“No one needed to read to me,” the man said with amusement. “I knew how to read before this world was founded—though, I’ll admit that I didn’t learn your version of it until the Sixth Epoch.”
“Really?” Jasnah asked skeptically, leaning over and pushing his book down against the table. “Read that,” she said, pointing at a paragraph.
“‘No one knows what caused The Silence,’” the man said. “‘Or even if it occurred at all. Some scholars claim that the event never occurred, that Awakening didn’t suddenly disappear—they argue that the Oathshard wars brought on an era of distrust in mankind, and Awakening fell out of favor for its mystery. Others attribute the loss of Awakening abilities to a mystical connection to the Oathpact; when one was shattered, the other broke as well. Regardless of the truth, it is obvious that some powers attributed to the legendary Knights Epellion of the Epoch Kingdom—Windrunning, Stonewarding, and the others—are no longer available to mankind, even if Awakening itself eventually returned.’”
Jasnah sat back in her chair, stunned. “Who are you?” she whispered.
“Talenel Elin,” the man said frankly. “Some have called me Stonesinew the Steadfast, others simply call me The Soldier. Personally, I’ve always preferred to simply be called Taln.”
“Taln?” Jasnah asked. The word was Palh for rock.
Taln shrugged. “It suits me. Usually, during Returns, I spend my time hitting things. Ishar and Jezrien are far better at planning than I am—which is why I was hoping they would be here already.”
Jasnah took a deep breath. He certainly wasn’t the first man who had learned to read—many stormkeepers were thought to have taught themselves. However, he was the only one she’d seen admit it openly. “Look . . . Taln,” she said, leaning forward. “You have to understand. No matter what you think, no matter what your mind says, you aren’t a Herald. You’re a man, from Riemak. Were you in a battle? Was your head wounded?”
“The Sign’s failure is a problem, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “I don’t know, maybe it has something to do with this ‘Silence’ the text mentions. You really don’t have Knights Epellion any more? This is Alethkar—you should have Windrunners. The power was tied to the royal family.”
“Windrunners are a myth, Taln,” Jasnah explained. “Please, go back to Mercyhome. The monks there can help you; they know how to treat people with your illness.”
Taln smiled. “They want me to go work in the mines.”
“That’s a good job,” Jasnah said. “The King’s Mines offer steady pay, good for a Tenth Citizen. You may be low of rank now, but if you work hard, your grandchildren will have Eighth Citizen status. They’ll be full Aleths, just like everyone else.”
“I appreciate the offer,” he said, voice growing solemn. “But I can’t accept it. The Khothen are coming, Lady Jasnah. The creatures known as the Shadein, or Stormshades. They will come in one year. In the centuries before the Epoch Kingdoms were founded to unite against them—before Vorinism was founded to encourage men and teach them to prepare—the Khothen nearly destroyed mankind on three separate occasions. They won’t stop until they succeed. This time, they won’t find a united Roshar to fight against them, and they’ve grown craftier over the centuries—come to know us better. I have to find my brethren. Failing that, I have to find a way to stop the Khothen on my own.”
He leaned forward, looking her in the eye. “I don’t remember much from the last few days. The first few weeks after a Return begins are . . . difficult. However, I do know you were responsible for saving my life, and I thank you—dying now would have been terribly inconvenient. However, I must ask something else of you.”
Jasnah frowned. “What?”
“I need my sword,” Taln explained. “My Shardblade. It is connected to those of the other nine Elin—through it, I can feel where my brethren are. I need you to get it back for me.”
Jasnah shook her head. “That’s not going to happen, Taln.”
“If it doesn’t,” he said, standing, “then I’ll have to find a way to get it back myself. That won’t be pleasant for anyone involved.” He paused, looking around the room. “I have a feeling I’m not wanted here—it has something to do with only women being authors these days, I assume?”
“You could say that,” Jasnah replied.
Taln held up Balen’s Ezorpan. “Can I take this? I promise I’ll return it.”
He probably had no idea how much the book was worth. For some reason, however, Jasnah said yes anyway. “Very well. Just promise not to return to the library again.”
