“Don’t be so quick to judge them, Merin,” Aredor said. “Not every nobleman is like Meridas or the king. Some of us see a lorded citizen as the most honorable kind of nobleman. Listen to what Bajerden says—his entire social system is based around the idea of rewarding those who serve well. The best leaders are to be elevated, and those who deserve nobility will find it. In a way, your existence legitimizes all of us.”
Merin sat back thoughtfully, remaining quiet until the end of the recita-tion. Once it was finished, Lady Senkal modestly withdrew—it would be unseemly for her to tarry too long with men she had barely met. As she left, however, she mentioned that she would be visiting Kholinar for a period of two weeks, and that she would be pleased to return and read to them from the other sections.
“I think she likes you,” Aredor said after the door closed.
“That’s because she couldn’t smell me,” Merin said with a frown. “Next time, warn me when you’re going to do something like that.”
Aredor snorted. “Last time I did, you found an excuse to run away and hide. Pick up your sword—it’s time for training.”
The opal in Merin’s Shardblade had darkened steadily over the weeks. Merin examined the gemstone closely as he walked, peering into its greying depths. It had been about two months since the final Pralir battle—nearly eighty days. He was getting so close . . . just a few more weeks, and the Blade would be his completely. He would be able to dismiss it and recall it, and all shadows of its former owner would be gone.
As it was, the only remnant of the dead man was a faint outline of the glyphs running up the length of the blade. Over the weeks, the weapon had lengthened by half a foot, growing to Merin’s needs. The gemstone-like indentations on the blade had melted away, instead being replaced by shifting waves that looked something like water. Merin wasn’t certain why the design was appearing—he’d only seen the ocean once, when they had passed near its tip while marching to Prallah. Yet he was told that the Blade would know his soul better than he did, and that its ornamentations would reflect him.
The blade had begun to curve slightly, losing its straightness. That, at least, he understood. The fighting style Vasher was teaching him relied heavily on broad swings and slashes, and had very little focus on thrusts. The weapon was growing to fit his training. The hilt had grown as well, perfect for the two-handed blows he often delivered, and the crossguard was curving delicately, the ends growing into points.
“You know,” Aredor noted, “staring at it won’t make it bond any faster.”
Merin lowered the weapon. “I’m just worried—the dueling competition is only a few days away. I guess I won’t have the weapon bonded in time.”
“You can still participate,” Aredor said. “You’ll just have to fight with the sheath on so you don’t accidentally hurt anyone.”
“That will make it awkward to fight,” Merin said. “Assuming I even get to participate.”
“You haven’t asked him yet?” Aredor asked.
Merin shook his head. “I’m going to do it today.”
“He’s got to let you,” Aredor said confidently. “I mean, why is he training you, if not to teach you how to duel? This is a perfect opportunity to test your skills.”
Merin wasn’t so certain. Vasher still forbade Merin from dueling with anyone besides himself and a couple of his fellow monks. Merin bid Aredor farewell as they entered the monastery, making his way toward Vasher’s customary corner of the courtyard.
Vasher nodded to him as he approached. “Today we spar again,” he said simply, tossing Merin a practice sword.
Merin caught the sword and fell into his stance. A few moments later, they were trading blows on the sandy ground. Merin liked to think he was getting better. After all, Vasher had finally consented to begin teaching him how to spar, rather than just making him practice swings and stances.
Of course, Merin had yet to even score a hit on the older man. He tried hard as they practiced—waiting for that one chance, that one opening, when he would finally show his teacher his improvement. It had yet to come.
Merin held up a hand forstallingly as the latest exchange ended. Vasher waited patiently as Merin stretched his arms, then fell back into a dueling stance. The stance was the sign, and the elder monk advanced again, kicking up sand as he approached. Merin held his weapon forward, watching carefully for the first strike, parrying it as it came. According to Vasher, most fights were won on the turn of one or two blows. However, before those blows came, there was often testing—a few tentative exchanges, meant to distract one’s opponent, or perhaps judge his strength.
