“However,” Jasnah continued, “we hardly have the funds right now for such things.” She shot a glare at Meridas and his fine outfit.
“Nonsense!” Meridas said. “You are the betrothed of a Parshen, Jasnah. If you do not look your station, no one will take you with any measure of seriousness. Besides, Master Mendalin is a long-time associate of mine. He has indicated that he’ll give us a respectable discount, assuming that once Alethkar is rid of its invaders, you will be certain to indicate to the other court women who it was that outfitted you in your time of need.”
Jasnah raised an eyebrow. “How much of a discount?”
“Enough of one that it hardly even covers his costs,” Meridas said. “I got all of this for twenty ishmarks.”
This gave her pause. It was, in fact, an incredible deal—Mendalin was betting heavily upon Elhokar’s victory, and subsequent thankfulness to those who had helped his sister during her refugee trek.
Jasnah glanced down at her dress, the same, tattered clothing she had been wearing for nearly two weeks. If this man were really willing to sacrifice pay for publicity . . .
“Very well, Master Mendalin,” Jasnah said. “Let us see what you offer.” She waved for Kemnar to fetch her a chair, stopping herself too late. It was going to take time to accustom herself to Kemnar’s new station as a Shardbearer. He wasn’t making it easy for her—despite his new rank, he continued to serve her as if nothing had changed. She had even gone so far as to officially dismiss him from her guard, choosing one of the remaining three soldiers—Vinde—as her new captain. Kemnar took it all in stride, never offering an objection, then completely ignored the fact that he was now nearly the same rank as she.
Mendalin turned, waving several aides into the room. A powerful merchant such as himself didn’t really have much to do with the production of his wares, but he acted as if each design were his own. He knew his stock well, and produced a tenset different gown designs for her to inspect. Apologetically, he admitted that she was restricted to the colors he presented, since he wouldn’t have time to create completely new garments. Yet, considering her situation, he offered an impressive number of choices.
Jasnah was surprised to find such lavishness in a Sixth City. The gowns were constructed with a richness to match many she had seen in Ral Eram. Their delicate embroideries, cleverly-accentuated folds, and rich colors were impressive. Soon, she found herself debating between not one or two selections, but instead trying to narrow her purchases down to five or six.
A vague shadow fell across the room as Jasnah ordered one of Mendalin’s models to turn, so she could inspect the gown’s train. Jasnah glanced to the side at the change in light, to find Taln standing just inside the supply room, his powerful frame taking up nearly the entire doorway.
He inspected the frills, silken hang-ribbons, and trains with a critical eye. “I would have thought you’d pick something a little more practical,” he said.
Jasnah frowned. “Meridas is correct, Taln,” she said. “I am an emissary of House Kholin—I need to present myself in a respectable manner.”
“We aren’t going to present ourselves at all,” Taln pointed out. “From here, we’re traveling by stealth.”
“Yes, well,” Jasnah said, switching tactics. “Master Mendalin’s offered prices are very humble. As long as I can get finery for the price of more mundane outfits, why not choose the finery?”
Taln raised an eyebrow. “If he will give you rich gowns for such a price, then how much less might he charge for something more sensible?”
Jasnah flushed. Again. She could withstand the fury of kings and stare down Awakeners, yet this man could make her blush in shame with barely a phrase.
Meridas, unfortunately, was the one who came to her rescue. “Cease your pesterings, madman,” he snapped, waving Taln away, “and leave us be. This is something about which you obviously know nothing.”
Taln snorted, leaning against the doorframe with folded arms, his posture indicating just how unlikely he was to ‘leave them be.’ “I know something about crossing stormlands,” Taln said. “Our path so far has been easy. Once we leave Marcabe, we will need to increase the pace drastically to avoid pursuit. I’m surprised that women can stand up in those outfits, let alone walk.”
Jasnah sat for a moment, confused, until she realized the source of Taln’s indignation.
Meridas voiced her same thoughts. “You expect Lady Jasnah to walk all the way to Kholinar?” he said, voice twinged with amusement.
