“I wonder,” Ralmakha agreed.
“Destroy it,” Jasnah said. “I don’t want it here representing me.”
Ralmakha looked up, surprised. “Are you sure you want to do that, Jasnah? Even if you don’t believe, what can it hurt?”
Jasnah shook her head. “You can’t even see the hypocrisy, can you? The monasteries teach that everyone needs to hear from the Arguments and learn to Remake their souls, yet it lets the wealthy simply buy their way into devotion. They get all the benefits of being a pious Vorin, without any of the annoyance. Very convenient.”
“The prayer statues are a symbol, Jasnah,” Ralmakha said quietly. “No one regards them as being equal to actual attendance—it is a metaphor, a deferential tribute given when one is away.” He stood. “I’ll have the statue removed, but not destroyed. Perhaps some day you’ll want it.”
Jasnah raised a skeptical eyebrow. However, her response was cut off by a quick knock at the door, followed by Nelshenden pushing it open. “My lady?” he said, his voice urgent.
“What?”
Nelshenden stepped back, revealing an exhausted messenger. “My lady,” the man said, falling to one knee. “You must come to the palace immediately!”
Jasnah stepped forward. “What? What is this about?”
The messenger looked up. “Your mother, my lady. The queen is dead.”
Lady Ezavah did not look peaceful in death. The woman looked decayed. Shriveled. The same as she had looked the day before—the only difference being the lack of breath.
Jasnah had assumed that the death would have little effect on her mood. She had known her mother’s passing was near. Yet the loss she felt was a sickly pit within her. Lady Ezavah had always been a buffer for her daughter, even when Jasnah tried to escape from the woman’s shadow. The queen had been a storm of passion when alive, hardly the ideal courtly woman, but she had commanded respect nonetheless. Much of what Jasnah had achieved, especially near the beginning, she had accomplished because of her mother’s reputation.
This woman had made Jasnah strong. Without her, Jasnah felt hollowly alone. In addition, the death brought other difficulties. Though she felt callous for thinking of it, the wall protecting Jasnah’s independence had just collapsed.
Just when I was beginning to regain my feet. The thought made her even more sick. Just when I was beginning to gain acceptance into court again . . .
Elhokar sat in a chair beside their mother’s bed, hands clasped before him, looking down at the body with an almost child-like expression of sorrow. Nanavah stood at his side. Meridas and Balenmar stood a respectful distance behind, along with several other court officials. Dalenar and his sons stood beside Jasnah, their heads bowed in respect.
Elhokar stood. “My mother has finally found peace,” he said in a respectful voice. “The Almighty has taken her to the Dwelling. We will hold services at Kingshome monastery tomorrow.” He paused, glancing at his wife.
“With a death, so must new life be symbolized,” Elhokar continued. “Lady Jasnah’s betrothal shall be announced at the beginning of the dueling festivities.”
chapter 22
Merin 5
Merin clanked through the hallways of the Kholinar palace, looking for Aredor. He found Renarin instead. The younger son was in Aredor’s sitting room, seated beside a table—a brushpen held in his hand.
“You’re writing!” Merin accused, aghast.
Renarin looked up with surprise, then relaxed when he saw it was only Merin. He held up his sheet of paper, which was scribbled with very simple glyphs—ones that even Merin recognized. “They’re just numbers,” Renarin defended. “Men are allowed to write numbers.”
“They are?” Merin asked uncertainly.
“Well . . .” Renarin hedged. “Merchants do it, though they usually use tallies. A lot have just started using the glyphs for convenience, though.”
“Yes, but why do you need to write them?” Merin asked, regarding the sheet of paper. He knew very little of mathematics, but some of the numbers appeared to be sequences of one sort or another. If there were any connections between the other sets of numbers, however, they were beyond him.
“I just like playing with numbers,” Renarin said in his sheepish way, accepting the paper back.
Merin shrugged. “Where is Aredor?”
“He’s meeting with someone,” Renarin said, nodding toward the heir’s audience chamber. “It’s a little early to be off to sparring practice.”