The end came in a flash. Merin parried as trained, on the defensive, trying to block or dodge all of the strikes. As usual, he wasn’t left with any opportunities to attack—Vasher struck so quickly, his attacks came so rapidly, that it was all Merin could do to keep himself from being hit.
This time, he blocked most of them. One blow, however, slipped through, striking him on the side of the leg. Merin grunted in pain, losing his rhythm as Vasher pressed forward, bowling over him and knocking him to the ground.
Merin sighed, resting back in the sand, staring up into the darkening sky. It was completely free of clouds—during spring and fall, the sky was often cloudy, even when no highstorm was approaching. During the summer, however, even a hint of rainfall was too much to expect.
“You keep leaving your left side open,” Vasher said. “You’re not a spearman any more—you don’t have a shield to protect you.”
“I trained with a spear and shield for two years,” Merin replied. “I can’t expect to overcome my reflexes in two months.”
“Excuses are fine until they kill you,” Vasher said. “Come on—we haven’t been at it that long.”
Merin sighed, sitting up. As he did so, he felt an unfamiliar lump in his pocket. He frowned, reaching down reflexively before remembering the glyphward he and Renarin had discovered. He glanced up at Vasher, then hesitated.
It can’t be evil, Merin told himself. It’s a glyphward. However, he was still uncertain.
Use any advantage you have . . . Vasher’s words from before returned to him.
Merin reached in his pocket as he stood, quickly unwrapping the glyphward. He brought out the ward with a hasty motion, slipping it around his neck and tucking it beneath his shirt. The air became perceptible around him, driven by a cool breeze coursing through the valley. He could see it, stronger up above, blowing over the wall and dropping in upon them.
“Stance,” Vasher ordered.
Merin did as commanded. What kind of advantage did he expect to receive from the glyphward? Being able to see the wind wasn’t exactly a strong martial benefit.
Vasher approached, sword held before him in a familiar, careful grip. He was cautious, discerning, perfect. He gave no clue as to his thoughts. Except . . .
Vasher took a sharp breath. Merin saw it—saw the air get sucked through Vasher’s nose, then suddenly stop. The monk was holding his breath.
Merin struck even as Vasher raised his blade to attack. Merin moved in quickly, beneath the man’s guard. Vasher’s eyes flashed with surprise, but it was too late. Merin’s weapon struck Vasher on the side of the chest, causing a grunt of pain and throwing dust from the monk’s clothing.
The monk stumbled back, lowering his weapon.
“Ha!” Merin said. “Finally!”
Vasher rubbed his side, eyes thinning. “You’re getting too accustomed to my style,” he informed. “Fight the same man too long, and even a novice will learn to anticipate his moves. Let’s get a drink.”
Merin continued to smile, tempted to mention Vasher’s own lecture on ‘excuses.’ However, now was not the time to agitate the aging monk. As they approached the water barrel, Merin carefully broached a new subject.
“The dueling competition is in four days,” he said.
“So?” Vasher asked.
Merin shrugged. “I thought I might participate.”
“No
t if you want to keep learning from me, you won’t,” Vasher said.
Merin groaned, dropping his ladle into the water. “Why, Vasher? Don’t you understand the opportunity I’ll be passing up?”
“You already have a Blade,” Vasher said. “The competition means nothing to you.”
“It means everything,” Merin said. How could he explain? “You’re a monk, Vasher—you don’t understand these things. I need to participate, show the others that I can be one of them. They still think of me as Lord Dalenar’s ‘pet peasant.’ I need to prove myself.”
“You’re young,” Vasher said, taking a drink. “There will be plenty of time for you to ‘prove yourself.’ Afterward, there will be plenty of time to regret doing so.”
Merin sighed, leaning against the barrel with a frustrated glare.
“I understand more than you think, Merin,” Vasher said. “I haven’t always been a monk.”
Merin nodded disconsolately. Eventually, he looked up, studying the grizzled monk. “Vasher, I’ve spoken to the others. You’ve never taken a student—not even a peasant. None of the monks you spar with have taken students either. What made you decide to train me?”
