“Dalenar Kholin has grown increasingly unpredictable over the last few years,” Balenmar agreed. “It began with his wife’s death, I believe, but the biggest changing point came when he lost both brother and eldest son to the Traitor. I think you will have trouble predicting what he will do, my lord.”
Who are you to speak of traitors? Jek thought with an inward snort.
“All men are predictable, old man,” Ahven said curtly. “And all men are erratic. We are beings of moods and passions. A man’s taste in music can change from one hour to the next—it is understanding the whole, and the meaning of that whole, that gives insight to his actions. For, while moods change, motives are stable. Dalenar Kholin has a strong affection for all members of his family. I did not predict his coming, but I can deal with it. In many ways, he will be an easier foe to fight than Elhokar.”
“Unless Jasnah is with him,” Jek said, carefully watching the king’s eyes for a reaction.
Jek was not disappointed. The mere mention of Jasnah’s name made Ahven’s eyes flash with momentary uncertainty. Dalenar isn’t the one he fears at all, Jek thought, confirming his suspicions. It’s the woman. Ahven’s dedication of an entire tensquad of troops, along with five full Shardbearers, to hunt down Jasnah was only further proof of that fact.
“She won’t be with Dalenar,” Balenmar said. “The caverns let out far from Kholinar—even if she managed to find horses, she could conceivably have reached the city by now, but there’s no way she could have arrived early enough to send Dalenar to Crossguard. He left of his own avail.”
Jek bristled slightly at the man’s tone. The old stormkeeper didn’t talk like a traitor or a conspirator, but instead like a kindly grandfather—one who suffered Jek and Ahven because they amused him, rather than because they had anything important to add. Everything about the stormkeeper felt wrong.
“You never told us how you escaped the attack on Ral Eram, old man,” Jek said.
“Of course he did,” Ahven replied. “Or, at least, he told me. Do not think you are privy to all that I know and do, assassin. You are a tool.”
And a slave, Jek added.
“Even if Jasnah Kholin is with them, we will prevail,” Ahven said, as if to bolster his own determination. “She is a brilliant strategist, but every strategy can be broken, and every tactic countered.”
“True,” Jek said. “Assuming your side has the better commander.” It was as close to a question of Ahven’s abilities as he would let himself get. Horseback riding and foreign tongues could be taught in a secret classroom, but command skills . . . those required practice and experience to develop. Clever though he may be, Ahven had neither.
Ahven regarded Jek with a terse, yet delving, glance. “You underestimated me from the beginning, assassin. You assumed I would be turned over by my own people, yet I took their armies for my own. You assumed I would never reach Ral Eram, yet I passed through the Oathgates with the power of the Heralds themselves. Now you tell me I cannot win this war. Someday, perhaps, you will understand. One doesn’t need brilliant military strategies if one can predict what his enemy is going to do.”
“And you can predict Jasnah?” Jek asked.
“Everyone is predictable,” Ahven repeated.
“Even you, Ahven Vedenel?” asked Balenmar, almost forgotten during the tense exchange between king and assassin.
Ahven didn’t hear the comment, but he saw Jek glance at Balenmar. The Idiot King’s eyes flicked to the side, focusing on the aged councilor.
“Are you predictable, King of Jah Keved?” Balenmar asked. “What are your motivations? Why do you conquer?”
“Because no one has succeeded before,” Ahven answered, almost without thought.
“And that’s all?” Balenmar asked curiously. “That’s your grand purpose?”
“No man has ever ruled it all,” Ahven said. “Four thousand years of history, and no man has ever conquered all of Roshar.”
“And you would be the first?”
Ahven paused, then nodded firmly.
Balenmar studied the king’s face, eyes thinning slightly. “There’s more,” he finally said. “That answer is too easy, King Vedenel. Perhaps you believe it, perhaps not. It is not, however, the reason you conquer. The lure of power motivates many men, true, but it doesn’t inspire hatred and pain such as your eyes hide.”