Now it was Taln’s turn to pause uncertainly. “We have no horses,” he said. “How else . . . ?” He trailed off as he glanced through the open inn doorway, toward the merchant’s carts and litters outside, eyes widening slightly with surprise.
He glanced at her accusingly. “You expect us to carry you?”
“Well, you wouldn’t be one of the bearers,” Jasnah said. “You are a Shardbearer. But it is customary for a lady to travel by litter. That’s why we’re bringing the four packmen.”
Taln appeared as if he didn’t know whether to be angered or amused. Finally he just shook his head. “I thought we were to travel incon-spicuously.”
“Litters are not uncommon,” Jasnah said.
“Along the path we’ll be taking?” he asked, obviously careful not to reveal too much.
Jasnah paused.
“And how fast can it be?” Taln continued. “Really, Jasnah. Are you so charmed by your own arrogant grandeur that you would risk the safety of your kingdom in exchange for a little comfort?”
Meridas hissed, crossing the room with a flourishing red cloak. “You shall not speak so familiarly to my betrothed, madman,” he informed him sternly—pointing at Taln with his left hand, right hand held to the side in a Blade-summoning posture.
“Meridas!” Jasnah snapped. “The mad . . . Taln has a point. We should think of Alethkar first. I can walk.” Her sore feet and tired legs groaned at the thought.
Meridas’s eyes thinned as he glanced at her, and she could see something in them. Jealousy? Anger? Or perhaps just frustration. It was gone in a flash, and the nobleman contained himself. “Very well,” he said. “Merchant, bring the lady some more . . . simple outfits.”
“Masculine cut,” Jasnah requested, “with a full stride.”
“Of course, my lord and lady,” Mendalin said, waving for one of his assistants to be off. “In the meantime, shall we see to outfitting my lord’s attendants?”
“Yes,” Meridas said, waving for Tenin and Chathan, the younger palace noblemen, to step forward.
“You needn’t bother,” Taln said with almost gleeful bluntness. “They won’t be coming.”
Meridas froze, then glanced at Jasnah for confirmation. She gave it with a small nod. Instead of rising to Taln’s bait, however, Meridas smiled with thin lips. “And is the monk coming?” he asked.
“Yes,” Taln said.
“I see,” Meridas said. “So we leave behind two capable swordsmen who could wield a Shardblade, should one of us fall, and instead bring a self-professed idler with no combat experience?”
Behind Taln, Jasnah saw Brother Lhan flush at the comment.
“We have my guards, Meridas,” Jasnah said.
“And do we not ride to the rescue of our kingdom?” Meridas asked. “Your brother, the king, is he not in great danger? One would think we would bring any with us who might prove useful to the king’s war effort.”
Meridas and Taln stared at one another. Despite Meridas’s words, it seemed that the two of them were not arguing about swordsmen or armies, but instead locked in some sort of personal struggle. Jasnah, however, could not ignore the logic of Meridas’s words. What were two more men to an army? Not much, true. But they wouldn’t slow the group that much, and Alethkar’s armies were going to need every swordsman they could get.
In the end, however, her decision came from a different logic. She realized Meridas had been shamed. He had brought her one of his personal contacts, a man willing to mak
e great monetary sacrifices on her behalf. Then, she had refused his finest wares in the name of practicality. She cared little for Meridas’s honor, but as she watched the staring match between the nobleman and Taln, she realized that the pair could not see her playing favorites. She had listened to Taln’s counsel regarding the litter. She needed to at least appear to give Meridas the same level of consideration. She didn’t trust him—she didn’t even like him—but she did need him.
“Very well, Lord Meridas,” Jasnah said, breaking the silence. “You are correct. We cannot refuse my brother the king soldiers he may need. You may bring your men to help defend Alethkar.”
Meridas smiled, nodding, and Taln disappeared back to his supplies with a dark look.
chapter 50
Shinri 9
In the end, after all of her waiting in the darkness, shamed by her fears, Ahven never came to her bedchamber.