Vasher replaced the ladle, then fished out the one Merin had dropped. “I know something of what it is like to be a reject,” he said. “I understand what it is to leave one life and begin another.”
Merin frowned at the cryptic answer. Vasher just turned back toward their practice swords. “No duels, Merin,” he repeated. “Come on. You’ve training to do.”
chapter 23
Shinri 4
Painted faces stared at Shinri. She had forgotten how disturbing that could be—she really had grown accustomed to life in Alethkar’s court. Once she had joyed in the discomfort those faces had given visiting noblemen; her younger self would have been horrified to see the woman she had become.
The city of Kenedal, capital of the island kingdom of Thalenah, had become foreign to her once again. Yet it still held a fascination for her. Shinri strolled through the city streets, her feet given a roaming freedom that was growing depressingly rare lately. For the moment, however, there was nowhere specific she had to be—no plot of Jasnah’s to further, no ceremony she needed attend, no function that demanded her peripheral attention. She could simply stroll, looking at the pictures.
The Thalens were fascinated with eyes and faces, and often exaggerated them in their murals and paintings—art forms of which they were extremely fond. Shinri barely passed a building—whether it be shop, government structure, or simple dwelling—that didn’t bear at least an amateur painting on one side. Most were far from amateur—just like Aleths liked to decorate their doors with portalglyphs and carvings, the Thalens used murals and paintings as a representation of wealth and status. The more powerful a man was, or the more rich a shop’s goods, the better his painting.
They were especially fond of faces. Eyes peeked from overhangs and ledges, faces were emblazoned on building sides, and massive crowd scenes ran across the larger structures. Lady Jasnah’s history lessons had taught Shinri things that once—as a child and young adolescent—she had stubbornly ignored. Even though Thalenah seemed more normal than Shinavar, it wasn’t truly a Kanaran kingdom. Its people were of Inavan stock—the only ones left, now that Inavah itself had been destroyed. They weren’t pagans, though they had once been. Thalenah had joined with the Kanaran kingdoms in their worship of the Almighty when Josen, dubbed “The Vorin King,” had converted in the Fifth Epoch.
Shinri reached up, brushing her fingers along a mural. Aleths preferred indistinct artistic representations, favoring form over detail even in most sculptures. Heralds were represented as faceless warriors of divinity, and human representations rarely included more than perfunctory faces. To the Vorins, stylized palh glyphs were the only regal form of visual art, and even those were often considered secondary to poetic or musical pieces.
It seemed so strange to see detail in the faces again. But, it was a good sense of strangeness. The paintings, mixed with the unfamiliar Thalen architecture, made the street seem slightly off. Imperfect. Real. It was an alien realness, true, but it left her refreshingly calm. She felt no impulse to gather pebbles or pull at the threads of her dress, no need to mar the images she saw around her by prying free mural tiles. It was a freedom she hadn’t felt since her return from Prallah. Thalenah was already flawed, and that was good. It was honest.
So, for the moment, Shinri simply walked and enjoyed the peace. Or, at least, she tried to. As she strolled, she was amused to find a slight sense of urgency within her—a desire to return to Alethkar. Things were moving so quickly. Jasnah’s betrothal would be announced this very evening, and the queen still hadn’t revealed which of the many potential suitors she intended to choose. Events in Shinri’s homeland of Jah Keved were coming to a head, the dramatic death of the Puppeteer—followed by her cousin’s subjugation of House Rienar—providing unexpected twists in the dynastic upheaval. There was a thrill in all of this. She had tasted power during her visit to Veden City, and it had awakened an understanding within her. Even as Jasnah’s underling, she was at the center of movements that shaped nations much as the highstorms shaped the land.
And this was the duality within her. At times, Shinri was reminded of how much she disliked noble society for its falseness. The convolutions of etiquette and courtly intrigue sickened her. Yet at the same time she felt an attraction to their puzzles and struggle for power. She moved among them with skill, enjoying the application of things Jasnah had taught. She was a child of the very society her sensibilities denounced.
