“Ralmakha?” Shinri asked. “My lady, it’s Lord Balenmar.”
Jasnah paused, frowning. Balenmar? She turned, regarding herself in the mirror. She was dressed only in a sencoat—a cloak-like robe that wrapped around the chest and tied at the waist with a sash. Her hair was down, her face washed. She was in no condition to receive a male visitor. But, Balenmar . . . the old man wouldn’t visit a lady’s chambers so late unless it were important.
“Bring me my cloak,” Jasnah said.
Shinri rushed to fetch the fine seasilk cloak and place it around Jasnah’s shoulders. It was feminine in cut, designed to hang loosely around the body and to close completely at the front. Jasnah did the clasps inside, enveloping her entire body in the garment, then moved into her sitting room, seating herself in one of its stiff-backed chairs. It was no audience chamber, but at least it was better than the bedroom.
She nodded to Shinri, who disappeared around the corner into the entry hallway. A moment later, she returned with the aging stormkeeper. The man leaned wizenedly on his cane, and his eyes were wrinkled with worry. Shinri hurriedly brought the man a chair, and he seated himself.
“What’s wrong?” Jasnah asked.
The old man sat with his cane planted before him, both hands resting on top of it. He wore a fine blue shirt beneath the cloak, and a pair of loose trousers. Finally, he reached into his cloak pocket and retrieved a rolled piece of paper. He proffered it to Jasnah. “You keep asking for proof,” he said.
Jasnah paused, then reached out from beneath her cloak and accepted the paper. It was a letter, scrawled in a hasty hand. The Stormkin move on your word, my lord. He who hinders you will be subdued within the month.
Jasnah raised an eyebrow.
“It’s the firmest proof I’ve been able to discover,” Balenmar said. “You have heard of the Jenchal?”
Jasnah shook her head.
“The Jenchal—The Stormkin—are a group of assassins based out of Palinar,” Balenmar explained. “It is whispered that they have a new patron—a very important, and very rich, patron. These are a very elite group, Jasnah—they’re only hired to do important jobs.”
“Where did you get this?” Jasnah asked, holding up the sheet.
“It’s a copy,” Balenmar admitted. “The original is held by one of my contacts in Crossguard—I could not afford to purchase it. My lady, this message was delivered to Jezenrosh himself.”
Jasnah grew cold.
“Jezenrosh hates your brother, Jasnah,” Balenmar said with a solemn voice. “I don’t know why that is, but my sources are firm. Elhokar may consider my usefulness suspect, but I have been alive for a long, long time. Even you would be surprised at the places I have informants—men who may not like your brother, but who would do anything to see stability maintained in Alethkar. The fact that Jezenrosh has hired the Jenchal was confirmed just this afternoon by four separate sources. Jasnah, we can only assume the worst.”
Jasnah sat back, thoughtful within the warmth of her cloak. “Jezenrosh and my brother may have had disagreements,” she said, “but this . . . ? Balenmar, are you certain?”
“My lady,” Balenmar said. “My facts are based on hearsay, and my worries based on conjecture. These assassins may not even exist, or if they do, its possible Jezenrosh is using them for another purpose. But if one were going to make a ploy for the throne, now would be a good time—the kingdom is tired and weak from war, and some of the king’s best supporters died on the battlefield. Even if there were suspicion of foul play at the king’s death, most would be hesitant to launch into a civil war.”
Jasnah shook her head. “We don’t know enough.”
“That is why I brought this to you instead of the king,” Balenmar said. “You know how to be . . . delicate.”
“Very well,” Jasnah said. “I will look into it. I’ve an . . . acquaintance who is somewhat close to Parshen Jezenrosh.”
Balenmar nodded, rising. “Thank you, Jasnah. Your brother is not the easiest man to like, but he is the son of Nolhonarin. For that, he deserves my loyalty.”
“Shinri,” Jasnah requested. “See Lord Balenmar to the door, and find out if Kemnar has returned from the monastery yet.”
“Yes, my lady,” she said, escorting the aging man as he rose to leave.
