Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]
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Balenmar shrugged. “Trust? No, I don’t expect your trust. But, do you
‘trust’ the would-be king who fights at your side, a man barely quelled by the prospect of a grandson on the throne? How about the Shin assassin who
holds his knife so diligently at my throat—a man who would betray you
without thought if you happened to misplace his Bondstone? Do you really
trust anyone around you, Ahven Vedenel? What is trust to a man like you?”
“True,” Ahven admitted. “But each of those you describe, trustworthy or
not, brings me an edge I could not otherwise obtain. You, however, have
a very poor record as an advisor. King Nelshenden lies in the catacombs
of Ral Eram, dead at the hand of his best friend, and his son is about to
fall to my armies. Your advice seems to have been of little productive use.”
Balenmar snorted. “I’m an informant, not a bodyguard,” he said. “Besides,
neither man—son or father—had keen enough ears for my suggestions. If
they had listened, perhaps they would still live. Don’t make their same
mistake.”
Jek could tell, however, that Ahven was no longer paying attention.
The king’s eyes had moved away from the captive man’s lips, and he was
thinking carefully to himself. Would Ahven execute the old man, torture
him, or simply hold him for later purposes? Jek thought he knew which
Ahven would choose—the Idiot King was not fond of loose ends, or of
men who knew too much about him.
“I can give you Jasnah Kholin,” Balenmar said idly.
Jek glanced toward Ahven, and saw that the king had noticed the words.
“There are only a few exits from those caverns,” Balenmar continued.
“They all open out onto the eastern side of the mountain. Too far from
Crossguard to be of use to King Elhokar, but dangerously close to Kholinar.
What do you think, Ahven Vedenel? Can your armies face both Elhokar
and Dalenar at once? Elhokar might be a fool, but his reckless temper
should not be underestimated. How would your army fare against Elhokar’s
ferocity if the calm rock of the Tyrantbane were pressing you from the east?”
“You can tell my men how to get through the caverns?” Ahven asked.
“Bring in a scribe,” Balenmar said. “I’ll give precise directions.”
Ahven didn’t move immediately. Eventually, the lure proved too great,
and he waved for a soldier to relay the message. Then the king nodded to
Jek, who slowly lowered the blade from the old man’s neck.
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Balenmar smiled pleasantly, pulling out a handkerchief and carefully
wiping the trickle of blood from his neck.
“What do you ask in return for this knowledge?” Ahven asked, eyes still
suspicious.
“Nothing you aren’t already willing to give,” Balenmar said.
“Be more specific,” Ahven ordered.
Balenmar’s affable smile didn’t leave his eyes as he spoke. “Just make
certain your men kill Lady Jasnah and her companions on sight. None of
them must survive.”
chapter 52
DALENAR 4
Highstorm clouds bulged in the distance. It had only been twenty
days since the last storm, but it seemed like so much longer. The
lait’s plants drooped in the constant sunlight, many retreating within their shells. What had been green just a week before was now withered and
wan. The great Kholinar river had slowed to practically a trickle. The effects of the Searing were strong here, even in the most fertile area of Alethkar.
But a highstorm was coming at last. And it was no ordinary storm—this
was the Almighty’s Bellow, most powerful and impressive storm of the
year. It would bring both life and destruction. Outside the lait, in the less-sheltered farmlands, all spring crops would have long been harvested. Most people would be tucked within safe granite homes; those too poor to afford good stone houses would wait in the vil age stormshelter. No man—beggar,
thief, or traveler—would be abandoned to the Bellow’s fury.
In the lait, less concern was necessary. Yet even here they had to be
cautious. The Bellow’s power would be dulled by the steep valley walls, but not rendered impotent. Wise men remained indoors.
Dalenar stayed on his balcony, watching the storm approach. During
recent weeks, it seemed he had little reason to call himself ‘wise.’ He knew not how Merin and Renarin had managed to elude his trackers, but he was
only mildly surprised at the feat. Both boys had often proven themselves
too clever for their own good. Dalenar kept his men searching, but he
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had little hope that he would discover them before they arrived at their
destination. Even riding at a moderate pace, two unencumbered men would
have been able to reach Crossguard in two week’s time.
All of Kholinar knew of the disappearance, of course. Most people had
even guessed at the boys’ destination. What had been a scandal when Aredor left had since become a catastrophe. Dalenar’s men reported a feeling of
unrest in the town. The barrooms were full of questions wondering who
would be heir, and postulations on whether or not Dalenar would have the
honor to disinherit both of his sons. Even quieter were the grumbles that
claimed the boys were right—that it was wrong to wait like women when
the rest of the kingdom fought. Dalenar had lost his courage, they whis-
pered. The Tyrantbane no longer had the will to fight.