Maybe that’s why I’m so twisted, she thought wryly, holding up the sleeve of her talla and glancing at a place where she had pulled free the silvery embroidery. The red dress was pocked by tiny sewing holes, scarred patterns showing where the embroidery had once trailed. She knew that the chambermaids were talking of her again—they constantly had to take her dresses to the tailors for restitching, wash hidden brushpen scrawlings off the stone walls, and take her furniture in for re-finishing to obscure the marks Shinri cut into the wood. Maybe it wasn’t simply a reaction to the court’s lying perfection—maybe it was a manifestation of her indecision. She was the one who lied, trying to pretend she belonged to the court yet trying to remain above it at the same time.
And now you go further, she thought. It had taken weeks for her to find time to come to Thalenah to search for Tethren’s convoy in the dock regis-ters. She should have come sooner, for discovering the truth about the death of the man she had loved was not a thing to be delayed. Yet, the maneuverings in Alethkar were so demanding. Jasnah needed Shinri’s help and support—in a way, the entire kingdom did, for Jasnah’s task was the preservation of its monarch.
Tethren was . . . distant. It had been so long since Shinri had seen him last, eight months now—and that had only been a quick visit between stages of the Prallan war. It had been two years since they had really spent any time together—two years during which she had grown from fifteen to seventeen. It seemed like so little in the measure of epochs, but when she thought of the barely-civil child she had been and compared her to the woman she had become . . .
You must do this, she thought. You must know what happened to him, if only to resolve that section of your life. Everyone has forgotten Tethren amidst the groanings of kingdoms and armies. But not you. This is something you must do—no matter how uncertain you are of your abilities.
And, unfortunately, ‘uncertain’ was an understatement of the problem. Gathering information from dock-keepers was not like doing the same with Kanaran noblewomen. The men she had asked so far had been unhelpful at best. She’d wanted to bring Kemnar—that had been a large part of her procrastination about coming to Thalenah. In the end, she had failed. Jasnah simply needed the man too much; he appeared to report his findings, but he always disappeared back into the Ral Eram underground, searching for clues about the group of assassins that sought King Elhokar’s life.
That left Shinri on her own. Without Kemnar’s skill, it quickly became obvious that the information she sought wouldn’t be given to her by common workers—a Kanaran noblewoman dressed in fine silks was never going to gain their trust. Such was the reason, conscious or unconscious, that her feet led her to the Thalen palace.
It was an ancient building, lined with statues on its step-like sides. The Heralds were represented, of course, as were Thalen kings and heroes. Notably included, however, were the Seven Conquerors—there was even a statue dedicated to Jarnah, the very man Dalenar Kholin had killed just two decades before.
The addition of the Seven Conquerors amongst the heroes and kings was odd. Jarnah, for instance, had conquered Thalenah itself before moving northward to Vedenar, and finally stopping at Alethkar. Yet as she studied the statues, Shinri thought she understood why they were there. The seven men were figures of lore. They were the seven leaders who had tried, and failed, to unite all of Roshar under one throne. Even in Alethkar, there were numerous ballads and stories about them.
Shinri turned from contemplating the statues to instead study the steps that lay before her. They were cut for a masculine stride, not for a Kanaran noblewoman in a talla. Of course, most Aleth women wouldn’t have left their bearers and attendants back in Alethkar so they could wander the streets aimlessly like a deranged madwoman. Shinri sighed, and began climbing—a slow, annoying process in the form-fitting dress. She eventually reached the top, and paused by a pillar to consider her next course of action.
King Amelin had been kind to her as a child, though she couldn’t understand why he had suffered such an unruly girl. She had avoided Thalenah during the last few years, as she had come to be ashamed of just how rude she had been to its noblemen and teachers. Now, however, she needed the king’s aid. She would simply have to count on Amelin’s patience—perhaps he would look upon her long-overdue apology with enough favor to grant her access to official dock ledgers.
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