle-aged scullery maid with a wrinkled,
unfrightened expression. Taln tossed her the nobleman’s sword. She caught
it with surprise. “They won’t expect you to be armed,” Taln said. “Find a
way to exploit their ignorance. Let’s move.”
As the women crafted their litter, Taln gathered daggers from the fallen
soldiers. He kept two and gave the other three to the unarmed women.
Then he told the servants to remain still for a moment as he ducked back
into the hallway and checked the eastern ramp.
It was now guarded by another squadron of soldiers.
Taln gritted his teeth, then made his way back to the room. The women
were still working on the litter when Taln re-entered. As Taln tried to
decide what to do, Lhan approached him. “It appears I was wrong about
you again,” the monk said. “Where did you learn to . . .”
Lhan trailed off as Taln regarded him with a suffering expression.
“Oh, right,” Lhan mumbled. “Three-thousand-year-old pseudo-divinity.
Well, got any holy powers that will get us out of the palace?”
Taln snorted, tucking one of his daggers into the knife-fold on the inside of his cloak. “You’re the one who wanted to stay and help.”
Lhan looked helplessly at the spear in his hand, then down at the dead
servants and soldiers. He gritted his teeth. “Right. Where next, then?”
Taln shook his head. “Your first instinct was right. We need to leave. I
can’t fight an entire army.”
“Do you think they intend to . . .?”
“Kill everyone in the palace?” Taln asked. “Probably. That would be the
easiest way to insure that no one gets out to warn the city guard. They’ll likely take a few hostages from among the upper nobility to use as leverage against Elhokar, but it’s doubtful that even those will survive the invasion.”
“The upper nobility . . .” Lhan said. “You mean, like Lady Jasnah?”
Taln paused. Yes. Exactly like Lady Jasnah. Why did the thought bother him? He owed the woman nothing. Or did he? She had saved his life,
perhaps twice. Though she thought him a madman, she had seen to his
care, even his comfort, during his stay in Ral Eram.
He had seen the way that hostage women, even nobility, were often
treated by their captors.
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The ramps were blocked, the palace sealed. In better circumstances,
perhaps he could have taken the Oathgates and stopped the flow of soldiers, but he didn’t have the manpower to attempt such a dangerous move. There
were, however, other ways out of the building—ways known only to those
who had been present when the foundations were lain.
It was on the way. If he took them to the cellars, he would pass through
the Aleth royal quarters. It would probably be only a short stop to check
and see if Lady Jasnah were still alive, assuming he knew specifically which rooms belonged to her.
Taln turned, regarding the steady-backed maid, who had taken command
of the small group of maids and was directing the construction of the
litter. The woman w
orked efficiently—her presence was obviously a comfort
to the younger girls, and they had almost completed their task.
“Woman,” Taln said.
She turned. “Denia, my lord.”
“Denia,” Taln said. “Do you know which quarters belong to . . .”
“Lady Jasnah, my lord?” She asked. “The lady was to be married today.
Do you want her quarters, or her husband’s quarters?”
Married? Taln thought with shock. “Her quarters,” he finally decided. It was as good a choice as any.
“I can show you then, my lord,” the chambermaid said. “Once we reach
the proper section.”
Taln nodded to himself, stepping out the eastern door and listening
in the hallway beyond. He heard faint sounds of battle coming from the
rightmost corridor. “This way,” he said, waving his nervous group forward.
“That way?” Lhan asked. “But that’s the direction of the fighting!”
“Where there is fighting, there is resistance,” Taln said. “And that is
where we want to be. Come.”
chapter 41
JASNAH 9
The Vorin wedding ceremony was an archaic tradition, a remnant of
epochs when the religion had held far more sway than it did in modern
Roshar. Vorinism hadn’t had any real power since the turn of the epoch,
when the Oathshard Kings had proclaimed the cycle of Returns broke.
The religion’s eventual decision to stop warning about Stormshades and
Returns—accepting as canonical the reports that the Heralds themselves
had declared the Khothen defeated—had only weakened its stance further.
In modern Roshar it was fashionable to profess Vorin allegiance, but
few noblemen gave much thought to the Almighty’s supposed whims
beyond paying their tributes and attending the occasional reading from
the Arguments. The monasteries were no longer the political power they once had been.
Still, tradition was the foremost law of Aleth noble culture, and even
a professed heretic such as Jasnah could not escape a Vorin wedding. Of
course, as much as she was displeased by her forced submission to the
Almighty’s ‘approval’ of her union, the emotion could not compete with
her distaste of the man she was to marry.
Meridas stood with the air of smug satisfaction of a man who thought
himself responsible for far more than he could legitimately take credit.
He wore a fashionable pair of long leather boots, a pair of loose trousers bulging out over the top, and a militarily-cut overshirt with wide cuffs. His
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cloak was blue, of course, to signify his union with the Kholin house, and it matched Jasnah’s talla, which Meridas himself had purchased and sent to her. It was a fabulously extravagant gown, dressed with frills and colored with the deepest of blue dyes. The left sleeve, traditionally long, was
tiered with overlapping swaths of light blue silk down to the cuff, which
ended just short of her ankles.
The location for the ceremony was the Eleventh Hall. The wedding was
attended mostly by women, for their men were at war beside their king.
