As he watched, Merin thought he saw the things that Vasher wanted him to notice. Those who were trained in their Plate—not just in dueling—had an enormous advantage. In addition, the differences between fighting styles was amazing. Each man seemed to have his own personal form, and the various Shardblades reflected this. Even among similar styles, the Blades each bore slight differences in length or shape, matching their master’s needs.
As the eighteenth bout approached, Aredor rose, moving to the dressing square, where servants helped Shardbearers don or remove their armor. He returned a few moments later, wearing his Plate, a frown on his face.
“What?” Merin asked.
“Tiren forfeited,” Aredor explained, sitting with a clink. The chair held his weight—the fine hardwood was reinforced with steel to accommodate Shardbearers.
Merin frowned. “Why?”
“Something he ate yesterday has apparently made him ill,” Aredor replied. “He thought he could fight, but he’s had a relapse.”
“Well, that’s good for you,” Renarin noted. “You advance automatically.”
Aredor shrugged. “There’s not really much for me to gain by winning this—I’m already heir to a Third City. Given the choice, I’d rather duel than just advance.”
Merin nodded in understanding—he would rather have dueled and lost, as opposed to just watching. As Aredor tapped his gauntleted fingers on the table, obviously frustrated, a page wiggled between the room’s tables and approached.
“Lord Aredor,” the young man said. “We may have found a substitute for Lord Tiren, if you still wish to compete in the first round.”
Aredor perked up. “Who?”
“Lord Aredor,” a smooth voice said from behind.
Merin turned with surprise, recognizing a narrow-faced man. Meridas—now Parshen Meridas—stood outfitted in bright gold-and-silver Shardplate with a blood-red cape. His new Shardblade sat clasped before him, point down, wearing a protective metal sheath over its edge.
“Lord Meridas,” Aredor said slowly. “You are the replacement?”
“Indeed,” Meridas said, eyeing Merin and Renarin. “Your companions do not participate? Lord Renarin . . . well, we can understand his predic-ament—he has embarrassed House Kholin enough. But the peasant Shardbearer? Why is he sitting out? Are you worried that he too will make a fool of himself before the court?”
“Watch yourself, Meridas,” Aredor warned.
“No,” Meridas said pleasantly, “you be certain to watch your tongue, Lord Aredor. It appears that I now outrank you. You may be cousin to the king, but I will soon be his brother. Besides, what was it you once told me about not crossing Parshens?”
Aredor flushed, standing. “Bring your Blade, merchant,” he spat, waving the page away. “Let us begin.”
“Aredor . . .” Renarin said uncertainly. Aredor, however, held up a forestalling hand, then gestured for Meridas to enter the ring. Meridas nodded agreeably and took his place.
“I don’t understand,” Merin said to Renarin as Aredor entered the ring, holding out his hand and summoning his Shardblade. “I’ve seen Meridas at the monastery, but he only became a Shardbearer a few minutes ago. How can he hope to fight Aredor with Blades?”
“Look at his weapon,” Renarin said. “The opal.”
Merin squinted, catching a glimpse of Meridas’s pommel stone. The opal was nearly black. “It’s nearly as dark as mine is!” Merin objected. “But how?”
“He must have had a Shardblade sometime before,” Renarin explained. “One that he lost somehow—like I did. If he took the opal off of it before he lost it, he could use that opal on the new Blade.”
“You can do that?” Merin asked with surprise.
Renarin nodded, fishing in his cloak pocket for a moment, then bringing out a dark black stone. “If I ever get another blade, I can attach this and bond it quickly. Of course, I don’t really care. I never wanted one in the first place. It just gave people an excuse to try and duel me.”
Merin frowned at the new information, turning back to the dueling ring. “How long until he bonds it completely?”
“That depends on how long it’s been since he lost his Blade,” Renarin said. “A few days, at most. Most re-bonds take only a few moments. He must have lost the Blade many years ago.”
The duel began, and suddenly Merin was very worried. Everyone said that Aredor was one of the finest duelists in the kingdom—in fact, he was highly favored to win the Shardbearers’ competition. Merin could see confidence in his friend’s eyes—Aredor expected to beat Meridas with ease. He hadn’t noticed the opal.