“We’re not going there yet,” Merin explained, setting aside his helmet, then reaching over to undo the clasp on his right gauntlet. “Your brother promised to arrange for someone read to me from The Way of Kings today. I was going to go over to Faithhome to get a reading, but he said he’d arrange for a monk to come here and do it, so he could listen too.” Merin frowned as he spoke, pulling off the other gauntlet, then peering inside.
“What’s wrong?” Renarin asked.
“The gauntlet,” Merin complained, shaking it up and down for a moment, then peering inside. “There’s a rock or something stuck inside—it’s been bothering me all day.” He set the gauntlet aside with a sigh. “Here, will you help me with the breastplate?”
Renarin rose, helping him pull off the chest piece. Then the younger son picked up Merin’s gauntlet, putting it on and letting it size itself to him.
“You’re right,” Renarin said as Merin took off the rest of the armor. “There is something in here.” Renarin pulled off the gauntlet, picking at the inside.
Merin pulled off the last boot, then sat down with a sigh. He was so tired of the awkward metal that he was almost beginning to regret the day he had saved King Elhokar’s life. Vasher had him training in the Plate so often he felt like he wore the suit more often than he didn’t—he was surprised the monk hadn’t commanded him to sleep in it yet.
“There!” Renarin said, pulling something out of the gauntlet. “It was wedged underneath a layer of leather. Look.” He held up something very different from the rock Merin had been expecting—a small pendant, tipped with a disc-like piece of carved stone.
“What is it?” Merin asked, reaching for the stone.
“Looks like jade,” Renarin said. “A glyphward.”
As soon as Merin touched the glyphward, the air in the room drew breath and came to life. Merin stood, frozen for a moment, the source of the strange visions suddenly manifest. Just as before, he could see the air flowing through the room, sense its motions blowing in beneath the door, seeping out through the shuttered window, and even being drawn in and out by Renarin’s lungs.
Tentatively, he released the glpyhward. The room returned to normal.
“I wonder how it got in there,” Renarin was saying with a musing voice. “Must have belonged to the man who tried to kill the king. A glyphward brought with him, tucked safely in the gauntlet, for protection in battle. Didn’t work very well, did it?”
Merin touched the glyphward again, tapping it as it hung from the string below Renarin’s fingers. As soon as his fingers brushed the glyph, the air became visible again.
“Merin?” Renarin asked, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“Touch the glyphward,” Merin said. “Try it.”
Renarin shrugged, placing the glyph in his hand. “All right. What now?”
“You don’t . . . sense anything different?”
“No,” Renarin said. “Should I? It’s just a glyphward, Merin.”
It doesn’t work for him, Merin thought. But why? “What glyph is it?”
Merin regarded the carved character. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Looks like it’s a derivative of Nah.”
Nah—power. Merin withdrew his hand uncertainly. What kind of strange magic was this? Glyphwards were supposed to protect against the supernatural, not foster it. And why would it work only for Merin?
“Do you want it?” Renarin asked.
Merin paused. Did he? He reached into his sencoat’s side pocket, pulling out one of his mo
ther’s sewn glyphwards—one he had carried with him through battles. It was stained and dirtied, and would look silly next to his fine clothing, but his experiences earlier had taught him to at least carry it with him. He opened it up. “Here,” he said, “drop it in this.”
Renarin frowned, but did as requested. Merin folded the cloth, locking the strange pendant within it, and tucked both in his pocket.
“And people say I’m strange,” Renarin mumbled, sitting down. “I—” He was cut off as the door to Aredor’s audience chamber opened, and a man stepped out, followed by Aredor. Merin didn’t recognize the stranger, though he wore riding clothing—not lavish, but rich enough. Probably a minor nobleman, Nineteenth or Twentieth Lord. The breast of his cloak bore the glyph of House Kholin, but the glyph was twisted into an unfamiliar design.
Aredor stood for a moment, speaking to the newcomer.
“Who is he?” Merin whispered, leaning closer to Renarin.