Her brother himself was noticeably absent. Elhokar’s official reason was the pressing need to respond to Jezenrosh’s attempted assassination. The truth, Jasnah suspected, was more private. She had seen Elhokar several times
before he left the palace to join his troops, and each time he had been
unable to meet her eyes. It did not surprise her that he had chosen not to attend the wedding.
The ceremony began, and Jasnah noted with distaste that Lhardon, the
obsequious First Monk of Peacehome, had been chosen to officiate. Lhardon
stood at the front of the room beside Meridas, beaming at the importance
of his position—and probably thinking of the generous tribute her brother
would have given Peacehome in exchange for performing the ceremony.
The First Monk began with an overdone speech, then waved for a hundred
candle-bearing monks to enter the hall, lighting the way for Jasnah to
approach.
She did so, trying to keep her head high and her face expressionless,
despite her sickened stomach. Shinri had disappeared the night of the
dueling competition—undoubtedly Elhokar had assumed the girl knew
too much, and had ordered her silenced. The thought made Jasnah despair;
Shinri had done nothing wrong other than to associate with Jasnah. Her
death, like those of Nelshenden and Kemnar, could be attributed directly
to Jasnah’s foolish devotion to her brother.
Jasnah had spent the last few weeks locked within her rooms, only allowed
freedom when escorted by a tenset soldiers sworn to Meridas. Every letter
she scribed was confiscated by the guards, presumably to be translated by
monks and likely destroyed. Those responses which did come had been
opened and perused, and were always of little use. She had hoped that some of her more subtle pleas for aid might go unnoticed by her captors, but she suspected that Meridas himself was the one looking through her letters.
For an unmarried man such as himself to excel so wonderful y at politics, he had likely been forced to learn some traditionally feminine skills.
When she reached the front of the room, Jasnah knelt on the cushion,
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bowing her head before the standing form of the man who would soon
be her husband. She knelt with resignation, not without hope. Though
her skin squirmed at the thought of Meridas touching her, she had never
expected anything but a marriage of necessity. For now, there was little she could do against the men who had betrayed her. However, the wife of a
Parshen was a powerful woman, and men were creatures of short memory, quick to laxness and presumed victory. She had seen that her brother kept
his throne during the chaotic years following their father’s death. She could see it lost to him during the uncertain years of conquest.
The ceremony proceeded, Jasnah kneeling in the uncomfortable position
as Lhardon droned on, quoting from the Arguments and The Way of Kings. He drew upon the formal Vorin ceremonial texts as well, quoting passages that implied nobility was granted and suffered by the monks—passages that would never have been tolerated outside a wedding speech.
Soon the time came for the final piece of the ceremony. Lhardon proffered
his blessing, and Meridas extended his hand to accept Jasnah as his own.
Jasnah looked up at Meridas, regarding the oily merchant in his finery, his hand proffered. When she took that hand, she would legally be his, bound
by promise to protect his interests and his power.
The room was silent as she stared at the open palm. Lhardon coughed
uncomfortably, and women in the crowd shot each other nervous glances.
Can I do it? Jasnah wondered. Political necessity or not, can I marry the man who killed Nelshenden?
The door burst open, a sudden breeze causing candles to flicker. Heads
turned to regard a bloodied soldier. “My lord!” the man cried, stumbling
forward, monks and noblewomen shuffling away like scattering rodents.
“The palace is under assault!”
“What foolishness is this?” Meridas demanded, lowering his hand.
The soldier held his side, blood dripping between fingers. “The Oath-
gates, my lord. They have been breached!”
Meridas paused, then white smoke formed around his hand. “Take my
wife to my chambers!�
�� he commanded four men of his honor guard as his
Blade appeared in his hand. “The rest of you, come with me.”
The soldiers pulled her to her feet, several ladies in waiting scrambling
forward to help Jasnah gather up her extensive blue seasilk train. The
soldiers nervously led her from the room, the monks and other nobility
staying behind, muttering amongst themselves in uncertain voices.
The Oathgates, breached? It was unlikely. The Gates had been designed so that no such thing could happen—no king, even one of the infamously
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noble kings of the original Oathpact, would allow an uncontrollable portal into the center of his capital city. Both sides of a gate had to be opened by Awakeners before passage was possible.
Unlikely, true, but not impossible. An Awakener spy could have been
sent—a young one, new to his power. One who had not lost his sensitivity
to the outside world, but instead retained his ambition and interest in
politics. If such an Awakener could have found his way to the Oathgate
chamber, opening their side . . .
But who would invade? Dalenar? Had he joined with Jezenrosh? Somehow
Jasnah couldn’t see her stately uncle working in such a devious manner.
Thalenah, then? King Amelin was said to be very lax with his Awakeners,
allowing them free rein of the city. Ral Eram was even more depleted of
troops and Shardbearers than it had been during the extended Prallah
campaign—Elhokar wanted to make quick work of Jezenrosh, attacking
with flare before his allies remembered how wearied they were of war. What if the First Capital had proven too tempting a gem for an outside invader?
Such were her thoughts as the guards rushed her toward the Aleth
section of the palace. She was so wrapped up in her machinations that she
didn’t notice the attack until the first guard fell dead.
Jasnah stumbled back in shock as the man died, her ladies screaming in
horror. Meridas’s soldiers leapt into action, defending themselves against a group of armed attackers who burst from a doorway at the side. The
attackers had superior numbers, however, and they quickly overwhelmed
the three men. In a matter of seconds, all three of Meridas’s soldiers had fallen. Jasnah looked for escape, but knew that her dress would keep her
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 51