Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]
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quickly Ahven had apparently come to trust the stormkeeper. They didn’t
even know whether or not Balenmar’s map through the caves would lead
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to Jasnah’s capture, yet Ahven already treated the aging man as a respected councilor.
The tent room was lush, as a king’s should be, but Jek knew from expe-
rience that Ahven cared little about such conveniences. He kept the rugs,
pillows, and wood furniture out of a desire to maintain appearances, and
nothing else. The pavilion itself was large, with four rooms, but Ahven kept mostly to the open central chamber. It was in this chamber that Ahven now
stood, speaking carefully with Balenmar, who sat in a plush wooden chair
beside the tent wall.
The two men stopped speaking when Jek entered. What were they
discussing? he wondered with annoyance, then was further annoyed that he should care. He didn’t trust Balenmar, true, but what did that matter?
Jek wanted Ahven to fail—all the better if the king were betrayed by one
he had so foolishly accepted into his confidence.
“You’re back early, assassin,” Ahven said with his firm, yet not overly
loud, voice.
“Dalenar Kholin marches on Crossguard,” Jek announced, walking into
the room.
Ahven hissed a long, quiet breath through his teeth. “You are certain of
this information?”
“No,” Jek said. “I was unable to validate my source. However, I believe
the fact to be truth. When I entered Crossguard, I noticed something
odd about the Aleth army, but couldn’t quite place it. I later realized that the camp looked too . . . orderly. Too on guard. It wasn’t the camp of a
group that had just won a war, but rather that of an army preparing for
battle. King Elhokar executed Dalenar’s heir when he took Crossguard.
Apparently, this act finally spurred the Tyrantbane to action.”
Ahven’s frown deepened, and he leaned one arm against a large wooden
cabinet in thought.
“That does sound like Dalenar, Lord Ahven,” Balenmar said. “Though
why he would let his son ride to Crossguard baffles me.”
“Aredor Kholin was allowed to become too independent,” Ahven said
off-handedly. “He wasn’t raised to be the heir, and was given far too much leeway. He must have gone to Crossguard without his father’s permission.”
“You know this from the songs?” Jek asked.
Ahven nodded slightly, his thoughts obviously still troubled. He tapped
his fingers against the cabinet—the one piece of furniture Jek knew the king valued. It was the one that contained his birds. Only three remained alive.
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“Yet,” Jek said, catching Ahven’s attention, forcing him to read Jek’s lips,
“you didn’t predict this possibility? You claim to have known that Dalenar would stay out of the war, but he has not. What of your clever knowledge
now?”
Ahven’s eyes thinned. “You will not mock me again, assassin,” he ordered.
“Even subtly.”
Jek’s face flushed, and he noted a glint of mirth in Balenmar’s eyes.
Control yourself, Jek told himself. Do not let these easterners rile you.
“Dalenar Kholin is . . . a problem,” Ahven finally said. “No, I didn’t
predict this. I’ve had trouble understanding Dalenar recently. He used
to be an easy man to predict—he was straightforward, a lover of strong
martial ballads with firm, unyielding beats. But recently his tastes have
become more . . . longing. He still favors battle epics, but rather than songs of brilliant victors, he requests ballads about men who fight and tragically lose. Introspective pieces. Questioning pieces. Dalenar is not the man he
once was, and I don’t quite know what he has become.”
“Dalenar Kholin has grown increasingly unpredictable over the last few
years,” Balenmar agreed. “It began with his wife’s death, I believe, but the biggest changing point came when he lost both brother and eldest son to
the Traitor. I think you will have trouble predicting what he will do, my
lord.”
Who are you to speak of traitors? Jek thought with an inward snort.
“All men are predictable, old man,” Ahven said curtly. “And all men are
erratic. We are beings of moods and passions. A man’s taste in music can
change from one hour to the next—it is understanding the whole, and the
meaning of that whole, that gives insight to his actions. For, while moods change, motives are stable. Dalenar Kholin has a strong affection for all
members of his family. I did not predict his coming, but I can deal with it.
In many ways, he will be an easier foe to fight than Elhokar.”
“Unless Jasnah is with him,” Jek said, carefully watching the king’s eyes
for a reaction.
Jek was not disappointed. The mere mention of Jasnah’s name made
Ahven’s eyes flash with momentary uncertainty. Dalenar isn’t the one he fears at all, Jek thought, confirming his suspicions. It’s the woman. Ahven’s dedication of an entire tensquad of troops, along with five full Shardbearers, to hunt down Jasnah was only further proof of that fact.
“She won’t be with Dalenar,” Balenmar said. “The caverns let out far from
Kholinar—even if she managed to find horses, she could conceivably have
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reached the city by now, but there’s no way she could have arrived early
enough to send Dalenar to Crossguard. He left of his own avail.”