“A very distant cousin,” Renarin whispered back. “From Crossguard—one of Parshen Jezenrosh’s couriers.”
“Jezenrosh?” Merin asked. “Isn’t he supposed to be dying or something?”
Renarin shook his head. “He left the war because of sickness, but he’s since recovered.”
Aredor gave the stranger a familial clasp on the shoulder, and the courier bowed his head, then turned and walked quickly from the room.
“What was that all about?” Merin asked as Aredor walked over to join them.
“Family business,” Aredor said off-handily. He eyed Merin’s Shardplate, sitting in a heap on the floor. “More wall-jumping?”
Merin shook his head. “Vasher wants me to lean how to jump up to my feet from a prone position without using my hands.”
“Wearing Shardplate?” Aredor asked with amusement. “That’s not possible.”
“Oh, it is,” Merin said. “I managed to do it a couple of times.”
“Out of how many tries?” Aredor asked skeptically.
“Five hundred or so,” Merin admitted.
Aredor chuckled, and Merin blushed. “It’s better than last week,” Merin said. “He had me jumping off the wall, landing on my feet, rolling to the ground, coming up, swinging twenty times, then jogging back up the stairs—all without stopping. Five repetitions nearly killed me.”
This time, Aredor laughed out loud. “Well,” he said, “if I ever get attacked by a wall, I’ll know who to send for. I assume you’re here for the Kings reading?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Aredor replied. “She should arrive any moment.”
Merin paused. “She? You said you were going to bring in a monk!”
“Oh, did I?” Aredor said innocently. “Completely forgot.”
Merin flushed, looking down at his outfit. He was dressed in a padded shennah undershirt and trousers, meant for use beneath armor. Both were stained with sweat from his day’s exertions.
“By the winds!” he swore. “Loan me something else to wear!”
Aredor laughed, nodding toward his bedroom chambers. Merin rushed inside, selecting an outfit as he heard the outer door open and a feminine voice speak. He hurriedly changed—Aredor was a tad taller than he, but the clothing fit without looking too bad. He quickly splashed some water on his face from the bin, sprinkled on a bit of scented oil on his neck, then composed himself and rejoined the others.
Merin had to admit, this one was rather attractive. Thin-faced with dark, Aleth hair, she was a model of noble femininity—reserved without being cold, immaculately dressed and composed. She rose when Merin entered, bowing respectfully.
Aredor winked his direction, and Merin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Merin,” Aredor announced, “let me introduce the Lady Sankal, first daughter of Lord Chanaran Miendavnah. We are fortunate for this opportunity—Lady Sankal is known for her poetic voice.”
“It is an honor, my lady,” Merin said with a nod.
“For I, as well,” the lady replied. “Please, be seated. You wished to hear from The Way of Kings? Which section?”
“The First,” Merin requested, seating himself beside Aredor on the couch. Lady Sankal waved to her companion—a younger girl, probably Sankal’s ward, who bore a very thick tome. Sankal seated herself as well, opening the book in her lap.
“Part One,” she read, “The Ideal Monarch. The Sovereign is not a tyrant, but a father. As the Almighty cares for his creations, so the Sovereign should love and care for his people. His is a holy position, granted to him by birth from the Almighty. In the eternal eye of the Almighty, a Sovereign’s worth will be judged not by his acts of heroism, his great conquests, or his wealth. It will be determined by the love he earned from his people.”
Despite his annoyance with Aredor, Merin smiled. The reading was far better than the ones he had received from the monks. Lady Senkal spoke with a melodic cadence, converting Bajerden’s simple passages into a rhythmic near-ballad. Her voice was sweet and relaxing, and she never stumbled over words like the monks often did.
“She’s something, eh?” Aredor said quietly, nudging him. “You should trust me more.”
Merin raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t forgiven you yet,” he informed.
“Oh?” Aredor asked. “What are you going to do? Make me jump off the wall a couple of times?”
“No,” Merin replied. “But next time I’m up there, I’ll do my best to make certain I fall on you.”