The first exchange made that mistake obvious. Every duelist’s style was different, but they all followed similar lines of development. As the previous duels had progressed, Aredor had named off the various dueling styles for Merin—each named after the gemstone that fit the personality of the style. Sapphire Form, with its wide swings and flowing movements, Ruby Form, with its blazing offense, and others.
Meridas’s style was unlike any Merin had seen that evening. He stood with a relaxed, almost indifferent posture, Shardblade held point-down beside his right leg. When Aredor approached for the first testing swing, however, Meridas changed. Merin didn’t even see Meridas’s hand move—the arm was a blur as he raised his weapon for a sudden flurry of one-handed attacks.
The blade snapped four times against Aredor’s armor, the blows ringing in the air. The final blow took Aredor in the back, smashing with such power that Meridas split the sheath from his Shardblade, throwing the two pieces of metal to the sides and leaving a large scar across the back of Aredor’s silver armor.
Aredor groaned, raising a hand to the side of his helmet, where Meridas had struck him twice. Meridas stepped back, once again nonchalant, weapon held beside him in the same strange unconcerned dueling stance. The officiator awarded him a point—only one could be gained per exchange—but Meridas raised a hand.
“I forfeit,” he said idly, strolling from the ring.
Aredor stumbled back toward their table, the crowd watching with stunned eyes. His eyes were dazed as he dismissed his Blade, then pulled off his helm.
“By the winds!” he hissed, regarding the helm with stupefaction. “How did he hit me so hard . . . and so quickly? Where did he learn to duel like that?”
Renarin was watching the retreating Meridas, his eyes troubled. “That one is not what we assumed,” he whispered.
“No need to tell me!” Aredor mumbled, reaching back and trying to feel the scar on the back of his Plate. Finally he just sighed, pounding the table with an armored fist. “He took me by surprise!” he complained. “I was a fool—I thought . . .”
Merin shrugged helplessly. “At least you weren’t eliminated.”
“He retreated so that I wouldn’t have a chance to prove I could beat him,” Aredor said with a curse. “He attacked when he knew I wouldn’t be ready for him, then left before I could redeem myself. He didn’t want to defeat me; he wanted to humiliate me!”
The crowd’s shock wore away as the next two duelists entered the ring. Eventually, Aredor tromped off to remove his armor, and Merin returned to his overly flavorful meal. Renarin, however, continued to watch the king’s table, regarding Meridas with one of his indecipherable looks.
chapter 28
Shinri 5
Shinri could tell immediately that something was wrong. Not from Lady Jasnah’s face—it was stone, like always. Nelshenden, however, looked sick with worry. He didn’t stand near the wall, like the other noble-man soldier attendants, but squatted beside lady Jasnah’s table, speaking quietly with her.
Shinri hastened her step as she entered the feast hall, pushing through the scents of feasting and the sounds of dueling. Shame burned within her. She had spent too long in Thalenah, talking with King Amelin. When she’d hurried to return, she’d been caught in the traffic at the Oathgate—noblemen of far higher rank than her travelling to Alethkar to view or participate in the duels. Despi
te protests, she’d been forced to wait for hours before returning. She’d hoped to make it in time for the betrothal announcement, but apparently she’d just missed it. What had happened? Why did Lady Jasnah sit at the queen’s table, rather than her own?
“My lady!” Shinri said, hurrying to the stool beside Jasnah, etiquette forgotten for the moment.
Jasnah looked up at her with disapproving eyes—eyes that could make Shinri feel shame even when she did something right. Though at the queen’s table, Lady Kholin sat alone, several seats separating her from any of the queen’s normal attendants.
“Shinri,” Jasnah said flatly. “I expected you to arrive on time for this event. Be thankful that my brother pays little attention to women—if you had been a Shardbearer, he would likely have reprimanded you.”
Shinri flushed. “My lady . . .” she trailed off, looking at Nelshenden. The handsome soldier’s face was dark. She couldn’t ever remember seeing such anger in the honest man’s eyes. Menacing, dangerous anger. “Who?” Shinri demanded.