Taln nodded. “That’s a deal, sister of the king. Think about what I said—time is short.”
With that, he strode from the room. Jasnah sat back in her chair, sighing to herself.
chapter 15
Jek 3
Jeksonsonvallano, Truthless of Shinavar, did not sneak when he entered Ahven’s palace. If the Idiot King wanted to hide the fact that he had a Shin slave, he should have given an order to that effect.
It was as if Jek could feel the blood dripping from his fingers. During ten years as a Truthless, Jek had rarely been ordered to commit such a massacre. Talshekh Davar might have been young for a house leader, but he was extremely fertile. Thirteen children had born his name—six sons, seven daughters, eight of them beneath the age of the Charan.
Talshekh was a father no more, nor a husband. Jek had done his work well. He always did. Though he had no will of his own, he bore the shame and the sin of the murders—that was the conundrum of his punishment.
Surprisingly, Ahven’s guards let him pass without resistance. He wondered how the Idiot King had found a way to give them orders without revealing his true nature. The rooms beyond looked different in the daylight—one would never have been able to tell from the lavish furnishings what little regard the people had for their supposedly imbecilic king. The Veden were fond of symbols that portrayed their martial accomplishment—tapestries bearing glyphs of heraldry were favored over paintings, and colorful shields hung from many of the doors. Suits of armor—not Shardplate, but crafted to imitate it—stood as sentries at corners and in alcoves. Ahven’s audience chamber was a grand room with massive, squareish columns, decorated with shields, spears, and imitation Shardblades. Red and white—the hereditary symbols of old Vedenar—were the favored colors.
Interestingly, it appeared as if Ahven held court in his chamber, though the room was very poorly attended. From his previous scoutings, Jek knew that the king’s whims held very little authority—early in his career, Ahven had signed a document requiring all royal edicts be authorized by the Puppeteer before becoming law. The Puppeteer, however, needed no signature from the king to make most proclamations. Considering such, it was rather amusing that there was anyone in the room besides the guards.
The Idiot King sat on his throne, which was crafted completely from black steel. In Shinavar, the seat of such an important man would have been lined with gold or silver—a sign of wealth and favor from the Shanalakada. To the heathens of the east, however, gold had no more value than steel—all metals were the same when one used the sacred arts with such impunity.
The minstrel speaking with Ahven was far more interesting than the king himself. The minstrel was female of course— eastern noblemen considered singing a feminine art. Men could sing if they wished, but only women could do it for an audience. She was of middle age, probably married to a lesser nobleman who relied on her earnings to support him—a woman beautiful of voice was often as much in demand among the Kanaran nobility as one skilled at politics.
“He asked for the Ballad of the Eastern Seas, my lord,” the minstrel said. She was draped in a very long sencoat, with an enveloping pink shirt underneath—clothing that might have been considered scandalous up north, in the more prudish kingdoms of Alethkar and Pralir. “Followed by the Song of Nahket.”
“The Song of Nahket,” Ahven said with a smile. “I like that one.”
“Yes, my lord,” the mins
trel said. “Lord Rienat is fond of it as well.”
Jek frowned, standing in the shadows of a column, trying not to touch any more stone than he had to. What was Ahven’s game? He was deaf—what knowledge did he have of ballads or songs? Indeed, what need had he of minstrels? Perhaps it was simply part of his act as a fool. Jek had not discovered the Idiot King’s lack of hearing before attempting the assassination, and Jek liked to think that his information-gathering abilities were respectable, even though easterners were generally distrustful of his people.
Whatever the reason, the minstrel’s report continued for a time longer. Once completed, Ahven nodded for one of his servants to give her a couple of gemstones and usher her out. Jek watched with interest, trying to catch hints of Ahven’s true intelligence behind the mask. Though Jek had little respect for eastern heathens in general, this king’s mastery of his own image was impressive. Everything from his expressions to his slumped, not-quite-right posture gave an air of mental deficiency. Coupled with the slurred voice, even Jek was unable to sense the competence hidden behind those dull eyes.