Aredor chuckled to himself, leaning back and relaxing as he listened. Merin did likewise. Actually, he was rather pleased with the outcome, even if he were getting a little tired of The Way of Kings. He felt guilty admitting it, even to himself, but it was true. He knew the words were important—Kanaran society was founded on Bajerden’s philosophies. However, the writing was just so dry. Bajerden outlined his beliefs in a straightforward, but dull, manner. Merin had been excited the first couple of times he had received a reading, but Dalenar had recommended that Merin hear from the book at least once a week—more often when he could manage it. Even with six sections to choose from, the readings were beginning to seem very repetitive.
“The great and magnificent duty of the Sovereign is the safety of his people. Without them, he is nothing. As they provide for his sustenance, he must provide for their livelihoods. The second duty of the Sovereign is the wealth of his people. He is a waged servant, and if his people do not prosper more because of his presence, then he has failed them.”
The book made more sense to him now that he understood that Bajerden’s word ‘Sovereign’ didn’t just refer to the king, but to anyone of noble blood. The first and fourth sections were the ones Merin found most interesting—the first because it reminded him of the heroes of the past, and the fourth because it mentioned Protocol and swordplay. However, even the best sections were a little dry.
Merin forced himself to continue listening to readings, however. Dalenar was right—how could he perform his duty if he didn’t understand what that duty was? There was no better place to hear about the obligations of his station than through The Way of Kings.
The truth was, however, he would much rather have been hearing from one of the great ballads. He had accidentally made the discovery—after a The Way of Kings reading, Merin had heard a monk reading from The Fall of Kanar in a nearby room. He had gone to investigate, and had listened ravenously. It wasn’t until that moment that he had realized the treasure at his disposal—there were hundreds of great epics to be heard, everything from The Betrayal of Inavah to The Chronicles of the Returns. Back in Stone-mount, he had only been able to hear the songs known by townsfolk or passing minstrels, but now—as a Lord—he could demand any of them on a whim. It had become his habit to request a reading from one of them after hearing a section out of The Way of Kings.
Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to sneak in any ballad-reading this day. Lady Senkal marched onward through her recitation, reading about the rules by which a sovereign should decide whether or not to go to war.
&nbs
p; “She’s not married, you know,” Aredor whispered about three-quarters of the way through the reading.
Merin rolled his eyes. “Why is it you insist on trying to marry me off?” he hissed. “You’re five years older than me, and you haven’t seen fit to woo a bride yet—in fact, everything I hear claims you enjoy keeping the women guessing.”
“I’m horribly misrepresented,” Aredor said. “It’s a conspiracy among the mothers. None of them want me as a son-in-law.”
Merin shot his friend a suffering look. Aredor was one of the most sought-after matches in Alethkar. It was commonly expected that he would be chosen as Parshen after his father died—either way, he would inherit Kholinar, one of the most powerful cities in the kingdom. Any mother would be eager to choose him for her daughter if she thought he would agree to the match.
Aredor nodded toward Senkal. “Her father is lord of Basinrock,” he noted. “A sixth city.”
“And?” Merin asked. That made her a Sixteenth Lady.
“And,” Aredor said meaningfully, “she has no brothers.”
No brothers? Merin thought with surprise, turning to regard the woman again. She continued her reading despite the whispers—apparently, it was expected that the men would get distracted every once in a while. She looked up as she spoke, shooting him a glance and a smile, then looked down at the book.
“That means her husband will inherit the city,” Aredor explained quietly.
“I’m not dense, Aredor,” Merin replied.
“Basinrock is only a sixth city,” Aredor continued. “But that’s very respectable, all things considered. It’s a tribute city to Kholinar right now, but its emerald mines are productive enough that my father has considered granting it full independence. If its lord were a relative, Father could easily be persuaded to make the change. Her father is very eager to see that happen.”
“Eager enough to marry his daughter to a former peasant?” Merin asked with a frown.
The Way of Kings Prime Page 27