Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]
Page 59
“Not for myself, idiot,” she snapped. “For Alethkar. Meridas is my
brother’s closest advisor. As a Parshen’s wife I could keep an easy eye on both of them.” And, perhaps, revenge myself upon them.
Taln frowned slightly. “You used to speak of your brother with such
devotion. What changed?”
Jasnah paused. When had she spoken of Elhokar to Taln? Hoping the
darkness covered her slight flush at his astute question, she glanced away.
“It is of no concern to you, madman.”
He sat quietly for a moment. “You should sleep,” he final y said. “We’l need our strength in the days to come.”
She turned back coldly. “Wise words from a man who sits awake himself.”
“I don’t need as much sleep as normal people,” Taln said. “I shouldn’t
need any at all, actually. But . . . something has changed. This Return,
things are different. I can no longer draw strength from places I once
could.”
Jasnah frowned, and a sudden curiosity struck her. This man before her
seemed so simple, yet his mind was keen—except for the strange taint of
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madness. He appeared able to separate the two pieces of his life, functioning with capability, even cleverness, when the need arose. But he clung
unwaveringly to his delusions at the same time. What had happened in
his life to create such a division? What had broken this mind that seemed
so confident, so strong?
“What was it supposed to do?” she asked. “The Sign?”
Taln raised his eyebrows, her question as unexpected as his about
marriage. “It . . . is something Prael’Elin devised. The Elin have a bond
within them, a link to the Nahel and the Soul Tones. We can manifest this, if we wish. The bond appears like a scattering of thousands upon thousands of tiny lines of light, extending into oblivion from the center of our bodies.
Beautiful golden threads, each one a life.”
He sighed, pulling something from a pocket in his cloak. It was a tiny
piece of amber—one that looked like it had once been the knob to a chest
or closet. He rubbed it wistfully. “The bond,” he finally said, “appears to have been weakened. I dare not fear destroyed. I can draw no power from
it. It is odd that I should seek for abilities lost, while you hide and suppress what you have obviously been given.”
Jasnah flushed again. She felt exposed before this man, and she nearly
hated him for it. He had seen the secret that, before interrogating the
assassin with Kemnar and Nelshenden, she had shown to only one man.
Taln had a power over her she hadn’t entrusted to even her father or brother.
“Why do you hide it?” Taln asked, pressing the issue despite her obvious
anger.
“You will speak no further of this topic,” Jasnah commanded.
“Very well,” Taln said. “Though, I can’t help wondering if your opinion
will change if you see these people starving when you could have made
them grain, or freezing when you could make the very rocks burn.”
“Such things require far more skill than I have,” she said.
Taln shrugged. “If you lack skill, it is likely because you haven’t seen fit to develop what the Almighty has given you. Your Soul Tone must resonate
strongly, or you would never have been able to open the lock on the passage.
It was made to respond only to Heralds.”
Jasnah felt a chill that was not of the winds. “How can you speak like
that of Awakening?” she hissed. “You profess to be a man of wisdom, a man
sent of gods, and yet you encourage me to . . . let it take my soul? You know what it does to people? How it twists their minds . . . how it changes them?”
Taln actually dared smile at the comment. “Everything changes us, Lady
Kholin. Can you honestly say that our escape did not alter you forever,
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slightly change the way you regard the world? In a small way, does not every person you meet leave their own small mark on your life?”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” Taln asked. “Ask yourself this. Is the physical act of Awakening
what changes its practitioners, or are those changes simply a reaction to
new experiences? Once a man’s vision expands, and he learns to see things
as they are and not as they appear, will he not begin to react differently?
Does Awakening change them, Jasnah, or do they change themselves?”
“I can’t answer that,” Jasnah snapped.
Taln smiled. “You could.” Then he rose, unclasping his simple cloak
and extending it toward her as he passed. “Take it,” he prompted as she
hesitated. “The cold doesn’t bother me.”
Her pride urged her to refuse, but her aching back and shivering arms
proved more persuasive. She accepted the cloak, wrapping herself in the
warm shennah as Taln wandered over to join Kemnar on watch.
chapter 46
SHINRI 8
A creak in the darkness made Shinri pause, her body tense. It was,
of course, nothing. After a moment of anxious listening, she forced
herself to relax. She needed sleep—she had been so tired and drowsy last
afternoon that she hadn’t been able to think properly. Yet, when night
came, she again found herself unable to sleep, even in the vast comfort of the queen’s chambers.
Sighing, Shinri sat up in the bed, resting against the backboard with
her legs pulled up against her chest. Ahven had not come for her since that first horrible day, but she did not doubt that he would eventually return.