Instead, he summoned her to his.
It makes sense, Shinri thought ruefully as her handmaidens quickly prepared her talla and hair. Why did I assume that he would go through the inconvenience of actually coming to my room?
She stood stiffly as her women worked, surprised at her own fatalistic resolve. Not that she wasn’t afraid—in fact, her heart beat with an almost buzzing intensity, and she could feel the sweat gathering on her brow and at the base of her neck. Outside the window, the evening darkness bespoke an ominous hour. He had finally ordered her to his bedchamber. She hadn’t escaped after all.
She’d had chances to attempt an escape. Not very good ones, admittedly, but opportunities nonetheless. Times when she could have ducked into an alley in the city, or run from her pursuers, hoping to be lost in the crowd. Each one had seemed too dangerous, however. She saw the haunted fear in the eyes of the city men. All of the guards and soldiers had been mercilessly executed. Those who remained understood the monster that ruled Ral Eram, and she doubted they would help to hide her from his searchings. In addition, Shinri had never lived outside of noble accommodations; she suspected she would have nearly as difficult a time surviving on the city streets as she would in the wilderness.
Wait for a better opportunity, she had told herself. You need to try and escape through the Oathgates, seek refuge with a foreign power—someone who can protect you.
Unfortunately, there seemed to be few places of refuge remaining in the world. Alethkar invaded, Ral Eram captured, Prallah in virtual ruins . . . How she wished she had taken King Amelin’s suggestion that she stay with him in Thalenah. Her meeting with the king seemed so distant now, as if it had occurred during a different epoch—one where Shinri had been Jasnah’s ward, a simple girl doing another woman’s errands.
Shinri tensed her left hand, fingers gripping the knife hidden within her enveloping left sleeve. She was a woman now, by virtue of title or events, and had to decide upon her own actions. Perhaps she had made a mistake; perhaps she should have tried to escape into the city, despite her reservations. Those opportunities were gone now, and events left her with only one certain determination.
She would not let that man touch her again.
The handmaidens finished their primpings. So soon? Shinri steeled herself, clenching her right hand to still its quiverings, and began to walk forward. She didn’t move toward the door that connected her bedroom with that of the king, but left in the direction of the main hallway. Ahven had sent specific instructions for her to be seen leaving her rooms and entering his.
The knife was a strangely calming weight in her hand. She had stolen it off of the men’s table during a feast, swiping it from the place before an empty seat as she passed. She knew her intent to kill Ahven was, from one viewpoint, ridiculous. A simple dinner knife wielded by an untrained woman would hardly provide a serious threat for the man who had killed Talshekh Davar in a duel. However, she didn’t really expect to succeed—killing Ahven was just one of the potential victories she could obtain this night.
How would Ahven respond to being threatened, perhaps even wounded, by his own wife? Would he kill her in retribution? If he did, he would suddenly find himself without a tangible link to House Davar. The two houses would be cast back to the same uncertainty they had faced that night so long ago, the night of the dueling competition. One man with an army, the other with a throne. Ahven or her father would have to die—and either event would suit Shinri just fine.
And if he doesn’t kill you? Shinri thought with trepidation as her ladies led her to the king’s chamber door, which was opened by a steward. What if he leaves you alive, and just decides to . . . punish you?
That was an option for which she was also prepared. She would not live in such a situation. Either she would escape, or she would . . . remove herself from his power in another way.
Ahven’s rooms were oddly simple. They were adorned as one would expect for one of his position, but none of the furniture or art seemed to display any measure of personal taste. They were indicative of position without being showy, as if placed out of necessity rather than actual fondness. The only item that seemed even marginally original was a group of minstrels who sat at the far end of the sitting chamber, ready to act upon their master’s call even at the late hour.
Shinri’s handmaidens led her to the bedroom chamber doors, and the steward knocked, then opened the door for Shinri. He and the others remained behind as Shinri stepped into the room.
