Ilhadal gave her one of his characteristically unsympathetic glances. If there was any measure of concern in his eyes, she couldn’t find it.
“Sit,” he said, pointing to a stool.
Shinri did as commanded, waiting to play her hand until she had more information.
Ilhadal raised an eyebrow, as if surprised to see her following orders. He strode forward, broad white cloak set with the thick, mane-like collar that her people preferred. He walked a full circle around the stool, studying her and rubbing his bearded chin.
“The Kholin woman does good work,” he finally said. “I half-expected you to throw a tantrum when I walked in, no matter what my informants told me about your progress.”
Shinri raised her chin, staring her father in the face. “Lady Jasnah is a woman of impeccable composure, father. I have learned much under her guidance.”
Ilhadal grunted. He did not sit, but remained standing, arms folded, regarding her with the eye of a tradesman at market. Why would he keep me in here? Shinri thought, furiously trying to put her aforementioned learning to use. He obviously has some measure of authority in the palace. The guards treated him respectfully as they let him in. His blood ties to Talshekh are as weak as mine, but perhaps he has managed to make himself an advisor to the man. That doesn’t explain why either would give orders for me to be kept under guard.
Why would he lock her up? Two conclusions came to mind—either he expected her to try and escape the city, or he expected others to try and get to her. The first was possible—he obviously still regarded her somewhat as the impetuous child of her youth. The second didn’t seem very likely at all. Even considering her wardship, she was no one of any great import.
“You know,” he said, “I blessed the Almighty when the House leaders asked me if I would give you to Alethkar as part of the treaty. Until that moment, I had been convinced that you would never be of any good to me. Yet, because of the treaty, I could be rid of you and serve the House at the same time.” He paused, eyeing her. “Never in all my imaginations did I think that I might get yet another chance to use you.”
Shinri frowned.
“Your wardship is over,” Ilhadal said, turning toward the door. “Your stepmother has exercised her Right of Decision. Attendants will be sent to prepare you for the ceremony.”
Only years of training beneath Jasnah let Shinri shake off her shock quickly enough to speak before he left. Who, Shinri. You have to find out who!
“Talshekh?” she guessed. He was unmarried now—the death of his wife had been part of what set off his determination to take the throne.
Ilhadal paused, then smiled, shaking his head. “No, Shinri,” he said, as if slightly confused himself. “Talshekh is dead. I lead House Davar now.”
“You?” Shinri asked. “But, you were fourteenth in line for the House title!”
“I know,” he said. “There have been . . . many casualties recently.”
Shinri studied him, quelling her horror. Her father had always been an ambitious man, but not that kind of ambitious. He was the pandering courtier, the lesser nobleman who thrived on the barest bit of recognition from his superiors. He was mildly clever, true, but he was not a plotter or an . . . assassin. Or, at least, he hadn’t been.
“I see it in your eyes, Shinri,” he said from near the doorway. “I see it in everyone’s eyes. Facts have made the truth irrelevant, it appears. Regardless of the means, I was placed in the difficult position of thinking I must kill my king in order to serve my country. Fortunately, another option presented itself. I can only hope that history will judge me for what I have done, and not for what others assume was my hand.”
Another option presented itself. It took Shinri only a few moments to work out the answer. “Him?” she asked with shock. “I’m to be married to the Idiot King?”
Ilhadal nodded. “Not so much an idiot any longer, it seems—perhaps never one at all. The king has undergone something of a transformation; the common people are already convinced it was the Almighty’s work. The nobility are more skeptical, but I suppose we always are.”
The Idiot King. For so long she had assumed herself for no one but Tethren; she hadn’t really considered what his death meant for her future. Of course she would have to be married to another—a woman’s power came from her husband’s rank. Even if her father hadn’t become First Prince of House Davar, her fostering to Lady Jasnah would have made her a prized marriage.
But, Ahven Vedenel? Her father’s words about a ‘transformation’ made no sense. Had someone trained Ahven to act less foolish? But, even if that were so, he would still have the mind of child. What kind of marriage was that?