The room was quiet. “Go,” Ahven finally said, pointing at the tent door. “Both of you. Leave me.”
Jek nodded, bowing slightly and retreating. Balenmar moved less alacritously, and as Jek left the tent, he caught sight of the old man’s face smiling broadly in satisfaction.
chapter 62
Shinri 11
Getting Merin a Shardblade was, of course, an impossibility. As far as Shinri had been able to determine, there were only three Shardbearers left in the palace, and they would all be master swordsmen. No, she had enough trouble coming up with a way to steal and conceal two regular swords, let alone worrying about a Shardblade.
How to get a pair of swords? The Aleth section of the palace had been thoroughly looted. She searched through several of the rooms, hoping that a departed or slain nobleman might have left a spare sword behind, but if such weapons had existed, then the Veden conquerors had already found them. She considered simply demanding a pair of swords and hoping that her title and air would be enough to keep questions to a minimum. That, however, did not seem like a very good gamble, especially considering the way Ahven’s noblemen guards treated her. Most likely she would not only end up without weapons, but raise a great deal of suspicion in the process.
Even if she did find the swords, keeping them hidden would be a task unto itself. She wouldn’t be able to bring the weapons back to her rooms, lest one of her ladies see her or stumble upon the hiding place. She could hide them in a hallway somewhere, but what if she were seen carrying them? And, even more pointedly, how was she going to sneak them past the prison guard? The man was greedy, true, but she doubted any bribe would be enough to turn his eyes from a pair of weapons obviously intended to arm his own prisoners.
It was at that moment that Shinri realized something very important. Perhaps her problems weren’t several, but singular. Or, rather, what if the two problems were simply solutions to one another?
So it was that she found herself approaching the prison hallway with a pouch of coins and a large jug of wine. A visit to Ahven’s physician had not only let her pretend to be playing along with the plan, but also let her complain of sleepless nights—a claim her ladies had been able to substantiate. The resulting herbs, intended to help her sleep, had instead gone into the wine. The only trick would be getting the slovenly guard to drink while still on duty. Shinri doubted, however, that he would be able to resist the wine for long—especially since she intended to arrive near the beginning of his shift.
The guard carried a full longsword and a typical nobleman’s knife, a weapon with a blade as long as a man’s forearm, intended to be rammed through the slits of armored helms or chinks in Shardplate. The weapons weren’t the two swords she had hoped for, but they were by far the most accessible—especially since she already needed to deal with the guard anyway.
Either way, she was feeling rather proud of herself when she entered the hallway to find the prison completely unguarded.
Shinri paused abruptly, the heavy jug thumping back against her leg. The guard’s chair and table sat empty. She stepped forward, peeking into the prison hallways themselves. He wasn’t in either one.
Apprehensive, Shinri set down her jug then approached Renarin’s cell. “Renarin?” she whispered.
“Oh, good,” his familiar voice returned. “You’re here.”
“The guard’s gone!” Shinri said with confusion.
“I know,” Renarin said. “He came with some others and took Merin.”
“Took Merin?” Shinri asked. “Where?”
“I don’t know,” Renarin replied. There was something odd about his voice, someth
ing Shinri couldn’t quite place. Then she realized what it was. He didn’t sound distracted or withdrawn at all. In fact, his voice was firm. Focused.
“Listen to me, Shinri,” Renarin said gravely. “Merin is in a great deal of danger. Your Veden king has arrived to attack Elhokar’s forces, but instead of one army, he found two. My father had begun marching on Crossguard before King Ahven even left Ral Eram.”
“Your father?” Shinri said. “How do you know these things. And why would Lord Dalenar go to war now, when before he—”
“There isn’t time, Shinri,” Renarin said firmly. “Lord Dalenar goes to war to avenge my brother Aredor. You can’t think about that now, however. With Merin goes our only hope to escape this city. You have to free him.”