Jasnah sat back in consternation, pondering on what the stormkeeper had said. Jezenrosh wouldn’t be the first Parshen to try and take the throne for himself. He had withdrawn from the Prallah war following a serious disagreement with the king, and now he had hired a team of assassins. It did not look good.
She was pleased to see Kemnar enter a few moments later, Shinri trailing behind. The short guardsman gave a quick bow. “I had to wait until the break between evening services before he would see me, my lady,” the man explained.
“But I have an audience with him tomorrow?”
“Um, no, my lady,” Kemnar said. “The monk refused your invitation.”
“What?” Jasnah demanded.
“He . . . said he was too busy at the monastery to visit the palace,” Kemnar explained. “He mentioned that if you wanted to see him, he does readings from the Arguments five times daily.”
Jasnah closed her eyes, composing herself. That man . . . Monks were outside of traditional societal structure—Ralmakha could ignore a command from any nobleman but the king. However, after speaking with Balenmar, it was even more important that she see him.
“Kemnar,” she said, standing. “Go and tell my bearers to prepare my litter. Shinri, fetch my violet talla.”
“My lady?” Shinri asked. “You’re actually going to visit the monastery?”
“Of course,” Jasnah replied. “Evening service should just be ending. The monk will have no excuse but to make time for an old friend.”
Of the four Vorin monastic sects, the Order of Kavel was the most unassuming. Its members tended to focus on the Common Arts, teaching functional crafts and providing care for those unable to do so for themselves. Peacehome monastery personified this philosophy.
Once one passed through the glyph-covered double gates and entered the inner courtyard, it was easy to see that this was a place of practicality and order. The stone buildings were kept clean, free of cromstone stalactites. The stone ground of the courtyard had been carefully leveled and smoothed, and was kept free of chips and gouges. Lanterns had been lit to stave off the evening darkness, and a small number of people trickled from the buildings, the last remnants of those who had attended the evening service.
Jasnah’s litter caused only a moderate stir. Other litters marked the presence of a few noblemen—while the Kavel philosophy tended to attract citizens more than lords, there were still some of her colleagues who prefer-red its simplicity. The core theology of the four sects was the same; the difference lay in the artistic lessons they offered and the charge—or lack thereof—for such lessons.
Jasnah tapped for her bearers to lower the litter. She had chosen her more lavish vehicle—the one with seasilk curtains as opposed to wooden sides. Summer was near, and highstorms were growing increasingly infrequent. The palace stormkeepers said the next one wouldn’t come until the middle of the next day.
Jasnah climbed from the litter, composed herself, then climbed the steps to the devotion hall, the largest building in the complex. The hall displayed a bit of richness, with delicate spiral columns and numerous mosaics lining the inner hallway—despite Kavel’s humble nature, Peacehome Monastery was one of the largest buildings in Ral Eram. In the First City, even the slums were a bit ostentatious.
The looks of surprise began the moment she was recognized. Monks paused in their labors, turning with amazed expressions as she swept down the tiled hallway, Kemnar and Nelshenden following behind. Citizens whispered to one another with excitement as she passed, and several lords stopped dead in their tracks, regarding her with stupefaction. Jasnah kept her eyes forward, her pace unrushed, ignoring the air of curiosity. It was natural, of course—the entire city knew th
at it had been over a decade since Jasnah was last seen inside a Vorin monastery.
Before her lay a pair of open doors, emblazoned with a mysticized representation of the Double Eye—the twenty palen glyphs connected by lines in the shape of a sideways hourglass. She remembered the doors from her childhood, in the days just after her father had captured Ral Eram for himself. The mysterious collection of glyphs, rendered in the shape of a magnificent eye with two pupils, had always drawn her attention away from readings of the Arguments. She had wondered if the eye truly was that of the Almighty, watching her, looking into her soul.
It had been many years since she had last passed those doors, and even more since she had bothered to wonder about the Almighty.
“Lady Jasnah?” a surprised voice asked as she entered the central devotion room, a large, functional chamber with numerous mats for patrons to sit upon while the Arguments were preached. Brother Lhardon, First Monk of Peacehome Monastery, was young for his station—barely into his fifth decade—and had a wide ovoid face.