Jek bristled slightly at the man’s tone. The old stormkeeper didn’t talk
like a traitor or a conspirator, but instead like a kindly grandfather—one who suffered Jek and Ahven because they amused him, rather than because
they had anything important to add. Everything about the stormkeeper
felt wrong.
“You never told us how you escaped the attack on Ral Eram, old man,”
Jek said.
“Of course he did,” Ahven replied. “Or, at least, he told me. Do not think you are privy to all that I know and do, assassin. You are a tool.”
And a slave, Jek added.
“Even if Jasnah Kholin is with them, we will prevail,” Ahven said, as if
to bolster his own determination. “She is a brilliant strategist, but every strategy can be broken, and every tactic countered.”
“True,” Jek said. “Assuming your side has the better commander.” It
was as close to a question of Ahven’s abilities as he would let himself
get. Horseback riding and foreign tongues could be taught in a secret
classroom, but command skills . . . those required practice and experience to develop. Clever though he may be, Ahven had neither.
Ahven regarded Jek with a terse, yet delving, glance. “You underesti-
mated me from the beginning, assassin. You assumed I would be turned
over by my own people, yet I took their armies for my own. You assumed I
would never reach Ral Eram, yet I passed through the Oathgates with the
power of the Heralds themselves. Now you tell me I cannot win this war.
Someday, perhaps, you will understand. One doesn’t need brilliant military strategies if one can predict what his enemy is going to do.”
“And you can predict Jasnah?” Jek asked.
“Everyone is predictable,” Ahven repeated.
“Even you, Ahven Vedenel?” asked Balenmar, almost forgotten during
the tense exchange between king and assassin.
Ahven didn’t
hear the comment, but he saw Jek glance at Balenmar. The
Idiot King’s eyes flicked to the side, focusing on the aged councilor.
“Are you predictable, King of Jah Keved?” Balenmar asked. “What are
your motivations? Why do you conquer?”
“Because no one has succeeded before,” Ahven answered, almost without
thought.
“And that’s all?” Balenmar asked curiously. “That’s your grand purpose?”
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“No man has ever ruled it all,” Ahven said. “Four thousand years of
history, and no man has ever conquered all of Roshar.”
“And you would be the first?”
Ahven paused, then nodded firmly.
Balenmar studied the king’s face, eyes thinning slightly. “There’s more,”
he finally said. “That answer is too easy, King Vedenel. Perhaps you believe it, perhaps not. It is not, however, the reason you conquer. The lure of power motivates many men, true, but it doesn’t inspire hatred and pain such as
your eyes hide.”
The room was quiet. “Go,” Ahven finally said, pointing at the tent door.
“Both of you. Leave me.”
Jek nodded, bowing slightly and retreating. Balenmar moved less
alacritously, and as Jek left the tent, he caught sight of the old man’s face smiling broadly in satisfaction.
chapter 62
SHINRI 11
Getting Merin a Shardblade was, of course, an impossibility.
As far as Shinri had been able to determine, there were only three
Shardbearers left in the palace, and they would all be master swordsmen.
No, she had enough trouble coming up with a way to steal and conceal two
regular swords, let alone worrying about a Shardblade.
How to get a pair of swords? The Aleth section of the palace had been
thoroughly looted. She searched through several of the rooms, hoping that
a departed or slain nobleman might have left a spare sword behind, but if
such weapons had existed, then the Veden conquerors had already found
them. She considered simply demanding a pair of swords and hoping that
her title and air would be enough to keep questions to a minimum. That,
however, did not seem like a very good gamble, especially considering the
way Ahven’s noblemen guards treated her. Most likely she would not only
end up without weapons, but raise a great deal of suspicion in the process.
Even if she did find the swords, keeping them hidden would be a task
unto itself. She wouldn’t be able to bring the weapons back to her rooms,
lest one of her ladies see her or stumble upon the hiding place. She could hide them in a hallway somewhere, but what if she were seen carrying
them? And, even more pointedly, how was she going to sneak them past the
prison guard? The man was greedy, true, but she doubted any bribe would
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be enough to turn his eyes from a pair of weapons obviously intended to
arm his own prisoners.
It was at that moment that Shinri realized something very important.
Perhaps her problems weren’t several, but singular. Or, rather, what if the two problems were simply solutions to one another?
So it was that she found herself approaching the prison hallway with
a pouch of coins and a large jug of wine. A visit to Ahven’s physician
had not only let her pretend to be playing along with the plan, but also
let her complain of sleepless nights—a claim her ladies had been able to
substantiate. The resulting herbs, intended to help her sleep, had instead gone into the wine. The only trick would be getting the slovenly guard to
drink while still on duty. Shinri doubted, however, that he would be able
to resist the wine for long—especially since she intended to arrive near the beginning of his shift.