“What is next?” Ahven asked his steward.
“Your audiences are finished, my lord,” the stumpy man replied.
“They are?” Ahven asked, looking sorrowful.
“Yes, your majesty. Perhaps you should return to your rooms and rest. You have had a full day. Look, see. Your Shin minstrel has arrived.”
“Yes,” Ahven said, nodding. “I am tired. I will return to my rooms.”
Jek raised an eyebrow, impressed again. Ahven’s reactions were simple without sounding inane. He played his part well.
This man is Truthless, Jek reminded himself, rubbing his fingers together. Truthless, and heartless. Ahven might be a fine actor, but beneath his mask he is a murderer like the rest—and a lazy one. How easy it was to order the slaughter of a family when one could sit comfortably in one’s palace, listening to minstrels while children died.
“You did as I asked?” The Idiot King stood at the far side of his sitting room, beside a large wooden cabinet.
“You did not ask,” Jek said simply.
Ahven smiled, watching the movement of Jek’s lips. “No, I did not. Davar’s family is dead, then.”
“Yes,” Jek said, his voice reserved, though tone would be lost on this man.
Ahven nodded, turning toward the cabinet. He pulled it open, revealing . . . birds. Jek paused in amazement, regarding the three metal cages. Two were empty, but one contained a small flock of bright yellow Shin songbirds. They were . . . beautiful, though their cheeps haunted him. They were reminders of a place that seemed more distant with each fresh assassination.
Ahven opened the rightmost cage, reached in, and allowed one of the birds to hop onto his finger, Then he brought it out and shut the cage. The Idiot King turned, the songbird resting on his finger and warbling with a light voice.
“What was the reaction in Windhollow?” Ahven asked, glancing toward Jek’s face.
Jek shook his head. “Talshekh will come for you,” he said. “The rumors say he believes that the Puppeteer was behind the assassination. He is already gathering his forces.”
“Indeed,” Ahven said, glancing down at the bird.
Ahven frowned. There had been a time when house Vedenel had been the most powerful of the three, a time when it had ruled the entire kingdom, its House Leader more an emperor than a king. That time had passed long ago. Now, House Vedenel was suffered more than obeyed. It was the weakest of the three, and that weakness had grown even worse since the death of Ahven’s father.
“House Vedenel has no army,” Jek said, Ahven’s eyes flickering up at the movement of his lips. “You barely have what could be called a militia. House Davar is the most powerful of the three—Talshekh will gather a considerable force.”
“Indeed,” Ahven repeated. He looked back down at his songbird, reaching out and scratching its head. The small creature proffered its head eagerly, rubbing against his scratching finger. “Talshekh Davar has wanted to take the throne for some time. Only fears for his family kept him back—his wife worried that war would open the children to assassination.”
“So you remove the source of his hesitance?”
Ahven nodded. “Even if he hadn’t suspected my dear Chancellor of State, Talshekh would have gathered his army. He wants my head nearly as much as your former master did—though for different reasons. He considers my . . . deficiencies an embarrassment to the proud Veden heritage.”
Jek’s frown deepened. Not an idiot . . . but perhaps a madman.
Ahven continued to scratch the bird’s head. “I cannot hear them, you know,” he eventually said. “I’ve often wished to. My hearing went when I was a small child. I sometimes think that I can remember what it was like . . . the songs. The pure voice of my sister. Perhaps it is simply a fabrication, but the memory is there.”
Jek opened his mouth to reply, but Ahven was too fascinated by the songbird to look up.
“It trusts me so implicitly,” the king said as the bird ruffled its feathers, then rubbed its head against his finger for more scratching. “I raised them all, you know. My keepers considered it a good waste of time for their dear child of a king.”
Ahven continued to scratch, then reached over with his other hand, and lightly snapped the bird’s neck. Jek blinked in surprise as Ahven set the corpse aside, resting it on a nearby table. “Come,” the Idiot King said. “I have other tasks for you to perform.”
Jek remained where he was as the king walked away, looking down at the dead creature. So that is it, he thought to himself. Ahven is not a man who kills for revenge, or even to advance himself. He kills because he wishes to prove how powerful he is. Not a madman or an idiot . . . just a simple thug.