Shinri stood, stunned, all of her cautious plans crumbling to dust. “Free him?” she asked. “How? I don’t have time to come up with—”
“They’re probably taking him to the stables,” Renarin interrupted. “Merin will fight, if given the chance. You have to give him that chance, Shinri. Are you wearing any jade?”
Shinri paused. “Jade?” she asked, dumbfounded.
“Yes,” Renarin said.
“My bracelet is jade,” she said, fingering the inset green stones.
“Give it to Merin,” Renarin said urgently. “It doesn’t matter how you do it, but make certain he gets that bracelet. Go, Shinri. Go now!”
Shinri stumbled back away from his cell, taken aback by the intensity in his voice.
“Go!” Renarin said.
She did, rushing out of the hallway in a near-daze of confusion. She didn’t have time to think of the things Renarin had said. Aredor, dead? Merin, taken to the stables? Why? Why would they try to use Merin against Lord Dalenar? Why not send Renarin, the far better bargaining piece?
Unless they intended to give a warning—proof of what they would do to Renarin if Lord Dalenar did not back down. There was one thing Merin was that Renarin was not.
Expendable.
chapter 63
Merin 13
The men around Merin spoke in a language he almost understood. Many of the words sounded familiar, they were just . . . off somehow. Close enough to his own tongue to make him think he should comprehend, but different enough that trying to do so left him frustrated. He was pretty sure he understood one word when it was spoken, however. A name: Dalenar.
Renarin was obviously right about Jah Keved controlling the city. Merin kept his head down, walking through the First Palace hallways with a stumbling, slump-shouldered gait. The three men had come to his cell expecting a fight, so Merin hadn’t given it to them. Far better they assume him broken until Merin was certain of their intentions.
But what did they want with him? Perhaps they were going to interrogate him—the heroes from the stories were often tortured for information. In fact, Merin had been slightly surprised that so far no one had made any demands of him. His stomach turned slightly at the thought. The heroes always withstood their sufferings with an almost passionate zeal—to them, torture was simply another test of bravery. Merin, however, didn’t think it would be that easy.
Well, he thought, at least I don’t have any information to betray—though they probably won’t believe that.
He would have to try and escape. Unfortunately, the situation did not look good. His wrists were manacled together in front of him, clasped so tightly that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to hold a weapon. There were only three guards, but they were big men—and they kept an alert eye on him despite his weak shambling. The palace hallways were well-guarded, with soldiers at many intersections and the occasional random patrol. When he did decide to struggle, he would probably bring another half-tenset soldiers running.
Of course, there was the chance that he wasn’t going to be tortured, but released. That made little sense—if anyone were to be ransomed, it would be Renarin. He was not only Lord Dalenar’s son, but now that Aredor was gone, Renarin was the heir to Kholinar.
The soldiers led Merin through a less-ornate section of the palace. There seemed to be fewer guards here—fewer people in general. The corridors were darker, the stones dirtier. Exactly the kind of place one would expect to find a chamber of tortures.
Merin glanced up at his captors. One soldier stood at his left, leading Merin by the elbow. One walked behind Merin, the other in front. Merin’s spearman’s training had included some rudimentary unarmed combat moves, and Vasher’s stances had expanded upon this knowledge. Still, one weakened, unarmed man against three noblemen with swords . . .
He wouldn’t have a better chance. Merin tensed, preparing to elbow the man at his side. Then he paused as he caught the scent of something familiar—a smell he hadn’t come to know until his elevation to nobleman. The smell of horses.
Perhaps they were going to let him go after all.
A few seconds later his captors led him into a large, high-roofed stable. Horse stalls lined the walls, and the smells of feed and dung were strong in the air. Some stablehands worked preparing a fine-looking roan stallion, its saddlebags packed for an extended trip. Merin stood in confusion as one of his captors pushed him against a wooden stabledoor, then walked over to bark at the stablehands in his foreign tongue.
