Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]
Page 55
her was less a mortal and more a holy being. Like a Herald. The finger
of the Almighty had touched him, taking away his mind sickness and
giving the Three Houses a strong leader in their day of need. He was the
Idiot King no longer; already people were whispering of a new title.
The Awakened King.
There was only one other man in the room, and he sat across the low table
from the Awakened King. Minrel moved over, busying her nervous hands
to make the shaking less obvious. This man was himself a symbol of King
Ahven’s calling. Everyone knew that the Shin almost never fought beneath
the command of a Kanaran leader. The arrogant foreigners considered all
people of the east to be beneath them—it took a very special individual to earn their loyalty, a man like Jarnah the Conqueror. Or like Ahven Vedenel.
The Shin man watched her with his unnerving eyes. He lifted his cup,
his motions fluid and purposeful—even the way he held his cup seemed
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graceful. Her hand suddenly slipped as she poured, jerking slightly and
disrupting the stream of tea, but the Shin man somehow anticipated the
motion and smoothly moved his cup in tandem with her slip. The flow of
tea continued uninterrupted, not a drop spilled.
The cup full, Minrel gratefully raised her pouring vase. The Shin man
caught her eye, and Minrel paused. Instead of the cold arrogance she had
expected to find therein, the man’s eyes were . . . understanding. Even
comforting, in their own way.
Standing, Minrel backed away to leave the room.
“Stay,” King Ahven commanded.
Minrel froze, then walked back to the table and knelt beside it, her chest level with its top as she waited upon her king’s call.
“So what do you think of our new accommodations, assassin?” the king
asked his companion. “The First Capital is a fine prize—and not just for
the Oathgates. There is a fairness and beauty to the buildings that one will not find in any city of Veden design.”
The Shin man did not reply, but sipped his tea quietly. The king’s words
were correct—Ral Eram was a wondrous city. With their graceful columns
and cromless angles, its buildings were far more beautiful than those in any Veden City.
“Speak,” King Ahven commanded. “I can see the answer in your eyes
anyway. Deafness teaches a man to read more than lips, assassin.”
Deafness? The comment made no sense, but these were important men.
There was little doubt they would speak of things far above the understanding of a simple Eighth Citizen serving girl barely past the age of her Charan.
“If this city is a place of beauty,” the Shin man said, his accent making
even his words sound graceful, “then I have trouble seeing it through the
blood that drips from its stones.”
Minrel couldn’t suppress a shiver. She had heard the stories, of course.
The stories of . . . the city’s capture and the slaughter that had occurred.
Her father had explained the necessity very sternly—just like in the stories and ballads, sacrifices had to be made. Enemies were not just those who
held spears, but any who might resist in their hearts. This was why the king had commanded Veden servants be gathered and brought through the
Oathgate to serve in Ral Eram’s palace, and this was why he had ordered
the deaths of their Aleth counterparts. And his will was that of the Al-
mighty. Did the Awakened King not have power over the Oathgates? Did
he not command the loyalty of men who should have rightly tried to kill
him? Had he not been healed by the Almighty himself?
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The king chuckled quietly at the Shin man’s comment. “Do not idealize
those who died, assassin. How many people do you think old Nolhonarin
killed when he captured this city in the name of Alethkar? It is only just that the same destruction should return against them.”
“You speak of justice?” The Shin man’s words were calm, but there was an insulting tone to them nonetheless. Minrel caught her breath, glancing
up toward the Dwelling, but no retributive strike fell to destroy the man
for his blasphemy against the Awakened King.
King Ahven just laughed again. “I am justice, assassin. Has not your blade proven that? After everything that has happened, still you doubt.”
“Ilhadal will not let you live,” the Shin man said in a simple, direct
voice. “The moment his daughter produces an heir of your line, you will
be killed. One Shin assassin will not be enough to protect you on that day, Idiot King.”
“Perhaps,” King Ahven replied, holding out his cup for Minrel to fill
again.
“And,” the Shin man continued, “if he assumes that you are delaying the
production of an heir, he will grow impatient.”
“He has his proof for the moment,” King Ahven replied.
“Ah yes,” the Shin man said. “Your stunt with the guards, executed
within full sight of the wedding bed so that rumors of consummation
would spread. One wonders how any man could be unresponsive to such
treatment of his daughter.”
“One wonders,” King Ahven said, “how someone could be so ignorant of
men’s temperaments. Ilhadal Davar is no Talshekh, doting on the whims
of wife and children. Ilhadal favors ‘The Spell of Might’ and ‘The Unseen
Ballad of Return’—he is a man of ambition, a man who likes his music to
contain simple beats, performed loudly. To such a man, children are things to be dominated—and a failure of a daughter is a thing to be given only
contempt. If I treat her likewise, I will be seen as a man of strength.”
“If that is the truth, then Ilhadal Davar is a fool,” the Shin man said.