And they were right. Dalenar knew they were. His neutrality was a
weak move, an indication of uncertainty. The old Dalenar would never
have done such a thing—he would have made a decision, then followed it
with tenacity, no matter what the consequences. That was honor. Holding
to one’s word, and being willing to give it in the first place.
Instead, he waited. Without the Oathgates, and with the river being too
low to carry boats, information from the east was scarce. The battle would have started days ago. Men probably fought and died even as Dalenar
stared at the approaching clouds. Or perhaps the fighting was over. Elhokar would have had to strike quickly to counteract the grumblings of his allies, who were already fatigued from several years at war.
Dalenar gritted his teeth, fingers gripping his balcony’s stone rail. He
needed information. In the past, he had been one of the first to receive
battlefield news. This time, however, he had placed himself in a tangential position—since he had chosen to support neither combatant, neither would
see any urgency in keeping him informed. That left him with his own mes-
sengers, sent to gather what they could. These were few, however—Aredor,
Renarin, and Merin’s pilferings, combined with the horses Dalenar had been required to give their pursuers, had left his stables depleted of its best stock.
The storm was near. It was even darker than most, and its approach was
like the shadow of night. Dalenar thought he could feel it nearing—the
air cooling, as if in frightened worry. The breeze curling with anticipatory winds. While his cultured Vorin senses reminded him that there was
nothing mystical in the storms, he couldn’t help shivering slightly
as the Bellow approached. Its unnatural blackness. Its expected rage. Its
inevitability.
A rider appeared on the lait ridge.
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The man sped down the switchbacks at a reckless pace, his cloak flapping
with familiar blue. The land darkened behind him, water beginning to pour
down the rocky slopes. In the distance, Dalenar could hear a low roar—the
surging Kholinar river, swelling in its banks as sudden and furious waters fed its long-dried thirst. The rider reached the base of the slope as the rains overtook him, obscuring Dalenar’s view.
A moment later, darkness took the palace, and a wave of wind-driven
rains smashed into Dalenar. He tightened his grip on the rail, squinting his eyes in the powerful tempest. All was dark. He felt his cloak writhing and whipping behind him. Chill water bit his skin, instantly soaking his clothing. He could hear nothing beyond the incessant slam of raindrops against
stone.
He took one rain-laced breath, then fled into his rooms, throwing his
weight against the stormshutters and closing them behind him. Compared
to the chaos outside, even the rattling shutters and background roar of
the rain seemed peaceful. Dalenar wiped his face, dripping water onto the
sittingroom rugs. Kalkanah would have been furious; Kinae would only see
them cleaned and dried, offering neither complaint or reprimand.
Dalenar stood for a moment, thinking about the messenger. The man’s
news was probably inconsequential. It was unlikely that he was a rider from Crossguard; he was probably just one of Renarin’s pursuers, returning to
give further word of defeat. Or perhaps he was just a rider from one of the outer tribute cities, come to make a report.
Yet why would such a man have risked the Bellow? Why ride with such
direct zeal, rather than stopping for shelter? A quiet, worried impression told Dalenar to seek refuge from the news as he had fled the storm winds.
There was something very wrong about the messenger’s arrival.
Dalenar quietly changed his clothing, then walked through hushed
hallways toward his audience chamber. Servants and minor attendants
watched him, yet none moved to speak or interrupt. He arrived at the hall
and seated himself his chair.
All was still. Then the audience doors burst open.
The messenger stood haggard and wet. “My lord,” he gasped, apparently
surprised to find Dalenar already waiting in the chamber. He fell to one
knee, though he looked so wearied he could barely maintain the posture.
“Speak,” Dalenar said.
“My lord . . .” the man said, trailing off, a look of despair in his eyes.
He was one of the men Dalenar had sent to Crossguard. The messenger
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looked up, gathering strength, but Dalenar knew the words before they
were spoken.
“My lord,” the messenger said, “your son, Aredor Kholin, is dead.”
Dalenar didn’t react. He didn’t yell out his grief, cry out in pain, or even close his eyes in mourning.
“How?” Dalenar asked, surprised at the stiff strength in his voice.
“Executed, my lord,” the messenger said. “By the king, along with Lord
Jezenrosh and his sons. Crossguard fell eight days ago, the walls destroyed by Awakeners. The king himself led the charge inside.”
“Renarin?” Dalenar asked.
“No word, my lord,” the messenger said, looking down. “But . . .”
Dalenar nodded. The boy had no Shardblade. There was a good chance
that, if killed, Renarin would be ignored amongst the bodies.
A small group of noblemen was gathering behind the messenger, just
outside the audience hall. Dalenar saw confusion and shock. And, with
those emotions, he saw something else—something Dalenar felt burning
within his own breast. Something stronger than fatigue, surprise, or even
logic.
Anger.
Dalenar stood. The noblemen outside stopped their whispering and
waited with expectant eyes.