Ahven stood consulting the map that hung predominantly on one wall. He looked over as she entered, his eyes flat, and waved for her to shut the door. She did so with a quiet hand.
“Kenor,” Ahven said. “She is here.”
Shinri frowned slightly as a different door opened, and a man walked into the room. Of medium stature and perhaps in his sixth decade, the newcomer wore expensive but not lavish clothing—a fine and square-cut pair of trousers, a long white sencoat, and a loose blue seasilk shirt.
“Come here, woman,” Ahven ordered.
Shinri did as commanded, gripping her knife uncertainly.
“This is Kenor Isavar,” Ahven said with a direct tone. “He is a physician. Soon your father and I will leave to deal with the remnants of the Aleth military. In a few weeks’ time, you will inform your ladies that you believe yourself to be with child. Kenor has been assigned as palace physician. He will examine you, and declare that you guessed correctly, then send a message to your father and myself declaring the happy news. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” Shinri said.
“Good,” Ahven said. “Two months later, assuming I have not returned, you will feign pains in your abdomen and send for Kenor. He will excuse all but his assistants from the room, and attend to you. Afterward, he will sadly inform the palace that you have suffered a miscarriage. He will provide proof of the child’s death, and you will substantiate anything he says. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” she said. In more ways than one.
“And why do you think I am doing this?” Ahven asked.
The question caught her off guard. “I am not sure, my lord,” she said, lowering her eyes. “But I am just a simple woman. I will do as you command.”
Ahven snorted derisively. “Do not play with me, child,” he snapped. “You were trained by Jasnah Kholin, and you have the spark of intelligence in your eyes. You think you can fool a man who was himself forced to feign stupidity for the better part of two decades?”
Shinri flushed, looking up. “You fear that once my father has an heir, he will try to have you killed. However, if the Davar noblemen assume you aren’t trying to make good on your promise of uniting the houses, they might not give you the support you need. So, you have devised this plan to make it appear as if you have produced an heir, then lost it to chance.”
“Very good,” Ahven said with a nod. “Now, take off your clothing and throw it in the corner.”
Shinri froze, suddenly becoming tense. “What?” she demanded.
“Your women and my servants think that I am bedding you right now,”
Ahven said. “If you come out as pristine as when you entered, the facts will be obvious. So, go throw your clothing in the corner, mess up your hair and facepaint, then go sit on the bed and make the proper noises so those listening at the door will have gossip to spread. Kenor and I must confer.”
Shinri balked, only for a moment, but it was too long for him. Suddenly, his hand was at her chin, gripping her face between cool fingers and twisting her head up so her eyes met his.
“You forget the lessons you learned on our wedding day so quickly?” he whispered. “You will do as I command, child, both today and when it comes time to feign pregnancy. A clever woman can either be an asset or a grave hindrance—and I am generally inclined to believe the latter. If I think—even for a moment—that you will betray me, then you will die. I would sooner kill you and your father, then take my chances with the other Davar noblemen, than have to worry whether or not you will obey me. Do you understand?”
Shinri gripped her knife. She could do it. She could raise her arm and plant it directly in his chest. But . . . He’s going to leave you alone. He’ll humiliate you again, true, but he’ll have to leave you in the palace when he leaves—he can’t take the chance of having you with him on the battlefield, pretending to be pregnant when your father and the other Davar noblemen are close enough to send their own physicians. Survive this night, and you won’t have to wait in tension and fright. He’ll be gone, and you can escape.
Shinri lowered her eyes and nodded, shivering slightly.
“Good,” Ahven said, pointing toward the bed.
Shinri followed his commands with as much dignity as she could gather, undoing her beautiful talla then tossing it in a heap beside the bed. Ahven watched the process with obvious lust in his eyes, smiling with a leering twist of the lips. He was so cold most of the time, but in this one thing he obviously had difficulty masking his emotions. Or, were there any masks? Was this, perhaps, the only emotion he actually felt? Could a man really be that . . . broken?
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