Nelshenden nodded toward the king’s table and the man sitting at Elhokar’s right hand. The merchant lord, Meridas.
“Him!” Shinri sputtered.
“His majesty made that pig a Parshen,” Nelshenden said with a dark tone. “And gave him a Shardblade. I—”
“Enough, Nelshenden,” Jasnah snapped. “That man is to be my husband.”
Nelshenden fell silent.
“But, my lady,” Shinri said . . . Meridas. Thinking about him made her feel as if her mind had been dipped in grease. She glanced toward the king’s table, and found the man’s calm—yet somehow scandalous—eyes watching her. Stripping her to the bones—or maybe just to the flesh that coated them. Shinri turned away.
“Meridas will be an important lord in my brother’s kingdom,” Jasnah explained. “He will need a woman acquainted with politics. Through being his wife, I can be of great service to my brother. It is a far better union than I had feared. Perhaps I was wrong in assuming the queen would exile me to an unimportant city.”
There was . . . something in her tone. Another person wouldn’t have been able to recognize it, but Shinri had spent years learning beneath Jasnah’s tutelage. She could see hints of the emotion Jasnah hid.
Pain. Hurt, carefully tucked away. Unacknowledged. Suppressed. But still potent. No, Jasnah did not want to marry this man. Not at all.
Shinri lay a hand on Jasnah’s, and Jasnah looked into her eyes. Right then, finally, Shinri understood. Jasnah wasn’t heartless. The woman couldn’t make her emotions go away. She was just very, very good at hiding them. Suddenly, Shinri felt closer to Jasnah than she ever had in the past three years.
“That man is not honorable,” Nelshenden whispered.
“There is nothing you can do, Nelshenden,” Jasnah said, her eyes becoming cold again, emotions checked with a skill that Shinri could only envy.
“There is something I can do,” Nelshenden said. “I could challenge him. A High Duel.”
Shinri started slightly. A High Duel. Duel to the death. He would do it, too. Nelshenden was so cursed honorable and idealistic that he would get himself slaughtered to protect Jasnah’s honor.
“No,” Jasnah said. “You will not die dueling that man, Nelshenden.”
“I could win his Shardblade,” the guard replied. “I could be . . .” Worthy of you. He left off the last part, but Shinri could read his eyes.
“You would die,” Jasnah said. “Lord Meridas has a Shardblade, and you saw him fight young Aredor. The new Parshen has great skill in dueling. He would slaughter you.”
“I would almost prefer that,” Nelshenden whispered.
“This is no time for vendettas,” Jasnah informed sharply. “Or have you forgotten that the king’s life is in danger?”
Mention of duty brought Nelshenden slightly out of his darkened state. “I remember, my lady.”
“Has Kemnar returned yet?” Jasnah asked.
Nelshenden shook his head. “I have not seen him since last night, when he visited the palace in beggar’s clothing. Even then, his reports were not encouraging. If the Stormkin assassins have people inside of the city, then we have not been able to discover them.”
“What would you have me do, Jasnah?” Shinri asked, feeling ashamed. She had let her fixation with Tethren take her away from where she was needed. For once—perhaps the only time in her recent life—Jasnah had suffered a shock she could barely handle, and Shinri had been off tracking down a dead man.
Perhaps not dead . . . a piece of her whispered.
But irrelevant at the moment anyway, she argued back. Her duty was to Jasnah.
“There is much to do,” Jasnah said. “I’ll need you to visit the tables of the other women and listen for anything suspicious. There are ladies here from across all of Alethkar—perhaps one of them will give us the clue we need. I cannot leave the queen’s table—we’ll have to rely on you for information tonight.”
“I understand, my lady,” Shinri said.
“Here,” Jasnah said, handing Shinri a letter. “Deliver this first.” The other ladies were already exchanging secrets and proposing alliances, but Jasnah appeared to have only this one letter. The betrothal announcement had shocked her indeed.
“Who is it for?” Shinri asked.
“Lord Aredor Kholin,” Jasnah explained.