Merin stayed where he had been put. The three soldiers eventually adopted bored postures, and it became obvious that they were waiting for something.
The something turned out to be a someone. He strode into the stables, dressed in fine seasilks. These Veden men appeared to prefer tighter clothing than their Aleth counterparts, for this man’s rich trousers and shirt were tailored to fit snugly. He wore a broad, squareish cloak, and had a short beard.
He also carried no sword.
Merin maintained his slumped posture, but watched the newcomer with careful eyes. The nobleman checked over the horse, and Merin noted for the first time that the beast’s livery matched the glyph on the newcomer’s cloak. The man finished his inspection and waved the stablehands away, apparently commanding them to leave the stables. Then he finally turned to Merin. He held out his hand to the side, white smoke gathering around his palm as Merin’s suspicions about the man’s nature were confirmed.
Merin glanced at the horse—the only saddled beast in the room. Only one man would make a journey this day. Then he looked at the Shardbearer, whose weapon was appearing and whose eyes showed a measure of grim resolution. Two guards appeared at Merin’s shoulders, grabbing him in tight grips, and Merin realized that he had waited too long. The Vedens weren’t going to set him free—they were going to use him to prove to Lord Dalenar that they had Renarin held captive. For that purpose, Merin’s severed head would serve just as well as his living testimony.
Merin slumped in his captor’s grip, trying to gain a bit of slack in preparation for a struggle. The Shardbearer’s Blade appeared, and he stepped forward, raising it.
A sudden yell snapped in the air. Merin didn’t understand the words, but he recognized the voice. Lady Shinri stood at the palace stable entrance, breathing deeply and looking disheveled. She yelled a demand at the soldiers in Veden, her tone intolerant. The men, unfortunately, ignored her.
So Lady Shinri started throwing things.
She had very impressive aim. The large vase that smashed into one of Merin’s guards must have made an unwieldy projectile, yet it struck true, shattering against the man’s temple and causing him to cry out in shocked pain. Merin threw his weight against the second guard, ramming his elbow into the man’s stomach as the Shardbearer turned and raised a wary hand to fend off a flurry of thrown ceramics, horseshoes, and even what appeared to be jewelry.
Merin brought his manacled hands around, smashing the metal clasp into the face of his still-stunned captor. The guard went down, though the other two men were quickly advancing on Shinri’s position. The Shardbearer turned his attention back to Merin as Shinri was forced to focus on the two soldiers.
Suddenly, something flipped through the air in Merin’s dire
ction. He tried to duck, but Shinri’s aim was nothing short of amazing, and it smacked him square in the forehead.
In that moment, whether from the daze of being hit or the confusion of the moment, Merin thought he saw something. For just a brief second, Merin felt the winds returned to him. Shinri’s projectile—a green and silver bracelet—bounced off his forehead and dropped toward the ground. Merin snatched it with a reflexive, yet awkward, grab.
And, like a breath exhaled from the Almighty himself, the air around Merin shifted. The winds curled and twisted, viscous and obvious. They whispered in his mind again, expanding his knowledge and his senses. The deep, bitter longing he had suppressed suddenly burst forth and was sated.
The Shardbearer’s swinging weapon flashed in the sunlight, air twisting around it. Merin jumped back, desperately trying to avoid the blow, and his fingers—which gripped Shinri’s bracelet—flared with a blazing pain.
The winds moved.
They lost their chaotic twirling, a tenset different currents whipping like streamers before him. They turned with surprising uniformity, their flows reorienting to push against Merin. The burst of wind shoved him back, out of the Shardblade’s path. Merin raised his bound hands at the same time, overcoming the flaring pain caused by a bracelet that suddenly seemed to be burning with an inner heat. Winds swept around his arms, guiding his hands in the path he directed, moving them faster than muscle alone could provide.
The Shardblade flashed before Merin in a broad swing, passing directly between his manacled hands and shearing through the metal bonds.
The Way of Kings Prime Page 69