He needed an heir to seal his pact with Shinri’s father. She didn’t know
what kept the Idiot King away—whether it be simple busyness, or whether
he feared her father might send assassins against him once an heir arrived.
Whatever the reason for the delay, she blessed the Almighty for it. She
glanced to the side, toward the wooden bedstand that formed a shadowy
blot in the darkness beside her, and thought of the knife she had hidden
beneath its lip. It had seemed like such a brave move in the daylight, but in the darkness she wondered if she’d have the will to use the weapon if
Ahven did come for her. The man had a strange power to him, a domi-
neering will . . . a momentum. When she met him in the hallways, she
made sure to stop and lower her eyes. She told herself the subservience
was simply an act, a way of making him believe that she had been quelled.
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And yet, she knew that his arrogant humiliations of her had been at least
marginally effective. When she cringed at his sudden motions, she wasn’t
completely feigning, and when she glanced down in his presence, she did
so partially because she loathed looking into those calm eyes of his. She
was not beaten, but she had been wounded.
It was worst at night. Night, when she lay in bed, not knowing if he
would come or not—and not knowing what she would do if he did. Even
still, after weeks without a visit, she could feel his dry touch on her skin.
She felt him upon her when she closed her eyes, and she heard his footsteps in every night sound. There was little wonder that the insomnia of her
childhood had returned.
And now the First Palace had become his. It had never been a place of
true comfort to Shinri, but it had become home. It was the place where
Jasnah had made a lady from a wild and insufferable child, and it was the
first place that Shinri had found acceptance. Yet when she walked its
hallways now, she saw only signs of him. His servants. His soldiers. His palace. He had moved into the Veden wing, and while it was similar to the
Aleth section, the similarities only made the differences feel more alien. She had returned to the Aleth section only once. The bodies had been removed
by that time, but the stink of death seemed to remain. Shinri hadn’t been
able to spend long in those familiar hallways, now so eerily empty of life and motion, before despair for those who had been slain—many of whom
she had known and cared for—drove her away.
Drove her back to him, back into his lair and power. There was no
escaping it, not yet. Not while he maintained such a careful watch over her.
She was allowed to go where she willed within the palace, but if she tried to leave the Veden section, she was quickly given an escort. Men watched
every hallway—there were plenty of soldiers to spare, for the majority of
Ahven’s time had been centered around bringing his entire army through
the Oathgates. Even if she were to escape the palace, large contingents of several hundred men stood guard at each ramp down to the city.
And so Shinri forced herself to wait. With gritted teeth, she adopted an
air of half-feigned subservience, and endured the shame of knowing what
it did to her. Lady Jasnah’s lessons were invaluable. The calming exercises helped Shinri contain her frustration, and the hours spent practicing her
political face helped her keep the rebelliousness from her eyes. If Ahven
knew she wasn’t completely suppressed, he gave no sign—quite the opposite, for the sight of her bowing practically to the ground when he passed gave
him obvious pleasure.
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She tried, forcibly, not to think of him. Unfortunately, other topics were equally discomforting. Somehow, it appeared that she had opened the
Oathgate. She had been the one who loosed Ahven’s soldiers upon her
friends. She didn’t know how her betrayal had occurred, but she felt guilty nonetheless.
She couldn’t remember the experience completely—the feelings and
desires she’d felt during that moment when she’d touched the Oathgate’s
control opal were gone now. Yet she could remember that she had felt
something, that her thoughts had been expanded somehow. What had
she done, and why had it worked? The Oathgates were supposed to be
impervious. Both sides had to be open before one could pass through.
But somehow she had been able to bypass that rule. Why? What about
her had made the Oathgate react in such a way? Was it her personally, or
was there a specific set of circumstances that had demanded that someone
like her touch the opal at that moment?
One question was more disturbing than the rest. How had Ahven known
to use her in such a way?
Again she had no answers. Her current state was even more frustrating
than being locked up in her room, not knowing who had captured her. She
could walk about and ask questions, but no one had answers for her. No
one but Ahven.
At least Jasnah had escaped. Ahven had attempted to suppress the news,
but soldiers and servants talked. There was little he could do to stop the rumors, especially considering the dramatic nature of Jasnah’s disappearance. Shinri’s handmaidens whispered about the large group of servants
who had locked themselves in the palace cellars, apparently to make a
last stand before being killed. When the soldiers broke down the doors,
however, they had found only empty rooms scattered with dust.
It figured that Jasnah would find a way to escape even an impossible
situation. There was something about the woman that . . . defied reality.
It was as if she could pit her determination against fate, and change the
workings of the world through sheer force of will. The rumors, in typical
Veden fashion, dramatized the event to almost mystical proportions—
speaking as if Jasnah had managed to gather some near-supernatural
warriors to aid in her escape. Despite the embellishments, one thing was
certain—Jasnah was gone. The fact that Ahven had sent work crews to tear
down the cellar walls was enough to confirm that fact.