Jek shook his head, turning to do as he had been ordered.
chapter 16
Shinri 2
Shinri wished, not for the first time, that the Aleth royal court had never moved to Ral Eram. She was much fonder of Kholinar. It felt . . . real, and not just because of the lait plants. A city reflected the soul of its lord, and few men were as real as Dalenar Kholin.
Lord Dalenar suffered no sycophants in his court, and panderers soon withered beneath his stern, capable eyes. Everyone was expected to do as they should, and many did just that—for they knew that their lord was a man who took his duty seriously. Shinri also liked the city for its honest political climate. Many of the more ambitious women avoided the Kholinar court, for it was known to be somewhat bland. Young Kinae—betrothed to Dalenar as part of the treaty that bound the pseudo-rebellious city of Khardinar to Alethkar proper—was still too young for political games. In addition, Lord Dalenar was known to use unpopular attributes—such as honesty and trustworthiness—as criteria for granting rewards to his men.
A good example was the young boy who rode between Lord Dalenar’s sons, obviously still uncomfortable with the idea that he would be invited to go riding with his lord and the king’s sister. Merin, now Merin Kholin, was a strong-limbed boy with a firmness of body—a trait not mimicked by the uncertainty in his eyes. She had seen hundreds like him, spearmen brought from the plentiful villages that dotted Alethkar’s midlands. Of course, none of those men had achieved this boy’s feat—slaying a Shardbearer.
It was something spoken of in ballads, but not something the nobility actually expected to happen. A common citizen? Killing such a high-ranked nobleman? Without the histories to remind them that such things were to be considered acts of heroism, most of the aristocracy probably would have found the boy’s act offensive. As it was, they spoke of him in mixed terms. The tale of his bravery was like a thing out of a poem or ballad, yet the boy himself many whispered of as awkward and unimpressive. Separating the deed from the man; it was a very aristocratic mindset.
There was no such confusion for Lord Dalenar. Though Dalenar sat upon his horse attired as any other nobleman—dressed in seasilks, his hair finely-kept, his saddle rich—his noble eyes and hono
rable actions proved him something far above the average. He was a handsome man, too. Square-faced with peppered hair, his body firm like that of a man far younger. It was hard for her to imagine a more perfect lord.
Perhaps Tethren would have turned out like Dalenar, her mind thought unbidden, always eager to ruin a perfect moment. As the days passed, her hopes for her fiancé’s return had slowly given way before brutal reality. Independent reports confirmed both Tethren’s trip to Thalenah and his ship’s misfortune. Some scattered wreckage had been turned up by other ships in the convoy, but the highstorm had been fierce, and no survivors had been discovered.
Tethren is gone, she told herself. You have to move on to more pressing matters. Like Jasnah said—you need to be alert. There is danger in court.
Though their ride was ostensibly a leisurely one, Shinri doubted Jasnah was capable of simple ‘leisure.’ The lady had come to discuss her concerns about the Aleth court with one of the few people she actually trusted. Shinri, however, tried not to let her mistress’s agenda spoil the ride. The lait hillside was gorgeous. The horses could barely move without stepping on leaves or vines of some sort. The lait rockbuds, with their underdeveloped shells and overdeveloped blossoms, grew so thickly that it was often hard to see through their leaves to the ground below. Massive flowers hung from the center of the thick rockbud stalks, their weight causing them to dangle and bob in the slight breeze. Unlike a garden, there was no coordination of colors—blue blossoms grew right next to yellow ones in no discernable pattern—and Shinri found the lack of obvious organization refreshing.
Lord Dalenar reined in his horse. “This looks like a good spot,” he noted, nodding toward a more level bump on the lait hillside.
“It is suitable,” Jasnah said. Though her voice was controlled, Shinri knew her mistress well enough to tell that Jasnah would have been just as pleased with stark stone walls as she was with the beautiful hillside. To Jasnah, the ride itself was a waste of valuable time that could have been spent plotting.
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