Jasnah paused as the monk approached. “Lady Jasnah!” the man repeated. “You’ve missed evening service, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not here for the service, Lhardon,” she informed. “Where is Ralmakha?”
Lhardon’s face fell slightly. “Oh. He’s in the fourth devotion room.”
Jasnah nodded curtly, turning toward one of the side passages.
“Morning service is tomorrow at dawn,” Lhardon said hopefully behind her, his voice echoing in the large stone chamber.
Jasnah ignored him, continuing on her way.
“My lady,” Nelshenden said. “That was an abrupt way to treat a brother of the monastery.”
“Lhardon should never have become First Monk,” Jasnah said. “He’s far too smoketongued to be a Kavel—he was only excited because he thought I might start coming to Peacehome, and bring offerings with me.”
Nelshenden’s look of disapproval did not retreat, but he kept his tongue. Perhaps he’s right, Jasnah acknowledged. Lhardon did not deserve her annoy-ance. It was somewhat frustrating that Ralmakha could still have such an effect on her, even from a distance.
That distance, however, was closing. She paused outside the fourth door in the hallway—a portal crafted of iron, bearing ten different incarnations of the ish glyph: glory, peace, holiness, consecration, remaking, monkhood, blessedness, piousness, dedication, and change.
She pushed open the door, which swung easily on counterbalances, and walked into the small room. There was only one man inside, wearing the light brown sencoat of a monk. He stood before a group of small statues, mumbling in a low voice. He paused as the door opened, turning.
Ralmakha had changed little over the last few years. His hair was beginning to thin, but he kept the curls short after monkly fashion, and so it made little difference. He had a firm Aleth face, more triangular than square, that had a studious, scholarly cast to it.
“Lady Jasnah,” he said, bowing his head.
Jasnah folded her arms, regarding the man. “Surprised, Ralmakha?”
“By you?” he asked. “It hasn’t been that long, Jasnah.”
Jasnah snorted quietly. “Well, if your refusal to see me was a ploy to get me to visit the monastery, then it succeeded.”
“Lady Jasnah,” Ralmakha said chidingly, “you think I would be that transparent? I told your man why I could not meet with you at the palace. I simply have too many important duties.”
Jasnah raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” she noted. “You’re so important to the monks that they have you saying the Arguments to the prayer statues.”
Once, he would have risen to the gibe. Now, however, Ralmakha just smiled. “It is good to see you again,” he said. “I assume you haven’t come to hear from the Arguments?”
“I need to ask you some questions, Ralmakha,” Jasnah said. “About Jezenrosh.”
Ralmakha frowned slightly in confusion. “He’s your cousin.”
“Yes, but he married your sister,” Jasnah replied. “I barely even know the man, but you were a ward beneath his father.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“And you never get messages from your sister?” Jasnah asked. “You never visit her? Come now, Ralmakha, you probably know Jezenrosh better than anyone outside of Crossguard.”
Ralmakha turned, looking past the group of prayer statues toward a mural at the back of the room. It depicted Ishar Elin, giving the gift of the Oathgates to the ten kings who would eventually form a unified Roshar.
“All right, Jasnah,” Ralmakha said. “I’ll answer your questions—assuming you answer one for me.”
“What?”
Ralmakha turned back toward her, meeting her eyes. “Why did you stop believing?”
Jasnah raised an eyebrow. “You probably don’t want me to answer that.”
“And why not?
“Because you won’t like the answer,” Jasnah replied. “Besides, isn’t it supposed to be dangerous to blaspheme inside a monastery?”
“It isn’t really blasphemy if you don’t believe in the deity you’re insulting.”
“Let’s just say that I found . . . inconsistencies in the doctrine,” Jasnah said.
Ralmakha raised an eyebrow.
Jasnah sighed, shaking her head. “What are you doing here, Ralmakha?” she asked. “Why waste your days giving sermons to statues? You know the monastery looks down on a man who joins once past the day of his Charan. They’ll never let you rise in their ranks—you’ll always be stuck in a corner somewhere, out of sight.”
Ralmakha’s eyes flashed slightly at the comment, showing a bit of the fiery temper that hid behind the smiles. “I was meant to be here.”