Shinri froze. Another sound? This time it wasn’t just her imagination—
she could definitely hear the sound of voices coming from beyond the
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door between her bed chamber and Ahven’s. She sat rigid in her bed, jaw
clinched, trying to suppress a shiver. Would he come? Would this be the
night?
The voices continued. One was undoubtedly Ahven. The other was
probably the strange Shin man the king kept as his primary counselor,
the man many of the servants feared for some undefined reason. The Shin
were a strange and arrogant people anyway, and this one seemed even more
discomforting. His eyes haunted, his movements so unnaturally smooth,
Shinri found him nearly as disturbing as the king himself.
He’s probably the one, she realized. The king’s assassin. The Shin are frighteningly good warriors—Jarnah’s invasion proved that much. She could see the man’s graceful danger slipping in and out of bedchambers, leaving only
corpses behind. Someday soon he would probably take Shinri’s own father.
Or maybe even me.
No, that was foolish. Ahven had no reason to kill her—he assumed she
was already his. One heir could die of disease. He would want more.
If you run from him, he might decide he wants you dead. The thought was like the voice of a frightened child in her head. Shinri didn’t want to think of such things. She was strong. Or, at least, she thought of herself as being strong. That had always been her greatest resource. When she had resisted
her father’s will as a child, she had done it telling herself she was stronger than he—stronger than his manipulations, stronger than the whims of the
other nobility. She had resisted the monks, then the stormkeepers, with
the same strength.
Then there had been Jasnah, the first one to show Shinri that there were
different kinds of strength. Many assumed that Jasnah had simply beaten
Shinri into submission, forcing her to obey through a battle of wills. But that hadn’t been it at all—that was the mistake her father and the others
had all made. Jasnah had offered Shinri something—the ability to control
her surroundings—then had let Shinri decide for herself that she wanted
it. It hadn’t been a battle that had transformed Shinri, but a simple, factual conversation about the realities of noble life. Jasnah had offered power,
and Shinri had consented to learn.
In the end, Shinri’s acumen for what Jasnah taught had led to internal
battles of their own. However the strength had always been there. Shinri
was strong. That was why she had learned Jasnah’s lessons, and why she had applied them. Shinri couldn’t let herself be manipulated by the courtgoers and her own ignorance.
Sitting quietly, shivering in the dark at the mere sound of a man’s voice,
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Shinri finally had cause to question her perceptions of strength. Was it
weak to fear the creature who had done such terrible things to her? Was
it timid to worry that she wasn’t t
he determined, capable person she had
always assumed? Was it wrong to fear that face of his? That cold, inhuman
expression—one made all the more horrific by her memories? She could
still see those eyes looming above her during the moment of passion. Those horrible eyes that had revealed to her the monstrosity that had become her husband.
This was the creature from which she feared to flee. Though she had
made her decision to escape, she couldn’t stop the child-like whispers of
fright from within. He had proven that he was not a man to be defied.
What would he do when he discovered that she had run? Would he send
the Shin assassin to kill her? Would she awake one night to find those
graceful hands at her throat?
Or would it be something even worse? Something she hesitated to
imagine—a humiliating, even crippling, retribution? Something that
would break the strength she thought she retained, leaving her a docile
and cringing husk? As the voices continued, Shinri’s imagination devised
tensets of tortures the demented man could force upon her. These were the
things that awaited her if she invoked Ahven’s ire.
I’ll just have to make sure I’m not recaptured, she thought with a determination that she wished were completely unfeigned.
chapter 47
TALN 9
“There,” Taln said, pointing in the evening light. Lights sparkled
in the distance.
Kemnar stopped beside him, squinting in the darkness. “I don’t see
anything,” he said.
Still too distant, then, for normal eyes, Taln thought. “Let’s move up a little farther,” he suggested. He had lived so long as a Herald that he often forgot what it was like to have the senses of a regular man.
Kemnar nodded, and the two continued to pick their way across the
stony ground, scouting ahead of the refugee group. A few moments later,
Kemnar paused. “Well leave me in the rain and take my cloak!” he mumbled
in surprise. “There is a town up there! It’s about time.”
“Does it help determine where we are?”
Kemnar cocked his head thoughtfully. “It will once I know which one it
is. It looks fairly big—at least Sixth City size. Danajel? Marcabe, perhaps?”
He shook his head. “I’ve spent too little time on this side of the kingdom, Taln. We’ll have to get a little closer. It’s probably Danajel, but I didn’t think we were that far east.”