The guard carried a full longsword and a typical nobleman’s knife, a
weapon with a blade as long as a man’s forearm, intended to be rammed
through the slits of armored helms or chinks in Shardplate. The weapons
weren’t the two swords she had hoped for, but they were by far the most
accessible—especially since she already needed to deal with the guard
anyway.
Either way, she was feeling rather proud of herself when she entered the
hallway to find the prison completely unguarded.
Shinri paused abruptly, the heavy jug thumping back against her leg.
The guard’s chair and table sat empty. She stepped forward, peeking
into the prison hallways themselves. He wasn’t in either one.
Apprehensive, Shinri set down her jug then approached Renarin’s cell.
“Renarin?” she whispered.
“Oh, good,” his familiar voice returned. “You’re here.”
“The guard’s gone!” Shinri said with confusion.
“I know,” Renarin said. “He came with some others and took Merin.”
“Took Merin?” Shinri asked. “Where?”
“I don’t know,” Renarin replied. There was something odd about his
voice, something Shinri couldn’t quite place. Then she realized what it
was. He didn’t sound distracted or withdrawn at all. In fact, his voice was firm. Focused.
“Listen to me, Shinri,” Renarin said gravely. “Merin is in a great deal of danger. Your Veden king has arrived to attack Elhokar’s forces, but instead of one army, he found two. My father had begun marching on Crossguard
before King Ahven even left Ral Eram.”
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“Your father?” Shinri said. “How do you know these things. And why
would Lord Dalenar go to war now, when before he—”
“There isn’t time, Shinri,” Renarin said firmly. “Lord Dalenar goes to war to avenge my brother Aredor. You can’t think about that now, however.
With Merin goes our only hope to escape this city. You have to free him. ”
Shinri stood, stunned, all of her cautious plans crumbling to dust. “Free
him?” she asked. “How? I don’t have time to come up with—”
“They’re probably taking him to the stables,” Renarin interrupted. “Merin
will fight, if given the chance. You have to give him that chance, Shinri.
Are you wearing any jade?”
Shinri paused. “Jade?” she asked, dumbfounded.
“Yes,” Renarin said.
“My bracelet is jade,” she said, fingering the inset green stones.
“Give it to Merin,” Renarin said urgently. “It doesn’t matter how you do
it, but make certain he gets that bracelet. Go, Shinri. Go now! ”
Shinri stumbled back away from his cell, taken aback by the intensity
in his voice.
“Go! ” Renarin said.
She did, rushing out of the hallway in a near-daze of confusion. She
didn’t have time to think of the things Renarin had said. Aredor, dead?
Merin, taken to the stables? Why? Why would they try to use Merin
against Lord Dalenar? Why not send Renarin, the far better bargaining
piece?
Unless they intended to give a warning—proof of what they would do to
Renarin if Lord Dalenar did not back down. There was one thing Merin
was that Renarin was not.
Expendable.
chapter 63
MERIN 13
The men around Merin spoke in a language he almost understood.
Many of the words sounded familiar, they were just . . . off somehow.
Close enough to his own tongue to make him think he sh
ould comprehend,
but different enough that trying to do so left him frustrated. He was pretty sure he understood one word when it was spoken, however. A name:
Dalenar.
Renarin was obviously right about Jah Keved controlling the city. Merin
kept his head down, walking through the First Palace hallways with a
stumbling, slump-shouldered gait. The three men had come to his cell
expecting a fight, so Merin hadn’t given it to them. Far better they assume him broken until Merin was certain of their intentions.
But what did they want with him? Perhaps they were going to interrogate
him—the heroes from the stories were often tortured for information. In
fact, Merin had been slightly surprised that so far no one had made any
demands of him. His stomach turned slightly at the thought. The heroes
always withstood their sufferings with an almost passionate zeal—to them,
torture was simply another test of bravery. Merin, however, didn’t think it would be that easy.
Well, he thought, at least I don’t have any information to betray—though they probably won’t believe that.
He would have to try and escape. Unfortunately, the situation did not
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look good. His wrists were manacled together in front of him, clasped so
tightly that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to hold a weapon. There were only three guards, but they were big men—and they kept an alert
eye on him despite his weak shambling. The palace hallways were well-
guarded, with soldiers at many intersections and the occasional random
patrol. When he did decide to struggle, he would probably bring another
half-tenset soldiers running.
Of course, there was the chance that he wasn’t going to be tortured, but
released. That made little sense—if anyone were to be ransomed, it would
be Renarin. He was not only Lord Dalenar’s son, but now that Aredor was
gone, Renarin was the heir to Kholinar.
The soldiers led Merin through a less-ornate section of the palace. There
seemed to be fewer guards here—fewer people in general. The corridors
were darker, the stones dirtier. Exactly the kind of place one would expect to find a chamber of tortures.
Merin glanced up at his captors. One soldier stood at his left, leading