“Meant to be here?” she asked. “You’re a nobleman, Ralmakha, heir to a Fifth City! You renounced your family, your duties, and your Blade . . . for what?”
“Not all of us can deny who we are, Jasnah,” Ralmakha snapped. “Who are you to speak of duty? You, whose every day is a lie? Do not forget to whom you are speaking. Do not forget the secrets you once told me.”
Jasnah froze, chilled as if by a sudden highstorm wind. She shot a glance at Nelshenden and Kemnar, who still stood beside the door. The two took the hint, backing from the room and closing the metal door.
“How dare you speak of that!” she hissed.
“What?” Ralmakha said. “You haven’t told your men? What of your brother? Does the king know that his beloved sister, genius of the court, shouldn’t be there at all? Will you tell your husband—if that heart of yours ever allows you to marry? Will you tell him he wedded an Awakener?”
“You don’t know what you are talking about, Ralmakha.”
“You have a duty given by the Almighty,” Ralmakha informed her angrily. “A duty you blatantly ignore. Yet you still presume to tell everyone else how they should live! You . . .” Ralmakha trailed off, closing his eyes, breathing deeply.
“This is why I refused to come see you,” he finally said, his voice growing soft once again. “Do you realize I haven’t lost my temper in two years? No yelling, no worrying what my rage will do to me, and those around me . . . Yet five minutes with you, and it comes out again. You always did have that talent, Jasnah.”
He looked up at her. “I should not have spoken of the events of your Charan. The Almighty has given each of us many paths, and we choose our own travels. Ask your questions of me—I will answer.”
Jasnah calmed herself, wondering at her own guilt. She’d fought with Ralmakha many times before—their debates were some of her fondest memories. But that, however, had been in Thalenah—a different time, when they had both been different people.
“What does your brother-in-law think of the king?” Jasnah asked.
Ralmakha eyed her. “Surely you don’t believe the rumors.”
“Which rumors?”
Ralmakha shook his head. “Jezenrosh wishes Elhokar no harm, despite what you may have heard. The Parshen is a man of passion, and he often
says things he does not intend. He and I are similar in that way.”
“There are some who think he might try and take the throne for himself,” Jasnah said carefully.
“Those who say so are either misguided or they are fools. Jasnah, I grew up with Jezenrosh—I know him like a brother. He has never liked Elhokar, but there is one problem with assuming he’d seize the throne. Jezenrosh has no ambition. He hates leadership. He is a scholar—he would have joined the stormkeepers if he weren’t heir. For a time, I thought he might renounce his throne and follow me into the monastery. Unlike me, however, he had no brothers who could inherit. No, ruling Crossguard is bad enough, in his mind. He has no desire to be king.”
“You’re certain?” Jasnah asked.
Jezenrosh nodded. “I’m certain, Jasnah. Jezenrosh is no murderer, and he hates courtly politics. He married my sister because he knew she was terrible at intrigue—he loved her simplicity. Together they live, trying to ignore the rest of the kingdom as best they can. There is no danger to Elhokar from Crossguard.”
Jasnah folded her arms again, tapping her foot in frustration. Two men whose judgment she trusted had given her two polarized opinions—if she believed the wrong one, her brother could end up dead.
Ralmakha knelt, regarding the collection of knee-high statues—representations of noblemen or women who, for one reason or another, couldn’t come to regular services. They commissioned statues to stand in their place and listen to the Arguments on their behalf.
Ralmakha reached out, selecting one and bringing it to the front. It was crafted completely of jade—though it had probably been made of clay, then Remade through Awakening. It depicted a young woman with long hair, sitting demurely on a small pillar.
“This one is for you, you know,” he said.
Jasnah blinked in surprise. “What?”
“Your mother commissioned it,” he explained. “Right after you left for Prallah that first time. She always worried about you—she claimed the philosophies you learned in Thalenah ruined you, made you an unbeliever.”
“My mother always looked for someone to blame,” Jasnah said with a wave of her hand. “Anyone other than her own daughter. I wonder if she ever paused to note that the same philosophies turned you into a monk.”
The Way of Kings Prime Page 26