“A fool he is,” King Ahven replied. “But not for the reasons you assume.”
Minrel sat very still, trying to look unnoticed. I shouldn’t be hearing these things, she thought uncomfortably.
“But enough banter,” the king said. “What of the group who escaped?”
“Your scouts are having trouble tracking their movement through the
caverns,” the Shin man replied. “It could take weeks to find them.”
The king rubbed his chin, which sported a growing beard—something
he’d apparently begun to grow only after his Awakening. It was already
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becoming ful , however, and was cut after Veden fashion, giving the face the desired squareish look.
“Do they have a map of the caverns? One that leads them to daylight?”
the king mused. “Or was their flight to the caverns simply an act of des-
peration? My spies know nothing of this escape method, and they claimed
to know a great deal about the palace.”
“Perhaps some of the palace servants could have told you more,” the Shin
man said, his eyes hard.
King Ahven ignored the jibe. “We will have to move quicker,” he said.
“Lady Jasnah Kholin is a woman who needs to be dead—if my soldiers had
let half the palace escape and killed her as ordered, then I would not be
nearly as worried. We cannot risk her alerting her brother.”
“You can’t hide a marching army,” the Shin man said. “What does it
matter if she alerts them? We’ve taken the city quietly, but Elhokar’s scouts will warn him of your coming.”
&nb
sp; “As long as he discovers my armies after he has weakened his forces by fighting his cousin, I will mind little. The joining of their forces is what worries me. And the Kholin woman . . . I have been warned to deal with
her. You will take a small force of soldiers and ride around the base of the mountain, watching for refugees and openings in the rock. Make certain
those caves don’t let out somewhere nearby, where she could quickly make
for Crossguard. The woman supposedly took a large number of people with
her—she shouldn’t be difficult to find.”
The Shin man nodded, rising to his feet. He didn’t bow as he walked
toward the door.
“Wait,” King Ahven said. “You have forgotten something.”
The Shin man paused, turning back.
“The girl needs to be dealt with. We have discussed things that need not
be passed onto the other servants.”
Minrel froze. The Shin man did likewise, his face flashing with the first
vivid emotion he had displayed.
Hatred.
The girl . . . me? ‘Dealt with’ how?
King Ahven reached out, dropping something onto the table. A small
blue stone.
Minrel scrambled to her feet, suddenly frightened, though she wasn’t
even sure why. “My lord . . . your majesty . . . I won’t say—”
The Shin man was fast—so amazingly fast. Minrel tried to stumble
backward, but he caught her, hand going to her throat and holding it just
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tight enough to choke off her words. He stood that way for a moment, eyes
turned toward the king.
Ahven said nothing. Minrel looked toward him, pleading, tears forming
at the pain in her throat. This was the Almighty’s chosen, the Awakened
king, he wouldn’t . . .
“Please?” Minrel whispered in voiceless terror as the darkness closed.
“I hate you,” Jek whispered, carefully lowering the servant’s corpse to
the ground. She was just a girl, a child really. A child in a land of children.
Did that make the sin twice as bad?
He looked down at her horrified, dead eyes, and doubted such a sin
could get any worse.
He looked up. Ahven Vedenar sat calmly.
“You didn’t need to make her stay,” Jek accused.
“Then I would have had to wait for her to return when I wanted more
tea,” Ahven replied.
So young . . . Oh Shanalakada, must you treat them so? And must I be your hand? Again the words of his banishment returned to him, words spoken by the sacred Holetatinal on the day of his shaming. This is your curse, to be the tool of those who know not Truth, to share in their blasphemy but have no will to do otherwise. You are Truthless. He represented not only his own desecrated honor, but that of his people as well.
“I have no Truth,” Jek whispered. “And yet it binds me.”
“There is no truth, assassin,” Ahven said.
Jek stood, looking over at Ahven. There was a . . . hunger in the man’s
eyes. It was almost as if he wanted Jek to break down and abandon his
vows, to admit that Ahven was right—that there was no honor, or truth,
and that people were as the birds of Ahven’s cages. Things to be snapped and discarded.
Yet what perversity would make the man wish for such a thing? If Jek
broke his Truthless bindings of honor, then Ahven would lose his most
efficient servant.
Ahven met his eyes, then waved him out of the room.
chapter 44
MERIN 10
Merin squinted, shading his face from the afternoon sun. His
anxious eyes devised enemies where there were probably none. Were
those dark spots in the distance riders, or simply another shadow thrown up by a formation in the rock? There were specks on a closer hillside—simple
rockbuds, or scouts searching for runaway noblelings?