Jasnah’s training whispered that it was a very good one. Shinri would be one of the most powerful women in Jah Keved. Her father the Prince of one house, her husband the Prince of another and king of all three. Ahven’s mental weakness would be a small problem, one she could use to her advantage. She would have a great deal of freedom—and even power, assuming she could gain some measure of control over him.
The Shinri side of her, however—the piece that Jasnah hadn’t ever been able to train away—wanted to scream in horror at the idea. She glanced around covertly for something to break or unravel, eventually choosing a nearby plant from which she could pluck a few leaves.
“When?” Shinri asked, crumpling a crisp leaf in her hand, feeling the sap wet her palm.
“Soon,” her father promised, knocking for the guards to open her door.
“Wait!” she said, standing. “Can I at least leave? Why must you keep me here like a prisoner? What do you fear, father?”
He glanced back at her, then stepped out and waved for the guards to shut the door.
chapter 36
Merin 8
Merin splashed a cupful of water on his face, sighing in pleasure as the cool liquid washed away the sweat and fatigue of a day spent sparring.
Around him, the Shieldhome monastery grounds bustled with unusual activity. Kholinar wasn’t at war, not yet, but Lord Dalenar’s pronounced neutrality—and the subsequent sealing of the Oathgate—felt like a bad sign. Citizens and lords alike came to Shieldhome to work out frustrations, and perhaps to prepare. Just in case.
Merin was beginning to learn that the world of a nobleman was far more morally ambiguous than he had presumed. The ballads spoke of right and wrong, and they always warned their audience which side to believe in. Even when a figure was portrayed as both evil and heroic—such as Jarnah the Tyrant—there was always a separation of actions from character. To become a Conqueror was bad. However, fighting with honor and bravery—as Jarnah always had—was good.
Those ideals seemed frail when compared with Alethkar’s current situation. Assassination was an evil act—not to mention unheroic. But what if those assassins had been sent to stop a man who was planning tyranny himself? Many whispered that King Elhokar, who had turned back from Prallah reluctantly, had been planning now to invade Jah Keved. The rumors said this was why the king hadn’t dismissed his armies, and why he was so quick to react against Jezenrosh’s offense. Surely planning an invasion of the south—a land held to be one of Alethkar’s truest allies—was a dishonorable act. If Jezenrosh knew of this and tried to stop it, was he justified in using assassins against his own king?
Merin could tell he wasn’t the only one worried about this dichotomy. The people wanted an answer. The biggest problem in Kholinar wasn’t the fact that their countrymen were at war. The real problem was that Lord Dalenar—the most revered man in all of Alethkar—refused to tell his people which side was right.
It left men wondering and whispering. Perhaps Lord Dalenar didn’t know what was right either. That possibility scared them more than anything else.
“Don’t think so hard, kid,” Chadrin said. “You’re giving me a headache.”
Merin smiled at the aging monk. After Merin’s battle during the assassination attempt, something had changed between Merin and Vasher’s little band o
f monks. Instead of just regarding Merin as Vasher’s apprentice, the eight men had begun to accept him as one of their own. Though Vasher was still Merin’s trainer, the others had begun to joke and spar with Merin, and they generally seemed to regard him with the fondness one gave a little brother or junior teammember.
“Chadrin,” Merin asked, “who do you think’s right? Jezenrosh or the king?”
The elder warrior shrugged. “Haven’t met either one.”
“You don’t have to meet them to know if they’re right or not,” Merin prodded.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Chadrin replied with a wide, gap-toothed smile. “Whether or not a fellow’s right often depends on how much I like ’im.”
Tadr, a leaner man whose only remaining hairs were completely grey, snorted. “I guess the wenches are always right then, eh, Chadrin? You seem to like them more than you like anyone.”
“Wouldn’t know any more,” Chadrin said, raising a cup to his lips and obscuring his face. “Monks don’t do things like visit the wenches. Wouldn’t be proper of ’em.”
Tadr snorted his response to that comment.
“No,” Merin complained. “What do you really think? About the king’s war, I mean.”