Shinri frowned. A man?
“Tell him to have someone he trusts read it to him,” Jasnah said. “Someone he trusts very much.”
“Yes, my lady,” Shinri said, rising to weave her way through the tables to the edge of the room. The men cheered as a Shardbearer was defeated, their mirth somewhat distracting. Sometimes she envied them, and the freedom their innocence brought. Most were simple tribute lords or Shardbearers. They didn’t have to worry about plots and betrayals—they could come to a feast simply to enjoy the duels and eat a good meal.
Shinri glanced at the king’s table as she passed, and Meridas paused in his conversation just long enough to give her another of his filthy stares. Oh, Jasnah, she thought as she scuttled past. I know you’re strong, but this?
And yet, Jasnah would survive. She was demanding of those around her, but nowhere near as demanding as she was with herself. She would take her betrothal and use it to her best advantage. A woman couldn’t simply take up a Shardblade and duel away her problems. She had to be clever, patient, and persistent.
The Prallah war was but a breeze to the highstorm that is coming . . . Dangerous times approach. King Amelin’s words returned to her. He had been so apprehensive. What did he know? What was he planning for?
Stop it, Shinri told herself. You’re back serving Jasnah now. You let yourself get distracted by Tethren and Thalenah, and weren’t here when you were needed. You need to focus, like Lady Jasnah told you to.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t banish her worries so easily. The contrived fiasco of Tethren’s death was far too suspicious, and King Amelin’s words were far too ominous. Jasnah had trained Shinri too well—she couldn’t help considering the things she had discovered.
I’ll discuss them with Jasnah this evening, Shinri decided. She’ll know how to interpret what has happened. She would be annoyed at Shinri for keeping the investigation of Tethren’s death secret, but that couldn’t be helped any longer. Events were growing too large for Shinri to manage alone.
Decision made, Shinri sought out Dalenar’s heir. Aredor sat with his brother and the solemn young Shardbearer Merin Kholin. They had a very good table, of course—Lord Aredor was one of the most popular young men of the court—and sat watching the duels in the southern ring. Aredor had his Shardblade summoned, as did Merin, and they were obviously comparing the Blades.
Shinri bowed slightly as she approached. “Lord Aredor,” she said, drawing his attention. All three young men looked up. “I—”
Shinri froze. There, sitting on the table, was Tethren’s Shardblade.
She knew it, of course. Hopelight, it was called, a ma
jestic Blade that bore a crystalline pattern etched into its metal. The pattern was dull, now, like a stature that had been weathered by countless winds. And in its place an unfamiliar design was beginning to emerge, something akin to flowing rivulets of water. Yet, despite the wearing, despite the new bond, the hints of Tethren’s touch was unmistakable. The glyphs that had run along the Blade were still visible, and Shinri had known that Blade as she had known the man himself.
She couldn’t move. She could only stare at the table.
“Lady Shinri!” Aredor said with a grin, obviously not noticing her incapa-citation. “Doesn’t our Lord Merin look handsome this evening? Almost like the grand hero the court has made him out to be, eh?” Aredor looked at his young companion, smiling and winking.
“Where . . .” Shinri whispered. “Where did you get that Shardblade?”
“Oh, surely you’ve heard the story, Shinri,” Aredor said dramatically. “Lord Merin saved the king’s life, you know. An unknown Shardbearer tried to kill his majesty on the battlefield—ignored Protocol, even. But Lord Merin intervened. Jumped up and pulled the faceless man right off his horse. It’s quite a story—you should have Merin tell it to you some time.”
“You just told it to her, Aredor,” Merin said, blushing.
Shinri ignored them both. Unknown Shardbearer . . . tried to kill his majesty . . . She knew of the event, of course. She had been with Jasnah, near the battlefield, when it happened. She had paid little attention to it, however, despite gossip about the strange, faceless Shardbearer that had tried to kill King Elhokar. An unknown man, without glyph to identify him.
The sinking of the ship was to cover something else, Amelin had said. Something about the way Tethren died, though I can’t figure out what.
The Way of Kings Prime Page 33