“Lord Echathen,” Dalenar said, still amazed that his voice could sound
so solid and determined when, within, pain squirmed and wept. “You made
an offer to me the first day of your arrival a week ago.”
The firm-faced man stepped to the front of the group and nodded. “I
remember, Lord Dalenar.”
“Gather your allies and mine,” Dalenar commanded. “Prepare them for
war. Tell them . . . Tell them that the Tyrantbane is needed again.”
chapter 53
JASNAH 12
Their inn had its own Stormshelter, and Meridas appropriated
it for Jasnah, himself, and the other noblemen—including, much to
his obvious regret, Taln and Brother Lhan. By Jasnah’s order, Meridas had
grudgingly consented to let the innkeeper, his family, and several other
high-ranked citizens share the space as well.
Not that there wasn’t enough of it. The inn stormshelter was broad,
and looked to be of unworked stone—the building had probably been
built in this location to monopolize on a natural cavern. The shelter
obviously doubled as a cellar for the inn, and it was cluttered with boxes of winebottles and other provisions. Even with such, however, there was
plenty of room—enough that Jasnah felt guilty for letting Meridas insist
that the other refugees be housed in the city’s common shelter, which was
undoubtedly crowded with travelers.
Still, the shelter’s emptiness did make for comfort. Jasnah sat in a chair brought down from above, and had situated it near one of the room’s four
lanterns, ostensibly so she could study a book she had borrowed from the
monastery. She was too nervous to read, however. She told herself that it had nothing to do with superstition—that she didn’t give any heed to the stories of Stormshades or other creatures that were supposed to stalk the land
during this, the grandest highstorm of the year. Yet she felt an eerie sense
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of foreboding as she sat in the dark, cave-like shelter. She could barely hear the tempest’s fury overhead—only the occasional noise of distant-sounding
winds, mingled with the sound of a leak dripping lethargically, gave clue of what occurred above. Somehow the sounds seemed all the more haunting
for their unobtrusiveness.
Jasnah wasn’t the only one in the room who appeared a bit fidgety. Theirs
was an impatient group. They planned to begin their march northward as
soon as the Bellow ended, giving them a full twenty days of travel before
the threat of another highstorm. It made sense to wait out the Bellow in
Marcabe, but Taln had finished preparing their provisions early the previous day, and they had only needed to wait a little longer for their clothing to be finished. They could have left long before, had the Bel ow not been imminent.
Instead they waited, Taln’s warnings of pursuit tickling their minds,
mingling with thoughts of an invading army sneaking cleverly through the
Oathgates, slowly approaching the weakened Aleth armies.
Jasnah sighed. For the moment, her mind should be focused on their
travel to Kholinar. Water would be tight, but Taln was confident they could make it—without horses to worry about missing footing on the uneven
ground, they could travel mostly at night and conserve liquids. He did
suggest, however, that they remain close enough to the Aleth border that
they could seek out a village in case of an emergency.
The madman himself sat near the far wall, looking over his list of
provisions. Meridas stoo
d chuckling with his young nobleman adjuncts,
who were becoming more and more comfortable with the idea that a Parshen was paying them favor. They probably realized that he only did so because
there was no one better, but their noblemen’s instincts wouldn’t let them
pass up the opportunity to pander.
Only one man didn’t seem even slightly nervous about their impending
flight. Brother Lhan sat with his back to the stone wall, using only a single cushion for comfort. He noticed her regarding him and smiled, rising and
strolling over to her chair, then seating himself on the stone floor beside it.
“Lady Jasnah,” he said, his affability seeming strange within the dank
confines of the stormshelter.
“Brother Lhan,” she replied.
“I just wanted to say that I appreciate the new boots,” he said, smiling
down at the pair she had purchased for him out of the group’s funds. “I dare say, they are the finest present I’ve received from a heretic in my entire life.”
Jasnah raised an eyebrow at his lack of decorum. She suspected that
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Taln’s favor of the man came, in part, because they were both incurably
blunt with their opinions.
Lhan smiled happily.
“You seem to accept my supposed heresy without much concern,” Jasnah
noted dryly.
“Supposed, Lady Jasnah?” Lhan asked. “I believe I’ve read one of the
essays you wrote during your days at the New House. Any man who only
‘supposes’ that you reject Vorinism might as well climb out into the Bellow and ‘suppose’ that he’ll get wet.”
Jasnah frowned. “You won’t persuade me to change my views, monk,” she
said. “More zealous men than yourself have worked on me to little avail.”
“Oh, I’m not ‘working on you,’ my lady,” Lhan assured. “I’m just trying
to amuse myself.”
“How relieving,” she answered, turning away from the short monk,
glancing over at Taln again. The madman was staring at the wall across
from him, his eyes lost to memories and his own thoughts.
“He sees things—and remembers things—that scare him,” Lhan said
in a quiet voice.
Jasnah glanced away from Taln, looking back down toward the monk.
“What kind of things?”