“Such things aren’t meant for discussing by you, little spearman,” Vasher said from a short distance away. “And even less meant for us. Lord Dalenar is a wise man. If he says that it isn’t for us to choose sides, then we won’t choose sides. Personally, I doubt either one of them are right.”
“So, was what I did in the palace wrong?” Merin asked, turning toward his trainer. “Should I have let the assassins pass?”
“No, boy,” Vasher said. “What you did was right—even if you did go against my command that you refrain from sparring.”
“But, I didn’t spar. I—”
“Oh, he knows,” Chadrin said with a laugh. “He’s just gettin’ on ya, kid.”
Merin caught a hint of a smile in Vasher’s eyes. “What you did was right,” Vasher repeated. “You saved your king’s life. It isn’t your place to decide if that life was worthy of saving or not—though it is Lord Dalenar’s place to decide whether or not his armies will act against Jezenrosh.”
Merin nodded.
“Now, how is that shoulder?” Vasher asked.
Merin rolled his arm. “The bruise is almost gone now,” he said.
“You’re lucky,” Vasher said. “He must not have hit you square on—a punch like that from a man in Plate should have broken a few bones.”
Merin nodded, rubbing his arm. The motion only reminded him of his other wound, however—the one that he hadn’t told anyone about. Though he had felt the glyphward burn in his palm as if it were molten, it had left no mark. His hand had been numb for three days following the assassination attempt, but feeling had slowly returned. Now, he could feel no remnant of either pain or numbness.
No one knew what to make of the torn tapestries and rugs. Aredor had been dazed following the battle, and didn’t seem to remember the storm that had blown through the hallway. Jezenrosh’s Shardbearers were dead, and no one else had seen the winds.
And so, Merin had remained quiet about the event, pleading confusion as to what had brought so much dust into the hallway. He tried to ignore the hollow sensation he felt now that the glyphward was gone. Its power had been expended, the magic locked within its stone gone. It was best to move on.
“Hey, Vasher,” Chadrin said. “The kid’s getting pretty good, eh? Bet you didn’t expect him to be able to take down a Shardbearer in Plate like that.”
Merin blushed. “That was mostly Aredor,” he said. “I was so useless in the fight it’s a wonder I didn’t cut off my own leg.”
Several of the men laughed at this, but Chadrin wasn’t finished. “You should teach ’im how to skep, Vasher,” the burly warrior said. “He’s probably ready.”
“Hey, that’s a good idea,” one of the other men—Daniv—said. Several of the others nodded their approval.
Vasher glared at the group of monks. “He’s not ready,” he said. “The boy hasn’t even bonded his Blade yet. He can’t skep until then anyway.”
“We might not have much more time to train him, Vasher,” Tadr said, shaking his head. “Great things are happening outside our little monastic island. How long will it be before some lord decides to drag the boy away to war? The Shardbearers he duels on the battlefield won’t care if he’s ready or not. You should at least train him to defend himself.”
Vasher continued his glare.
“He really is ready, Vasher,” Daniv put in. “You’ve heard Lord Aredor praise the boy’s dueling skill. He’s twice as good as any of us were at his age—and he hasn’t even had that Blade a hundred days yet.”
Vasher grunted, studying Merin. Merin was uncertain what they were talking about—but he was equally certain that whatever it was, he wanted to learn it. “Yeah, Vasher,” he joined in. “At least teach the boy how to defend himself.”
Vasher snorted with a slight smile, then nodded toward the other side of the courtyard where a large group of noblemen were sparring in the sand.
“See the Shardbearer in blue?” Vasher asked, pointing out a younger man in bright blue Shardplate. “Put on your Plate and go challenge him to a duel.”
Merin paused. “But you told me not to duel.”
“Last week you couldn’t wait to embarrass yourself, now you’re arguing with me? Get!”
Merin jumped, rushing over to ask one of the younger monks to invite the other Shardbearer to duel. Then Merin quickly went to the dressing square, where several other young monks helped him don the Shardplate. Merin knew the man he was about to spar. His name was Khalvan, a distant cousin to the Kholin. The man had done moderately well in the dueling competition, finishing near the middle of the pack of contestants.