The lait valley cut a great gouge across the land, its green sides twisting into the near distance until it vanished, the slope of the land hiding the depression from view. Merin and Renarin hadn’t dared travel within its soft beauty—too many people lived along the lait’s riverbanks. Even wearing
dull shennah cloaks and simple trousers—Merin’s Blade and Plate carefully
wrapped and stowed on the pack horse—he and Renarin were still distinc-
tive. Riders themselves were rare even along the lait, and Renarin warned
that anyone with an eye for horseflesh would recognize their mounts’ fine
breeding.
So,they cut a path parallel to the lait, trying to stay out of sight. Two
riders were not enough to leave much of a trackable trail on the hard
Rosharan stone, and so their greatest danger came from the eyes of the
peasants and travelers they passed.
“We shouldn’t have done this,” Renarin said morosely. The boy had a
penchant for repetition.
“Wel , we did,” Merin said. “Our only hope now is to return with a living
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Aredor to prove we didn’t break our oaths by fighting for either side. Do
you see anything?”
Renarin shook his head. “But I’m not exactly experienced at this.”
Merin grimaced. It’s a wonder we haven’t been caught already. “It would help if we knew where we were going,” he noted.
Renarin shook his head, looking down at the black sphere in his hand.
He carried it with him everywhere, its smooth surface never far from his
caressing fingertips. “I know,” he mumbled. “I just . . . we haven’t had
enough time to stop and think. But he has to have come this way, Merin.
Father’s riders didn’t catch him.”
“And if he went south?” Merin asked.
“Toward Ral Eram?” Renarin said. “Seat of the king? No, he would run
afoul of Elhokar’s messengers and reinforcement lines. Aredor’s party was
too large—it would have been spotted by enemy scouts. He came north.”
Merin sighed. But as he had said to Renarin, their time of decision had
already passed. They had come north. They had to either press on or turn
back and beg forgiveness—and Merin had no intention of returning to
Kholinar without Aredor. Unfortunately, none of the towns they had visited bore rumors of Lord Aredor’s passing. That could mean that Renarin was
wrong, or it could simply mean that Aredor had stayed to the lait rim as
well.
Merin felt blind. He was riding in darkness, trying to feel his way—only,
he didn’t even really know where he wanted to go. Meanwhile, while Merin
stumbled about, Aredor was in danger.
You don’t really know that, Merin told himself. Yes, he’s probably in danger, but Renarin’s premonition is . . . well, unsubstantial. You don’t know Aredor is going to die.
Stil , the youngest Kholin’s attitude made an eerily convincing argument.
Merin turned, glancing at Renarin as the two walked down the short hill
that had been their vantage point. Renarin’s normally unsettling air had
adopted a slightly frantic cast—a remnant from his episode in the Elinrah
temple. The boy fidgeted now, always glancing about with a nervousness
that bespoke more than a simple fear of pursuit. When they stopped for the night, Renarin would take up charcoal and scrawl on the stones around
them, mumbling to himself.
And this is the man I’m trusting to guide me to Aredor, Merin thought. Blessed winds—I must be even more disturbed than he.
“That’s Pebble’s Perch up
ahead,” Renarin said as they remounted,
nodding toward the lait ahead of them. “It’s a sixth city, not tributing but
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independent. It’s the largest town for another two days—we should stop
there and look for information.”
Merin nodded. Visiting the village would mean exposing themselves to
whoever might follow, but what else could they do? Renarin seemed certain
that Aredor had taken the river somehow, though that seemed incredibly
unlikely. As they crested the valley wall and began their way down a
switchbacking path, Merin was able to see the river in its entirety. The
banks on either side bespoke a water flow that was normally twice as wide, and what did trickle past was hardly navigable. It was several tenset feet wide, but its flow was slow, and the many protruding rocks and sandbanks
proved how shallow it must be.
“He sailed on that?” Merin asked pointedly.
Renarin looked up. Then he just shrugged. “It would have been a little
higher when Aredor passed this way, and the river melds with mountain
streams to the north. I don’t know, Merin. I can only tell you what I saw.”
“Saw how?” Merin pressed. “In a vision?”
“No,” Renarin said. “In the patterns of numbers.”
“What does that even mean?” Merin protested.
Renarin just shook his head.
Merin sighed again, letting the matter drop. Pebble’s Perch was indeed
a large city, though it looked to be in something of a lull. Intricate docks housed a variety of barges and riverboats that were mostly grounded. Those that did lie in the water didn’t float so much as sit in the mud, sand, and crom, waiting for the return of the fall rains. Large embankments stood on either side of the docks to protect the vessels from sudden highstorm floods, and most of the ships looked to be under some manner of summer repair.
The city obviously drew its living from the river. Large dockhouses made
up the bulk of the structures, and they gave the city a far less refined look than Kholinar. The streets were arranged in a haphazard, unplanned way,
and the buildings lacked general ornamentation.
“The city must suffer during the summers,” Merin said.
Renarin shrugged. “The spring harvest is in, and the villages have to be
given time to bring their grain to the city. By the time the storms come