Several groups of onlookers gestured and nudged one another as Merin approached the dueling ring. Some smirked in amusement; others were simply curious. Though the rumors rightly claimed that Aredor had really been the one to save the king, Merin had taken part in the battle. If people had been curious about him before, they were doubly so now.
So, what will it meant to them if I lose this duel? Merin thought with sudden apprehension, realizing that most of the courtyard had stopped its sparring to gather around his ring.
What will it mean if I win?
Merin raised his Blade to indicate that he was ready, and Khalvan stepped forward. The man’s stance was different from Merin’s—he kept the Blade closer to his body, its tip raised higher in the air.
Merin struck first. Propelled by the speed of Shardplate, he danced across the sand, swinging his Blade in the sweeps Vasher had taught him. His opponent parried each blow with ease, then delivered a strike directly against Merin’s helm.
Merin pulled to a stop in the sand, gritting his teeth as the scorekeeper awarded a point to Khalvan. Focus, Merin told himself, repeating Vasher’s oft-voiced counsel. Feel the form, and let it do the work.
Merin approached the second bout more carefully, letting his opponent make the first move. When the man struck, Merin was able to block the first blow and try a counterstrike. His opponent easily turned Merin’s Blade away, but Merin let the form pull him back, just out of reach. Merin was actually surprised when his follow-up attack connected with Khalvan’s shoulder.
Several members of the crowd nodded appreciatively at this, but the third point made them more skeptical, as Merin didn’t last to a count of three before taking a blow to the side.
Merin grunted slightly at the impact. Even a dulled Blade had a powerful force behind it. Khalvan had three points—though he couldn’t win until he struck Merin twice in the same place. Merin still had a chance. He advanced, wary and careful, just as he had been trained. He did everything right—he followed the form properly, he let reflex direct his movements, and he swung his Blade with precision. Yet the exchange still ended with a second blow to Merin’s helm, officially ending the contest.<
br />
There was a general air of snickering as Merin pulled off his helm, nodding in respect to his opponent. On the battlefield, Merin would have been dead. Here, in the monastery courtyard, he was just shamed. He’d barely put up a fight. The crowd disbursed as the monks helped Merin out of his armor, then he slunk back toward Vasher and the others—no matter how crowded the courtyard got, Vasher’s corner somehow remained comfortably free of interlopers.
Merin took a drink with bowed head and flexed his lightly-aching shoulder. Whatever it was the others had been encouraging Vasher to teach him, Merin would not learn it this day.
“Well?” Vasher asked.
“You saw,” Merin said. “I didn’t do so well.”
“Why?” Vasher asked.
Merin shrugged. “I can’t tell,” he said honestly. “I thought I was doing everything right. The form . . . it just wasn’t enough. My attacks were too easy to block, and my swings were too wide—they left too many openings. Not enough practice, I guess.”
Vasher grunted, eyeing him. “Oh, stop sulking. There was no way you were going to win that bout. Khalvan Nadadin is an accomplished and experienced duelist, and you’ve never fought a bout in Plate before.”
“Then why did you make me fight him?” Merin protested.
“The fight wasn’t the test, kid,” Chadrin said, seated in the wall’s shade a short distance away. “The question afterward was.”
Merin paused. The question afterward . . . ?
“The form I’m teaching you isn’t really one of the twenty dueling styles, Merin,” Vasher explained. “It’s something . . . else. Something we came up with ourselves.”
“By ‘we,’” Chadrin added, “he means ‘I, Vasher, developed this all by myself.’”
Vasher shot the man a glare, then turned back to Merin. “The style has its weaknesses,” he said. “It depends on knowing where your opponent is going to strike before he moves—something you can only do by fighting many men and understanding instinctively how your opponents think. It is a form that allows flexibility and ease of motion, letting you anticipate and adapt. It’s a difficult style of fighting, little spearman. You probably won’t win many duels until you master it. Once you do, you’ll win them all.”
The Way of Kings Prime Page 39